TEIE BEAUTIES MODERN LITERATURE, i VERSE AND PROSE; ' I ) a:o WHICH IS pbbfixed, a ^idimmarg WU\i} LITERATURE OF THE AGE. By M. M'DERMOT, iL*'/^i^?*%5^Ji,A!!?^0R OF A CRITICAL DISSERTATION ON THE NATURE AND PRINCIPLES OF f>S^;.Vy?^^VA. TASTE, &C. &C. Mind, mind alone, (bear witness Earth and Heaven) The living fountains in itself contains Of beauteous and sublime : here, hand in hand. Sit paramount the praces ; here enthroned. Celestial Venus with divinest airs. Invites the soul to never fading jo}/. Akenside's Pleasures of Imagination. Hontion : PRINTED FOR SHERWOOD, JONES, AND CO. PATERNOSTER-ROW, 1824. PREFACE. In the following Work the Editor has used the plural pronoun in alluding to himself, in con- formity with the general practice of Periodical Writers, as it is intended to publish the Work annually, if not half yearly. The object of the Work he has fully described in his Prelimi- nary View, and has here only to say, that if this View be erroneous, he will feel happy in be- ing set right by any of his readers. How far he has evinced taste in the selection of the Ex- tracts, or judgment in his Commentaries upon them, the Public only can determine. From the Critics he has nothing to fear, and nothing to hope. The assertion may appear singular, but it is not more singular than true ; at least he believes so, and if he be mistaken he will ac- knowledge himself no prophet in the next volume. By the Editor of this M'ork, 1. A CRITICAL DISSERTATION on the Nature and Prln- ciples of TASTE. In one volume, 8vo. price 12s. in boards. 2. A PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY into the Source of the Pleasures derived from TRAGIC REPRESENTATIONS; from which is deduced the Secret of giving Dramatic Interest to Tragedies intended for the Stage. Preceded by a Critical Examination of the various Theories adopted on the Subject by the English, French, and German Philosophers. In 8vo. uniform with the above, price 12s. in boards CONTENTS. Pagp. Preliminary View ----- - - ix Dirge of Alaric the Goth ------ 1 My Brother's Grave -------- 6 Scene in Goethe's Fatist ------- 13 The Flower of Guide - - - ----- - 22 Jacobite Songs ---------- 26 Ode to Imagination -------- 32 Etna — a Sketch ----^---- 35 Stonehenge ----------- 40 Description of a Missionary ------ 42 TVic Unknoivn Grave ------- 44 Stanzas - - - .--_--..- 48 Song, from Quentin Durward ----- 50 Song, from the FaUes of the Holy Alliance - 51 y^ ******- - _ _ - - - - - 52 The Skeleton Dance --.----• 53 Surnames ----------- 58 The Female Convict to her Infant - - - - 60 The Dreams of Life -------- 62 Saint Valerie ---------- 64 Spirits of Heaven --------- 66 Lines of Madame d" Hautelot ----- 68 liousseau's Retreat - - ----- 70 The Enchanted Flute -------- 74 Vi ^% CONTENTS. The Maniac ---------- 76 Sonnet bi/ a Person icho never could write one - 7S So7met. The Rhine visited ------ 79 Evening __---.----- 80 / think on thee ---------- 81 The contented Lover -------- 83 Hark ! upon the passing Gale ----- 85 Yaynoyden ----------- 86 Midnight, the Lapland Sacrifice and the Isle of Founts ---------- 98 Anacreon ----------- 111 The Death of Leonidas ----- - - 115 One Moment more -------- 119 The Recluse ---------- 120 Verses on the Death of Bloomfield, the Su,ff'olk Poet ------------ V2\ Elegiac Stanzas ---------126 The Last Man --------- 128 The Daughter of Meath ------- 131 Birth-day Verses ---------134 A chit-chat Letter on Men and other things - 136 Pourquoi existons-nous f ------- 144 Sonnet on seeing a Greek at Vauxhall - - - 147 Alfaima^s Lament ---------148 ^/e ------------- 150 Song, supposed to be sung by the tvife of a Japanese 172 To the Last Leaf of Autumn ----- I74 Sketches from ISature -------- 177 The Classics a7id Romantics - - - - - - 184 Sense and Sensibility -------- 197 Critique on the Lusiad of Camoens - - - - 203 Memoir of Madame Catalani ----- 225 CONTENTS. VU Emhahning among the Egyptians - - - - 235 The Gentleman --_---.-- 242 Theory of Love, hy Lorenzo de Medicis - - - 243 The same Theory illustrated by Shakspeare - 245 A Night Adventure -------- 246 Select Society, with observations on the modern art of Match-making ------- 253 Memoir of JVilliam Moscoe, Esq. - - - - 264 Sir Thomas Nesbifs definition of a Good Felloiu 2/7 Thoughts on Translation ------- 281 Character of Petrarch - - - - - - - - 283 Ready-money Jack -------- 290 Indefinite Progress of Human Happiness and Perfectibility of the Understanding - - - 297 Classical Studies from Mr, Butler's " Reminis- cences" ----------- 299 The Rocky labyrinth of Abersbach ill Bohemia - 313 Thoughts on the Words " Turn out " - - - 319 Comparison of the Writers in the British Era of Literature, ivith those of Louis XIV. from Mr. Butler's " Reminiscences" ----- 327 A Letter to the Uramatists of the Day - - - 336 Description of a Battle bettveen Ninety-three Paivnee Loup Warriors, against a large body ofJetans, Arrapahoes, and Kiawas - - - 338 Memoirs of the Life and Writings of the Right Hon. Lord Byron -------. 341 Writers of Imagination ■ ------ 353 Letters from Miss Flirtilla to Miss Prudentia - 365 Impossibility of forming an obscure Cojiception of a primary Cause until it be perfectly dis- covered. Obscure Ideas have no Existence - 375 Vlll CONTENTS. Remarks on Poetry, as compared with Painting and Sculpture --- _--___ 333 Match-making • --------- 394 Table Talk, on Londoners and Country People - 407 Examination of Mr. Burke and Mr. Knight's Theories on the Source of the Pleasures derived from Tragic Representations - - - - 426 The Physician ---------- 446 Left o^' Business --------- 459 Salvator Rosa ---------- 468 The Characteristic of the present Age of Poetry - 478 PRELIMINARY VIEW LITERATURE OF THE AGE. The object of this work, and the circle of readers for* which it is intended, must appear sufficiently obvious from its title. The Editor, at the same time, deems it necessary to state tlie considerations that have led to the publication. Elegant Extracts have been, in all ages, a favourite recreation to readers of taste ; but in no era of our literature could such extracts be so inte- resting, or so necessary, as at present. During the classic age of Pope, every writer was studious of the most finished elegance. Those who possessed taste and genius attained it; so that, in selecting their beauties, it would not always be easy to determine, what to reject, and what to select, each part being so carefully finished, and touched with so delicate a hand, that if all were not equally beautiful, at least, their inequality did not remove them to any considerable distance from each other. Fades non omnibus una, nee diversa tamen. They attained this excellence, it is true, by imitating the best models, and always calling reason to their assistance, whenever they had cause to distrust the correctness of their imagination, or the direction which their feelings prompted them to pursue ; but that they lost in spirit, invention, and that poetic enthusiasm which gives to poetry all its living and animating charms, what they gained in accuracy and method, is a position which, whatever may be our own opinion, we know few writers of the present day will feci disposed to question. Those who wanted genius, on the contrary, left nothing worthy of selection; so that the last century, h X PRELIMINARY VIEW particularly the early part of it, was, in every respect, unfavourable to the selection of Elegant Extracts, Whatever may be aftirnied of the poets of any age, so far as regards the character of their style, and the correctness of their sentiments, will always be found equally applicable to its prose writers. Both influ- ence, and are influenced by, each other, so that what- ever justifies a selection from the poets of any age, will equally justify a selection from its prose writers. Towards the close of the last century, an opinion began to prevail, that reason had hitherto exercised, or, rather, usurped an unlawful controul over the feel- ings, in works of imagination. It was maintained, that the poet should commune with the secret sym- pathies and affections of his own heart alone, as reason serves only to damp the ardour, and enchain the ener- gies, which give to works of imagination all that fire and pathos which distinguish the productions of genius from the tame correctness of acquired sapience, and the prosing uniformity of laborious dulness. This was the origin of the romantic school. No theory could be more specious, none better calculated to deceive; nor could any theory have led to happier results, had the province of reason, in works of imagination, been clearly ascertained. Instead of this having been done, the doctrine of expelling it altogether, and of yielding implicitly to the guidance of the imagination, became a popular theory, particularly among poets of the second order, as it gave them a most licentious, or, rather, an unlimited career, permitting them to travel through the regions of sense or nonsense, as it suited them best. The critics were not behind-hand in lauding the new school of poetry, though they had every day reason to lament the extreme to which its principles were carried, and the unintelligible jargon of some of its disciples. The license which it gave, however, soon rendered it so fashionable, that to an abandonment of all analyzed thought, they held it necessary to add, an abandonment of all studied and chastened diction. Accordingly, from despising that pedantry, as they deemed it, which examines the cor- OF THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. XI rectness of an idea before it ventures to give it expres- sion, they proceeded to the very extreme of poetic absurdity, and expressed their rabble, indigested thoughts, in whatever form of expression presented itself first, deeming it inconsistent, as no doubt it was, to trust their thoughts to the regency of their feelings, and not trust their language to it also. Accordingly, they adopted the language of the peasant for their model, maintaining, that " the language of low and rustic life ought to he ineferreiir These erroneous no- tions of poetry having taken the reins altogether out of the hands of reason, left poets afloat on the great ocean of doubt and uncertainty. Having no helm to guide them, they split, very naturally, into different sects, or schools of poetry, neither of them Avell understand- ing the principles of its own creed, nor the impassable line which separated them from each other, and the entire of them agreeing only in one dogma, that of acknowledging the supreme dominion of feeling in works of taste. The public acknowledged themselves pleased \vith a revolution that seemed to soften into ease and graceful playfulness, the severe austerity and lofty deportment of the classic muse : the critics re- echoed the voice of the public ; — a new era of poetiy succeeded to the classic, which still continues ; for, we have no hesitation to assert, that even such of our living poets, as profess to be admirers of the classic school, arc still influenced in their works by the prin- ciples which Ave have mentioned. The critics, how- cvci", have had frequent occasions to regret a change, which, had it been effected with more caution, might have led to the highest excellence of which poetry is capable, or vvhich can be conferred on the creations of mind, and the colouring of imagination. The editor of the " Beauties of Literature," pro- fesses, by no means, to be an Miqualijicd admirer of the classical school. He believes, if the present be not the Augustan age, it is, at least, tlie brightest era of Eng- lish literature, — that it teems with the most exquisite productions of taste, and the most luxuriant fruits of b2 Xll . PRELIMINARY VIEW original genius, — that every subject which ranges within the career of rigid science, is analyzed with that metaphysical, critical, and philosophic acumen, which place us far above all former ages, in the sciences, universal literature, and the fine arts, — that the latter have thrown a charm over the austerity of the former, unknown to our ancestors, — that genius herself, put- ting off, in some degree, the grosser incumbrance of the senses, and clothing herself in the buoyant robes of unessential being, may be said to explore the re- motest regions of possible existence, and to Aving her daring and majestic flight through the great sublime of the intellectual world, that those who resign them- selves blindly to the guidance and impulse of their feelings alone, frequently attain to beauties which would lie eternally concealed from them, had they suf- fered their ardour to be allayed by the Unuc labor, et mora of the classical school ; but still he insists, that the very causes which have led to the production of these beauties, have also led to that wild anarchy of images and associations, which the madding riot of licentious genius creates around it ; when, acknowledging no other guide than the impulse of its own feelings, it rejects the light of reason, and bursts through the empalement, within >vhich taste and criticism would confine its flight. Hence it is, that when Ave meet Avith a beauti- ful image in modern poetry, it frequently seems to stand solitary and alone, and to claim no kindred AA^th the vulgar herd of sentiments and images Avith Avhich it is mated. The poetAvho trusts too much to the gui- dance of his oAvn feelings, must be necessarily irregular, and, therefore, he must frequently fail in producing those chaster beauties, Avhich, Av^hile they please the imagination and refine our sympathies, present no harsh and discordant feature to offend the understand- ing. Perhaps, the most prominent and characteristic feature of modern poetry, is an affectation of pro- ducing effect at the expense of truth and reason, of Meandering from the path of nature in search of for- bidden beauties and catachrestical decorations, of de- spising all fixed rules and canons of criticism, of re- OF THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. XI' 1 jecting the authority and practice of the best writers, ancient and modern, inider the imposing veil of adhe- ring closer to nature, of writing as the spirit moveth, whether it moveth to good or to evil, whether it in- spireth sense or nonsense, whether it mistake the atfected for the simple, the ironical for the serious, the ridiculous for the ludicrous, the artifical for the natu- ral, the gaudy for the beautiful, or the turgid for the sublime ; in a word, an affectation of yielding impli- citly to the impulse of the spirit, let it dictate Avhat it Avill. Poefa nascitur non fit^ says Horace, and almost all the writers since his time, have been converts to this opinion. Helvetius thought differently ; while those who maintain that poetry is more ancient than prose, that it is, in fact, the language of the savage state, would make us all born poets. With neither of the tAVO last theories we agree, and yet if we adopt that of Horace, we may be asked, is nature in a more poetical mood at one time than another ? If we answer in the affirmative, we do away with the general belief, that the laws of nature are fixed and immutable : if we re- ply in the negative, we shall be told, that facts are against us, and that, if all the poets now living came from the hand of nature, she must be in a more poe- tic mood, at present, than she has ever been in before. We see no way of getting over these queries, unless we reject the long established opinion, that nature alone is concerned in the formation of a poet, and adopt a less popular, but, perhaps, not a less rational one ; namely, that the poet is not the offspring of one parent, and that Nature is his father, and Education his mother. Alter altevius auxilio eget. If this be the fact, we can have no difTiculty in ac- counting for the number of living poets, as education is now, in a certain degree, extended to all classes, and in a considerable degree to most. There were no poets among the Northamptonshire peasants in the XIV PRELIMINARY VIEW •time of Pope, because peasants were then only learning to spell : at present, they are learning to read. The poets of the present day, however, will not, we feel convinced, acknowledge their mother. On the contrary, they maintain that poetry has more to fear from education and the progress of science, than from any other quarter ; and, not satisfied with adopting the opinion of Horace, that the poet is the child of nature alone, they go farther, and maintain, that who- ever is born a poet, must be a poet, whether he will or will not — that he can lisp only in numbers, and that whatever he Avrites or speaks must be poetry. Hence, they have thrown aside all regard for the beauties of style and poetic expression, because they take it for granted, that whatever form of expression they happen to make use of, must be poetical ; in which they re- resemble those religious enthusiasts, who believed that, having once got in favour with God, and purified themselves from all sin, they might ever after live as they pleased, as no act of theirs could be sinful, [t is so with our living poets : they imagine they cannot write unpoetically, and they require of us to be such implicit believers in their infallibility, that when they write flat prose, we must believe it to be pure and unmixed poetry. Their creed is — believe it is poetry, and it is poetry. For our ownselves, M^e are not so easy of belief, nor are we disposed to take that for inspiration which we do not understand. There are three species of poetry : — the first is the poetry of art; the second, the poetry of feeling ; the third, the poetry of imagination. The poetry of art, Avhich is, perhaps, improperly called poetry, is lifeless and barren. He who abounds in knowledge and method, but not in feeling, is out of his proper element the moment he enters the confines of Parnassus. The philosopher, who descends from the throne of reason, and attempts to be witty and jocular, only makes himself an object of pity to some, and of ridicule to others. If he ex- cite a laugh, it is at himself, not at the wit or humour of his jest. It is so with all who move out of their proper element ; and it is so with all men who have OF THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. XV more learning than feeling, when they attempt poetry. The poetry of which we now speak, though it has not been distinguished as a distinct species by any critic that we know of, belongs to a remarkable era in the histoiy of English poetry, we mean, the era which preceded the classical school. Theirs was nei- ther the poetry of feeling nor of imagination ; — they wrote entirely from the head. Wit and pun, and coarse jest and play upon words, and those far-fetched associa- tions, which are always within the reach of the learned pedant, formed the distinguishing characteristics of their poetiy. They took every opportunity to display their learning, and were totally unacquainted with the art of concealing art. On the contrary, they studied to make the most of what they knew, and to conceal nothing. The second species of poetry succeeded to the first. It was the poetry of feeling and passion ; but it did not come entirely unaccompanied with some remains of the former species, or, if we choose, the former school of poetry. The poetry of feeling and passion, is that wherein the heart and its affections are chiefly called into action : — it is that poetry which requires no exercise of reason to be understood ; it is recognized instinctively by the heart. We do not wait to reason upon it ; or, rather, we have not time. Our feelings steal a march upon our reason, and we are pleased before we have time to analize the cause of our plea- sure. The poetry of passion is of the highest order, and, therefore, the most rare and difficult to be met with. Goldsmith is, perhaps, the only English poet who can claim the exclusive merit of writing from the heart alone ; not that he has not written pieces of wit and humour, but that his principal poems are the pure offspring of feeling and passion. It was, however, a subdued passion, for there is more pathos in Eloisa to Abelard, than in any of his productions, or in any other production of the English language. The same may be said of the translation of the Iliad ; it contains all the fire and glowing energy of the original. But Pope had such a versatility of talent, that he sported with XVl PRELIMINARY VIEW the lighter graces of the imaginative mnsc, and even attempted to render didactic subjects poetical. Hence, u certain class of critics would deny liim that power which he possessed, whenever he chose to exert it. Have any of these critics been able to shew, that all the various subjects which he touched, are not of the first order in their kind, if we except St. Cecilia's Day. Is there any thing in the whole range of English poetiy superior to "The Rape of the Lock," in its kind ? What satirical work have we superior to his Dunciad ? What imitations, superior to his imitations of the Epistles and Satires of Horace ? What poetical Essays on men and manners, superior to his " Moral Essays," and his " Essay on Man ?" Of Pope, it may not only be said what Dr. Johnson said of Goldsmith, that he " was a man of such variety of powers, and such felicity of performance, that he always seemed to do best what he was doing ;" but it may be added, that he always seemed to do that which he was doing, better than any other. Had Pope entirely confined himself to the pathetic muse, it would not now remain a question, whether he should rank with the first poets of his country : on the contrary, the question would be, whether the first poets of his country should rank with him ? for, surely, it will not be contended, that there is a particle of the pathetic in Milton, from beginning to end. His Paradise Lost and Re- gained, his Allegro and Penseroso, &c. are the pure offspring of imagination, and require not the sym- pathies of the heart to perceive their beauties. They entirely address themselves to the understanding and imagination. The poets that have chiefly distinguished themselves in the pathetic, are Shakspeare, Pope, Shenstone, Mickle, and Goldsmith. There is much fire and enthusiasm in Mickle's translation of Camoens, and very little in Dryden's translation of Virgil. This, however, was not Dryden's fault. The i(Eneid is par- ticularly deficient in epic fire : compared to Homer, it is a taper before the sun. The great beauty of the iEneid, consists in the purity and classic elegance of its language, the piety of its moral, and the delicacy OF THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. XVll of its sentiments. Camoens approached much nearer to the fire of Homer, and his fire was of the same cha- racter : both arose from strong patriotic virtne. There are two descriptions of poetic fire, which, as they are of the highest order, place those who possess them above all other poets : we mean, the fire of patriotism and the fire of love ; or that fire which arises from an attachment to our country, and that arising from an attachment to woman. The first is that which raises the poet to the highest possible perfection, or, at least, it is that which we admire most, and which equally excites the admiration of all ages, and of all countries. It is that fire which has made Homer the prince of poets, for no other poet has ever been so strongly ac- tuated, and hurried impetuously forward by its sacred flame. No poet has ever so closely identified himself with his heroes ; he seems to take part in all their actions — to be always himself in the midst of the fight, and to burn with the same fire by which they are urged irresistibly forward, to death or victory. Homer, then, is the greatest poet, because he is the most ardent patriot. But, it will be said, that the fire of love is not less ardent or powerful than that of pa- triotism, and that it frequently leads its victim to death itself. This we admit, but it wants the inspiration of patriotic virtue. There is always in love a certain despondency, which the patriot never feels. The lat- ter knows, that success depends entirely on his SAVord, and that of his companions, and he has such reliance on both, that neither superior force nor equal bravery can terrify him. Hence, his spirit is always high, and his fire always unabated ; and hence it is, that Dry- den's Ode to St. Cecilia's Day, is superior to Pope's. The one turns on love, the other on patriotism ; but the pity excited in us by the fate of Orpheus, the com- miseration which we feel for him when we behold him. Now under hanging mountains. Beside the falls of fountains ; Or, where Hsebrus wanders, Rolling in meanders. XVm PRELIMINARY VIEW where, All alone, Unheard, unknown. He makes his moan. And calls her ghost. For ever, ever, ever lost ; can never awaken in us that instant and electric fire which carries us impetuously and irresistibly forward, when roused by the inspiring strain of the patriot bard, as is evident, from comparing the emotions felt in perusing the above passage from Pope, with the following from Dryden. Now strike the golden lyre again, A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. Break his bands of sleep asunder. And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder. Hark ! hark ! the horrid sound. Has raised up his head. As awaked from the dead ; And amaz'd he stares round. Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries : See the furies arise. See the snakes that they rear. How they hiss in their hair. And the sparkles that flash from their eyes. Behold a ghastly band. Each a torch in his hand ; These are Grecian ghosts that in battle were slain. And unburied remain. Inglorious on the plain ; Give the vengeance due To the valiant crew. Behold how they toss their torches on high. How they point to the Persian abodes. And glittering temples of their hostile gods : The princes applaud with a furious joy, And the king seiz'd a flambeau with zeal to destroy. Thais led the way, To light him to his prey ; And like another Helen fired another Troy. OP THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. XIX The love-sick bard can never awaken such a flame, because, as Ave have already observed, there is always a certain feeling of despondency about him. From a consciousness of his own virtues, he may deem him- self worthy the adored, and, as he thinks, the adorable object of his aflfections ; but he knows, at the same time, that neither virtue nor braveiy, nor any other quality that raises man in the scale of being, and ap- proximates him to diviner natures, can of ?7aW/ either gain orsecure the attachment of his mistress. He knows that the same weakness which has led him to despise women of equal, or superior beauty, may lead her to despise him ; and, therefore, he feels that all his hopes rest upon that accident, or that weakness, which in- clines a female to one person more than another. How, then, can a man, who is the victim of despair, who knows that all his happiness depends upon an accident over which he has no controul, feel that energy and fire which rouses into life and being the patriot bard, who communicates the same fire to the patriot reader, for, it must be recollected, that, in all ages, all men are patriots, who are men at all ; but all men are lovers only at certain periods of their life. The poet who is, therefore, inspired by patriotic feelings, will always stand highest in the lists of poetic fame, and always secure the sympathies and admiration of mankind. Goldsmith possessed a considerable portion of pa- triotic virtue, but it was not sufficiently ardent to be called patriotic fire. He was more a philanthropist than a patriot. He esteemed every virtuous and ho- nest man, and, therefore, his feelings were more of a benevolent, than of a patriotic character. Accordingly, he does not awaken that glowing energy which the love of country can alone excite. This country, hoAvever, can boast of no patriotic poets, simply because it has been always secure from the threats of foreign poAver, since the earliest era of our national poetry. A poet cannot aaxII make patriotic themes the subject of his muse, Avhen his country is safe from foreign alarms. Indeed, it is doubtful Avhether he can at all feel a pa- triot, in such a case, without becoming a hypocrite, XX PRELIMINARY VIEW and a hypocrite can be no ])oet. Hypocrisy dries up all the sources of poetic inspiration. Hence it is, that the fortunate situation and circumstances of the coun- try, have always deprived us of patriotic poets. It Avas different with Ireland and Scotland ; and, accord- ingly, the productions of the Scottish and Irish bards, froui the patriotic feelings which they breathe in every line, have an effect upon the Scottish and Irish pea- santry, Avhich neither the sublimity of Milton, nor the *nong majestic march and energy divine" of Dryden, nor tiie classic elegance of Pope, can ever inspire in an English reader. But, it may be replied, that that which pleases the peasant, may not please the peer, or the man of let- ters. To this we reply, that nothing can please the peasant that does not accord with the original laws of our nature, and that, consequently, whoever is not pleased with thai description of poetry Avhich pleases the peasant, is the creature of artificial habits, man- ners and false prejudices, a creature Avho has extin- guished all natural feeling within him, and substituted those of artificial society. From the reasons w'e have just assigned, English poetrj^ has little of the pathetic, but what turns on subjects of love, or tragic distress ; nor do even our tragic writers ever think of making a patriotic or na- tional event the subject of their muse. Mr. Shee's Alasco is the only one we recollect, and this has been strangled in its birth. Both our chamberlain and his deputy seem to be hostile to the existence of patriotic virtue. And yet, what is the state of that country where patriotic virtue has no existence ? In our opinion, every man is a patriot when his country requires it, who is not, at heart, a slave, and every man a slave Avho is not, at heart, a patriot; ■whence it follows, that a countiy where patriotic virtue has no existence, must be a nursery of slaves : and, we may add, that if the chamberlain and" his de- puty succeed in extinguishing the spirit of patriotism in this country, we need not expect it will ever produce a Homer under his auspices ; and if posterity should OF THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. XXI ever associate the present with the Augustan age of literature, we have no reason to believe, that his name Avill ever be associated with that of Maecenas. The second of the three species into which I have di- vided poetry, and of which wc are now treating, namely, the pathetic, has never, as we have already obsenctl, flourished in this country, and Avas totally unknoA\n before the classical era of our poetry. He who never read but the Avorks of Drayton, Carew, Suckling, Donne, Browne, Jonson, CrashaAA^, Cleveland, CoAvley, and many of their successors, as Blackmore and Hammond, could not form even an idea of pathetic poetry. The poetry antecedent to ihat period, Avas all the production of art: every sentiment and expression was OA'crAvr ought, strained, and obscured, or entirely concealed by unnatural ornaments. The colouring Avas laid on thick: dedications AA'ere servilely flattering, and praise bestoAA'cd Avithout the slightest apparent sense of decency, propriety, or shame. Dryden made a rapid advance tOAvards reform in the poetry of his country, but it Avas reserved for Pope to clear aAvay the rubbish completely, and to bring forth " the naked nature and the living grace." All his contemporaries saAV and admired the beauty of the model Avhich he placed before them, but all did not imitate his exam- ple, some through jealousy, and some through ina- bility. That desire of producing effect by overcharged descriptions, and obscure images, AA'hich characterized the former school, Avas still cherished, and cultivated by many ; and these Pope has made the subject of his Dunciad. Addison and Swift, next to Poj)e, Avere foremost in the great work of reform, but neither of them distinguished himself in the pathetic. Some attempts, hoAA'cvcr were made in this way, but the first Avorth noticing, and the most successful that has since appeared, Avas the Eloisa to Abelard. Had Pope ncA'cr written but this poem, it should suffice to ren- der him immortal, for all the united efforts of art and study, — of perseverance and toil, — 'Could never have produced it, dcAoid of that exquisite sensibility, Avithout which no poet ever excelled in the pathetic. The pa- XXI J rRHLIMINARY VIF.W thetic consists entirely in feeling, but no man can de- scribe feelings, emotions, and sympathies, which he never felt, except he imitate, and even then he can describe only individual, or disjointed feelings, for he can never describe how they arise out of each other, without feeling them himself. Pope might have suc- ceeded in copying the description of an individual emotion, but, uidess he felt the emotion himself, he could never describe the varied succession of feelings and emotions that would naturally arise from it. Pope, then, could have been no imitator, in describing all the feelings, emotions, and regrets of Eloisa ; all the men- tal tumults that arise from a conflict between religion' and love, if he were himself incapable of sympathizing with her by whom they were felt. The pathetic pieces, however, Avdiich were produced during what is termed the classical age, are, in general, clothed in the light and airy drapery of fancy ; and the pathetic muse seems to have forsaken us entirely, and cither to have returned, like Astrea, to heaven, or soiight some happier clime upon earth, after the death of Goldsmith. With him, also, may be said to end the classical school of poetry. After the death of the simple, natural, classical, and pathetic Goldsmith, Cowper Avas the first poet who attracted any notice. He is allowed, both by the Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviews, to be the patriarch and founder of the romantic, or present school of poetry. When we say, pre&ent, avc ought to recollect, that there is a Lake, as well as a ro- mantic school. After the extinction of the classical school, many bold and daring innovators arose, each of whom laboured to erect a school of his own. Re- volutions in poetry, are like revolutions in religion. When Luther raised the standard of rebellion against the Catholic church, his disciples, Calvin and Zun- glius, and God knows how many, raised the standard of rebellion against him, and against each other. Who was right, or who was wrong, or Avhether either Avas right or wrong, arc questions on Avhich we dare not presume to offer an opinion. The moment we are brought into the fierce arena of religious controversy. OF THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. XXlll we humbly acknowledge our intellectual impotency,not that we think ourselves more ignorant than other men, but that we think the subject of controversy placed, not only above our reach, but above those who have divided the christian world into sects and parties. Who can pretend to explain revealed religion ; for if it could be explained, what need Avas there of Revelation. ^Vhatever is placed Avithin the grasp of reason, needs not Revelation to make it known, and whatever is above reason, cannot possibly be a subject of argument, for we can only reason from what we know. One thing, how- ever, we must say, that a school of which that " moon- struck prophet, Cowper, was the founder, is a school of which we should not Avish to become disciples. Is poetry run mad ? or is that poetry good for nothing, Avhich is not run mad ? So it Avould seem, from making CovA'per the founder of that school AA'hich established itself on the ruins of the classical. The Quarterly and Edinburgh RevicAvs give him the credit of being the founder of this school, — a school of Avhich they are themselves admirers, and yet they know he Avas a fanatic. But, whocA'er may be considered the founder, it is certain that, after the death of Goldsmith, a complete change took place in our national poetry. Religious fanaticism had a great share in introducing AA^hat is noAV called the romantic school of poetry, out of Avhich ano- ther school arose, called the Lake school, and out of Avhich many others Avill arise, unless avc put a check to the progress of false taste, and false refinement. What appears most surprising, hoAvever, is, that the critics of the present day look back to the school of poetry that preceded the classical, as the school of na- ture, and upon the classical school, as the school of art ; and accordingly advise (and Ave regret the advice has been too implicitly folloAA'^ed) the poets of the pre- sent day, to make the elder poets, or the master spi- rits, as they are pleased to call them, their models. And yet there is no man Avho is not a prostrate slave to the cant of criticism, but must perceive that the poetry of those " elder, " or " master spirits," AA'as entirely the production of art, and that they sacrificed nature XXIV PRELIMINARY VIEW to pun, conceit, wit, and the incorrigible affectation of producing effect. The classical school is called arti- ficial, and the reason assigned for it, is the very rea- son that proves it the natural, as well as the classical school of English poetry. We are told, that oifr clas- sical poets were too studious of expression ; and this study, in the eyes of modern critics, assumes too much the appearance of art. But, if they examined the matter a little closer, they would find that all this art is the closest approach to nature. Perhaps we should apologize for rc(iuiring of them to examine closely before they came to a conclusion ; for they could not examine without study, and all study, in their eyes, is art. Their principle is, to speak and write whatever strikes them at first, because they imagine, the first thought must be the natural thought; and, accordingly, what they write to day, they contra- dict to-morrow ; for, unhappily, these first thoughts are almost always at variance Avith each other. All just and natural thought is the result of meditation, examination, and rcfiection ; and it is just for this very reason, that the classical school is the natural school of English poetry. Their being studious of expression, instead of proving their productions to be artificial, proves them to be natural ; for who is studious of ex- pression, but he who seeks to convey the sentiment or idea, which he wishes to express, in the most appro- priate words ; that is, in words that express this idea or sentiment exactly as it exists in his mind, without addition or diminution ? If he does so express it, the expression must be natural, if the idea or sentiment be originally natural, and if it be unnatural, no form of expression can make it harmonize with nature. No form of expression, or selection of words, can, therefore, be natural, Avhich does not express the idea which we wish to express, exactly as it exists in the mind, or as the mind conceives it ; but we can never express ideas as we conceive them, without studying very attentively the precise and radical meaning and value of words ; for, if we use words that express either more or less than what we mean, or if, in the OF THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. XXV structure of our sentences, we connect these words in such a manner as obscures or alters our meaning, we either write what has no meaning, or, at least, a meaning different from what we intended ; that is, we think one thing, and express another. Behold what modern critics call natural writing ! ! It is, therefore, evident, that we cannot be too stu- dious of expression, and that we cannot write natu- rally without being so, for it is the very height of fana- ticism, it is actually presuming that we are inspired, to suppose that words will come of their own accord, without studying which is least or most appropriate. Those who are best acquainted with language, find themselves frequently at a loss for terms to express exactly what they mean ; and yet, if they will not wait to discover these terms, they evidently think one thing, and write another. In fact, no man can write as he thinks, without studying very attentively the meaning of words, and structure of sentences, unless he be in- spired ; and, as we have no faith in this inspiration, we believe every man a fanatic who pretends to it. No writer, then, can be too classical, chaste, correct, or perspicuous ; and no writer can be classical, chaste, correct, or perspicuous, without having recourse to what modern critics call the language of art, but which is, in reality, the language of nature. We would ask these critics, whether we, who know nothing of music, could play a simple air as naturally as Rossini ? According to them, we should play it better; for he plays entirely by art, and we could not play other- wise than by nature, as we never studied the science of music, and, consequently, know nothing of its art. Having, therefore, no rule to guide us, our fingers would move as chance directed, and it is this chance which the critics call nature ; for it is in writing asli music : he who knows not the full meaning of words^ is only right by chance. But would chance ever en- able us to play " God save the King," as naturally as Rossini ? It is, then, as proper to say. All art is nature, thoiij^h unknown to thee, XXVI PRELIMIXAIIV VIEW as to say with our great classical poet, All nature is, l)ut art, unknown to tlice ; for, as the original works of nature are themselves the works of art, that is, the works of an architect who did nothing by chance, but had a fixed design in all his works, so, also, is the rules of art only a closer approximation to nature. The greater the art, the more natural the production. The painter, who has de- voted all his life to the study of his art, will produce a more natural painting than he who, unacquainted with the principles of the art, paints as his natural feelings and judgment direct him. All that is, therefore, said of the art of the classical school, is the mere cant of criticism. All that proceeds from true art is natural ; for nature itself is but concealed art, and the art of concealing art is, therefore, the nearest approach to nature. Who dances most naturally, most gracefully, with most ease, and least appearance of art, the pea- sant, whose every movement is unpremeditated, and undirected by principles of art, or the dancing master, whose every movement is studied, and the result of principles founded in art ? If we believe Pope, Those move easiest who have learn'd to dance. From every view, then, which can be taken of the subject, art will always triumph over that nature -w\\\c\\ the critics would substitute in its stead ; and, there- fore, we pronounce every stanza and line of modern poetry written without art, — written on the principles of the Lake and Romantic schools, — to be spurious, and the result of false taste, false reasoning, and false criticism. The poets of the present day, particularly the Lake poets, think it dangerous to be acquainted with the arts and sciences. A poet, according to them, must be a perfect child ; and an increase of knowledge appears to them, destructive of infantine simplicity. We admit that the cultivation of letters cannot create a genius for poetry, but what poet ever became immortal with- OF THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. XXVll out knowing all that the literature of his age and coun- try could impart. Those who say that learning weakens the original fire of poetic genius, tell us very plainly, that they have themselves so very little fire, that it is continually in danger of being extinguished ; you can- not extinguish the original propensities of nature. Naturam expellas tanien usque rccurrat : " drive nature out at one door, and she will come in at the other." Intense study, indeed, will temper and restrain, but it can never extinguish the fire of natural genius : on the contrary, by concentrating its rays, it gives it a power and activity of operation unknown to all the affected disciples of nature. A man of ge- nius cannot read too much, a dunce cannot read too little; for, in the first place, he wrecks his brains, and, consequently, his health, in striving to comprehend his author, whereas, after all, he comprehends only just enough to bewilder him. The man of genius, on the contrary, understands every thing he reads at a glance, forgets what is not Avorth remembering, and converts what is, into gold. Our present pretenders to poetic in- spiration, affect to talk of Pope as no poet. — What an admirable discoveiy ! Pope sometimes talks sense. This they cannot endure. The poet must speak with- out reflection ; he must write as the spirit moveth, not as the understanding dictates. This is not only jNlr. Wordsworth's thcoiy, but the theory which is actually followed by most of our modern poets, for they pride themselves in rejecting and avoiding, as much as they can, all those rules which Horace and Virgil, and all the gi'eat poets of antiquity, have sanctioned by their authority, and to which they have themselves con- formed. Simple children of nature, how mournful is it to think, that while the artful Horace, who could not write as much poetry in a day as even one of his own dull contemporaries could while he stood upon one foot, much less as much as you, who have only to run the pen along the paper, and write as the s})irit moveth, how sad, we say, is the reflection, that this crafty, this artful, — this tortoise-moving Hi)race, should c2 XXVIU PRELIMINARY VIEW become iinnioital, while you, with all your simplicity and close adherence to nature, while you, innocent as doves, and talking the very language of childhood, the very lispings of bahyism, the very "milk of human kindness," are destined, notwithstanding, toglide peace- ably and quietly into the great gulf of oblivion. Nor is it less to be regretted, that this Pope, who was no poet, but whom some pedantic readers have erroneously termed one, should be read, not only by you yourselves, and the critics, but read, — aye, read and admired too, by all the nations in Europe, — by all the nations in the world, acquainted with British literature, while you, poor babes, are known only here at home, among ourselves, and destined to be so only for a few years. That atFccted simplicity, both in language and in sentiment, and that affected contempt for classical ele- gance, and purity of expression, which characterize the poetry of the day, prove only, that most of our modern poets are men, who pick up their little modicum of knowledge from reading and admiring each others' nonsense, without any acquaintance whatever with Greek or Roman literature. No wonder, then, they should affect to despise that with which they are unac- quainted. Greek and Roman literature is as bitter to them, as the grapes to the fox, when he could not reach them ; and yet, how difficult is it to suppose such admirers of simplicity and rustic language to be all foxes in disguise : yet so it is. Poetry, according to these gentlemen, is the mere expression of natural feel- ing, and, therefore, they take it for granted, that what- ever feeling suggests must be right. In order to ob- tain this simplicity, and to avoid every chance of not being simjile, Mr. Wordsworth tells us, that the lan- guage of low and rustic life ought to be preferred, be- cause, in his opinion, the essential passions of the heart find a better soil, in which they can attain their matu- rity, and because, in that condition of life, our elemen- tary feelings co-exist in a state of greater simplicity. Mr. Wordsworth knows but little of the philosophy of the passions, when he writes in this strain. All mental pleasures arise from jnental perceptions, and each new OF THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. XXiX perception creates a new pleasure. The more, conse- quently, we multiply our perceptions, the more we mul- tiply our mental pleasures ; and the pleasure arising from any particular perception, no matter what it be, is just as natural as that arising from any other perception whatever, because it is natural that the effect should follow its cause. The mental pleasures of a scholar are, therefore, just as natural as those of a peasant, though they are infinitely more diversified, and the language in which he expresses them must, consequently, be as natural, if he write as he feels, as the language of the peasant. The fact, however, is, that his language will be more natural, because the vocabulary of the former is too scanty to supply him with words to express ex* actly what he wants to express. How erroneous, then, is Mr. WordsAVorth, in assert- ing that the language of low and vulgar life ought to be preferred, because, in his opinion, the essential pas- sions of the heart find a better soil, in which they can attain their maturity, and because, in that condition of life, our elementary feelings co-exist in a state of greater simplicity. If Mr. \\^ordsworth had paid a little attention to the study of human nature, he would not talk of essential passions, and elementary feelings, because there is no passion or feeling essential or elementary. We have no passion or feeling what- ever, but what is caused by external agency, and as each different modification of agency produces a different feeling and passion, it is obvious that all passions and feelings are equally natural. To call any passion "essential" or "elementary," conveys either no meaning, or an erroneous one; for what passion can be termed more essential or elementary than another ? No passion can be felt without a cause to excite it ; and if this cause should never occur, the passion would never be felt. Is not love a natural passion ? But who was ever in love before he saw a female capable of engaging his affections ? Love, then, is neither es- sential nor elementary, for it may never be felt; and never can be felt without a cause to excite it. Its existence, then, depends upon chance, and \\hat is XXX PRELIMINARY VIEW contingent cannot be elementary. All other passions are the same. Mr. Wordsworth cannot point out one passion that springs up naturally and spontaneously in the human breast, of its own accord. All are the re- sult of external agency, and where no agency is exer- cised, no passion can be felt. If, then, all passions be the result of certain influences, all passions are effects, of which these influences arc the causes, and, there- fore, all are equally natural. The passions of a pea- sant, then, cannot be more natural than those of the poet, who feels a thousand passions, emotions, and sympathies, of which the peasant cannot even form an idea. As all these passions and modes of feeling are unknown to the peasant, they must, consequently, be different from all his passions, and, if different, they must be expressed in different language, if they are expressed naturally; but, according to Mr. Words- worth, it would be unnatural to express them differ- ently, because he would have them all expressed in the language of the peasant, as if the peasant could give expression to feelings of which he knows nothing. If any poet should use the language of low life, it is only he whose feelings are low and rustic, and to whom all those mental pleasures that sport with airy wing, beyond the contracted limits of vulgar perception, are totally unknown. To say, then, that we should adopt the language of low and rustic life, is to say, that we should only feel and think like a peasant. We, therefore, maintain, that this language of low life, this affectedly natural and simple language, — this language of the untaught spirit, so admirably suited to certain religious sects, is the result of the most per- verted taste, and the most vitiated reasoning ; but, to put it properly to the test, we shall select a few exam- ples from the real language of low life, so real, that no person can mistake it, and then ask our readers whether it be language meet for a poet. The ex- amples we shall select, are epitaphs on tomb-stones, evidently the production of the rustic, unlettered muse. OF THE LITERATURE OF I'HK AGE. XXXI IN MEMORY OF Sarah Palmer, who departed this life March 16th, , 1/82, in the 91st year of her age, leaving children, grand children, great grand children, and treble grand children, 166. By his kind help, who sits on heaven's throne, I reach'd the rev' rend age of ninety-one : — At eighty-seven, 1 had a broken shin, At eighty-nine, 1 halv'd my dose of gin. And being come to ripe maturity, Plac'd all my thoughts upon futurity, Thinking I heard a blessed angel say, Cheery, old soiil, pack up, and come away. For I am dead, and she wont follow — 1 can no longer whoop and hollow, — Reader, if thou dost wish to know. The name of him here lying low. Look down upon this stone, and see Wilcox, conjoin'd with Timothy. Shadow'd with doubts, and agoniz'd with fears, I float to God upon a tide of tears ; Afar the beacon ! yet I see it shine — Despond, avaunt — Faith makes the haven mine. Hear from the tomb the warning voice of truth ' A lingering malady consum'd my youth, — John Sims, my name, a carpenter's my trade ; With half confessions, like a blushing maid. To a fam'd Leech I humbly did apply, Though no one knew the cause, or reason why ; His sov'reign cordials floAv'd for me in vain, His pills procur'd me only change of pain : XXXll PRELIMINARY VIEW So next I dragg'd my steps to Doctor Greedy, Who made me ten times worse, and still more needy. Worn to a stump, I sought the rev' rend Jay, Not in the pill, but in the spiritvial way, — He cleans'd my inward man, he heard my sigh, Preach'd down my quacks, and taught me how to die. TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS AND RICHARD FRY, STONEMASONS, Who were crushed to death, August the 25th, 1776, by the slip down of a wall they were in the act of building. Thomas was aged 19, and Richard 21 years. *' They were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in death they were not divided. — Blessed are they who die in the Lord, for their works follow them." A sacred truth ! now learn our awful fate ! Dear friends we were, first cousins, and what not. To toil as masons was our humble lot ; As just returning from a house of call. The Parson bade us set about his wall; Flush'd with good liquor, cheerfully we strove. To place big stones below, and big above, — We made too quick work — down the fabric came, — It crush'd our vitals — people bawl'd out shame But we heard nothing — mute as fish we lay. And shall lie sprawling till the judgment day. From our misfortune this good moral know, Never to work too fast, or drink too slow. Near this Stone are deposited the mortal remains of Mrs. Elinor Parkins, who kept the "Red Lion," in this town, with great credit, more than sixteen years. Assign'd by Providence to rule a tap, My days past glibly, — till an awkward rap, Some way like bankruptcy, impell'd me down ; But up 1 got again, antl shook my gown. OF THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. XXXlii In gamesome gambols, quite as brisk as ever — Blithe as the lark, and gay as sunny weather, — Compos'd with creditors, at five in pound, And frolick'd on till laid in holy ground. The debt of nature must, you know, be paid, — No trust from her, — God grant extent in aid. I WENT and listed in the Tenth Hussars, And gallopp'd with them to the bloody wars. — "Die for your Sovereign, — for your country die !" To earn such glory feeling rather shy, Snug I slipp'd home ; but Death soon sent me off. After a struggle with the hooping cough. That thou would'st pity take, I humbly pray, O Lord, on this my wretched lump of clay ; A broken pitcher do not cleave in tAvain, But let me rise, and be myself again. Tread soft, good friends, lest you should spring a mine, I was a workman in the powder line. Of true religion I possess'd no spark, Till Christ, he pleas'd to stop my gropings dark. The Rev'rend Vicar seconded the plan, A temperate, holy, charitable, man. Who left the foxes to enjoy their holes. And never hunted aught but human souls ; To this Director's care, 'twas kindly given, To point my spirit, bolt upright, to heaven. In these examples, we have the real language of low life ; but if Pope wrote thus, would it ever become a question, whether he should rank with the first or second poets of his country ? Happily for Pope, he was not guided by the maxims of Mr. \A'ordsworlh. If he were, his name should have never reached us. Away, tnen, with that cant which would oblige the poet to express his sublime and rapt emotions in the vulgar language of the rustic, in common M'ith whom he has XXXIV PRELIMINARY VIEW not one solitary feeling, passion, emotion, or sympathy. Both, it is true, may be under the influenee of the same passion ; both may be irritated by the same cause ; but are both affected by it in the same iden- tical manner ? Far from it : the anger of the peasant and of the poet are so different from each other, that it is only poverty of language that obliges us to call them by the same name. Shades of feeling, though they differ from each other, cannot be expressed in different words, while they retain the same character. From what we have said, our readers must perceive that we are decided advocates for the classical, by Avhich we mean the natural, school of poetry. It is capable of all the charms of which all the other schools are capable, without retaining any of their errors. Wiiat, we would ask, has the romantic school of poetry produced, worth producing, of which models cannot be discovered in the classical school ? Cannot a classical poet be as romantic as he pleases in his ideas ? and, as to a romantic mode of expression, it is all literary fana- ticism. A romantic style is a burlesque upon common sense. No style can be correct, unless it be natural, and adapted to its subject ; and, if it be so, it must be clas- sical. Whatever is natural, cannot be romantic in any sense in which that term is opposed to classical, be- cause we never apply the term classical to any style or production which is not correct, and, consequently, natural at the same time. Classical differs from natural only in its more limited acceptation : it is nature ap- plied to style and execution. \Vhat is a classical style, or a classical manner, but a conformity to that correct and perspicuous style and manner which has been adopted by the best writers, and which we have already justified ? If classical poetry, then, be always natural, romantic poetry must be so too, if it be good for any thing ; for, if it were allowed that it deviates from nature, its warmest admirers would shrink from de- fending it. Wherein, then, has romantic the advan- tage over classical })oetry ? Nature is the common subject of both, and neither has any value, but what it derives from its adherence to nature. Romantic po- OF THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. XXXV etry must be classical in its expression, to be perfectly beautiful ; and classical poetry may be romantic. But though romantic poetry is no poetry, if it be not clas- sical, classical poetry must not, necessarily, be roman- tic. The whole mistake arises from confounding the subject or matter of poetry with the style or language of the poet. It is this mistake that has led modern critics into so many contradictions, and involved them in so much perplexity and confusion. The term clas- sical can only apply to the treatment of the subject, but implies no particular kind of subject, because all subjects can be treated classically, while romantic can a])ply only to the subject alone, or the scenes, images, thoughts, and sentiments, of which it is composed. We may form a romantic idea, but to talk of romantic words, or a romantic style, is absolute nonsense, if we mean, by this style, any thing more than a simple, natural, classical style. The style should always take its colour and character from the subject, and, there- fore, when the subject is romantic, the style must be suited to it, that is, such terms must be selected as will convey the romantic ideas and associations of the poet. As to classical thoughts, classical imagery, clas- sical sentiments, classical sympathies, classical feel- ings, we defy all the classical and romantic readers in England, to point out one to which the term is appli- cable. The term romantic, on the other hand, applies only to the character of the poet's subject, the cha- racter of his imagery, sentiments, associations, and feelings. In a word, the term romantic applies only to the mind ; classical, to the correctness and ele- gance of the style in which we express ourselves. We may have a romantic mind, but as for a classical mind, we cannot even form an idea of what it means. A romantic poem may, therefore, be Avritten in classical language, for it must be romantic, be it ^ATitten in what language it may, if it describe scenes and situ- ations that never, or, at least, very seldom, occur in real life, — something which imagination can conceive, but which seldom has " a local habitation and a name" in the realities of life. The classical writer avoids XXXVl PRELIMINARY VIEW *' the ambitious obscurity of expressing more than is perfectly conceived, or perfect conception in fewer w^ords than it requires." He who observes this rule, is a clas.^ical writer : he who does not, may call him- self a romantic writer, if he please, — but we call him an obscure and incorrect writer ; and if obscurity and incorrectness be the characteristics of the romantic school, it is not worthy of any serious notice. Romantic poetry, then, when it is good for any thing, must be classical poetry ; that is, when romantic scenes are described in correct language, this language must be classical, for as classical regards not the subject, but the style, it admits of all subjects alike, — the romantic, the epic, the tragic, the picturesque, the descriptive, the pathetic, the narrative, the didactic, &c. The extracts we have given from Ali, are elegantly classical and highly romantic at the same moment. No two schools, opposed to each other, can be right ; for there can be no genuine poetry that is not in accord- ance with nature. All the poets that follow nature belong to the same school, no matter how ditTerent their subjects may be from each other, for subjects may be infinitely diversified, and all benatural. Theignorance, however, that has led us to adopt a romantic school, has also led us to adopt a species of versification which Ave vainly attempt to justify, by calling it romantic ; nor do we stop here : we select subjects, create ima- ges, and adopt sentiments, which are in perfect vio- lation of nature. We satisfy ourselves, however, with the reflection, that whatever wears the appearance of romance, must be right, whether it be natural or not; that is, it must be right, even when it is wrong. Our best poets have fallen into this snare, and have given pieces to the public which we hope, for their own sakes, may never go down to posterity. Of this, i\Ir. Campbell's " Last Man," and his "Spanish Patriot's Song," and, indeed, almost all the Songs he writes in the New Monthly, are remarkable instances; we say, remarkable, because he evinced so pure and classical a taste in his " Pleasures of Hope." He then wrote ^vhat his own feelings and good taste OF THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. XXXVll directed, and what he thought was adapted to the feelings and taste of all men, who judged by their feelings, not by that perverted taste which leads thou- sands to suppose, that whatever comes from the pens of certain writers, must be what it ought to be, Avhe- ther they are pleased with it or not. It is for this last class of writers he employs his pen at present. He now seems to write for the exquisites, — in taste as well as in dress. We shall make a few remarks on his " Last ]\Ian," which is given in page 128 of this volume, to which we refer our readers. The form of vei'se which he has adopted in it, be- longs to the romantic school of poetry, for we are now romantic, not only in our ideas, but also in our manner of expressing them. To our ears, however, this measure has no charm ; nor, we apprehend, to any ears that judge by the original laws of harmony. There are, however, who sacrifice their natural feelings to novelty, not that this novelty delights them, for what is not in accord with the laws of our nature, can never please, but that they attribute their want of plea- sure to want of taste, and admire in proportion to their ignorance. Let Lord Byron write in any new-fangled verse, and though it pleases no man, it is admired by all, or, at least, by the majority, because they attribute the little pleasure which it imparts to them, not to any want of beauty in the structure of verse adopted by the noble bard, but to their not being able to perceive its beauty, and imagining that their ignorance would be detected, if they acknowledged the truth, and avowed it was, to their ears, both harsh and disagreeable, they run into the very opposite extreme, and pretend that nothing pleases them more. This they consider a proof of their good taste ; but, with regard to that structure of verse which gives them real and positive pleasure, they are totally silent, because they feel, instinctively, that it pleases all men, as well as themselves, and they know, accordingly, they can get no credit for profess- ing to be pleased with that which pleases all mankind. We believe, Mr. Campbell studies less his own taste than that of these affected judges, — these exquisites in XXXVUl PRELIMINARY VIEW poetry, — when he writes such verses as the "Last Man." Indeed, in a veiy great portion of the poetry emanating from the romantic school, there is a bloated greatness, a strutting pomp, a mystical solemnity, which, though they make the ignorant stare, are only fit subjects of laughter to any man who admires, and is pleased only with all that is in harmony with nature ; not that he would limit the creative powers of the poet, but that he would oblige him to make his creations wear the aspect and liveiy of nature. We think we can per- ceive some of these last characters of the romantic school in " The Last Man." He is a very great and pious man, in his own opinion, and a very little and impious one in ours. What manner of man must he be, who, seeing " the wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds," about his ears, instead of being moved by so awful a scene, stands up, and addresses the sun in a prouder speech than Milton has put into the mouth of Lucifer, in addressing the same orb ? For our parts, we would not wish to be made in the same mould with such a man. But he is a romantic man, and that is enough ! ! And yet this romantic man is " likened unto " a prophet, and seems to be painted by Mr. Campbell as an emblem of human greatness ; but, we regret to say, that the greatness of this Last Man, is the greatness of Satan, and the power that is given him is much greater. Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood. With dauntless words, and high. That shook the sere leaves from the wood, ' As if a storm passed by. This is, really, true poetic rant ; for, admitting that men, instead of decreasing in strength and stature, ac- cording to the generally received opinion, continue to wax stronger and stronger to the end of time, it is still ridiculous to suppose, that the last man will have such a tempest-like voice as is here attributed to him. Nei- ther can he be a prophet, in any sense of the word, for he was, of all other men, the only one who could be OK THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. XXXIX no prophet. Prophecy regards that which is to take place, and which has not yet commenced ; but there was nothing to take place after the Last Man, but what was actually taking place at the moment. The world was crumbling into ruin, and it required no prophecy to foretell that of which he was an actual spectator ; and, the ruin being consummated, all futu- rity was at an end, at least, so far as regards time ; and, with regard to eternity and immortality, the Last Man could have no more knowledge, until he was out of existence, than w^e have at present. In the fifth stanza, the Last Man utters blasphemy against the Deity. He desires the sun not to "recal life's tragedy again," nor restore man to that state of raisei-y from Avhich the dissolution of the earth had released him : Its piteous pageants bring not back. Nor waken flesh upon the rack. Of pain aneAV to writhe ; that is, in other words, that annihilation is better than that state in which w^e are placed by the Deity. But if the Last Man thus chooses indirectly to attack Pro- vidence, why attribute any portion of its evils to the sun, that " test of all sumless agonies." The sun, surely, though he witnesses our agonies, does not ren- der them greater than they would be had he never seen them. On the contrary, so far from increasing the evils incident to our condition, it serves to soften and meliorate them all. Were we to suffer these "sumless agonies" in the dark, without a soli- tary ray of sun-shine to cheer us, how much more miserable and insupportable would be our condition. And yet, this Last Man throws out all his venom against the unoffending sun, as if the cause of human miseiy, because the spectator of it. This is not in accordance with that spirit of humiliation by which the last of men ought to be influenced. It ill accords with that resig- nation, that piety, that meekness, that forbearance, that charity, that fear and trembling, so strongly re- xl PRELIMINARY VIEW commended to us in the sacred writings, at all times and in all seasons ; and, if at any season, surely when nature was making her final exit. This was an awful moment, — not a moment for spleen, or reproach, for pride, or exultation ; and yet, the whole is written with a spirit of greater enmity to the sun, than that of Satan. In tlie fallen angel it was natural — in the Last Man it could not be so, unless he were equally fallen : and if Mr. Campbell borrowed the idea of making the Last Man speak in this strain, from Satan's celebrated address to the Snn, and imagined, that as this address is univ^ersally allowed to be highly poetic, all similar addresses must be equally so, come from whom they may, we can only tell him, that before he came to this conclusion, he should have asked himself a very simple question, namely, whether any thing can be poetic, that is unnatural ? We do not say this on the autho- rity of Pope, where he says, " first follow nature," because Mr. Campbell may object to his authority, like all other disciples of the romantic school, though, as we have already observed, we think Mr. Campbell does not follow his own taste, in adopting the high- flown nonsense of this school, but because no other school will suit the exquisites, who want something to make them "tremble at every pore." To do this, requires neither sense nor meaning, nor propriety, nor consistency, for all these elements of good writing are almost exploded, or, at least, are going out of fashion. The exquisite cannot suffer dull sense to approach him. His morning and evening hymn is. Begone dull sense, I pray thee, begone from me. Begone dull sense. You and I can never agree. Accordingly, the exquisite in taste {we have nothing to do with the exquisite in dress) is By fashiofi's kindly law, Pleas'd with a feather, tickled with a straw. OF THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. xH He amuses himself with collecting the straws that float upon the surface, and laughs to scorn those dull creatures who " sink below," in search of pearls. We hope it is not necessary for us to shew, that whatever violates reason and nature cannot be poetic ? At present, we take it for granted that this will be acceded to us, and continue to take it for granted, until the proposition is disputed. Accordingly, all that is in the romance of the present day, in opposition to either, is not poetry, and, therefore, the strain in which the Last Man addresses the sun, is utterly indefensible. The highest degree of Satanic venom appears couched in the following lines, — the very sound of the words spit venom, and are " an echo to the sense." My lips, that speak thy dirge of death. Their rounded gasp, and gurgling breath. To see thou shalt not boast. Proud, last, we hope not lost man ; what a boast it must be to see the "gasp and gurgling" of thy lips. For our parts, instead of boasting of it, we should turn with disgust from the scene ; and yet, you imagine it would be a glorious sight for the sun to look upon. On the whole, the pride of this " last of Adam's race," this proud spirit, who represents men as Piteous pageants, Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd. Or mown in battle by the sword. Like grass beneath the scythe, while he himself defies " the darkening universe," is of such a character, that we cannot read this produc- . tion of Mr. Campbell's without pain. But, had not Mr. Campbell taste or discernment enough to perceive that his Last Man was not in accord- ance with nature ? We say, he had, but he sails with the current of fashion, — a current that takes its course through a very different channel. He saw that, if his Last Man was not natural, he was what moderns call d xlii PRELIMINARY VIEW romantic, and this was just the manner of man he wanted. But, unhappily, he is not a romantic man either, for all romantic men are natural men. They indulge their imagination, it is true, more than other men ; but this is in perfect accordance with their natu- ral temper and turn of mind. But, in the Last Man, there is, in reality, nothing romantic. He has not a particle of imagination : pride, impious pride, is the only spirit by which he is actuated, and the proud man is, of all others, the most barren of imagination, and the least romantic, because all his thoughts are engrossed in the gratification of one propensity. There is, therefore, neither nature nor true romance in the Last Man, and all that can recommend it, are Dauntless words and high. That shake the sear leaves from the wood, As if a storm passed by. For, after all, when we come to examine the proper and distinguishing characteristics of the modern school, they consist in " dauntless high" and stormy words, that convey no meaning, or an empty one; for, where- ever they do convey a just meaning, they resolve them- selves into the classical school. High and stormy words, however, have a greater effect than is gene- rally imagined^ even when taken separately and un- connected, as Burke has shcM^n in his Sublime and Beautiful ; and how nmch greater must be their power when brought in contact with each other ? Indeed, if it were not for this power, the veil would instantly drop from our eyes, and we should behold the naked- ness and ridiculousness of what we now call romantic poetry, for the reader must not forget, that we always distinguish between legitimate romance, and the ro- mance of the present day. From the view which we have taken of modern po- etry, it will be concluded, that we do not agree with those who are of opinion, that the present age M'ill be hereafter deemed the brightest era of English litera- ture, — that it will be the admiration of the man of OF THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. xUii taste, — and the model of the man of genius, when he stoops to a model, — that it will be rendered immortal, by the associations connected with the splendour of its eloquence, the luxuriance of its poetry, the depth of its philosophy, the wisdom of its politics, or the originality of its general character ; and, if so, it will be said, that the literature and poetry of the age, can afford but veiy scanty materials to the compiler of Elegant Extracts. We are of a different opinion, for we are certain, that no writer affords less matter for selection, than the elegant and classical writer, be- cause he finishes every part so carefully, that there is some difficulty in determining, as we have already ob- served, what to select, and what to reject. The pro- ductions of such a writer, should be read from begin- ning to end, but he who dashes off at a heat, the first thoughts that occur to him will, for the reasons which we have already assigned, write much that is not worth reading or remembering. Yet such a writer will sometimes produce beauties of the highest order, for ^' there's a happiness as well as care." This is a peculiar feature in the character of modern poetry, if we except the few poets we have, that are entitled to the name of classical. The works of Lord Byron, Moore, and Campbell, prove sufficiently what we assert. The former, though an admirer of Pope, has no pretensions whatever to classical elegance, and, accordingly, it is waste of time to read half what he \v- rites ; but in what poets do we meet with sublimer passages, and more worthy such a selection as we now offer to the reader? Moore and Campbell, on the contrary, who are purely and strictly classical poets, (we must except Camp- bell's latter productions) offer little to the selector of poetic beauties, because every sentiment is so ele- gantly expressed, and every image so clearly placed before us, that we could select the whole with plea- sure, but know not what to reject. Accordingly, the lovers of poetiy should read them, from beginning to end, and not rest contented with mere extracts from their works. Besides, in every thing but poetry alone, we consider d2 xliv PREIJMINARY VIEW the present age, beyond all comparison, the brightest era of English literature. But, in poetry, we think that four-fifths of our poets are actually run mad, and it is for this madness we censure them, not for want of genius. They write nonsense, because they are above writing sense. They wish to shew that there is a fashion in poetry as well as in manners, and resemble those who will not wear gold chains to their watches, because their inferiors do the same, though they can- not help acknowledging that a gold chain is more valuable than a ribbon. Thus, our modern poets, in order to place themselves above the vulgar herd of mankind, throw away that pure gold, that common sense, which is fairly worth the seven, and ascend the clouds to commune only with gods and angels. They waft us to regions of immortal bliss, or place us in the magic bowers of fancy, where all is rapture, ecstacy, and delight. But, unhappily, we cannot remain long in the higher regions, till we feel a propensity to return to our native earth. It is a planet more suited to our capa- bilities of enjoyment. We have not strength to relish ethereal pleasures for any length of time, and, therefore, we soon tire of all poetry that is purely imaginative. Hence it is, that few can read the divine Milton, or Ossian, half a day, notwithstanding his divinity, with- out falling asleep; while they can give days and nights to Homer and Shakspeare ; and hence it is, also, that after reading over a modern poem, we seldom think or care about taking it up again. It contains nothing that fixes itself on the memory, and to which we can again recur with pleasure and delight. There is nothing to rest upon but the vacuities of imagination. All are airy vapours, ideal images, that please while they are passing in review before us, but are so indistinct, so subtile, so airy, so formless, so fantastic, so voluble and untenable, that having once passed, they can never be recalled. They cannot, accordingly, become the subject of conversation among literary men — they cannot be quoted on all occasions, like Pope and Shak- speare. One or two editions are, therefore, sufficient to terminate the existence of a modern poem. This OF THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. xlv is to be regretted, because, as we have already ob- served, the evil does notarise from want of genius, but from want of industry. Modern poets will not take the trouble of making themselves acquainted with the heart and its affections, because they do not write to the heart : — they wi'ite to the imagination and sensual passions alone, and it requires no acquaintance with human nature^to do this. What is strictly sensual, is learned without instruction, because it is born with us, and the empire of imagination is so wide, that if we fear to go astray in one region, we may turn to another. Hence it is, that though our modern poets flatter themselves that their high and imaginative poetry is the sublimest, and, consequently, the most difficult of all others, they would, notwithstanding, find it a thousand times more difficult to paint the true character of a real, natural, living man, a man who has so little celestial about him, that he could not soar half an inch above the earth, for half a minute, without falling back again — we say, they Avould find it more difficult to paint the character of this mere human man — let him be Csesar or Cato, Cromwell or Buo- naparte, than to create and describe an angel or an archangel, or any being of spiritual or imaginative mould. Our modern critics and poets forget, if they ever knew, that the poet who only writes what is the pure offspring of imagination, is he who, of all others, requires least knowledge, and who has, of all others, the least to accomplish. In the first place, he invents Avhat images he pleases, makes goblins or hobgoblins, fairies, genii, griffins, or whatever else he chooses of them — he may give them what shape, size, and dimen- sions he please; — in fact, he may twist and turn them as he will, provided he does not contradict himself, and, therefore, he is, in fact, placed under no restraint. There is nothing to puzzle, nothing to bewilder him. But how differently is he circumstanced when he comes to describe things and properties with which we are ourselves acquainted as well as he. Then it is he must keep close to nature — then it is he requires xlvi PRELIMINARY VIEW knowledge and experience — that knowledge and ex- perience in which Homer, Virgil, and Shakspeare, and all poets that ever become immortal, have so emi- nently excelled ; then it is, in a word, that a modern poet's metal would be put to the test, and that we should discover what kindred he bore to Homer or Shakspeare. But while he keeps away from us, in the fairy regions of imagination, he may loQk down upon us, in the pride of his ignorance, and say, " how greatly would you admire me, if I condescended to visit the earth, and treat of earthly things, when I can talk so sublimely of those which are placed above your reach." And must we not ourselves be nearly as ignorant, when we believe him to be really that sublime poet which he represents himself? There is hardly an old woman in Ireland who cannot repeat more fairy tales, and pro- ductions which are the pure offspring of imagination, and which were invented by themselves, or byother old women, to amuse children of a long winter's night, than the most prolific of our modern poets have as yet produced ; and we suspect the old women of Scotland are not behind hand with them. Are the amusements of old women, then, and the themes on which they delight to dwell, meet subjects for the celestial muse? If not, how childish is it in iVlr. Campbell, or any man of genius, to employ his pen, or hope to acquire fame, from what re- quires no other talent than mere imagination. The great delusion is, that Ave think whatever is the offspring of imagination, requires great talent and genius to pro- duce it. This is a most egregious mistake : imagina- tion is never so strong and active as in our youth, and a child can understand fairy tales and romantic fictions as clearly as a philosopher, or a man of the strongest intellectual powers. Imaginative productions, it is true, are pleasing to youth, and this is the reason why modern poets deal in them. They sell because they are pleas- ing — they require no talent to produce them, if we only receive our first ideas and impressions from some old ignorant nurse, and the more ignorant she is, the more she delights in the romance of imagination ; for, being acquainted with little that is real, the mind, which is I OF THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. xlvii naturally fond of dvA^elling upon something, soon gets tired of this little, and travels into the world of unreal being to entertain itself with images and beings of its own creation. That this is evident, is proved by the fact, that it is only in youth and old age the lower classes delight in these fairy recreations. In youth, the mind is active and vigi- lant, but its ignorance and inexperience do not furnish sufficient matter to employ its restless thoughts. It wanders, accordingly, from the few realities with which it is acquainted, to unreal matters, or matters which it fancies to be real. As it increases in real knowledge, it has a greater circle of real objects to employ its attention, and it withdrav»'s itself propor- tionably from the unreal, Avhich are now beginning to lose the charm of novelty, vvhile every new acquire- ment makes it acquainted with something, Avhich is not merely new, but real at the same time. Thus the mind proceeds till it arrives at maturitJ^ Here it makes a long pause : the knoAvledge which it pos- sesses at this time, and which, from want of education, is still extremely limited, is sufficient, however, to em- ploy its attention till old age comes on, by which time it has travelled, over and over again, the whole stock of real knowledge which it possesses, and begins, ac- cordingly to sicken with repetition, and to return to its childish fancies, which renew once more their long-faded novelty. Youth and old age are, therefore, the ages of romance and fiction, among the lower classes, and all classes are the same in youth. It is different, however, with the old age of the lettered part of mankind, — the romance of youth can never return to them. They are always acquiring some- thing real 'and new at the same time, so that they have always something to employ their minds, without recurring to the fancies and fairy images of their child- hood. From what we have said, the poetry of the present day is not likely to become immortal ; we mean, the greater portion of it ; namely, that portion which has no other merit than that of being the pure offspring of imagina- Xlviii PRELIMINARY VIEW tion. Such poetry is only fit for children and old men. Let our poets, therefore, take a different course, if they would be immortal. Let them, like Homer, Virgil, and Horace; like Racine, Boileau, and Voltaire; likeAriosto, Tasso, and Camoens ; like Shakspeare and Pope, make the realities of life the subject of their theme, and adorn them as much as they please with the fictions of imagination ; but let not him who amuses himself altogether with fiction, aspire to immortality. It is only when they come to the realities of life that their virtues can be tried, and it is fortunate for the age, that it has some such poets to sustain its character, though they have not entirely escaped the mania of the ro- mantic school. Among these, Moore, in our opinion, takes the first place, and Byron the second. At least, we think this will be the opinion of posterity, what- ever be the opinion of the present age. We are aware, that much of Moore's poetiy wears a romantic cha- racter ; but it should be recollected, that the reali- ties of life are always at the bottom, and that they are merely clothed in the light vesture of romance. The human heart, its sensibilities, feelings, passions, sympathies, aversions, propensities, desires, weak- nesses, and general affections, are real things, and the real subjects of his muse. His is, therefore, the lan- guage of pure passion : he always writes what he feels, not what he imagines, as his imagery serves only as a foil to his feelings. We have already observed, that the poetry of pure and unmixed passion never flou- rished in this country. Pope has given one beautiful spe- cimen of it. Goldsmith several; but all the productions of Moore are the direct effusions of feeling and passion. He stands, therefore, alone among English poets. They have all touched upon various strings, but the magic sweetness of this one chord has so wound up the entire soul of Moore, that he would seem to have devoted himself to it alone, and to have fed upon its enchant- ment. We might, perhaps, be more in love with those too heavenly fair ones, whom he paints in his " Loves of the Angeis," if, instead of being in love with an- gels^ they became enamoured of men. We cannot OF THE LITERATURli OF THE AGE. xllx easily sympathize with a love-sick angel : we cannot bring ourselves to believe, that he is subject to the weaknesses and infirmities of man, and, therefore, when he talks about love, we laugh at him for his folly, or suspect the sincerity of his flame. Moore, however, has made his angels such beings as ourselves, except that few of us can pretend to such beauty : they are all beautiful youths, and have nothing super- human about them, nothing that indicates their celestial ori- gin, except that expression of conscious greatness which they cannot controul. AVlioever, therefore, can have faith enough to believe that an angel can assume human form, may also have weakness enough to sym- pathize with his imperfections, for all sympathy is weakness, and, perhaps, all weakness virtue. One thing, however, is certain, that though we cannot sym- pathize so deeply in the loves of any of Moore's an- gels, as we do in the sorrows and passions of Werter, they are, notwithstanding, the most lovely, the most interesting angels that have, perhaps, ever been painted by the pencil of man. The angels of Milton may excite our admiration, but they are all too formidable to ob- tain our esteem, much less our affection. Moore is one of those poets who clearly evince that there is something either in the original constitution of the mind, or in the harmony that exists between it and the physical organization, that disposes it for, and gives it a natural tendency to, certain pursuits, in Avhich it attains an eminence, to which it could never arrive in any other. Had he tried his strength in any other sphere of poetry than love, it is doubtful whether he should be known to us as a poet ; but having, happily for himself, (though, perhaps, unhappily for some of those tender natures whose hearts are too exquisitely alive to all the finer influences of the softer affections,) made this captivating theme the general subject of his muse, he has attained such happiness of man- ner and delicacy of colouring, in picturing to the imagination the secret Avorkings of passion that pre- cede the burning raptures that accompany, and the intellectual revelry and romantic visions that succeed. 1 PRELIMINARY VIEW the enjoyment of the lover, that we have no hesitation to say, he is, if not unequalled, at least, not surpassed by any poet, ancient or modern, in that peculiar re- gion of poetry which he has traced out for himself, we mean, amatory poetry of a sentimental character. Petrarch excels in sentiment alone ; but had he been less sentimentally, and more earnestly, in love than he was, he would be more frequently read. The fact is, that Petrarch appears to be one of those characters who, as Bruyere says, wish to be in love, but find they cannot. His language seems to be always dic- tated by his head, and not by his heart. Elegant ease, combined with that chastity and purity of expression which result from a cultivated taste, are, therefore, his characteristic excellencies ; but he always leaves room to suspect the sincerity of his flame, and the ardour of his attachment to Laura ; and the more pains he is at to convince her of it, the more our suspicions are increased ; for we perceive instinctively, that his points and concetti are not the offspring of true passion, and that he affects an intensity of emotion, of which he is incapable. Besides, his imagination is, at all times, more busily employed than his feelings and his heart, which is the true seat of affection. How different is it with Moore : instead of suspecting either him or his characters of feeling less than they profess to feel, we suspect that they feel infinitely more. Accord- ingly, they have no difficulty in convincing us, that they are really and sincerely in love ; but they have the greatest difficulty in making us believe, that they are not more deeply in love than they pretend We perceive, intuitively, that every expression is instinct with fire, and indicate a mind surcharged with all that passion By which the wilder'd sense is caught. with All that the spirit seeks in heaven. And all the senses burn for here. The characteristic excellence of Moore, therefore, is OF THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. li not only an absence of all affectation, of every thing that approaches to point and conceit, but an entire pos- session of that unfeigned passion, that richness, fulness, and exuberance of imagination, without which amatory poetry dwindles into rant and cold declamation. The poet who possesses this feeling, has more difficulty in concealing its intensity, than in removing any suspi- cions which we might be disposed to entertain of its reality. From the entire of Moore's poetry, we are half inclined to think, that he is always in love, always dwelling on the charms of woman, and, like one of his own angels. Day and night Hovering, unseen, around her way. And mid her loneliest musings near; always recounting, in his own mind. The countless things That keep young hearts for ever glowing, — Vague wishes, fond imaginings. Love dreams, as yet no object knowing, — Light winged hopes, that come when bid. And rain-bow joys, that end in weeping. And passions, among pure thoughts hid. Like serpents under flow' rets sleeping. Though it is difficult, as we have already observed, to select from Moore, all being instinct M'ith that feel- ing, passion, and poetic beauty that enrapture and en- chant the lover of poetry, we shall, however, select what appears to us most eminently beautiful in his " Loves of the Angels," and by contrasting them with Lord Byron's "Heaven and Earth," elucidate the obser- vations which we have already made on classical and romantic poetiy. The scene of the poem is laid in the infancy of the world, and the poem itself, opens with a description of " young time." It next discloses three youths con- versing. On a hill's side, where hung the ray Of sun-set, sleeping in perfume. Hi PRELIMINARY VIEW These three youths happen to be three angels, who relate the history of their misfortunes to each other. The poet supposes each of them to have been capti- vated by the charms of a particular female, and to have been stripped of their angelic dignity, in conse- quence of yielding to their passion. However difficult it may be to reconcile this species of attachment to our ideas of spiritual, or unembodied essences, it is still evident, that no subject could give the poet a more expansive range in the boundless empire of ideal or possible existence. With all this liberty, however, Moore is too much attached to his favourite, woman, to stray from her for any length of time ; and it is only when she is present, or forms the burden of his song, that he appears to be truly inspired. The poem, how- ever, is fraught with all the beauties that enrich the sentimental and ideal world. The first angel Sighing, as through the shadoA^^ past. Like a tomb-searcher, memory ran. Lifting each shroud that time had cast. O'er buried hopes, thus commences the interesting, pathetic narrative of his misfortunes. 'Twas in a land, that far away Into the golden orient lies. Where nature knows not night's delay. But springs to meet her bridegroom, day. Upon the threshold of the skies. One morn, on earthly mission sent. And midway choosing where to light, I saw, from the blue element. Oh beautiful, but fatal sight ! — One of earth's fairest womankind. Half veil'd from view, or, rather, shrin'd. In the clear ciystal of a brook ; Which, while it had no single gleam, Of her young beauties, made them look OF THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. liil More- spirit like, as they might seem Through the dim shadowing of a dream. The angel and she fall in love with each other, but her passion becomes of a spiritual, his of a sensual nature. So innocent the maid — so free From mortal taint, in soul and frame. Whom 'twas my crime, my destiny To love, aye, burn for, with a flame, To which earth's wildest fires arc tame. Had you but seen her look, when first From my mad lips the avowal burst 3 — Not angry, — no — the feeling had No touch of anger, but most sad — It was a sorrow, calm as deep, A mournfulness that could not weep — So filled the heart was to the brink, So fix'd and frozen there — to think That angel natures — even I, Whose love she clung to, as the tie. Between her spirit and the sky — Should fall thus headlong from the height Of such pure gloiy into sin, — The sin, of all, most sure to blight. The sin, of all, that the soul's light Is soonest lost, extinguish'd in ! "We know," says a critic, commenting on this pas- sage, '^ that the feelings of the true poet are ever varying with its subject." We acknowledge the truth of the observation ; but, adds the critic, "yet it is im- possible that we should not pause to ask, if it is really Mr. Moore who writes thus ?" And we, for our part, would pause to ask what the critic means. Does he mean to say, that the sentiment is drawn out and wire- sj)un ? Does not every line present him with a new idea, a new feature, that characterizes the delinquency which the poet describes ? He who could not write so short a comment grammatically, ought to be cau- liV PRELIMINARY VIEW tious how he carps at a genius whose depth he cannot fathom, and by the brightness of whose conception he appears to be confounded. But a truce with the cri- tics : let us return to the original. The angel sees his fair one at a banquet, and indulges, like others, in the revelry of the moment. Now hear the rest — our banquet done, I sought her in the accustom 'd bow'r. Where late we oft, when day was gone. And the world hush'd, had met alone. At the same silent, moon-light hour. I found her w ^ ^ -fr ^ There was a virtue in that scene, A spell of holiness around. Which would have — had my brain not been Thus poison'd, madden'd — held me bound. As though I stood on God's own ground. E'en as it was — with soul all flame. And lips that burn'd in their own sighs, I stood to gaze, with awe and shame — The memory of Eden came Full o'er me, when I saw those eyes ; And though, too well, each glance of mine To the pale, shrinking maiden prov'd. How far, alas, from aught divine. Aught worthy of so pure a shrine. Was the wild love with which I lov'd : Yet must she, too, have seen, — Oh yes, 'Tis soothing but to think she saw. The deep, true, soul-felt tenderness. The homage of an angel's awe. Thus powerfully aff'ected, the angel addresses his fair one, if not in the language, at least, in the spirit of Sappho. " Oh, but to see that head recline " A minute on this trembling arm, " And those mild eyes look up to mine, " Without a dread, a thought of harm ! OF THE LITERATURK OF THE AGE. Iv *^ To meet but once, — the thrilling touch " Of lips that are too fond to fear me — " Or, if that boon be all too much, *' Ev'n thus to bring their fragrance near me ! *' Nay, shrink not so, a look — a word — " Give them but kindly, and I fly ; " Already, see my plumes have stirr'd, " And tremble for their home on high. " Thus be our parting, — cheek to cheek — " One minute's lapse will be forgiven ; " And thou, the next, shalt hear me speak " The spell that plumes my wings for heaven." While thus I spoke, the fearful maid. Of me, and of herself afraid. Had shrinking stood, like flow'rs beneath The scorching of the south wind's breath : But when I named — alas, too well, I now recall, though Avilder'd then, — Instantly, when I nam'd the spell, Her brow, her eyes uprose again ; And, with an eagerness, that spoke The sudden light that o'er her broke, " The spell, the spell ! — Oh, speak it noAV, " And I will bless thee !" she exclaim'd, — Unknowing what I did, inflam'd. And lost already, on her brow T stamp'd one burning kiss, and named The mystic word, till then ne'er told To living creature of earth's mould ! Scarce was it said, when, quick as thought. Her lips from mine, like echo, caught The holy sound — her hands and eyes. Were instant lifted to the skies. And thrice to heav'n she spoke it out. With that triumphant look faith wears. When, not a cloud of fear or doubt, A vapour from this vale of tears. Between her and her God appears ! That very moment, her whole frame All bright and glorified became. Ivi PRELIMINARY VIEW And at her back I saw unclose Two wings, magnificent as those That sparkle round the eternal throne. Whose plumes, as buoyantly she rose Above me, in the moon-beam shone With a pure light, which — from its hue, Unknown upon this earth — I knew Was light from Eden, glist'ning through ! Most holy vision ! ne'er before Did aught so radiant — since the day When Lucifer, in falling, bore The third of the bright stars away. Rise, in earth's beauty, to repair That loss of light and glory there ! The angel attempts to rise after her, but in vain. For him, the spell had lost its charm, and the offended God doomed him to remain, thenceforth, an humble tenant of the earth. If, as Burke says, "in the infi- nite variety of natural combinations, we must expect to find the qualities of things the most remote imagi- nable from each other, united in the same object," it is certain, thatbeauty and sublimity, however distantly allied, are finely blended in the following description, which introduces the second angel. Who was the second spirit ? He With the proud front and piercing glance. Who seem'd when viewing heav'n's expanse. As though his far-sent eye could see On, on into immensity. Behind the veils of that blue sky, Wliere God's sublimest secrets lie ? His wings, the while, though day was gone. Flashing Avith many a various hue Of light, they from themselves alone. Instinct with Eden's brightness drew — A breathing forth of beams at Avill, Of living beams, which, though no more They kept their early lustre, still Were such, when glitt'ring out all o'er. As mortal eye-lids wink'd before. I OP THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. JVll "I\vas Rubi, in whose mournful eye Slept the dim light of days gone by, "Whose voice, though sweet, fell on the car. Like echoes in some silent place. When first awak'd for many a year ; And when he smil'd — if o'er his face Smile ever shone — 'twas like the grace Of moon-light rainbows, fair, but wan. The sunny light, the gloiy gone. Ev'n o'er his pride, though still the same, A soft'ning shade from sorrow came ; And though, at times, his spirit knew The kindlings of disdain and ire. Short was the fitful glare they threw — Like the last flashes, fierce but few. Seen through some noble pile on fire ! Rubi was present at the creation of Eve, whom he admired so much, that he ever after entertained a pas- sion for her sex. His affection, however, at last, cen- tered in one. There was a maid, of all who move Like visions o'er this earth, most fit To be a bright young angel's love. Herself so bright, so exquisite ! The pride, too, of her step, so light Along the unconscious earth she went, Seem'd that of one, born with a right To walk some heavenlier element, And tread in places where her feet A star at every step should meet. It was in dreams that first I stole, With gentle mast'ry, o'er her mind, In that rich twilight of the soul, When reason's beam, half hid behind The clouds of sense, obscurely gilds Each shadowy shape that Fancy builds : — 'Twas then, by that soft light, I brought Vague, glimmering visions to her view — Catches of radiance, lost when caught. Bright labyrinths that led to nought, And vistas, with a voice seen through ; — IViU PRELIMINARY VIKW Dwellings of bliss, that opening shone. Then clos'd, dissolv'd, and left no trace. All that, in short, could tempt hope on. But give her wing no resting place ; Myself, the while, with brow, as yet, Pure as the young moon's coronet, 111 rough every dream still in her sight. The enchanter of each mocking scene. Who gave the hope, then brought the blight. Who said ' Behold yon world of light,' Then sudden dropp'd a veil between ! The angel relates the happiness which he enjoyed in the society of his Lilis, and the mental torment arising from a consciousness of having incurred the displea- sure of heaven. In the meantime, Lilis's thirst of knowledge increased, and led to her destruction. 'Twas on the evening of a day, Which we in love had dream'd away. In that same garden where, beneath The silent earth, stripp'd of my wreath, And furling up those wings, whose light For mortal gaze were else too bright, I first had stood before her sight ; And found myself — Oh ecstacy. Which ev'n in pain I ne'er forget, — ■ Worshipp'd as only God should be, And lov'd as never man was yet ! In that same garden we were now. Thoughtfully side by side reclining. Her eyes turn'd upward, and her brow. With its owTi silent fancies shining. It was an evening bright and still As ever blush'd on wave or bow'r. Smiling from heav'n, as if nought ill, Could happen in so sweet an hour. Yet, I remember, both grew sad In looking at that light, — ev'n she. Of heart so fresh, and brow so glad. Felt the mute hour's solemnity ; OF THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. lix And though she saw, in that repose, The death hour, not alone of liglit. But of this whole, fair world — the close Of all things beautiful and bright — The last, grand sun-set, in whose ray Nature herself died calm away ! In the midst of this grand and solemn scene, Lilis relates to the angel a dream, Avhich she had the pre- ceding night, in which the angel appeared to her, di- vested of the mortal robes which he assumed, and clothed in all his original gloiy. She intreats of him to realize her dream, a request which, at first, per- plexes him. Some dark misgivings had, I own, Pass'd, for a moment, through my breast. Fears of some danger, vague, unknown To one or both, — something unblest To happen from this proud request. But these " misgivings" vanish the moment he reflects, that the pure flame of which he is composed^ is inno- cent in its effects. For well I knew the lustre shed From my rich wings, when proudliest spread. Was, in its nature, lambent, pure. And innocent, as is the light The glow-worm hangs out to allure Her mate, to her green bow'r at night. Oft had I, in the mid air, swept Through clouds, in which the light'ning slept. As in his lair, ready to spring. Yet wak'd him not — though from my wing A thousand sparks fell glittering. Thus having (as, alas, deceiv'd By my sin's blindness, I believ'd,) No cause for dread, and those black eyes There fix'd upon me eagerly. As if th' milocking of the skies Then waited but a sign for me — e 2 Ix PRliLIMINAttY VIEW How was I to refuse ? how say One word that in her breast could stir A fear, a doubt, but that each ray I brouglit from lieav'n, belong'd to her \ ^ ijr ^ ^ ^ All I could bring of heav'n's array. Of that rich panoply of charms A cherub moves in, on the day Of his best pomp, I now put on j And, proud that in her eyes 1 shone Thus glorious, glided to her arms. Which still, though at a sight so splendid. Her dazzled brow had instantly Sunk on her breast, were wide extended To clasp the form she durst not see ! Great God ! how could thy vengeance light So bitterly on one so bright ? How could the hand that gave such charms. Blast them again in love's own arms ? Scarce had I touch'd her shrinking frame. When — Oh, most horrible ! — I felt That every spark of that pure flame — Pure, while among the stars I dwelt — Was new, by my trangrcssion, turn'd Into gross, earthly fire, which burn'd, Burn'd all it touch'd, as fast as eye Could follow the fierce, ravening flashes^ Till there— Oh, God, 1 still ask why Such doom was her's ? — I saw her lie, Black'ning within my arms, to ashes ! Those cheeks, a glory but to see — Those lips, whose touch was what the first Fresh cup of immortality. Is to anew-made angel's thirst ! Those arms, within v.'hose gentle round. My heart's horizon, the whole bound Of its hope, prospect, heav'n was found ! W'Tiich, ev'n in this dread moment, fond As when they first were round me cast, Loos'd not in death the fatal bond. But, burning, held me to the last — OF THE LITERATUKE OF THE AGE. Ixi That hair, from under whose dark veil The snowy neck, like a white sail At moonlight seen, 'twixt wave and wave, Shone out by gleams, that hair to sa^'e But one of whose long glossy wreaths, I could have died ten thousand deaths ! All, all that seem'd one minute since, So full of love's oMTi redolence. Now, parch'd and black before me lay, Withering in agony away ; And mine, — Oh, misery ! — mine the flame, From which this desolation came — And I the fiend, whose foul caress, Had blasted all that loveliness 1 The other two angels join him in prayer, imploring the offended Deity to have mercy on the unhappy Lilis ; but Not long they knelt, when from a wood. That crown'd that airy solitude. They heard a low, uncertain sound. As from a lute that just had found Some happy theme, and murmur'd round The new-born fancy — with fond tone. Like that of ring- dove o'er her brood — Scarce thinking aught so sweet its own ! Till soon a voice, that match'd as well That gentle instrument, as suits The sea air to an ocean shell, (So kin its spirit to the lute's,) Tremblingly folio w'd the soft strain. Interpreting its joy, its pain. And lending the light wings of words. To many a thought that else had lain Unfledg'd, and mute among the chords. ITiis music proceeded from Nama, who was in quest of her beloved Zaraph, the third angel. This angel was of the highest order of spirits, who sat First and immediate near the throne, As if peculiarly God's own.; Ixii PRELIMINARY VIEW 'Mong these was Zaraph once — and none E'er felt affection's holy fire, Or ycarn'd towards the Eternal One With half such longing, deep desire. Alas, that it should e'er have been The same in hcav'n as it is here. Where nothing fond or bright is seen. But it hath pain and peril near. Ev'n so, that amorous spirit bound By beauty's spell where'er 'twas found. From the bright things above the moon Down to earth's beaming eyes descended. Till love for the Creator soon In passion for the creature ended ! 'Twas first at twilight, on the shore Of the smooth sea, he heard the lute, And voice of her he lov'd, steal o'er The silver waters that lay mute, As loth, by ev'n a breath, to stay The pilgrimage of that sweet lay. Whose echoes still went on and on. Till lost among the light that shone Far off beyond the ocean's brim. There, v/here the rich cascade of day Had o'er the horizon's golden rim Into Elysium roll'd aAvay, Of God she sung * * All this she sung, and such a soul Of piety was in that song, That the charm'd angel, as it stole Tenderly to his ear, along Those lulling waters where he lay. Watching the day-light's dying ray, Thought 'twas a voice from out the wave. An echo that some spirit gave To Eden's distant harmony. Heard faint and sweet beneath the sea ! OF THE LITERATURE OF THJi AGE. Ixiii Quickly, however, to its source, '^JVacking that music's meltiiii^ course, He saw upon the golden gaud Of the sea-shore, a maiden stand, Before whose feet the expiring waves Flung their last tribute with a sigh — As, in the east, exhausted slaves Lay down the far-brought gift and die ; And, while her lute lay by her hush'd. As if unequal to the tide Of song, that from her lips still gush'd. She rais'd like one beatified. Those eyes, whose light seem'd rather giv'n. To be ador'd, than to adore, — Such eyes as may have look'd from heav'n. But ne'er were rais'd to it before. He who is alive to the poetry of feeling and passion, must admire these extracts ; but a question naturally arises, whether such feeling and passion be natural to angelic beings, or whether the sentiments which they are made to express, be worthy of that imagined though unimaginable nature, which we attribute to them. AH the criticisms which we have seen on this poem, assert the contrary, and reprobate the poem for not being sufficiently moral. The critiques in the weekly and monthly reviews would seem to have been all the pro- duction of one pen ; at least, they are all variations of the same review, or the same sentiments differently expressed and arranged. It was found much easier, no doubt, and, perhaps, safer, to follow the first reviewer at a venture, than for any subsequent re- viewer to judge for himself. That it was easier is obvious ; Inat it was safer, will appear equally certain, when we reflect, that whatever fears the most stupid critic might entertain of \\Titing sentiments that had no foundation in nature, or common sense, he knew, at the same time, that he was supported by the authority of his brother dunces, whose principles and assumptions he merely dressed up in a different shape. Thus, stupidity gains strength by union, and the finest Ixiv PRELIMINARY VIEW composition is mangled by critics, who have neither sensibility to feel, intellect to perceive, nor honesty to avow its beauties. Blockheads, with reason, wicked wits abhor, But fool with fool, is barbarous civil war. The reviewer of this poem in Blackwood, admits that the subject is a legitimate one, but then he tells us, with the most serious, awful, tremendous gravity, that, notwithstanding its legitimacy, " it is one to be managed with extreme skill, and v/ith the nature and awe of a high mind, conscious, at all times, of the unapproachable sanctity of that nature which created all things, both men and angels, heaven and earth. If there be any want of such awe in the poet's mind, then he will be in danger every moment of dashing our delight, of awakening in our souls an insupportable sense of the violation of holiness." How greatly must the readers of Blackwood, or of the productions of Christopher North, Esq. be deceived, if they view the Loves of the Angels through the medium of such cant and unintelligible bombast. No criticism is more spe- cious or apt to deceive, than that which is veiled under the broad mantle of religion. Stupid as the critic is, he is cunning enough to perceive (for cunning and stupidity are frequently found to accompany each other) that the moment he introduces religion with a great and solemn gravity, and length of face, we be- come spell-bound, and lose our usual faculty of judg- ing. We become blind to every thing but our own fears. The critic throws an atmosphere of smoke, and "Cimmerian darkness" around us, which suffers no feeling to approach us that does not associate with fear, no perception to enlighten us, or to expel the intellectual night in which we are enveloped. Who would stop for a moment to examine whether the pas- sage we have just quoted, conveyed no meaning, or an erroneous one ? Who would be impious enough not to reverence nonsense, or who incredulous enough not to believe in it, whenever it happens to be religious OF THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. IxV lionsense ? And yet, we should have frequent occasions to hesitate and examine if we distinguished the voice of true religion from the cant of the religionist. What docs this dark dispenser of darker precepts mean by telling us, that though the subject is legitimate, " it is one to be managed with extreme skill?" That every poetic subject requires to be managed with extreme skill is obvious to the merest dabbler in literature, for if some subjects required little skill, this dabbler might excel in them as much as Homer or Milton. There is no subject which a writer of genius takes up, on which he cannot exercise all the genius of which he is master. All subjects then admit of all the skill which we possess, and if so, what particular application has this observation to the Loves of the Angels ? for our own part, we can see none ; and what has no particu- lar application to the work which is the subject of the critic's remarks, is only a spice of that prosing loquaciousness and unmeaning chit-chat which fill up the greater part of Modern Reviews. Noti his erat locus is a precept which no writer should ever forget. It is useful at all times, and in all places. Granting, however, the critic meant to say not that the subject required extreme skill, but greater skill than Moore possessed, his subsequent remarks prove how greatly he is mistaken, and how much better Moore has conducted it than if he had been guided by the pretented skill of the critic. In the first place, the critic finds it necessary that the poet should be endowed with " the native awe of a high mind, conscious at all times of the unapproach- able sanctity of that nature which created all things, both men and angels, heaven and earth." We should pause to ask why the poet should be endowed with any such awe, or what the unapproachable nature of the Deity has to do with the loves of the angels ? The Deity is incapable of love, for love is a weakness, and to attribute weakness to the Deity, is to abandon all those ideas of perfection which we associate with his name, and without which he can be no Deity. Neither is the Deity the subject of the poem j and if the senti- Ixvi PRELIMINARY VIEW ments which it breathes, and which it ought to breathe were in the least affected, or qualified by a fear of tlie Deity, it would not contain a single poetic sentiment from beginning to end. He who stands in that awe of the Deity which the critic requires, must not pre- tend to write poetry, for poetry is the language of enthusiasm, and there is no enthusiasm in fear: on the contraiy, it is destructive of all that ardour and fire which gives inspiration to the poet. Besides, putting poetiy out of the question, no man is afraid of the Deity, except he who is going to do wrong, or who has done it, such as the canting hypocrite who affects to be what he is not, who preaches dogmas which he either does not believe, or which believing, he has not virtue to practise. He whose heart is pure and sin- cere, shrinks not, culprit-like, at the sacred name of the Deity. On the contrary, he finds himself instinc- tively filled with raptures and emotions of the highest and sublimest character. Surely no man who believes that we are the work of the Deity, can suppose for a moment, that we have any cause to fear or stand in perpetual awe of him. Does sanctity in the Deity mean any thing different from his goodness and bene- volence ? If not, why stand in awe of goodness and be- nevolence? Is there ought of evil in such amiable qualities that can make us shudder ? But sanctity, it will be said, is holiness, not mere godliness. And pray what is holiness ? Is it saintlincss, godliness, piety, or devotion ? If not, we know not what it means j if aye, then sanctity is no attribute of the Godhead. Saintlincss, godliness, piety, and devotion, belong to him who devotes himself to God as his superior, not to God himself, who has no superior. He cannot practise saintlincss because he is already above all the honors to which saints can aspire, nor is there ought above him to whom he can pay his devotions. The virtues of a saint are practised in honor of God alone, but whom is the Deity to honor by his virtues ? God- liness differs in no respect from saintlincss : both have God for their object, and so have piety and de- votion also. Godliness means like God, but he who OF THE LITERATURK OF THE AGE. Ixvii is like God cannot be God himself. The sanctity of the Deity then, must mean something in him different from what it means when applied to the life and actions of men. To make the term in the least intelligible, we can therefore mean by divine sanctity nothing more than divine goodness and purity, and why stand in awe of such purity, if we are not conscious of being worse than this purity has naturally made us. If we have deteriorated and corrupted our own nature, we then indeed, have reason to stand in awe, and accord- ingly we find, that it is the wicked man only who flies when no man folio weth. Who stand in greater awe than the devils, or those who approach them most in nature and character ? We should not trust therefore to the orthodoxy of him who terrifies us with the purity and goodness of God, for instead of standing in awe of such purity we should trust and rejoice in it. Accord- ingly we find that those who have most distinguished themselves for piety and devotion, have felt most confi- dence in their Creator, and less of that awe which is the offspring either of superstitious fear or conscious guilt. It is true we cannot contemplate the Avorks of the Deity without feeling impressed with awful and sublime emotions, arising from the contemplation of that infinite power which gave existence to all things, and which manifests its infinity by the immensity of its productions. But though we recognize the power, we can form no conception of the means by which the Deity became possessed of it : and the mind lost in the unfathomable search, resigns itself to those sublime and awful emotions which belong to philosophy and not to religion. While we look upon the Deity as pure goodness and benevolence, we cannot stand in awe of himself, though our philosophy is confounded and lost in the contemplation of his incomprehensible attributes. But does this cause us to dread the kind and benevolent being to which these attributes be- long? Do we not instinctively feel and recognize his goodness ? and does not this hallowed feeling, instead of awe, inspire gratitude and love ? We find every thing in nature calculated to make us happy. Ixviii PRELIMINARY VIEW We find ourselves so related to the rest of the crea- tion, that any change in this relation would only tend to render us more unhappy. Make us more knowing, we should become more presumptuous, more fastidi- ous, more sensible of i)ain : hence we should become less virtuous, and less resigned to the decrees of Pro- vidence. Make us more virtuous we should be less happy, for society would become a stagnant mass without life, or i)rinciple of action. If all men were virtuous, all men would do as they ought ; and if all men did so, they would be all independent of each other. There would be then nothing to elicit the softer virtues of sympathy, sensibility, tenderness, com- miseration, in a word, to elicit those softer affections which humanize the soul, and mould it to the highest virtues of which it is capable. Make us more happy, we could not enjoy it, for enjoyment beyond that de- gree of which we are at present capable, terminates in pain, or satiety. Thus the goodness of our benefi- cent Creator manifests itself in having so contrived us as to make us capable of the highest degree of happiness which we can enjoy without pain. If then his good- ness to us be thus manifest, if it be obvious from the manner in which he has framed us, that he delights in seeing us happy, how intellectually dark, and morally perverted must be that mind which seeks to destroy this happiness by standing in awe of its great author and universal dispenser ? WTiatever reflection tends to diminish our happiness arises from ignorance, super- stition, or error, because he who made us evidently studied to make us happy, and, consequently, he -who studies to make us unhappy studies to undo what God has done, and to subvert the ends of our creation. Love and awe cannot exist together, and therefore wherever love is dominant, awe is extinct, as is abundantly manifest in the Canticle of Canticles. The fact is, that the poet Avho takes up a subject that shoukl naturally impress him with fear and awe, takes up a subject that cannot be rendered poetic, and as the critic admits " The Loves of the Angels" to be n " legitimate subject," he must also admit that it re-^ I OF THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. Ixix quired neither fear nor trembling in the poet. The more fear the less enthusiasm, the less enthusiasm the less poetry. This is rendered evidently manifest in Ho- mer who feared nothing, — who equally placed himself above the rules of art, and the fears of that tremen- dous Jupiter at whose nod all Olympus shook to its cen- tre, and whom he introduces to us one hundred times for the one time God is introduced by Moore. It is true that Homer had a very different idea of Jupiter from ours of the Deity, but it is equally true that if his subject obliged him to stand in the least awe or fear, he would never be considered the prince of poets. Accord- ingly, the presence of Jupiter does not in the least restrain the freedom of his manner. When he sends Iris to Neptune to desist from arms. Homer makes the enraged monarch of the main thus express himself. My court beneath the hoary waves I keep. And hush the roarings of the sacred deep. Olympus and this earth in common lie, \\liat claim has here, the tyrant of the sky ? Far in the distant clouds let him control And awe the younger brothers of the pole; There to his children his commands be given. The trembling, servile, second race of heaven. It is true that where the subject is morality or reli- gion, the poet must carefully guard against associating it with ideas of a light and amusing character; but where the subject is amatory, like the Loves of the Angels, he must equally guard against preaching divi- nity to us. Does the critic imagine that such preach- ing from the lips of a mortal lover would be sendee- able either to religion, or the promotion of his suit ? If so, we believe we can add a little to his present stock of knowledge, by informing him, that it could serve neither one nor the other. If there be " a time to laugh and a time to cry," so is there also a time to pray and a time to talk of love ; and these actions should never be mixed up with each other. One thing at a time is sufficient ; but if we engage in more than one. IxX PRELIMINARY VIEW let them be things that have some relation to each other, not such things as courtship and religion. Religious courtship, indeed, may agree very M'ell with certain spiritualized beings, but it is not made for the children of nature. They love those who are naturally pleasing to them, not those who are impressed with certain fantastical feelings arising from phantoms of their own creation, and having no original foundation in nature, or the more expansive empire of imagination, while this empire is, as itoughtto be, a mirror of the na- tural world. It is therefore the most arrant stupidity to mix amatoiy poetry with any feelings that have God for their object, and it is equally so to imagine that such a mixture promotes either religion or mo- rality, for it is in itself not only immoral but impious. Who could be edified, who could be rendered more pious and evangelical, by seeing a lover disclosing all the soft and tender affections of his soul to the fair ob- ject of his adoration, and turning suddenly round be- gin to say the Lord's prayer ? Such conduct, in our opinion, would be no less an insult to religion than it would be to his mistress. We must then forget our piety while we sport with the muse of fond desires, or abandon these desires altogether; that is, we must not think of writing amatory poetry at all, for the criti- cism on which I am now commenting actually amounts to a prohibition of it. W^hen the poet, says the Critic, wants this awe, he is every moment in dan- ger of awakening in our souls " a sacred horror of ad- vancing our most earthly thoughts into the presence of the Most High." And pray, Mr. Critic, who wants you to thrust yourself into the presence of the Most High while you are reading Moore's Loves of the Angels ? The Most High is no where the subject of his song ; and he treats of his Angels as mere human lovers, subject to all the feelings and emotions of humanity. Now, why an Angel may not represent a lover as well as Kean or Macready, we cannot tell. On this how- ever we need not insist, as the Reviewer admits the legitimacy of the subject. If then the Angels of Mr. Moore be looked upon as mere human lovers, and they OF THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. Ixxi cannot be looked upon in any other light, as pure spi- rits can neither be described nor comprehended, what business have we to imagine ourselves in the presence of the Most High while we are reading the poem ? The entire action takes place upon Earth, the scenes are earthly, the sentiments are human, the affec- tions human, the fx'ailties human, the desires hu- man. What more then has the Deity to do with all this than he lias with the heroes of Homer or Ariosto ? Is not the character of Butler's Hudibras too firmly established to fear any diminution of its fame from the censures of this unknown Critic ? Yet the subject is by some thousand degrees more nearly rela- ted to religion, and religious awe, than the amatory poems of Moore. What impiety then must not Butler have committed in losing sight of that canting, affect- edly evangelical, but, virtually, fanatical, if not hypo- critical awe with which, according to him, every poet should be deeply impressed, and if any, surely a poet whose object was to expose religious fanaticism. The Love Ode of Sappho is quoted by all writers on the subject of amatory poetry, as the finest speci- men of that species of composition, and yet Moore's greatest sin, judging of him by the principles of this Critic, is to have approached this famed production. Let us compare this ode with one of those passages in the Loves of the Angels, which this would-be critic holds up to public detestation, and we shall find that if it be liable to censure, it is a censure which equally applies to this celebrated ode; and if this appear to be the fact, what other conclusion can we come to, than that critics of this character labour only to extend the leaden empire of dullness, to pro- mote false taste, and throw into ridicule those higher and sublimer beauties which they want sensibility to feel, and intellect to understand. The following is Philips's translation of this Ode. Blest as the immortal Gods is he The youth who fondly sits by thee, And hears and sees thee all the while. Fondly speak, and sweetly smile. Ixxii PRELIMINARY VIEW 'Twas this deprived my soul of rest. And raised such tumults in my breast, For while I gazed in transport lost, j\Iy breath was gone, my voice was lost. My bosom glowed, the subtle flame Ran quick through all my vital frame, O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung, My ears with hollow murmurs rung; In dewy damps my limbs were chilled. My blood with gentle horror thrilled. My feeble pulse forgot to play, 1 fainted, sunk and died away. In this ode, the reader should remark, that it is like an ancient Grecian statue, unclothed and unornamented. Sappho expresses nothing but simply what she feels. She enters not into the regions of imagination, to clothe her feelings in the light vesture of fancy, but tells her love-sick tale in the simplest manner. All is, there- fore, true and undisguised passion ; and if the reader wall only direct his attention to the following descrip- tion of passion, from the Loves of the Angels, he will find it impressed with the same identical character. Oh, but to see that head recline A minute on this trembling arm, And those mild eyes look up to mine. Without a dread, a thought of harm. To meet but once the thrilling touch Of lips that are too fond to fear me. Or, if that boon be all too much, Ev'n thus to bring their fragrance near me. We have already quoted the entire of this passage. The passages which the Critic selects from Moore as instances of moral depravity, are twenty-six in number. They are introduced without any explanation or connexion, other than that of their producing " an offensive effect on the least religious mind now exist- ing in Britain." Why they should not produce the same effect on minds existing beyond the pale of Bri- tain, it is difficult to conceive, for human nature is the i OF THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. IxXlil same throughout the world. Does he mean that the least religious mind existing in Britain is more reli- gious than the least religions mind existing out of it ? Aye, no doubt, he does. O, Flattery ! How soon thy smooth, insinuating oil. Supples the toughest fooL We say the French are great flatterers, but then they flatter strangers still more than themselves, while this blunt gentleman and no flatterer will confine all worth, particularly religious worth, to the shores of Britain. When will critics cease to preach sermons to us instead of criticism ? When will they cease to ' Pray upon occasion, talk of heaven, Turn up their goggling eye-balls, rail at vice. Dissemble, lie, and preach ? We have frequently observed that religious fanatics, whenever they get together, are always lauding each other, and pitying the rest of mankind for their mis- deeds and want of piety. They are unacquainted with the difference between long and short syllables, for every syllable of theirs is long enough to require a note of admiration after it, that little crooked thing which asks questions being too short to suit the pur- pose; and yet with all their meekness and" reposing confidence" and " best intentions," and fellowship with simple mindedness, their long faces, and eternal sighs, prove that they are themselves oppressed by the burden, and wounded by the stings, of an uneasy con- science. Wherever they assemble. Black melancholy sits, and round her throws A death- like silence, and a dread repose. You can also recognise them by a certain cant of ex- pression, in which the present Critic deals abundantly. But it is amusing to perceive the stupidity of these mortals, when they attempt to throw a veil over their hypocrisy. " A Greek, or a Roman," says the Reviewer, ** spoke with more real reverence of Jo^-e, tlmn this / IxxiV FKELIMINARV VIKVV poet docs of God. We repeat that such shocking im- piety is manifestly unintentional." Here the Reviewer accuses Moore of " shocking impiety," but then, to excuse himself from the sin of injuring his neighbour, he affects to heal the wound which he inflicted, by tel- ling us his crime was unintentional ! How amiable, how angelic must the blessedness and single hearted- ness of this holy man, this meek, evangelical Reviewer appear to us, who could undertake the defence of such a shocking and impious writer as Moore. But pray Mr. Saint, or Mr. Reviewer, did you not really know that after shewing the impiety of Moore, your subse- quent defence of him could not make him appear more innocent in our eyes ? You know how easy it is to make an evil impression, how difficult to remove it. The fact is, your object was not to remove it, but to make yourself more amiable in our eyes for the charity you evinced towards this fallen sinner. But, un- happily, your stupidity kept pace with your affected piety; for surely you must consider all your readers complete noodles, or you must have been one yourself, to suppose they would believe you, when you assert, that Moore's " shocking impiety" was unintentional; for, in the first place, unintentional impiety can have no existence, as no mental act can be either morally or religiously evil without intention ; and secondly, be- cause if it even were (what it could not be) uninten- tional, you could not tell whether it were so, or not, un- less you received your information from Moore, and we suspect he never spoke to you on the subject. But Moore neither wants our defence, nor fears the critic's impotent, and self- refuting animadversions; and having already given our opinion of the character of his genius, we shall pass on to others of unequal powers, and complete this discourse with the works of Lord Byron. Mr. Barry Cornwall is a Poet whom we would place in the very opposite scale to Moore. His feelings were cast in a different mould, or rather, he is totally devoid of feeling. His head is always at work, his heart always dormant : he writes what he thinks he OF THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. IxXV ought to write, not what his feelings inspire. Moore writes what is agreeable to his feelings, Mr. Cornwall what is agreeable to his ideas of right and wrong. Hence he must go in search of his ideas, for all ideas not suggested by feeling must be sought after, where- as all that arise from feeling come of their own accord. Moore seems never to think : his feelings prompt the sentiment, and he obeys their impulse. He must write, accordingly, without labour or mental exertion, for he is merely holding converse with his own feel- ings. Mr. Cornwall is too cold for a lover, and accor- dingly we have read all he has written on the subject with as much sang froid as if we were perusing a trea- tise on tar-water ; and his mistress, we have no doubt, would be as little moved, as we have been, by the style in which he addresses her. She may easily perceive that in his address to her, he only displays his gallan- try as a poet, not as a lover. That he would wish to appear the lover we doubt not; but unhappily for the votaries of the Muses, the most favoured of them be- comes an ape the moment he affects to be in love and is not. " Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh; " and he who is incapable of love can- not speak the language of love ; whereas, he who is can speak no other language. Talk to him on subjects of business, or any subject that has no relation to his passion, and he is all abroad — he talks incoherently and often foolishly — but talk to him about love, and lie is all flame — he is eloquent — he is divine — his eyes are the eyes of angels — his language the lan- of inspiration. He is no longer a man of the earth — his celestial origin breaks forth — he tramples upon all the grosser parts of his nature — he is all soul — all feel- ing — even the very ruins — the very dregs of sordid, earthly mindedness — have not a moment's resting place in this victim of passion. Mr. Cornwall, there- fore, should leave love to other Poets — it is not a sub- ject meet for his genius. He talks about the Flood of Thessaly very well, or any subject that requires nei- ther feeling nor sympathy. He sometimes shews a /2 IxXyi PRKLIMINARY VIEW little gallantly, hut a lover cannot be a Gallant, and therefore his very attempt at gallantry proves him not in love — as in the following lines. By yelloAV Hymen do I swear To make thee my reliance, my svi^eet care, My all of memory — my extreniest hope. This is a Bravura: it is not nature. He commences by seeming to confer a favour upon her, in making her his " sweet care," as if she were really destitute, and sought for his protection ; his only memory, as if she were afraid he would forget her ; but it turns out, at the end, that she does not want his protection, that she seeks not for his care, that she wants not to be recollected by him, that he is only pawning himself upon her, and that instead of taking her into his care, it is only a forlorn hope with him, whether she will suffer him to approach her or not ; for what is an ex- treme, much less an " extremes^ hope, but a forlorn one ? The fact is, that it is all a hoax, and a hoax too that is easily discovered, for a man to pretend to be in love who is not. Bruyere justly observes, that some men wish to be in love but they find they cannot, and this appears to be the case with Mr. Cornwall. Having made these observations, however, it is only justice to Mr. Cornwall, to say, that when he abandons the fair sex, and turns himself to themes that are suited to his genius, he is equal in such themes to any poet of the age. There is nothing in Milton superior to many passages in his Flood of Thessaly. Mr. Corn- wall excels only in the sublime : the moment he passes over into the world of feeling he is lost, be- cause poor Bariy has no feeling. He is all thought and reflection. — He can imagine scenes of the grandest and most terrific sublimity; but, unhappily, he can- not, like Homer, descend occasionally to the earth, and become like one of ourselves. Like Ossian, he excels only while he is on the wing; but it must not be denied, that while he is on the wing, he is pre-eminent 3 OF THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. Ixxvii we mean in sublimity, not in feeling and passion — and Avhen we say sublimity, we mean the sublimity of representation or description, not the sublimity of feeling and passion, for here Moore is unapproachable. It is not, however, generally imagined that there is aught of sublimity in feeling or passion in any thing unconnected with the views or descriptions of the grander and more terrific scenes of nature ; but if so, what becomes of the sublimity of Moses' expression — " let there be light, and there was light;" for the sub- limity does not consist in the external light created, but in that invisible, unseen power by which the effect was produced. — ^The sublimity of the qu'il mourut of Corncille is of the same character. When Somerset says to Warwick, Ah Warwick, Warwick, wert thou as we are. We might recover all our loss again. The Queen fromFrancehathbroughtapuissantpower, E'en now we heard the news. Ah ! couldst thou fly ? is not Warwick's reply sublime in the highest degree ? Why then I would not fly ! And yet the sublimity of this rej)ly consists in the greatness and magnanimity of Warwick's mind, — a mind that would not bend to circumstances, but was equally inflexible, equally great in adversity or prosperity. In the delineation of character, there is therefore as great, or a greater, opportunity of producing the sublime, than in describing the external scenes of nature. When we say a greater, however, we do not justice to our ideas of the sublime, for the sublime of passion is be- yond all comparison above the sublime of description ; we mean the description of external nature, of woods and rural scenery, — of rocks and mountains, — vales and rivulets, — plains and forests, — of seas, oceans, and all the sublimer compages of creation. Man is the noblest Avork of God, at least the noblest of his works with which we are acquainted ; and he who can Ixxviii PRELIMINARY VIEW describe him, must not place himself on a level with Thomson, or Bloomfield, or any painter whatever of external nature. It is however in the description of external nature that Mr. Cornwall excels, and to ex- cel even in this, is no common excellence. The fol- lowing passages from his " Flood of Thessaly" will prove that no other poet of the age can surpass him in the sublime of description. Jove saw the sin, and o'er his forehead large (Whereon, as on a map, the world is seen) There pass'd the shadow of a storm. — ' Behold!' He said; and as he spoke the vassal skies Trembled, and white Olympus to its heart Sickened and shook : then, stretching wide abroad His sceptre which doth compass land and sea, He pointed towards the ocean caverns, v/here. Upon his coral bed, the sea-god lay Reposing : — thro' the hollows of the deep Where tempests come not, and thro' all the caves Of that green world and watery palaces. The word resounded: — from his bed uprose The brother of Jove, and with a sign replied. Then in a moment from their quartered homes The winds came muttering, — West, and blighting East, And south ; while Boreas prison-doomed and mad Flew to the north, and shivering branch and trunk Lifted the billows till their curling heads Struck the pale stars. — At last the wet South hung Brooding alone, down- weighed by cloud and shower. And bound in black, mourning the coming doom. And with his raven wings and misty breath Allured the storms. Wide stretching clouds around (A dark confederacy) in silence met. Hiding all Heaven. Towards the glooming shore The tempest sailed direct, and on the top Of Pelion burst and swept away its pines By thousands ! — Where it burst a way was made Like that torn by the avalanche, when it falls Louder than crashing thunder, amidst smoke And ruin, bounding from the topmost Alps O'er chasm and hill, and strips the forests bare. OF THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. Ixxix Morn came : but that broad light which hung so long In heaven forsook the showering firmament. — The clouds went floating on their fatal way. Rivers had grown to seas : the great sea swoU'n Too mighty for his bound broke on the land, Roaring and rushing, and each flat and plain Devoured. — Upon the mountains now were seen Gaunt men, and women hungering with their babes. Eyeing each other, or with marble looks Measuring the space beneath swift lessening. At times a swimmer from some distant rock Less h'gh, came struggling with the Avaves, but sank Back from the slippery soil. Pale mothers then Wept without hope, and aged heads, struck cold By agues, trembled like red autumn leaves ; And infants moaned and young boys shrieked with fear. Stout men grew white with famine. Beautiful girls Whom once the day languished to look on, lay On the wet earth and wrung their drenched hair ; And fathers saw them there, dying, and stole Their scanty fare, and while they perished thrived. Then Terror died, and Grief, and proud Despair, Rage and Remorse, infinite Agony, Love in its thousand shapes, weak and sublime. Birth-strangled; and strong Passion perished. The young, the old, weak, wise, the bad, the good. Fell on their faces, struck, — whilst over them Washed the wild waters in their clamorous march. Still fell the flooding rains. Great Ossa stood Lone, like a peering Alp, when vapours shroud Its sides, unshaken in the restless waves ; But from the weltering deeps Pelion arose And shook his piny forehead at the clouds. Moaning, and crown'd Olympus all his snows Lost from his hundred heads, and shrank aghast. Day, Eve, Night, Morning came and passed away. No sun was known to rise and none lo set: 'Stead of its glorious beams a sickly light Paled the broad East what time the day is born : IXXX PRELIMINARY VIEW At Others a thick mass, vaporous and black. And firm like solid marble, roofed the sky ; Yet gave no shelter. — Still the ravenous wolf Howled, and wild foxes and the household dog Grown wild, upon the mountains fought and fed Each on the other. The great eagle still In his home brooded, inaccessible. Or, when the gloomy morning seemed to break. Floated in silence o'er the shoreless seas. Still the quick snake unclasped its glittering eyes. Or shivering hung about the roots of pines ; And still all round the vultures flew, and watched The tumbling waters thick with bird and beast : Or, dashing in the midst their ravenous beaks. Plundered the screaming billows of their dead. Ne'er has been such ruin or such despair Since, in records or tales of Thessaly. Earth shook, great INlother, and from all her limbs Sent signs of terror and unnatural pain : The valleys trembled, and great lakes unlocked Their dark foundations, and laid bare to day Naiads with watery locks and elfish shapes. Half sylvan such as loved of old to haunt On the fresh edge of forest- girded pools. And shook the gladed echoes with their laugh. Whole plains heav^ed up : meadows were torn and turn'd Downwards, and ancient oaks, whose crooked feet Were rivetted in rocks, were wrenched away And bared to the wild blast and sullen rain. Wonder grew plain as truth. Etna, far off — Terrible Etna, spuming, cast abroad Her blazing rivers with loud groaning sounds That tore the amazed heart of Sicily : — Such noise was never bred on the great shores Where Orinoco, huge sea creature, comes Rolling his shining train, o'er rapids and gulphs Descending swift, and for a thousand leagues i OF THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. IxXXl Ravages wood and wild, and mad at last Dashes his watery scorn against the breast That fed him: — She, fond ocean-mother, still Receives him to deep calm within her arms. Higher and higher fled the wasted throngs, And still they hoped for life, and still they died. One after one, some worn, some hunger-mad: Here lay a giant's limbs sodden and shrunk. And there an infant's, white like wax, and close A matron with grey hairs, all dumb and dead : Meanwhile, upon the loftiest summit safe, Deucalion laboured through the dusky day. Completing as he might his floating raft. And Pyrrha, sheltered in a cave, bewailed Her child w^hich perished. Still the ruin fell: No pity, no relapse, no hope : — The world Was vanishing like a dream. Lightning and Storm, Thunder and deluging rain now vexed the air To madness, and the riotous winds laughed out Like Bacchanals, whose cups some god has charmed. Beneath the headlong torrents towns and towers Fell down, temples all stone, and brazen shrines; And piles of marble, palace and pyramid (Kings' homes or towering graves) in a breath were swept Crumbling away. Masses of ground and trees Uptorn and floating, hollow rocks brute-crammed. Vast herds, and bleating flocks, reptiles, and beasts Bellowing, and vainly with the choking waves Struggling, were hurried out, — but none returned: All on the altar of the giant Sea Offered, like twice ten thousand hecatombs, \Vhose blood allays the burning wrath of Gods. — Day after day the busy Death passed on Full, and by night returned hungering anew; And still the new morn filled his horrid maw. With flocks, and herds, a city, a tribe, a town. One after one borne out, and far from land Dying in whirlpools or the sullen deeps. IxXXii PRELIMINARY VIEW All perished then : — The last who lived was one Who clung to life because a frail child lay Upon her heart : weary, and gaunt, and worn, From point to point she sped, with mangled feet, Bearing for aye her little load of love : — Both died, — last martyrs of another's sins, Last children they of Earth's sad family. Still fell the flooding rains. Still the earth shrank: And ruin held his strait terrific way. Fierce lightnings burnt the sky, and the loud thunder (Beast of the fiery air) howled from his cloud, Exulting, towards the storm-eclipsed moon. Below, the Ocean arose boiling and black, And flung its monstrous billows far and wide, Crumbling the mountain joints and summit hills; Then its dark throat it bared and rocky tusks, Where, with enormous waves on their broad backs. The demons of the deep were raging loud ; And racked to hideous mirth or bitter scorn Hissed the Sea-angels ; and earth-buried broods Of Giants in their chains tossed to and fro, And the sea- lion and the whale were swung Like atoms round and round. — Mankind was dead: And birds whose active wings once cut the air. And beasts that spurned the waters, — all were dead : And every reptile of the woods had died Which crawled or stung, and every curling worm : The untamed tiger in his den, the mole In his dark home — were choked : the darting ounce. And the blind adder and the stork fell down Dead, and the stifled mammoth, a vast bulk. Was washed far out amongst the populous foam : And there the serpent, which few hours ago Could crack the panther in his scaly arms. Lay lifeless, like a weed beside his prey. And now, all o'er the deeps corpses were strewn. Wide-floating millions, like the rubbish flung Forth when a plague prevails; the rest down-sucked. Sank, buried in the world-destroying seas. OF THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. Ixxxiii Confusion raged and ruled. At last, up- grew A mingling of Earth, Sea, and Heaven and Airj All one they looked, impenetrable, black As chaos, when the salient atoms flew Around the abyss and made all space a Hell. Nature lay drowned and dead. Fens, moors, and bogs. And pleasant ralleys and aspiring hills. Rivers and trees were lost, mountains and lakes : Even Heaven eternal, whom no cloud before Utterly barred, thro' its serene domain Kept captive all the Gods and lucid stars, INlercurius and Apollo and the rest ; And hid their beauty from the fainting world. — A mass like the great ocean Avhen all Avinds Blow and lay bare its hollows, and shake forth The century-sleeping sands, until the foam Grows thick and dark, rolled over sea and land, — A perilous mass of floods, fierce as the North In March, when scything blasts strip all the bones. And loud as when the riven air proclaims Earthquakes at Hecla, or once bright Peru. — It is a task beyond the Muse, — and yet Sometimes she writeth with a golden pen, — Witness those tales breathing of Paradise And all that sinful mirth of Circe's son, And where the mightiest poet open lays Red Pandemonium to eternal view. And numbereth out the Peers of Satan, all Tossed on the fiery waters, and bewailing Their frightful fall ; from Heaven's precipitous bounds Cast like the refuse, to find out their way Thro' depths and dark abysses, and the jar Earlier than Order, till the mouths of Hell Received them flaming, — a tremendous home. It is a task beyond the Muse, too far. To paint that leaden darkness whicb obscured The world, or that wide horror which was born When every element forsook its name And nature, and all dumb and innocent things Perished, because imperial man had erred. — Ixxxiv PRELIMINARY VIEW A dreariness there is which chills the heart, When the sun dies on some ice-barren plain, Cheerless and wintry-])ale ; and when the Avind Waileth in loud December, calling ghosts To feed the sight of credulous age ; and when The hail-storm comes ; and when the great sea chafes. And the wild horses of the Atlantic shake Their sounding manes and dash the foam to Heaven. These sights are vanquished by the painter's toil; But when the intolerable flood prevailed, — That watery massacre, which quite destroyed Thessaly, man and woman, and children frail, Birds, beasts, the very worm, the tree, the flower. When nothing was — but ruin, and nought seen But one monotonous dreaiy waste of waves Tumbling in monstrous eddies, and a light Like an eclipse complete when day is hid. The painter's pencil and the poet's pen Must fail, confounded at a scene so dire. — If sublime poetiy be the highest order of poetry, we think Mr. Cornwall must rank next to Milton, and Milton take the crown of poetry from Homer. But experience proves the fallacy of an opinion which is not only popular but has almost universally become an article of faith in the poet's creed. A poet is generally deemed to be great in proportion to his sublimity, and yet how comes it to pass that Milton is not more read than Homer, for he is unquestionably more sublime ? The fact is, that few readers can read forty pages of uninterrupted sublimity without becoming fatigued or satiated, while they can read whole volumes of pathetic poetry without satiety or disgust. It is the pathetic, then, not the sublime, that confers poetic pre-emi- nence. By the pathetic we mean whatever rouses the passions — whatever irritat, mulcet, falsis terrOrihus implet, whatever is instinct Avith Ce feu, cettc divine flamnie L'csprit tie uoUe esprit, & I'auic tie uotrc amc ; OF THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. IxXXV without which we lay down the sublimest productions of the muse either with ennui or indiftercnce. It is to this fire, to this power of raising the passions, that Homer owes his pre-eminence over all poets, for though Virgil excels him in judgment, Ovid in tender- ness, Milton in sublimity, and many other poets in other poetic charms, he excels them all in the pathe- tic, in the power which he always retains of rousing the passions, and awakening us into life and being. In perusing JN'Iilton, on the contrary, we frequently fall asleep, and, perhaps few of our readers, after perusing the above passages from the Flood of Thessaly, would wish to proceed farther,' were our extracts longer, though we pronounce every passage we have quoted to be at once beautiful and sublime. But there is still a want, which, every reader who is ignorant of it, soon begins to feel, and, we apprehend, that Mr. Cornwall is not the poet who can supply it. We mean that there is nothing in the Flood of Thessaly to interest the pas- sions. The pathetic, in fact, is the soul of poetry; the sublime only one of its ornaments, though INIilton has vainly attempted to make it the soul. But it is not given to man to alter the nature of things ; and there- fore, until man himself be changed, he cannot help preferring the pathetic to every other production of the muse. Mr. Cornwall is at once an innovator and an imita- tor : — he imitates not the moderns, but then he writes what, in his opinion, will harmonize with their innova- tions, so that he is virtually an imitator and an innovator. Like most of our modern poets, he cannot endure the " energy divine" of the old school, and therefore not only his blank verse, but actually his very rhyme reads like prose — and though we say the final words rhyme with each other, we cannot help forgetting that they do, from the care which Mr. Cornwall has taken to destroy the effect. He would seem to have written rhyme merely to shew that he can write it, not that it was agreeable to his taste, for he appears to have de- termined, at setting out, that his readers should not enjoy the musical harmony that always accompanies XXXVl PRELIMINARY VIEW it in Pope and Dryden. Who could imagine that the following passage from his " Letter to Boccaccio" was written in rhyme ? *^ When first I saw her — (young Olympia !) she lived not far from Florence. One may stray unto the valley where her cottage stood, on a bright morning, be the season good, summer or latest spring : her dwelling was fenced round by trees which shattered the fierce air to fragments, pine and oak ; and ash was there which leaves its offspring berries to the grass, and citron woods that shook out vast perfume, and myrtles dowried with their richest bloom. There dwelt she, sylvan goddess ! — there she first swam on my sight: I thought my heart would burst with trans- port as I saw her float along tow'rds me, and slowly read the carved song which on the oaken rind my knife had writ : there was some idle praise, but more of wit had grown aftd mingled with that forest verse, and I would often with a laugh rehearse the song, thinking at times that some weak maid might love such incense if she thither strayed: but /was to be victim : I had gone like an erratic fire upon my course, over the heaven of beauty, all alone, and now I felt Love's chaste and supreme force press on my very heart, until in pain 1 utter'd consecrated vows, — in vain. — She perished in her youth ; nor should I now have told thus much, but that upon thy brow I saw forgiveness — ('twas in fancy this) and smiles that re- cognized my vanished bliss as a thing risen from the grave, and bright as ever in the summer of thy sight." Now if this passage, so far from reaching even the hai-mony of blank verse, does not read like mere com- mon prose to the reader, he must have ears differently constructed from ours. And yet in Barry Cornwall's book, it is actual rhyme. We shall give it as it is in the original, to convince the reader that it is so, for if we were in his place we should be sceptical, and sus- pect either that the author was not fairly quoted, or that he never gave the passage in rhyme. " When first I saw her — (young Olympia !) She lived not far from Florence. One may stray OF THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. IxXXVii Unto the valley where her cottage stood. On a bright morning, be the season good, Summer or latest spring : Her dwelling was Fenced round by trees which shattered the fierce air To fragments, pine and oak ; and ash was there Which leaves its offspring berries to the grass, And citron woods that shook out vast perfume. And myrtles dowried with their richest bloom. There dwelt she, sylvan goddess ! — there she first Swam on my sight : I thought my heart would burst With transport as I saw her float along Tow'rds me, and slowly read the carved song Which on the oaken rind my knife had writ : There was some idle praise, but more of wit Had grown and mingled with that forest verse. And 1 would often with a laugh rehearse The song, thinking at times that some weak maid Might love such incense if she thither strayed : But / was to be victim : I had gone Like an erratic fire upon my course. Over the Heaven of beauty, all alone. And now I felt Love's chaste and supreme force Press on my very heart, until in pain I utter'd consecrated vows, — in vain. — She perished in her youth ; nor should I now Have told thus much, but that upon thy brow I saw forgiveness — ('twas in fancy this) And smiles that recognized my vanished bliss As a thing risen from ttie grave, and bright As ever in the summer of thy sight." But perhaps it maybe said, that Pope himself would appear prosaic if his verses were thrown into a pro- saic form. Perhaps, did we say ? we forgot the age in which we lived when we made use of the expres- sion. This is an age when writers will say any thing. A little meddling, petty scribbler, who is only fit to write politics, — we mean police and parliamentaiy reports, and them there things, will assume as lofty a tone, and lay down precepts with as much dogmatic assurance as if he were an Addison or a Johnson, in IxXXViii PRELIMINARY VIEW criticism, a Reid or a Stewart in the philosophy of the mind. There was a time when it was thon^^ht that a cobbler should not go beyond his last ; but this time is gone by. The empire of mind is now a complete republic — we are all Jack-fellow alike. No respect for persons, is not only the motto of cocknies but the motto of the age. The dunce holds up his head as high as the man of genius — or if he be dazzled by the brilliancy of mental illumination, he averts his head, and affects not to perceive it. Formerly, genius was respected, because those who did not possess it were not impudent enough to pretend to it. But now, forsooth, w^e are all men of genius, and if we cannot prove it by words, we evince it by the supei'cilious ar- rogance of our deportment. But to return to our subject : the passage we have now quoted from Barry Cornwall reads like mere prose when throw^n into a prosaic form. — Not a trace remains of the disject i 7nemhra poetce. Let us see, then, whether Pope's rhyme will equally suffer by a similar transmutation. We shall take the first lines in his Dunciad. " The mighty mother, and her son, who brings the Smithfield Muses to the ear of Kings, I sing. Say you, her instruments the great ! Called to this work by Dulness, Jove, and Fate ; You by whose care, in vain decried and cursed, still Dunce the second reigns like Dunce the first 5 Say how the Goddess bade Bri- tannia sleep, and poured her spirit o'er the land and deep. " In eldest times e'er mortals writ or read, ere Pallas issued from the thunderer's head, Dulness o'er all possess'd her ancient right, daughter of Chaos and eternal night : Fate in her dotage this fair idiot gave, — gross as her sire, and as her mother grave, labouri- ous, heavy, busy, bold, and blind, she ruled in native anarchy the mind. Still her old empire to renew she tries, for born a Goddess, Dulness never dies." No reader can mistake this for prose, though thrown into a prosaic form, — while the passage from Barry Cornwall, thrown into the same form, is as plain OF THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. IxXXlX prose as ever was written, or, if it be not, we ask what is prose ? " English verse," says Daniel, in his De- fence of Rhyme, " though it doth not strictly observe long and short syllables, yet it most religiously re- spects the accent." Daniel did not know, that a time would arrive when English poets would most religi- ously study to avoid the accent ; but of this we shall speak more at large in our next volume. Mr. Payne Knight having courted the muses in his old age, we cannot pass over so celebrated a name without bestowing on it a portion of our critical labours. Alfred is evidently the work of old age, and accord- ingly the impressions Avhich we feel in perusing it are of a mild, serene, and unruffled character. It is, therefore, but little suited to the hey-day of life, which delights only in strong and stimulating excite- ments, feeling no charm in the calm delights and mo- ralizing habits of old age. We are not therefore sur- prized that it has met with a cold reception ; for it is the opinion which we form of works in the meridian of life, while our mental energies are strong and eager of delight, that stamp a character upon them. In youth we delight in the lighter fictions of fancy and imagination, and find, accordingly, more pleasure in descriptive poetry and landscape-painting than in any other species of poetry or painting whatever. The mind, at this age, seems to take its character from the senses, which relish only the milder im})ulses and at- tributes of being. Softer colours are then more pleas- ing to the eye, simple melody more grateful to the ear, and pure sweet more pleasing to the tongue. In our advance to manhood, however, Ave seek for more splendid and contrasted colouring ; melody must be heightened by all the graces and complications of har- monic expression ; and pure sweet must be rendered more pungent and stimulating by the mixture of acid and bitter. The mind observes the same laws in its progress to maturity. Pure descriptive poetry ceases to interest us as we grow up, unless its lighter charms are supported by a judicious mixture of narrative and XC PRELIMINARY VfEW incident ; and a kindscape painting ceases to delight where no trace of the human species is introduced to give it interest. Hence our passion for landscape soon gives way to the stronger passion for historical paint- ing ; and our passion for wandering along the meads and rivulets of the descriptive poet, gives way to the stronger passion excited by the poet whose subject is man, the passions and affections by M^hich he is go- verned, and the enjoyments, privations, perils, and adventures to which he is exposed. In early youth we cannot sympathize with all the passions of man, be- cause we know them as yet only in imagination ; nor can we, consequently, take a strong interest in all the circumstances and situations which these passions bring about, because we know they are circumstances and situations which we cannot be dragged into our- selves, the passions that would lead us into them, having as yet no existence, and that which exists only in idea must affect us much more slightly than after it comes not only into actual existence, but into that existence which forms a part of ourselves, and which clings to us like the vital stream of life. In manhood, therefore, when all our faculties have arrived at per- fection, we take an interest in all that regards the stronger passions of our nature, and all the conse- quences resulting from them, because they are pas- sions which we feel may be wakened within us by similar causes, and which therefore may lead us into similar situations. If it be demanded, what certainty have we that excitements by which others have been stimulated would produce similar passions in us, we reply, that we feel them by sympathy while we are in the act of reading them. Mr. Knight not only belongs, but professes to belong, to the old, or classical school. He is as little pleased as we arc ourselves with the innovations of modern poetry. — But, unhappily, he is a feeble representative of those whom he follows. Had he attempted Alfred in his youth, it Avould have been a difTerent poem ; though we suspect his metaphysical turn of mind would be always unfavourable, not only to the lighter graces which ornament poetry, but to that fire and OF THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. XCl rapture by which it should be animated. The follow- ing passage appears to us not only the best, but the most interesting and pathetic in Alfred. Near and more near, with silent steps he (Alfred) drew Till through the trees the warbler met his view : Close by the cot, beneath the mingled shade. Of vines and woodbines, sat a lovely maid ; A peasant's humble weeds her form invest. But princely dignity her mien exprest j Though coarse and simple, neat was her attire ; With taste her flying fingers touched the lyre j Exalted sentiment, and native grace. Beamed in each feature of her beauteous face ; Her head a simple fillet loosely bound. Her curling tresses wildly wanton'd round, In auburn ringlets on her shoulders play'd. Or heedless o'er her snowy bosom stray'd. Serenely melancholy flow'd the song. The echoing rocks each plaintive note prolong ; Whose sweetly-lingering cadence seem'd t' invite. The slow descending silence of the night. Hid in the covert of the adjoining wood. Enraptured and amazed the monarch stood j And, as her beauteous face he oft reviews. Memory her image in his mind renews : He thought, in happier days, he had somewhere seen Those lovely features, and that graceful mien ; He thought he had somewhere heard that tuneful tongue, Chaunt in less plaintive mood the tender song ; Yet still no certain image thought supplies. But doubts on doubts in vague conjectures rise; Unceasing wars and troubles had effaced Each mild impression happier scenes had traced. Perplex'd, he stands, and listens to the sound. Then tunes his harp, and rests it on the ground ; Strikes with a master's hand, the trembling strings. And bids them vibrate to the notes she sings. ^2 XCll PRELIMINARY VIEW Sudden she rose, and moving toward the trees. The royal minstrel's form majestic seesj Silent she stops, entranced in wild surprize. Pale grew her cheeks, amazement fix'cl her eyes. " What awful vision, — what delusive shade," At length she cried, " thus haunts this secret glade ? Yet should I know the features of that face. Its dignity benign — its manly grace ; That form before hath to my eyes appear'd. Those notes before, in happier days, I've heard. Say, do I wake ? or do my senses stray. Of long calamity and grief a prey ? No ! thou art Alfred, or some fleeting shade Comes in those lineaments divine array'd ; Some sainted spirit from yon azure skies. To charm my ears and fascinate my eyes." *' Thou too," the king replies, " hast felt the frown Of adverse fate, and better days hast known j Thy mien, thy accent, and thy looks reveal What this coarse garb and humble roof conceal. Where have I seen that beauteous face before ? Where have I heard that voice its music pour ? Ah ! now I know ! each grace, each charm renews Remembrance past, and Mercia's princess shews. Has then the storm, which o'er our country pours Its wasteful torrents, and each realm devours. E'en on Elsintha's unresisting head Its fierce, inevitable fuiy sped ? Ah ! say, what brought thee to this low retreat ? How didst thou fly from Mercia's distant seat ? Where are thy father and thy brother fled ? Ah ! why those tears ? — alas ! then are they dead ?" " They both are dead," the sorrowing maid replies. While pious tears fast trickled from her eyes. ** Both are released from this sad world of woe. Nor more its transitory evils know. I — only I — of Mercia's race am left. An exiled orphan, of each friend bereft. OF THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. XClll Long is the dismal tale : but since the day Now faintly sheds its last departing ray, Here in this shelter'd cot thou mayst repose, And hear the story of Elsintha's woes. Here unmolested and unknown, I share The gains and labours of an aged pair ; Who, with the balm of mild paternal love. To soothe and heal my sorrows long have strove ; Who, sprung from Saxon blood, like us have known. Domestic griefs and miseries of their own : And learned each gentle sympathy to blend, Of parent, guardian, comforter, and friend." Alfred, pp. 56 — 60. We shall now close our view of the Literature of the Age with the following extracts from Lord Byron. We give neither note nor comment, not only because our j)rcliminary view has swelled beyond the limits which we had originally prescribed for it, but because we intend giving a critical dissertation on the genius of Lord Byron in our next volume. Of our other living poets we shall speak in their turn. There is one whom we only know through the medium of the European Magazine, the author of Ali, on whose poetry we set a very high value, and the distinctive character of whose genius wc shall hereafter attempt to unfold. The extracts we have given from his Ali will, we are certain, justify the opinion we entertain of him. The arctic sun rose broad above the wave ; The breeze now sunk, now Avhispered from his cave ; As on the ^olian harp, his fitful wings Now swelled, now fluttered o'er his ocean strings. With slow, despairing oar the abandoned skiff Ploughs its drear progress to the scarce-seen cliff. Which lifts its peak a cloud above the main: That boat and ship shall never meet again ! But 'tis not mine to tell their talc of grief. Their constant peril and their scant relief ; Their days of danger, and their nights of pain ; Their manly courage even when deemed in \'ain ; XCIV PRELIMINARY VIEW The sapping famine, rendering scarce a son Known to his mother in the skeleton ; The ills that lessened still their little store. And starved even Hunger till he wrung no more ; The varying frowns and favours of the deep. That now almost engulphs, then leaves to creep With crazy oar and shattered strength along The tide that yields reluctant to the strong; The incessant fever of that arid thirst Which welcomes, as a well, the clouds that burst Above their naked bones, and feels delight In the cold drenching of the stormy night. And from the outspread canvas gladly wrings A drop to moisten Life's all-gasping springs ; The savage foe escaped, to seek again More hospitable shelter from the main ; The ghastly spectres which were doomed at last To tell as true a tale of dangers past. As ever the dark annals of the deep Disclosed for man to dread or woman weep. We leave them to their fate but not unknown Nor unredrest ! Revenge may have her own : Roused discipline aloud proclaims their cause. And injured navies urge their broken laws. Pursue we on his track the mutineer. Whom distant vengeance had not taught to fear. Wide o'er the wave — away ! away ! away ! Once more his eyes shall hail the welcome bay ; Once more the happy shores without a law Receive the outlaws whom they lately saw; Nature, and Nature's Goddess — Woman — woos To lands where, save their conscience, none accuse ; Where all partake the earth without dispute. And bread itself is gathered as a fruit ;* * The now celebrated bread fruit, to trant beautiful of cattle, which I have picserved iu tran&ldt.iig. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 29 O, say my brown Drimin, thou silk of the kinc, Where, where are thy strong ones, last hope of thy line ? Too deep, and too long, is the slumber they take. At the loud call of freedom, why don't they awake ? My strong ones have fallen, from the bright eye of day, All darkly they sleep in their dwelling of clay; The cold turf is o'er them, tliey hear not my cries, And, since Lewis no aid gives, I cannot arise. O ! where art thou, Lewis ? our eyes are on thee ; Are thy lofty ships walking in strength o'er the sea ? In freedom's last strife, if you linger or quail. No morn e'er shall break on the night of the Gael. But should the king's son, now bereft of his right. Come proud in his strength, for his country to fight j Like leaves on the trees, will new people arise. And deep from their mountains, shout back to ray cries. When the prince, now an exile, shall come for his own. The isles of his father, his rights, and his throne. My people in battle the Saxons will meet. And kick them before, like old shoes from their feet. O'er mountains and valleys, they'll press on their rout. The five ends of Erin shall ring to the shout ; My sons, all united, shall bless the glad day. When the flint-hearted Saxon they've chas'd faraway. i 30 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. THE AVENGER. Da bfeacin se'n la sin bo seasta hfeic rrimtin. O, Heavens ! if that long-wished for morning I spied. As high as three kings I'd leap up in my pride ; With transport I'd laugh, and my shout should arise, As the fires from each mountain blaz'd bright to the skies. The Avenger should lead us right on to the foe, Our horns should sound out, and our trumpets should blow. Ten thousand huzzas should ascend to high heaven, When our Prince was restored, and our fetters were riven. O ! chieftains of Ulster, when will you come forth, And send your strong cry on the winds of the north ? The wrongs of a king call aloud for your steel. Red stars of the battle, O'Donnel, O'Neal ! Bright house of O'Connor, high offspring of kings, Up, up like the eagle, when heavenward he springs ! O, break ye once more from the Saxon's strong rule. Lost race of Mac Murchad, O'Byrne, and O'Toole I Mononia* of Druids, green dwelling of song. Where, where are thy minstrels, why sleep they so long ? • In Mononia, (Mnnstei) Ornidism appears to have flourished most, as we may conjecture, from tiie numerous remains of Druidical work- manship, and tlie names of places indicating tliat worship. The re- cords ot the province are the hest kept of any in Ireland, and it lias proverbially retained among the peasantry, a character for superior learning. — Blaekaoud's Magazine. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 31 Does no bard live to wake, as they oft did before, McCarthy,— O'Brien,— O'Sullivan,— More? O, come from yon hills, like the waves to the shore. When the storm-girded headlands are mad with the roar! Ten thousand hurras shall ascend to high heaven, When our prince is restor'd, and our fetters are riven. The names in this last song are those of the princi- pal families in Ireland, many of whom, however, were decided enemies of the house of Stuart. You cannot fail to observe the strange expectation which these writers entertained of the nature of the Pre- tender's designs. They call on him, not to come to re-instate himself on the throne of his fathers, but to aid them in doing vengeance on the " flint-hearted Saxon." Nothing, however, could be more natural. The Irish Jacobites, at least the Roman Catholics, were in the habit of claiming the Stuarts, as of the Mile- sian line, fondly deducing them from Fergus, and the Celts of Ireland. Who the Avenger is, whose arrival is prayed for in the last song, I am not sure ; but cir- cumstances, too tedious to be detailed, make me think, that the date of the song is 1708, when a general im- pression prevailed, that the field would be taken in favour of the Pretender, under a commander of more weight and authority than had come forward before. His name was kept a secret. Very little has been written on the history of the Jacobites of Ireland, and yet, I think it would be an interesting subject. We have now arrived at a time when it could be done, without exciting any angry feelings. Blackwood' s Magazine. 32"- BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. ODE TO IMAGINATION. As wc are intimately acquainted with the author of this Ode, wc must forbear commenting upon it. We therefore leave its merits to be detetmiiied by the judgment of our readers. — Ed. Say, who art thou, whose vivid eye, Darting the vault of heav'n along. Proclaims thee daughter of the sky, Parent of poesy and song ? Of thee the ancient poets told, That gi-ac'd the happier age of gold, Ere art had strung the unpractis'd lyre, — Ere the soft voice of music stole In melting sweetness on the soul. And 'woke celestial fire. But still to us thou art unknown, Spite of the poet's well-sung lay ; Who can ascend thy fairy throne, Or trace thy devious, hermit way ? A sylvan nymph thou oft dost rove The dark-browd wood, the twilight grove. Or, musing 'neath some aged tower. Thou dost behold, in pause divine. The heavenly constellations shine. And mark eternal power. Visions of high, ethereal bliss. And madding inspirations glow. Scenes of romantic happiness, That never lingered here below ; BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 33 And that pure ecstacy that finds No kindred thrill in earth-born minds, Attend thee to the poet's bower, Where, on his couch of rushes laid, He oft invokes thy secret aid. And owns thy genial power. A pensive lover thou art seen Lone, lingering through some desert shade, Unmindful of the smiling green. And all the magic of the mead. Nature for thee no more hath charms, Consign'd to passion's dread alarms, The offspring of unwise desire ; The frantic glance, the absent thought. The wistful look from passion caught. Betray thy hidden fire. Escap'd from Love's tyrannic sway. With eagle glance I view thee rise. Explore the empire of the day. And claim thy own, thy natal skies. With ardent flight thou dost intrude On old Creation's solitude. Where space extends her boundless line ; Where other suns give life and light. And other stars illume the night. And other planets shine. Oft dost thou stray where ocean's roar. And all the horrors of the main Tempestuous fulmined round that shore Where first the Trojan chief felt pain. D 34 BEAUTIES OF MODERN EITERATURE. More wild thy looks than his who braves The savage strife of winds and waves. While heaven is wrapped in awful gloom, Save where the rapid lightning beam. Darting its fearful, sudden gleam. The scene of death illume. Lured by Ambition's erring pride. The aspiring youth thou dost invite To regal favours yet untried. And fancied treasures of delight : Hope leads the way, and spreads her sail. Secure while Fortune swells the gale. And points to scenes of future power ; Yet every bliss to hope allied. And every tribute paid to pride. Must dwindle in an hour ! The terrors of sublime Affright, The sympathetic pang is thine : Oh! nurse of pain and fond delight. Be all thy mixed emotions mine ! Yet far from ocean's desert waste. To scenes more tranquil let us haste. Where silence and the shades prevail j "UHiere science waits us, to bestow More luxury than wealth can know. Or language can reveal. Remote from courts and regal sway, With thee, fair goddess, let me dwell j With thee enjoy the pensive lay, And court the humble, rustic cell. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 35 Where pure content my soul may bless With secret, silent happiness, That mental feast to courts unknown ; There shall my yielding bosom find Those kindling raptures of the mind That linger round thy throne. Eur op. Mag ETNA.— A SKETCH. This sketch is from the "Poetical Sketches" of Alaric A. Watts. It is needless to say that it is a sketch of great sublimity, and that the beauty of the images are of that poetic character which is more easily felt than described. We do not think, however, that the "black smoke" rolling down the side of "Cuma's height" can philosophically be said to produce ** arti- ficial darkness." Whatever is produced by natural causes cannot be the effect of art, in the production of which man must be always an agent. In one sense, however, we admit that the darkness was not natural, if by natural we mean only effects proceeding from the fixed and general laws of nature ; but we think the term equally applicable to effects arising from parti- cular inversions of these laws, where there is no co- operation of jman in producing the effect. We would also object to " towns and villages deserted of their habitants." Johnson, indeed, has marked no differ- ence between habitants and inhabitants ; but we think the latter is applied, and properly too, by all correct writers, to those who reside in some particular place. We say a habitant of the earth, but an inhabitant of a village. Crabb has taken no notice of these words in his Synonymes, but we believe the distinction we have made ought to be observed by every writer stu- d2 36 BEAUTIFS OF MODERN LITERATURE. dious of propriety. These, however, are mere verbal inaccuracies, and He vi'ho expects a faultless piece to see, Expects what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be. We must confess, however, we feel a certain grating sensation whenever we meet the adjective ^\fitful," and the adverb derived from it ; not that we find it always misapplied, but that it is one of those hacknied words which are continually obtruding themselves upon our perhaps too fastidious ears. We believe it would be difficult to find a poem, however short, pro- ceeding from the pen of any inferior writer, within the last half dozen years, in which this and a tribe of other epithets, M'^hich we shall occasionally notice, do not occur, particularly where external nature is described. The term is a happy one when properly applied ; but we do not think the writer a very happy one, who is obliged to have recourse to it continually, because he can only do so by imitating those pedantic writers of the seventeenth century, and their predecessors, who were continually deviating from their subject to introduce some Greek or Latin quotation. That an unjust prejudice has been excited against the use of these quotations, and that their discontinuance in con- sequence of this prejudice is a serious evil, are truths of which we have long felt convinced. The use of quotations from foreign languages is now considered a mark of pedantry, as if English literature contained in itself eveiy thing necessary to elucidate or confirm the arguments of a writer. Nothing can be more absurd. The works produced by English writers on subjects of general literature, philosophy, and meta- physics, though very numerous, are far, very far from affording all that knowledge, and satisfying all those doubts which are apt to suggest themselves to discri- minating and analyzing minds. Hence it is, that in the Manuel dn Libraire, published a few years ago in Paris, containing a catalogue of all works of merit on general subjects of literature, from all languages, not one work in twenty is selected from the English, 1 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 3/ though it is certain, at the same time, that every work of merit which this country has produced is to be found in this catalogue. How absurd is it, then, to suppose that our domestic literature, or what is boast- ingly called our national literature, contains every thing necessary to satisfy an enquiring mind. That quotations from other languages were in too common request about one hundred years ago, and for many centuries before, and that the writers of the time went purposely in search of these quotations, by which they were obliged to deviate from their subject in order to make room for them, cannot be doubted ; but it is equally certain that he who rejects tliem where they obviously present themselves, and are suggested by the subject, lest he should appear pedantic, yields to a false and effeminate taste, and leaves his readers un- convinced, where he might have convinced them had he supported his arguments by writers of the first authority. In general, all extremes in literature are equally dangerous ; and it is difficult to say ^vhether Cobbett or Montaigne are most in fault. In the for- mer we never meet with a classical quotation, not even an allusion to the classics ; in the latter we forget the writer's arguments and subject altogether, our attention is so frequently diverted from them by quo- tations from ancient and contemporary writers. Both these extremes are equally vicious, and equally to be avoided by every writer of good taste. There is a certain limit quern ultra citraqus requif consistere rectum. He who can observe this medium in all things, has little to fear from the false taste, false mo- rality, or false philosophy of the age in which he lives. If unmixed happiness has any residence upon earth, it can only dv.ell in the bosom of such an individual. Ed. It was a lovely night : the crescent moon, (A bark of beauty on its dark blue sea) Winning its way amid the billowy clouds, Unoar'd, unpiloted, moved on. The sky 38 BEAU'IIKS OF MODERN LITERATURE. Was studded thick with stars, which glitt'ring stream'd An intermittent splendor through the heavens. I turned my glance to earth : the mountain winds Werg sleeping in their caves, and the wild sea With its innumerous billows, melted down To one unmoving mass, lay stretch'd beneath In deep and tranced slumber ; giving back The host above, with all its dazzling shene, To Fancy's ken, as though the luminous sky Had rain'd down stars upon its breast. Suddenly The scene grew dim : those living lights rushed out. And the fair moon, with all her gorgeous train, Had vanished like the frost-work of a dream. Darkness arose, and volumed clouds swept o'er Earth and the ocean. Through the gloom, at times, Sicilian Etna's blood-red flame was seen Fitfully flickering. The stillness now Yielded to murmurs hurtling on the air. From out her deep-voiced crater ; and the winds Burst through their bonds of adamant, and lash'd The weltering ocean, that so lately lay Calm as the slumbers of a cradled child. To a demoniac's madness. The broad wave Swell'd into boiling surges, which appear'd, WTiene'er the mountain's lurid light reveal'd Their progress to the eye, presumptuously To dash against the ebon roof of heaven. Then came a sound, — a fearful deaf 'ning sound, — Sudden and loud, as if an earthquake rent The globe to its foundations ; with a rush. Startling deep midnight on her throne, rose up. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 39 From the red mouth of Etna's burning mount, A giant tree of fire, whence sprouted out Thousands of boundless branches, which put forth Their fieiy foliage in the sky, and shower'd Their fruit, the red-hot levin, to the earth. In terrible profusion. Some fell back Into the hell from whence they sprang, and some, Gaining an impulse from the winds that raged Unceasingly around, sped o'er the main. And, hissing, dived to an eternal home. Beneath its yawning billows. The black smoke. Blotting the snows that shroud chill Cuma's height, Roll'd down the mountain's sides, girding its base With artificial darkness, for the sea,. Catania's palaces and towers, and even The far off shores of Syracuse, revealed In the deep glare that deluged heaven and earth, Flash'd forth in fearful light upon the eye. And there was seen a lake of liquid fire Streaming and streaming slowly on its course. And widening as it flow'd, like the dread jaws Of some huge monster ere its prey be fang'd. At its approach the loftiest pines bent down. And strew'd its surface with their trunks ; — the earth Shook at its coming; towns and villages. Deserted of their habitants, were whelm'd Amid the flood, and lent it ampler force. The noble's palace, and the peasant's cot. Alike but served to swell its fiery tide. Shrieks of wild anguish rush'd upon the gale ; And universal Nature seem'd to wrestle With the giant forms of Darkness and Despair. 40 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. STONEHENGE, A Newdigate Prize Poem, recited at the Theatre, Oxford, June, 1823, hy T. S. Salmon. We give this poem as a specimen of that classic elegance, refined taste, and correct imagination, which our modern schools of poetry affect to despise ; but nothing is more natural than to affect indifference for every thing that is placed beyond our reach. The author of " the Fox and tlie Grapes" was not igno- rant of this truth. — Ed. Wrapt in the veil of time's unbroken gloom, Obscure as death, and silent as the tomb. Where cold oblivion holds her dusky reign, Frowns the dark pile on Sarum's lonely plain. Yet think not here with classic eye to trace Corinthian beauty, or Ionic grace ; No pillar'd lines, with sculptured foliage crowu'd. No fluted remnants deck the hallowed ground ; Firm, as implanted by some Titan's might, Each rugged stone uprears its giant height, Whence the pois'd fragment, tottering, seems to throw A trembling shadow on the plain below. Here oft, when evening sheds her twilight ray. And gilds with fainter beam departing day, With breathless gaze, and cheek with terror pale. The lingering shepherd startles at the tale. How at deep midnight, by the moon's chill glance. Unearthly forms prolong the viewless dance ; BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 41 While on each whispering breeze that murmurs by, His busied fancy hears the hollow sigh. Rise from thy haunt^ dread genius of the clime, Rise magic spirit of forgotten time ! 'Tis thine to burst the mantling clouds of age, And fling new radiance on tradition's page : See ! at thy call from fable's varied store. In shadowy train the mingled visions pour: Here the wild Briton, 'mid his wilder reign. Spurns the proud yoke, and scorns the oppressor's chain : Here wizard Merlin, where the mighty fell. Waves the dark wand, and chants the thrilling spell. Hark ! "tis the bardic lyre, whose harrowing strain Wakes the rude echoes of the slumbering plain ; Lo ! 'tis the Druid pomp, whose lengthening line In lowliest homage bend before the shrine. He comes, — the priest: — amid the sullen blaze His snow-white robe in spectral lustre plays ; Dim gleam the torches through the circling night. Dark curl the vapours round the altar's light ; O'er the black scene of death each conscious star. In lurid gloiy rolls its silent car. 'Tis gone ! e'en now the mystic horrors fade From Sarum's loneliness, and Rlona's glade ; Hushed is each note of Taliesin's Ijtc, Sheath'd the fell blade, and quench'd the fatal fire. On wings of light Hope's angel form appears. Smiles on the past, and points to happier years ; Points with uplifted hand, and raptured eye. To yon pure dawn that floods the opening sky. And views, at length, the sun of Judah pour One cloudless noon o'er Albion's rescued shore. 42 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. DESCRIPTION OF A MISSIONARY. Frotn the Australasia, a Poem which, obtained the Chancellor s 3Iedal, at the Cambridge Commence- ment , 1823, by Winthrop Mackworth Praed, of Trinity College. This description appears to us to be the best pas- sage ill the " Australasia." It wants, however, that " weighty bullion" which alone gives life and energy to English verse, though it has none of the tinsel of the romantic school. Stonehenge is evidently before it in strength and dignity. The second line, however, is exquisitely beautiful and picturesque. Many have beheld "the calm wind wandering o'er" the "silver hair" of age to whom the circumstance never sug- gested a poetic image or association of any descrip- tion ; yet, the moment it is thus described, we are sensible of an impression which the real circumstance itself would have never excited. Whence is this effect? Evidently from the power of association to which the mere observer pays no attention. The wind is here endowed with life. It wanders through the hair of the old man, as if to cool him gently, or as if in love with his venerable and silver locks. This is attri- buting knowledge and life to the wind. Besides, the quality of calmness attributed to it is admirably con- trasted with the piety and age of the old man, over whose hair it delights to wander. All inanimate objects become poetic the moment we endow them with those attributes which are the peculiar and dis- tinctive inheritance of man. There are, indeed, few qualities in nature which may not be attributed to man, whence he has been properly called the little world ; but some of these qualities are peculiar to himself, while he possesses the rest in common with being iir general. X^'^hcnever those qualities which are peculiarly his own, are transferred to inani- BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 43 mate objects, they are immediately translated into the poetic ^A'orld, and become objects, not only of a dif- ferent, but of a more exalted species than they were before. — Ed. With furrowed brow, and cheek serenely fair, The calm wind wandering o'er his silver hair. His arms uplifted, and his moistened eye Fixed in deep rapture on the golden sky. Upon the shore, through many a billow driven. He kneels at last, the messenger of heaven ! Long years, that rank the mighty with the weak. Have dimmed the flush upon his faded cheek, And many a dew, and many a noxious damp. The daily labour, and the nightly lamp. Have reft away, for ever reft, from him The liquid accent, and the buoyant limb. Yet still within him aspirations swell. Which time corrupts not, sorrows cannot quell ; The changeless zeal, which on, from land to land. Speeds the faint foot, and nerves the withered hand. And the mild charity, which, day by day. Weeps every wound, and every stain away. Rears the young bud on every blighted stem. And longs to comfort where she must condemn. With these, through storms, and bitterness and wrath. In peace and power he holds his onward path. Curbs the fierce soul, and sheathes the murderous steel. And calms the passions he had ceased to feel. Yes, he hath- triumphed, while his lips relate The sacred story of his Saviour's fate, WHiile in the search of that tumultuous horde He opens wide the everlasting word, 44 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. And bids the soul drink deep of wisdom there. In fond devotion, and in fervent prayer. In speechless awe the wonder-stricken throng Check their rude feasting, and their barbarous song Around his steps the gathering myriads crowd. The chief, the slave, the timid, and the proud j Of various features and of various dress. Like their own forest-leaves, confused and numberless. Where shall your temples, where your worship be, Gods of the air, and rulers of the sea. In the glad dawning of a kinder light, Your blind adorer quits your gloomy rite, And kneels in gladness on his native plain, A happier votaiy at a holier fane. THE UNKNOWN GRAVE. Whoever is the writer of the " Unknown Grave," it possesses a merit to which it is difficult to do adequate justice, whether we consider the sentiments, the poe- try, or the moral. Perhaps he is neither Byron, Campbell, Scott, nor Moore; but however highly we respect these names, we imagine they could not easily improve the following lines, without disturbing the harmony and repose that reign throughout. We do not mean by this to say, that the author could produce " Don Juan," " the Pleasures of Hope, " Marmion," or " the Loves of the Angels ;" but we mean to say, that we should not feel ourselves j ustitied in supposing him incapable of them, though we are well aware that excellence may be attained in a short production by him who is unequal to a work of greater magnitude. We would object to the epithet " gloweth," " A moral lesson gloweth here ;" BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 45 for there is nothing of a glowing character to be found in morality. Its object is to moderate and calm, and not to give ardour and energy to our feel- ings and passions ; but without a high tone of feeling or passion there is neither glow nor energy. Ed. Who sleeps below ? who sleeps below ? It is a question idle all ! Ask of the breezes as they blow, Say, do they heed, or hear thy call ? They murmur in the trees around. And mock thy voice, an empty sound ! A hundred summer suns have showered Their fostering warmth, and radiance bright ; A hundred winter storms have lower'd With piercing floods, and hues of night. Since first this remnant of his race Did tenant his lone dwelling-place. Say did he come from east, from west ? From southern climes, or where the pole. With frosty sceptre, doth arrest The howling billows, as they roll ? Within what realm of peace or strife. Did he first draw the breath of life ? Was he of high or low degree ? Did grandeur smile upon his lot ? Or, born to dark obscurity. Dwelt he wdthin some lonely cot, And from his youth to labour wed. From toil- strung limbs wrung daily bread ? 46 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. Say, died he ripe, and full of years Bowded down and bent by hoary eld, When sound was silence to his ears And the dim eye-ball sight withheld ; Like a ripe apple falling dov^m. Unshaken, mid the orchard brown ; When all the friends that bless'd his prime, Were vanish'd like a morning dream ; Pluck'd one by one by spareless time. And scatter'd in oblivion's stream ; Passing away all silently, Like snow flakes melting in the sea : Or, mid the summer of his years. When round him throng'd his children young. When bright eyes gush'd with burning tears. And anguish dwelt on every tongue. Was he cut off, and left behind A widowed wife, scarce half resign'd ? Or, mid the sunshine of his spring Came the swift bolt that dash'd him down. When she, his chosen, blossoming In beauty, deem'd him all her own. And forward look'd to happier years Than ever blessed their vale of tears ? Perhaps he perished for the faith, — One of that persecuted band. Who suffer'd tortures, bonds, and death. To free from mental thrall the land. And, toiling for the martjT's fame, Espous'd his fate, nor found a name ! BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 47 Say, was he one to science blind, A groper in earth's dungeon dark ? Or one, whose bold aspiring mind Did in the fair creation mark The Maker's hand, and kept his soul Free from this grovelling world's controul ? Hush, wild surmise ! — 'tis vain — 'tis vain— The summer flowers in beauty blow. And sighs the wind, and floods the rain. O'er some old bones that rot below ; No other record can we trace Of fame, or fortune, rank, or race ! Then what is life, when thus we see No trace remains of life's career ? — Mortal ! whoe'er thou art, for thee A moral lesson gloweth here ; Put'st thou in aught of earth thy trust ? 'Tis doom'd that dust shall mix with dust. What doth it matter then, if thus. Without a stone, without a name. To impotently herald us, We float not on the breath of fame ; But, like the dew-drop from the flower. Pass, after glittering for an hour ? Since soul decays not ; freed from earth And earthly coils it bursts away ; Receiving a celestial birth, And spurning off its bonds of clay. It soars, and seeks another sphere, And blooms through heaven's eternal year ! 48 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. Do good ; shun evil ; live not thou. As if at death thy being died ; Nor error's syren voice allow To draw thy steps from truth aside ; Look to thy journey's end — the grave ! And trust in Him whose arm can save. A Blackwood's Magazine. STANZAS. There may be poetry without nature, and nature without poetry; that is, a thought may be expressed poetically though it is false, and a thought may be true though not expressed poetically. In the following lines, we believe every sentiment is at once natural and poe- tic at the same time. There is always great danger in attempting to throw a diviner charm over the beauty of woman, by images drawn from sensible, or inani- mate nature ; at least few poets have succeeded in the application of such images ; but we think the compa- rison in the last lines, between the " lights gleaming around the brow" of the fair and the summer sky, is both happy and natural. 1. I knew not that the world contain'd A form so lovely as thine own j Nor deem'd that where such beauty reign'd Humility would fix her throne. For I had mark'd where eyes were bright. Too well their owners knew their pow'r. And arm'd them with that dazzling light The sun emits at noon-tide's hour : BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 49 Too proud to veil a single ray. Or one effulgent glance surrender. And glittering with the blaze of day, A scorning twilight's softer splendor. 2 I knew not where the form display'd Such symmetry and grace as thine. That intellect would lend its aid. For I had marked where form and face Had beauty's varied charms combined ; There oft was wanting feeling's grace, — The beam of soul — the ray of mind. And vain has been each studied art. And futile every cold endeavour — The light that comes not from the heart, A moment shines — then fades for ever. But I, at last, have turned from those Whom once I knew, to gaze on thee, — On thee, whose cheek's divinest glows Reveal thy bosom's purity. The summer sky is calm — serene — The summer ocean mildly fair, As if some bright — some heavenly scene In beauty were reflected there ; And thus when on thy brow I gaze. And view the lights around it gleaming. They seem to be the living rays From heart, and soul, and spirit beaming. London Magazine. E 50 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITKRATtJRE. SONG FROM *' QUENTIN DURWARD.' It would be difficult to point out a fault in the fol- lowing piece, while the harmony and contrast of images are inimitably beautiful. Ed. " Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh. The sun has left the lea. The orange flower perfumes the bower. The breeze is on the sea. The lark his lay who trill'd all day. Sits hush'd his partner nigh ; Breeze, bird, and flower, they know the hour. But where is County Guy ? " The village maid steals through the shade. Her shepherd's suit to hear ; To beauty shy, by lattice high, Sings high-born cavalier. The star of love, all stars above. Now reigns o'er earth and sky ; And high and low its influence know. But where is County Guy ?" BKAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 51 FROM THE FABLES FOR THE HOLY ALLIANCE. The humour of these lines is not the humour of a Scythian philosopher. It is all over Irish, and we doubt whether it would have been surpassed, had it been genuine Scythian. — Ed. The wise men of Egypt were secret as dummies ; And e'en when they most condescended to teach, They pack'd up their meaning, as they did their mum- mies, In so many wrappers, 'twas out of one's reach. They were also, good people, much given to kings, Fond of monarchs and crocodiles, monkeys and mys- tery. Bats, hierophants, blue- bottle flies, and such things, As will partly appear in this very short history. A Scythian philosopher, (nephew, they say. To that other great traveller, young Anacharsis,) Stept into a temple at Memphis one day. To have a short peep at their mystical farces. He saw* a brisk blue-bottle fly on an altar. Made much of, and worshipp'd, as something divine ; \Miile a large handsome bullock, led there in a halter. Before it lay stabb'd at the foot of the shrine, * Accordins; to Elian, it was in the island of Lencadia they prac- tised tills ceremony, — Sjeiv /iouv rai,- ixwxi;. — De /l/iifHui-Liij. ii. cap. 8. e2 52 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. Surpris'd at such doings, he whisper'd his teacher — " If 'tisn't impertinent, may I ask, why Should a bullock, that useful and powerful creature. Be thus ofFer'd up to a blue- bottle fly?" " No wonder," said t'other, "you stare at the sight. But we, as a symbol of monarchy view it ; That fly on the shrine is legitimate right. And that bullock, the people, that's sacrificed to it." I HAVE selected the following Poetic Epistle, from its breathing a feeling at once natural and chaste, a feeling which betrays neither the levity of the coquette, the formality of the prude, the coldness and stiltedness of her whose love is founded in interested motives, nor the unblushing lasciviousness of her who yields to a more unholy passion. Though the feeling, however, is just, the thought, in the second line of the second stanza, is neither true, nor founded in experience. To reflect upon " past delight," is never sorrowful, unless attended with the reflection, that it was a delight pur- chased at the expense of virtue. — Ed. TO ****** Wliene'er we part from those we love. And, faint with sorrow, languish. How may the troubled heart remove The pressure of such anguish ? Reflection can no comfort bring. For past delight is sorrow ; And hope will close her weary wing. Long ere the promised morrow. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 53 But joy, you tell me, still is left : The moment of returning Will heal the heart, at parting cleft. And recompense its mourning. Ah 1 ne'er did joy and grief with me Keep such convenient measure ; If I must lose the sight of thee, I pay too dear for pleasure. London Magazine. THE SKELETON DANCE. The Skeleton Dance is an obvious imitation of " Alonzo the Brave, and the Fair Imogene," and inculcates the same moral. There is a romantic wildness and aAV- fulness in the scene, that impart feelings of a kindred nature with those of which we are conscious in our youth, when ghosts and hobgoblins are made the sub- ject of a winter evening's fire-side. " The anthem is chanting," with which the poet properly conmiences, prepares us for those fearful emotions, Avhich it was his intention to excite. There is an inimitable beauty in the application of " gay" to grave-stones, for as no juncture of circumstances can make these memorials of the dead assume a gay aspect, and as the mind has already anticipated something of evil, this fearful gaiety seiTcs only to increase our apprehensions. Grave- stones looking gay, resemble the lights that precede a storm. We do not give this piece, however, as pos- sessing any original merit, for both the story, the style, the imagery, and the sentiments, are borrowed. M\ give it, merely because the deep impression which it makes has a moral tendency, and is calculated to pro- 54 BEAUTIKS OF MODERN LITERATURE. dnce that religious fear which, hoAvevcr unnecessarily exercised, where the mind is naturally pure and vir- tuous, frequently deters grosser spirits from the walks of impious revelry and profane delight. It belongs, however, to some of the modern schools of poetiy ; to which school we cannot say, for we ha\'e not discrimination enough to distinguish between them, but that it belongs to some of them we are ce; - tain, from the license which the author takes in the structure of his verse, a privilege which all the modern schools arrogate to themselves, though it is contrary not only to all classical models, but to all principles deduced from the laws of melody and harmony, which is saying, in other words, that it is contrary to nature. What prose can be more prosaic than such lines as these : — As the last anthem peal was dying away, ***•*■*** Let us to the green. But now as they went, •^ "^ "fr T? ^ ^ -f? Dear Matilda, cried he. Oh ! quit, love, this place, Go, coward, she said ; go pray, if you will. The author seems, also, to think himself entitled to write bad grammar, because Shenstone did so, in simi- lar phrases: — "The moon she shone bright." — "The moon she shone mildly." — Ed. The anthem is chanting, the priests kneel around, No unlistening ear in the village is found, The loud-swelling chorus flies upward to heaven. To the organ's full peal a fresh volume is given ; The day is now waning, declining the sun, And the Lord's-day bless'd matins are over and done. A troop of young villagers outward are pressing. All greeting, and laughing, and joyful caressing ; BEAUTIES OF MODERN LFTERATURE. 55 Young Roger de Tracy, and Ralph Bornaville, Robert Wivel was there, and young Amourduiile. All gay- blooded Normans, in tourney or court. Could none match the youths of fair Rix-a-la-Port, The moon she shone mildly, the stars twinkled bright. And flooded the chapel with silvery light ; The spires and grave-stones look'd gay ; and the trees Seem'd tipped with fair splendour, and waved in the breeze ; And out rush'd the band of the villagers gay. As the last anthem-peal was dying away. " Ho ! ho !" cried young Roger, " a night such as this. Is sacred to lovers, and kisses, and bliss ; "WTiat say'st, sweet Sibylla? what, comrades ? what, ho ! Shall we creep to our couches, demurely and slow ? Let us hail you, fair goddess, — ay, now, ere we rest, Let us hail her with revel, with dance, and with jest." Then loud laugh'd his comrades, and shouted assent, " Let us to the green ;" but now, as they went. The holy monk Francis besought them to stay ; " Oh ! sin not," he cried, " oh ! think on the day — Oh ! think that God hallowed this day out of seven — Oh ! think that to pleasure six days hath he given !" " Away with thy priestcraft," cried Roger, with scorn, " We will dance, we will jest, we will revel till morn ! Nay, to punish thy pride, and throw shame on thy face. Instead of the green, we will dance hi this place ! Over the grave-stones, and over the dead !" " Ay, ay," all his revelling company said. 56 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. All bat one ; and he was the young Amourdiiille ; The rest of the band could not hear — could not feel. " Dear Matilda," cried he, "oh ! quit, love, this place !' But she jeer'd at his fears, and laugh'd in his face, "Go, coward," she said, "go, pray if you will. Give me dance, and high revel, the sun-beams until." And now each brave youth has a fair partner led. To dance o'er the grave-stones, and over the dead ; And loud shouted Roger, and Sibyl laugh'd high. As over the tombs, and the flesh-grass they fly. And holy St. Francis went mutt'ring away, " Ay, — dance on for ever, for ever, for aye !" Then revell'd they on, and the moon she shone bright. And still they dance on, as departed the night ; And, then, fathers and mothers, and elders so grey, Pray'd in vain that they'd stop, in vain that they'd stay. They laugh'd at their fathers, they jeer'd at the grey. And all went with jokes, or profaneness away. Still they danc'd,~still they danc'd, but now nothing said ! As they rush'dover the grave-stones, and over the dead. No laughter's now heard, no revel, no jeer. They seem'd not to see, or to feel, or to hear ! The maidens look'd pale, and no cheek there was red. As they flew o'er the grave-stones, and over the dead. The morning-blush now, had just dappled the sky. Still, o'er the church -yard,— ah ! fastly they fly ! The villagers gaz'd on the horrible band. And speechless, and motionless,- -spiritless stand. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 57 Some pray, some lament, some weep, and some kneel, ^Vhen rush'd from the village the young Amourduille. " Matilda ! Matilda, oh ! stop thee," he cried ; Oh ! quit soon this horrible motion, my bride ; She stopp'd not a moment, and nothing she said. But flew o'er the grave-stones, and over the dead ; And on rush'd the band, with the swiftness of light. And whirl'd round and round in the villagers' sight. In young Amourduille rush'd~the band soon came round. He flew to Matilda, and caught her fast round. She was icy,— his blood thrill'd— but still he held fast, And on rush'd the horrible company past. And on swept Matilda—with fright and alarm. He found he clasp'd still but a skeleton arm ! Then vanish'd the band, though that night every year Their dance you may see, their shrieks you may hear ; There, lash'd by fierce spirits^ they sweep on till morn. Who treated God's day, and his servants with scorn. There the skeleton dance may be seen, it is said. Dance over the tomb-stones, and over the dead. L. New Monthly Magazine. 58 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. SURNAMES. The entire merit of the following jew d' esprit, con- sists in the original thought which suggested it. Through- out the whole, there is no variation in the thought, but the contrast of the name and character is so happily imagined, that it deserves a place in this selection. The versification is smooth, and the manner possesses the curiosa felicitas of genius. — Ed. Men once were surnamed from their shape or estate, (You all may from history worm it,) There was Lewis the Bulky, and Heniy the Great, John Lackland, and Peter the Hermit. But now, when the door-plates of misters and dames Are read, each so constantly varies From the owner's trade, figure, and calling, surnames. Seem given by the rule of contraries. Mr. Box, though provoked, never doubles his fist, Mr. Bums in his grate has no fuel, Mr. Pla}i"air won't catch me at hazard or whist, Mr. Coward was winged in a duel. Mr. Wise is a dunce, Mr. King is a whig, Mr. Coffin's uncommonly sprightly. And huge Mr. Little broke down in a gig. While driving fat Mrs. Golightly. Mrs. Drinkwater's apt to indulge in a dram, Mrs. Angel's an absolute fury. And meek Mr. Lion let fierce Mr. Lamb Tweak his nose in the lobby of Drury. I BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 59 At Bath, where the feeble go more than the stout, (A conduct well worthy of Nero,) Over poor Mr. Lightfoot, confined with the gout, Mr. Heaviside danced a Bolero. Miss Joy, wretched maid, when she chose Mr. Love, Found nothing but sori'ow await her : She now holds in wedlock, as true as a dove. That fondest of mates Mr. Hayter. Mr. Oldcastle dwells in a modern-built hut, Miss Sage is of madcaps the archest ; Of all the queer bachelors Cupid e'er cut. Old Mr. Younghusband's the starchest. Mr. Child, in a passion, knock'd down Mr. Rock, Mr. Stone like an aspen-leaf shivers. Miss Poole used to dance, but she stands like a stock. Ever since she became Mrs. Rivers. Mr. Swift hobbles onward, no mortal knows how. He moves as though cords had entwin'd him ; Mr. Metcalfe ran off, upon meeting a cow, With pale Mr. Turnbull behind him. Mr. Barker's as mute as a fish in the sea, Mr. Miles never moves on a journey, Mr. Gotobed sits up till half-after-three, Mr. Makepeace was bred an attorney. Mr. Gardner can't tell a flower from a root, Mr. Wild with timidity draws back, Mr. Ryder performs all his journeys on foot, Mr. Foot all his journeys on horseback. Mr. Penny, whose father was rolling in wealth, Kick'd down all the fortune his dad won ; Large Mr. Le Fever's the picture of health, Mr. Goodenough is but a bad one. 60 BEAUriKS OF MODERN LITER ATURK. Mr. Cruikshank stept into three thousand a year. By shewing his leg to an heiress. Now, J hope you'll acknowledge I've made it quite clear, Surnames ever go by contraries. New Monthly Magazine. THE FEMALE CONVICT TO HER INFANT. Sympathy is always a pleasing emotion, and there- fore whatever excites it must necessarily impart plea- sure. It requires a stubbornness of nerve which, if we ourselves possessed, we should blush to acknowledge, to read the female convict without sympathyzing with her situation. As this sympathy is pleasing, how- ever mournful, and as the primary object of poetry is to please, we think the Female Convict worthy a place in our selection. Ed. Oh, sleep not my babe, for the morn of to-morrow Will hush me to slumbers more tranquil than thine ; The dark grave will shield me from shame and from sorrow. Though the deeds and the doom of the guilty are mine. Not long shall the arm of affection enfold thee. Not long shalt thou hang on thy mother's fond breast; And who with the eye of delight shall behold thee, Who watch thee, and guard thee, when I am at rest ? And yet doth it grieve me to wake thee, my dearest. The pangs of thy desolate parent to see ; Thou wilt weep when the clank of my fetters thou hearest. And none but the guilty should mourn over me. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 61 And yet must I wake thee, — for while thou art weeping, To calm thee, I stifle my tears for awhile ; But thou smil'st in thy dreams, while thus placidly sleeping. And, oh ! how it wounds me to gaze on thy smile ! Alas, my sweet babe ! with what pride had I press'd thee. To the bosom that now throbs with terror and shame; If the pure tie of virtuous affection had bless'd thee. And hail'd thee the heir of thy father's high name ! But now, with remorse that avails not, I mourn thee. Forsaken and friendless as soon thou wilt be ; In a world, if it cannot betray, that will scorn thee. Avenging the guilt of thy mother on thee. And when the dark thought of thy fate shall awaken The deep blush of shame on thine innocent cheek ; When by all, but the God of the orphan, forsaken, A home and a father in vain thou shalt seek. I know that the base world will strive to deceive thee. With falsehood like that which thy mother beguil'd; Deserted and helpless, — to whom can I leave thee ? O, God of the fatherless ! pity my child ! New European Magazine. 62 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. THE DREAMS OF LIFE. Theodore is an evident imitation of Moore, at least in this and some other of his poetic effusions, and yet in calling him an imitator, we would by no means imply that he evinces either an absence of original powers, or original genius, for we believe no imi- tation can be perfect, without possessing both. A poet only can translate a poet, and genius only can imitate genius perfectly. It is true that some men possess a talent of imitating, but they possess it only in a certain degree, for in no instance whatever can they seize on the finer shades, and uncompounded beau ties of their original. A writer of genius and true taste will, therefore, have no difficulty in detecting the grossness of the imitation, and proving it to be a caricature instead of an imitation. Whatever is of a superior order in poetry, painting, music, and the fine arts in general,areincapableof being taught. " Ea quce in oratore maxima sunt, hnitihilia non sunt. Inge- niiim, inventio, vis, facilitas, et quid-quid arte non traditur." Hence they can only be imitated by ge- nius, because it is only genius that can operate with- out instruction. Genius seizes at once by an indescri- bable and incommunicable feeling, the spirit of the original, the " soul of soul" by which it is animated ; but talent can only grasp those tangible and grosser elements which present themselves to the eye of the senses, and are only the clothing of that spirit which he can neither feel nor perceive. Theodore, in this, and his other imitations of Moore, has happily seized upon his spirit, though we doubt whether he is capable of entering into all its depth and intensity. The fol- lowing lines want the richness, luxuriance, and versa- tility of Moore, that plastic feeling, which vibrates to all the finer impulses and harmonies of nature, and in which, we think Moore has never been excelled. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 63 we could almost say equalled ; but Theodore partly makes amends for it, by the truth and philosophy of his sentiments. All men are dreamers ; from the hour When reason first exerts its power. Unmindful of its bitter sting, To some deceiving hope we cling, — That hope's a dream ! The brazen trumpet's clangour gives The joy on which the warrior lives ; And at his injured country's call, He leaves his home, his friends, his all — For glory's dream ! The lover hangs on some bright eye, And dreams of bliss in every sigh ? But brightest eyes are deep in guile. And he who trusts their fickle smile, Trusts in a dream ! The poet, nature's darling child. By fame's all-dazzling star beguiled ; Sings love's alternate hope and fear, Paints visions which his heart holds dear, — And thus he dreams ! And there are those who build their joys. On proud ambition's gilded toys, Who feign would climb the craggy height. Whose power displays its splendid light, — But dreaming fall ! 64 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. Whilst others 'midst the giddy throng Of pleasure's victims, sweep along ; Till feelings damp'd and satiate hearts, Too worn to feel when bliss departs, — Prove all a dream ! And when that chilly call of fear, Death's mandate hurtles in the ear ; We find, would we retrace the past, E'en life at best now fading fast, — Is all a dream ! Theodore. From the New JEuropecm Magazine. SAINT VALERIE. The following is a tender and melancholy picture of unfortunate love withdrawing from the world, and terminating all its hopes and desires in religious so- litude. — Ed. Raised on the rocky barriers of the sea, Stands thy dark convent, fair St. Valerie ! Lone like an eagle's nest, the pine trees tall Throw their long shadows on the heavy wall. Where never sound is heard, save the wild sweep Of mountain-waters rushing to the deep, The tempest's midnight song, the battle-cry Of warring winds, like armies met on high. And in the silent hour the convent chime, And sometimes, at the quiet evening time. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 65 A vesper song— those tones, so pure, so sweet. When airs of earth and words of heaven do meet ; Sad is the legend of that young saint's doom ! When the spring rose was in its May of bloom, The storm was darkening ; at that sweet hour, When hands beloved had reared her nuptial bower. The pestilence came o'er the land, and he With whom her heart was, died that very morn— Her bridal morn ' alas ! that there should be Such evils ever for affection born ! She shrank away from earth, and solitude Is the sole refuge for the heart's worst pain ; Life had no ties, — she twined her into heaven. And on the steep rock reared her holy fane. It has an air of sadness, as just meet For the so broken heart's last lone retreat ! — A portrait here has still presei-ved each charm : I saw it one bright evening when the warm Last glow of sun -set shed its crimson ray O'er the lovely image. She was fair As the most radiant spirits of the air. Whose life is amid flowers ; like the day, The golden summer day, her glossy hair Fell o'er a brow of Indian ivory ; Her cheek was pale, and in her large, dark eye There M^as a thought of sorrow, and her brow Upon one small snow hand leant pensively, As if to hide her tears— the other prest A silver crucifix upon her breast. I ne'er saw sadness touching as in thee And thy lorn look, oh fair St. Valerie ! Literary Gazette. F 66 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE, SPIRITS OF HEAVEN. The fickleness and restlessness of mind which father Francis betrays in the following lines, depict, we be- lieve, naturally enough, the rev' olutions of desire and mutability of feeling peculiar to those who seclude themselves from the world, and devote their lives to religious exercises. If we have any fault to find with the poet, it is for not making the supplicant invoke a few more of the ethereal visitants, for we believe that even those who mix with the world, and who, conse- quently, are less exposed to the influence of mental impressions than Father Francis, experience more alternations in their antipathies and desires, and, con- sequently, invoke a greater number of spirits, or, in other words, seek to gratify a greater number of rest- less cravings, than he did. The solitary recluse, how- ever, is more subject to this fever of the mind than he who mingles and jostles with the world. Ed. SPIRITS OF HEAVEN. Spirit of Joy ! I will call upon thee ! With thy bounding step and thy radiant smile Thou shalt teach me thy mirth and thy revelry. For thou can'st the cares of life beguile. Yet leave me, ah, leave me ! all gay as thou art, I love not thy vain and idle folly ; Thy laughter oppresses the weary heart, And leaves it to languor and melancholy. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. C7 Spirit of Peace ! descend from the sk}'^. With thy calm, pure look, and thy promise of rest j And let the beam of thy dove-like eye Still the throbs of this troubled breast : Yet daughter of heaven ! thy pinion fold. My restless soul Avill not bend to thy sway ; For thy smile, tho' sweet, is strangely cold. And it chills my spirit — away ! away ! Spirit of Love ! obey my voice ! And lead my steps to thy fairy bowers. And let my heart in thy smile rejoice. And crown my brow with thy brightest flowers. Ah, traitor ! thy roses too swiftly fade. Too soon the captive shall feel thy chain ; And many a heart by thy smile betrayed. Shall sigh for its freedom — but sigh in vain. Spirit of Hope ! from thy bright cloud bend. No power can thy endless charm destroy ; If thou wilt ever my steps attend. My life shall be one bright round of joy. Angel of Beauty ! thy guardian wing Shall shield me from every earth-born sorrow ! I feel not the anguish to-day may bring. If still thou wilt promise a blissful morrow ! lietley Abbey. Father Francis. Literary Gazette. — No. 312. f2 ^8 BKAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. LINES OF MADAME D'lIAUTELOT. We could never admire that species of love which is purely and unmixedly sentimental, nor yet that in which there is no mixture of sentiment. The one appears of too mental, the other of too sensual a cliaracter ; and we find ourselves so mysteriously com- posed, that our pleasures run highest when they are excited by mixed influences, that is, influences partly sensitive and partly intellectual. Where all is mental, the influence is too refined for us : we cannot grasp it, or identify ourselves with its nature. Hence, though we admire the " Paradise Lost," we cannot love it. Its characters are beings with whom we possess no common sympathies. Even Adam and Eve, who might be supposed beings of the same nature with ourselves, have not a particle of nature in them as they are described by Milton. Like all other sinners, they have nothing but religion and morality in their mouths, and we heartily hate all those who make a trade of mo- ralizing. They are too evangelical for us. '•' There is a time to laugh, and a time to cry;" but these gentlemen are always ciying over the sins of others. We like to laugh when the time for laughing comes, and there- fore we cannot relish those who are always in a contrary mood. On the other hand, where all is sensual, the influence is too gross for us ; and we cannot feel satis- fied with ourselves in either loving or admiring any thing proceeding from the pen of a writer professedly sensual. Thus do we find ourselves " fearfully and wondertully made," incapable of relishing any thing that is purely intellectual or purely sensual. We give, therefore, the following lines of Madame D' Houtelot not because they express any feelings congenial with our own, but because they will be pleasing to such readers as are fond of sentimental poetry. They of- BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 69 fend, at the same time, no rule of good taste or cri- ticism which we can at this moment recollect. We agree indeed with Catullus, that Difficile est longum subito deponere amorem ; and therefore think it very natural that this good lady should continue to love in her old age ; but she does not tell us who she is in love with ; — on the contrary, so far from appearing to be in love with any person, she appears only to be in love with the idea of being in love ; or, as Bruyere expresses it, she appears to be one of those " who wish to be in love but find they cannot." This is not love, but a chimera of the mind in which real passion has no part whatever, and who- ever can relish it, much good may it do to him 5 but for our own part, we can never sympathize with such unreal, unsubstantial, and visionaiy affections, or rather phantasies, of the understanding ; or, indeed, with affections of any sort that have not their original re- sidence in the heart. We therefore admire the follow- ing sentiment, Avhieh the reader will find in one of our poetical extracts. And vain has been each studied art. And futile every cold endeavour. The light that comes not from the heart j A moment shines then fades for ever. Ed. Jeune Jaimai. Le temps de mon bel age, Ce temps si court, I'amour seul le remplit : Quand j'atteignis la saison d'etre sage, Toujours j'aimai, la raison me le dit. Mais r^ge vient, et le plaisir s'envole ; Mais mon bonheur ne s'envole aujourd' hui. Car j'aime encore, et I'amour me console ', Rien n'aurait pu me consoler de lui. 70 BKAUTIES OF MODKRN LITERATURE. When young, I loved, at that delicious age So sweet, so short, love was my sole delight ; And when I reached the season to be sage. Still I loved on, for reason gave me right. Age comes at length, and livelier joys depart. Yet gentle ones still kiss these eyelids dim ; For still I love, and love consoles my heart ; What could console me for the loss of him ? The Liberal. ROUSSEAU'S RETREAT. Moore's damning sin, according to the critics, is levity ; but surely if he were even cursed or blessed with greater frailties and weaknesses than other men, the following lines should be more than a sufficient atone- ment for all his transgressions. We have no hesitation to say, that the sentiments are conceived with a deli- cacy of feeling and a chastity of imagination, and that the terms of the language in which they are ex- pressed, are selected with a nicety and accuracy of discrimination, which not only places the poet beyond the vulgar bounds of the critic, but to the beauties, of which no critic can do adequate justice. There is a beauty in sentiment and fine feeling, which can nei- ther be analysed nor explained, while the faults of writers lie always on the surface, and consequently can be laid hold on, and held up to public derision. Deformity is always a protuberance which lies on the exterior of bodies, but beauty is a gem which retires from the public gaze, and modestly conceals itself from the stupid stare of those who can neither discriminate its perceptions, nor become sensible of its charms. No Avonder, then, that critics should eternally dwell on the faults of writers, and be eternally blind to their re- BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. ^l deeming beauties, because the former are gross and palpable, the latter visible only to the eye of genius. The Edinburgh Review professed, at its commence- ment, to review only works of merit; and yet who could imagine from its system of reviewing, that a work of merit ever fell into the hands of its conductor?. — Ed. ** I may be cold— may want that glow Of high romance, which bards should know, That holy homage, which is felt In treading where the great have dwelt — This reverence, whatsoe'er it be, I fear, I feel, I have it not, For here, at this still hour, to me The charms of this delightful spot — Its calm seclusion from the throng, From all the heart would fain forget. This narrow valley, and the song. Of its small murmuring rivulet — The flitting, to and fro, of birds. Tranquil and tame as they were once In Eden, ere the startling words Of man disturbed their orisons ! Those little, shadowy paths that wind Up the hill side, with fruit trees lined. And lighted only by the breaks The gay wind in the foliage makes. Or vistas, here and there, that ope Through weeping willows like the snatches Of far off scenes of light, which hope Ev'n through the shade of sadness catches ! — 72 UKAUTIES or MODERN LITERATURE. All this, which could I once but lose The memory of those vulgar ties, Whose grossness, all the heavenliest hues Of genius, can no more disguise, Than the sun's beams can do away With filth of fens o'er which they play — This scene which would have filled my heart With thoughts of all that happiest is— Of love, where self hath only part, As echoing back another's bUss, Of solitude, secure and sweet. Beneath whose shade the virtues meet j Which while it shelters, never chills Our sympathies with human woe. But keeps them, like sequestered rills, Purer and fresher in their flow — Of happy days, that share their beams Twixt quiet mirth and wise employ — Of tranquil nights, that give, in dreams, TTie moonlight of the morning's joy ! All this my heart could dwell on here. But for those hateful memories near. Those sordid truths, that cross the track Of each sweet thought, and drive them back Full into all the mire and strife. And vanities of that man's life. Who more than all that e'er have glow'd. With fancy's flame (and it was Ai«, If ever given to mortal) show'd What an impostcr genius is — BEAUTIES OV MODERN LITERATURE. J3 How, with that strong, mimetic art, Which is its life and soul, it takes All shapes of thought, all hues of heart. Nor feels, itself, one throb it wakes — How like ajem its light may smile O'er the dark path, by mortals trod. Itself as mean a worm, the while, As crawls along the sullying sod — WTiat sensibility may fall From its false lip, what plans to bless, WTiile home, friends, kindred, country, all. Lie waste beneath its selfishness. How, with the pencil hardly dry From colouring up such scenes of love And beauty, as make young hearts sigh. And dream, and think through heaven they rove. They who can thus describe and move. The very workers of these charms. Nor seek, nor ask a heaven above, Some Mamau's or Theresa's arms ! " How all, in short, that makes the boast Of their false tongues they want the most j And, while with freedom on their lips. Sounding her timbrels to set free This bright world, labouring in the eclipse Of priestcraft and of slavery. They may, themselves, be slaves as low As ever Lord or Patron made. To blossom in his smile, or grow. Like stunted brushwood, in his shade ! Out on the craft ! — I'd rather be One of those hinds that round me tread. 74 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. With just enough of sense to see The noon-day sun that's o'er my head. Than thus with high- built genius curst, That hath no heart for its foundation, Be all at once, that's brightest — worst — Sublimest — meanest in creation !" Thos. Moore. THE ENCHANTED FLUTE, With other Poems, and Fables from La Fontaine. By E. P. TFolferstan. A Critic, commenting on the following beautiful lines, professes to admire the image conveyed by The play Of moonlight on the wave. We should admire it also if we did not know it to be a copy of a still more beautiful image. How sweet the moonbeam sleeps on yonder bank. The imitation is so obvious that we could not profess to admire it without becoming imitators ourselves, for this image has been admired over and over by the critics. At the same time, we do not find fault with its introduction here in a new dress, and we consider the entire passage exceedingly tender and ])oetic. Ed. Beats there a heart no care is near No sorrow dare invade ? Glows there a cheek where never tear Has taught the rose to fade ? BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 7^ Lives one in all this scene below, WTiere troubles stalk around. Who from the very touch of woe Has strange exemption found. With spirits lighter than the play Of moonlight on the wave, A frame where health with even sway Maintains the law she gave. A mind in whose gigantic grasp All science lives enrolled ; A memory whose tenacious clasp Can all the past unfold. A soul where blazing genius breaks In visions from on high, And ever thinking fancy wakes Her world of ecstacy ? No ! such exuberance of bliss Was never in a world like this ! 'Tis all a dream, a beau ideal — Seldom imagined, never real ; By reason crushed, as when you stir You break the filmy gossamer. 76 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. THE MANIAC. Moral reflections are not easily clothed in the smiling robes of poetry, because they possess neither the levity of its lighter graces, nor the pathos of its deeper tones. When they are grafted, however, upon a pathe- tic subject, they are capable of producing an admira- ble effect. The piety that arises from sympathy is of a much higher order than that which emanates from a cold sense of duty. We have seldom met with moral reflections so happily introduced, or which leave a more pleasing impression on the mind, than those which occur in the following lines. They render us pious, and so far from resisting the hallowed emotion, we yield to it with pleasure, an effect en- tirely arising from our sympathy with the Maniac, or rather from our fears of that mental anarchy to which our nature is exposed. The effect, however, would have been stronger had the reflections been grafted on the story of some particular maniac. — Ed. To see the human mind o'erturn'd, — Its loftiest heights in ruin laid. And reason's lamp, which brightly burn'd, Obscur'd or quench'd in frenzy's shade; A sight like this may well awake Our grief, our fear, — for nature's sake. It is a painful, humbling thought To know the empire of the mind. With wit endow'd, with science fraught. Is fleeting as the passing wind ; And that the richest boon of Heaven To man is rather lent than given. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 77 To-day he sits on Reason's throne. And bids his subject powers obey ; Thought, memory, will, — all seem his own. Come at his bidding, list his sway ;-— To-morrow from dominion hurl'd. Madness pervades the mental world ! Yet think not, though forlorn and drear The Maniac's doom, — his lot the worst ; There is a suffering more severe Tliaii these sad records have rehears'd : 'Tis his — whose virtue struggles still In hopeless conflict with his will. There are before whose mental eye Truth has her chastest charms display'd, But gaudier phantoms, fluttering by. The erring mind have still betray'd ; 'Till gathering clouds, in awful might. Have quench'd each beam of heavenly light. There are whose mental ear has heard The " still small voice!" yet, prone to wrong. Have proudly, foolishly preferr'd The sophist's creed, the syren's song; — And staked, upon a desperate throw. Their hopes above, — their peace below. There are, in short, whose days present One constant scene of painful strife ; WTio hourly for themselves invent Fresh conflicts ; — 'till this dream of Life Has made their throbbing bosoms ache, And yet, alas ! they fear to wake. 78 BEAUTIES OF MODEHN LITERATURE. With theirs compared, the Maniac's doom, Though abject, must be counted blest ; His mind, though often veil'd in gloom. At times may know a vacant rest: — Not so while thought and conscience prey Upon the heart which slights their sway. O Thou ! whose cause they both espouse. In mercy bid such conflict cease ; Strengthen the wakening sinner's vows. And grant him penitence and peace : — Or else, in pity, o'er the soul The dark'ning clouds of madness roll London Magazine. SONNET J5y a Person who never could write one. This person could have written a sonnet had he re- collected these two lines in the Dunciad ; — " How here he sipped, how there he plundered snug. And sucked all o'er like an industrious bug." — Ed. Sonnets are things I never yet could write : And yet can give no reason. Why the deuce Should not I — such a genius — write a spruce. Neat, pretty, little, tender sonnet? Try't. Well : how shall I begin ? Hem ! now for a flight ! ' O silver-shafted maid ! bright Luna' — Truce, Good pen ! with this ; sure every scribbling wight Writes sonnets at the moon : I'll no excuse. — BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 79 Come, tiy another. Scritch-scratch — Poh ! you're making. Truly, a pretty piece of business of it ; scrawling, Blotting, and Oh's, and Ah's, and zig-zag drawling Over my beautiful gilt sheet. If the king Gave me his crown I could not do it. Tut ! man. Well, here goes! now! — A Dainme if I can. London Magazine. SONNET. THE RHINE VISITED. *= This sonnet is beautifully picturesque, but we must say that, for our own parts, we could never relish this prosaic, tame, monotonous, and creeping structure of verse. It may have charms, hoM'ever, for other ears, particularly those who find a charm in every thing that is in fashion and request. — Ed. 'Twas yet a dream ! — The golden light of day Shone with so tranquil loveliness around. O'er the blue waters, cliffs, and ruins grey. There reign'd a thoughtful stillness so profound, All seem'd a vision that might fade away, A fleeting spell that magic art had wound ; No sunlight, — 'twas the moon whose lustre lay. So sweet and silent on that fairy ground ! * Vide Wordswortli's " Yarrow Unvisited." 80 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. Then, if a breeze came floating through the vale, 'TvA'as but the inspiring odorous balm to bring From groves now blooming in the pride of spring ; And if a voice rose, 'twas the nightingale. Even ere the twilight hour, her cherish'd theme Of love reviving.— All was yet a dream ! Blackwood's Magazine. EVENING. This would be a delightful picture of an evening in autumn, were it unaccompanied by the moral reflection that reminds us of life's decline. This reflection gives, invariably, an appearance of delusion to all the bright realities of nature. — Ed. It is the stilly hour of eve. When all the blossoms seem to grieve ; And mourn in tears the day's decline. While on their petals dew-drops shine : Each setting sun, that fades away. But warns them of their own decay ; Alas ! when some few suns are o'er. They'll revel in the beam no more. But wither on their lowly bed. Like some lone maid, whose beauty's fled. The breeze that slumber'd through the day. Now whispering kisses every spray. In yonder fragrant jasmine bower. And fans to health each languid flower. BKAITTIES OF MODERNS' LITKRATURR. 81 The nightingale is warbling now Responses to the lover's vow. There's music in the grove, the brake, Nay, music in the sleeping lake ; For every zephyr's wanton sigh Fills the air with melody ; And every sound, At eve like this. That floats around. Breathes balmy bliss. European Magazine. I THINK ON THEE. In all Theodore's poetical effusions he seems to be an imitator of Moore. We have no comment to make, but that these lines are in the manner of Moore, and worthy of him. — Ed. When the fair sun his smile displays, And gilds the earth with gladd'ning rays : WTien Nature wakes, and sweet birds sing Their softest praises to the spring, I think on thee ! Or, standing 'midst the glitt'ring crowd, WTiere mirth and revelry are loud ; And hearts are lost in pleasure's maze. Or, 'midst the spell of beauty's gaze, I think on thee ! G 82 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. Or, when the pensive moon's pale beam Show'rs silver lustre o'er the stream ', And thoughts of former days arise Beneath the silent, starry skies, I think on thee I \^^en music bids her witching note From some lone harp in sadness float. And wakes the soul's soft pulses then To bliss, no tongue can tell again, I think on thee Or, in the gloom of midnight's hour. When all is hush'd, and fancy's power. Whose dictates we can ne'er controul. Sheds thoughts of terror o'er the soul, I think on thee ! That blessed thought, where'er I go, 'Midst bale or bliss, or joy or woe. Pursues me still, and soothes the smart That passing sorrow will impart. To think on thee \ Theodore. From the New European Magazine. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 83 THE CONTENTED LOVER. We have selected the following lines, not for their merit, but from their possessing an appearance of merit that does not belong to them, and, consequently, being a dangerous model for imitation. M^hat is it the poet describes ? Not passion, surely, though it affects to be so ; for it is evident, from his coldness of sentiment, that he is satiated with enjoyment. If he had, at any time, felt a passion for his fair one, it is obviously at an end, or, at least, has subsided into what he calls " qiiiet love." We apprehend, the ladies are no great admirers of " quiet" lovers ; and to talk of a heart formed for quiet love, is to talk of a something which, poetically con- sidered, appears to verge on the borders of indifference, though, philosophically considered, perhaps it may be allowed to possess some degree of warmth. In poetry, however, this warmth appears all coldness. The entire consists of a common-place thought, tediously spun out ; and, when properly examined, instead of paying the lady any compliment, he leads us to believe that she is only a very inoffensive harmless woman, but will endure no comparison with the brighter stars of her own sex. Comparaison n' est pas raison ; and no comparison is more absurd than that of comparing the object which we wish to praise with some other, confessedly supe- rior to it. Csesar preferred being the first man in a village to that of being the second in Rome; and a beautiful woman will at anytime prefer the same. — Ed. I ask not if the world enfold A fairer form than thine, Tresses more rich in flowing gold. And eyes of sweeter shine. g2 84 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. It is enough for me to know That thou art fair to sight, That thou hast locks of golden flow. And eyes of playful light. I ask not if there beat on earth A warmer heart than thine, A soul more rich in simple worth, A genius more divine. It is enough for me to prove. Thou hast a soul sincere, A heart well made for quiet love, A fancy rich and clear. Already by kind heav'n, so far Beyond my wishes blest, I would not, with presumptuous pray'r. Petition for the best. While thou art wise, and good, and fair. Thou art that best to me ; Nor would I, might I choose, prefer A lovelier still to thee. The Etonian. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITKRATURE. 85 HARK ! UPON THE PASSING GALE. This is not good enough to praise, nor bad enough to find fault with. The writer, no doubt, is an amiable young man, fit to please the ladies, and speak soft things. We insert it merely because there is nothing studied or affected in it. It is the language of a young man who occasionally mixes in the fashionable world, and can talk nonsense naturally, we mean, with a natural air, for he believes it to be the best sense in the world. The last stanza, however, is pure and unmixed nonsense, not conveying a particle of meaning. — Ed. Hark ! upon the passing gale Philomela's plaintive wail ! Feelings how serene and tender Does the lonely music render ! Lady, lift thy downcast eye, Leila, love, and tell me why ? Mark the tints of silver made By the moon on yon cascade ; How those fleeting tints impart Consolation to the heart ! Why can nature thus controul ; Leila, say, my secret soul ? 'Tis, that in the trembling notes, Love's pure spirit softly floats ; 'Tis, that in the moonbeam's ray, Love delights to hold his play j 'Tis, that in the world I see, Leila, nought but love and thee. The Eton r an. 86 KEAUTIES OK MODERN LITERATURE. YAMOYDEN. The following beautiful extracts are from an Ame- rican poem, called Yamoyden ; a tale of the wars of King Philip, by the late R. James Wallis Eastburn, M. A. and his friend. Mr. Eastburn, who was the original suggestor of it, died before its completion, which devolved on his friend, who, in several parts of the work, expresses, in the most impassioned and poe- tic language, the sorrows of a heart still feelingly alive to his memory. The passages we shall quote are taken from Dr. Drake's ^' Evenings in Autumn," a work of considerable merit, and written in a chaste and elegant style. A copy of the " Yamoyden" was sent to him from New York, by Mr. Eastburn's father, with a short account of his son's life. Of the young gentleman who assisted him, and completed the work after his death, we are only told that he was his friend at col- lege, that he was but twenty years old,* that he was considered the best scholar in New York, and that he was then entering upon the practice of the law, a cir- cumstance which the writer regrets, but hopes, at the same time, he will be induced to quit it and " follow his natural bent for polite literature." The first ex- tract we shall make is from i\ieproem to the Yamoyden, the production of this extraordinary young man. It is one of those passages in which he laments the loss of his departed associate, and is exquisitely beautiful and pathetic. Go forth, sad fragments of a broken strain. The last that either bard shall e'er assay ! The hand can ne'er attempt the chords again. That first awoke them in a happier day : Where sweeps the Ocean's breeze its desert way, * The leUer was written in 1821. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 87 His requiem murmurs o'er the moaning wave ; • And he who feebly now prolongs the lay, Shall ne'er the minstrel's hallowed honors crave ; His harp lies buried deep, in that untimely grave. Friend of my youth ! with thee began the love Of sacred song ! the wont, in golden dreams. Mid classic realms of splendors past to rove. O'er haunted steeps, and by immortal streams ; Where the blue wave, with sparkling bosom gleams Round shores, the mind's eternal heritage. For ever lit by memory's twilight beams ; Where the proud dead that live in storied page. Beckon, with awful port, to glory's earlier age. Towards the close of the proem, after a description of the aboriginal inhabitants of America, he reverts to this favorite part of his theme, in the folio wing beauti- ful stanzas. Friend of my youth ! with thee began my song, And o'er thy bier its latest accents die ; Misled in phantom-peopled realms too long, — Though not to me the Muse averse deny. Sometimes perhaps her visions to descry, — Such triftless pastime should with youth be o'er ; And he who loved with thee his notes to try. But for thy sake such idlesse would deplore, — And swears to meditate the thankless muse no more. But no ! the freshings of that past shall still Sacred to memory's holiest musings be ; When through the ideal fields of song, at will. He rov'd, and gathered chaplets wild with thee ; When, reckless of the world, alone and free, Like two proud barks, we kept our careless way. So HKAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. That sail by moonlight o'er the tranquil sea ; Their white apparel and their streamers gay Bright gleaming o'er the main beneath the ghostly ray :— And downward, far, reflected in the clear Blue depths, the eye their fairy tackling sees ; So buoyant, they do seem to float in air And silently obey the noiseless breeze ; — Till, all too soon, as the rude winds may please. They part for distant ports : Thee, gales benign Swift wafting, bore, by Heaven's all-wise decrees. To its own harbour sure, Avhere each divine And joyous vision, seen before in dreams, is thine. Tlie second Canto commences with the following description of Evening. Hail ! sober Evening ! thee the harassed brain And aching heart with fond orisons greet : The respite thou of toil ; the balm of pain ; To thoughtful mind the hour for musing meet: 'Tis then the sage, from forth his low retreat, The rolling universe around espies ; 'Tis then the bard may hold communion sweet. With lovely shapes, unkenned by grosser eyes. And quick perception comes of finer mysteries. The silent hour of bliss ! when in the west Her argent crescent lights the star of love : The spiritual hour ! when creatures blest Unseen return o'er former haunts to rove ; While sleep his shadowy mantle spreads above. Sleep, brother of forgetfulness and death. Round well-known couch with noiseless tread they rove. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 89 In tones of heavenly music comfort breathe. And tell what weal or bale shall chance the moon beneath . Let others hail the oriflamme of morn, O'er kindling hills unfurled with gorgeous dyes ! O mild, blue evening ! still to thee I turn. With holier thought, and with undazzled eyes ; — Where wealth and power with glare and splendour rise. Let fools and slaves disgustful incense burn ! Still memory's moonlight lustre let me prize ; The great, the good, whose course is o'er, discern. And, from their glorious pas t tim es, nightly lessons learn ! It would be difficult to find sublimity and imagina- tion more happily combined with the picturesque, than in the following Night scene. 'Tis night ; the loud wind through the forest wakes. With sound like ocean's roaring, wild and deep. And in yon gloomy pines strange music makes. Like symphonies unearthly, heard in sleep ; The sobbing waters dash their waves and weep ; Where moans the blast its dreary path along. The bending firs a mournful cadence keep ; And mountain rocks re-echo to the song. As fitful raves the storm, the hills and woods among. The first Canto of Yamoyden opens with a descrip- tion of Rhode Island, or Aquetnet, and the opposite shore of Pocasset. This description alone would be sufficient to redeem America from the Abbe Raynal's charge, that " it has not as yet produced a good poet, an able mathematician, or a man of genius in any in- dividual art or science;" at least it shews that the as- sertion no longer holds good. 90 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 1. The morning air was freshly breathing, The morning mists werfe wildly wreathing ; Day's earliest beams were kindling o'er The wood-crown'd hills and murmuring shore. 'Twas summer, and the forests threw Their chequered shapes of varying hue. In mingling, changeful shadows seen. O'er hill and bank, and headland green; Blithe birds were carolling on high Their matin music to the sky. As glanced their brilliant hues along. Filling the groves with life and song ; All innocent and wild and free Their sweet, ethereal minstrelsy. The dew drop sparkled on the spray. Danced on the wave the inconstant ray j And moody grief, with dark control. There only swayed the human soul ! 2. With equal swell above the flood. The forest-cinctured mountain stood ; Its eastward cliffs, a rampart wild, Rock above rock sublimely piled. What scenes of beauty meet his eye. The watchful sentinel on high ! With all its isles and inlets lay. Beneath the calm, majestic bay. Like molten gold all glittering spread. Where the clear sun his influence shed ; In wreathy-crisped brilliance shone. While laughed the radiance of the moon. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 91 Round rocks, that from the head -land far Their barriers reared with murmuring war, The chaffing stream, in eddying play. Fretted and dashed its foamy spray ; Along the shelving sands its swell With hushed and equal cadence fell ; And here, beneath the whispering grove, Ran rippling in the shadow'y cove. Thy thickets with their liveliest hue, Aquetnet green ! were fair to view;* Far curved the winding shore, where rose Pocasset's hills in calm repose ; Or where descending rivers gave Their tribute to the ampler wave. • Emerging frequent from the tide. Scarce noticed mid the waters wide. Lay flushed with morning's roseate smile. The gay bank of some little isle ; Where the lone heron plumed his wing, Or spread it as in act to spring. Yet paused, as if delight it gave To bend above the glorious wave. The following lines allude to a superstition cherished by the present race of Indians called Creeks. 1. They say that afar in the land of the west, l^Tiere the bright golden sun sinks in glory to rest. Mid fins where the hunter ne'er ventured to tread, A fair lake unruffled and sparkling is spread, * " Aqiienet (iieen, or Rhode islund, lia> always heen celebralni for Its piclurtsque beauty, and the sahibrity of ils cliinalr. Its surface is d Now around me, and beneath, All is slumber, still as death ; In my hand some pale, proud page. Of the mind's heroic age,' By divinest Virgil sung, On his Mantuan lilies flung ; Or the love-born poet, he Who pined by the Propontis' sea 5 Or that Sappho on her steep Wept, as love and madness weep ; Or th' Olympian eagle wing. Shook from Pindar's stormy string. Then, in fancy's wayward fit, I turn to Chaucer's mystic wit. 104 liEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. And sec in his enchanted glass. Pilgrim, nun, and warrior pass ; Rosy smiles beneath the hood. Steel-clad bosoms love subdued. Tonsured crowns, with roving eye. Thronging the rich pageantiy. Or the blacken'd tome unhasp. Shrined in many a brazen clasp. Where in kindred darkness lie Tales of hoary alchemy, Tomb'd in bold, bewilder'd rhyme, •Oracles of elder time ! How the mighty Sigel tamed The Spirit, while he raved and flamed ; . Round the guarded circle wan. Winging still with feebler ban. As within the crucible. Star-bright rose the golden spell. And symphonies of earth and air. Told the gem of gems was there ! Oft with curious vision mazed, I trace the monkish scroll, emblazed W^ith gorgeous hues and emblems high. Alike of church and chivalry. Kneeling saints, and prelates old, Monarchs, silk and ermine stol'd. Cup and crosier, helm and targe, Cluster'd on the dazzling marge ! Thus bewitch'd the moments sweep. Till the honey-pinion'd sleep. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 105 With his pleasant murmuring, Seems in my drowzed ear to ring j And round my old romantic nook I cast a superstitious look. As the woodbine's breezy train Waves across my rustic pane. And to Fancy's clouded gaze. Bluer winks the taper's blaze: Nurse- taught things, that stamp the brain. Though solemn Reason calls them vain ! Then, shook off my gliostly fear, I watch the beacon's flaming sphere ; Or with cool'd brow, and lifted eye, Traverse the blue Infinity ; Where, before he treads the tomb, Man beholds the W^orld to come ! Thus charm'd dizziness, unchid. Alights upon my drooping lid ; And with due, accustom'd prayer. Is closed the daily count of care j And the heart is lapp'd in dreams, Fann'd by fresh, rose- breathing steams, Tlirough the open casement sent ; Till Aurora's eastern tent Flames with checquer'd rose and gold. And the radiant clouds ai*e roll'd Before the solar chariot- yoke. Like a Persian army broke ; And their vanquish'd king, afar. Wanes and dies, — the twilight star ! 106 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. A LAPLAND SACRIFICE. I. ^TvvAs silence all — the glorious sun His daily race of life had run ; The moon her silver lamp had spread Refulgent over Hanga's head, And o'er each hut and lordly tower. Soft sleep had spread his balmy power : But when at morn, with giant stride, The sun repaired his golden tide. The rising winds impetuous bore Loud shouts along the winding shore. And Lapland hills return the sound. And dale and grot re-echo'd round ; In flinty splendor Hanga's rock Received with joy the mighty shock. And heaven itself, with arch serene, Gaz'd eager on the wondrous scene. IL No steeds in gorgeous trappings prance. Nor warrior points his feather'd lance. It is not war's new kindled sound That rushes o'er the groaning ground. No hatchet glittering in the way, No trumpet shrill, — no opening bay Of dogs impatient for the chase. Proclaims the panting courser's race. But Lapland's sons, and Lapland's dames. Stand gazing o'er the rising flames. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 107 And watch, with pious ken, the fire To heaven's blue-vaulted arch aspire ; For woe to him whose impious breast Shall scorn great Odin's hallow'd feast; Who shall not hear his country's call. To hail the mighty Festival ! III. The flames rise high — the trembling sod Scarce bears the hosts uniiumbcr'd tread. And hearts invoke the guardian God To watch above each suppliant's head : But still each breast with chiefest zeal Burns anxious for its country's weal. And calls the Arbiter of Fate To spread his wings o'er Lapland's State ; For each with patriotic eye. Can mark his son — his father — die ; And praise the spirit that flits away Amid the heart-drop's purple flood. And glory that he prized the day Of life below his country's good. Such Lapland's sons. Each bosom pray'd To Odin's ever-watchful shade. — Odin — who, living, ever saw Whole armies quail beneath his nod; Dying, became a nation's awe. His country's friend — his country's God. The Etonian. 108 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURB. THE ISLE OF FOUNTS. A71 Indian Tradition. Son of the Stranger ! would'st thou take O'er yon blue hills thy lonely way. To reach the still and shining Lake, Along whose banks the west winds play ; Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile, Oh seek thou not the Fountain Isle ! Lull but the mighty Serpent- King, Midst the great rocks, his old domain ; Ward but the Cougar's deadly spring — Thy step that Lake's green shore may gain ; And the bright Isle, when all is past. Shall vainly meet thy eye at last ! Yes ! there, with all its rainbow streams, Clear, as within thine arrow's flight, The Isle of Founts, the isle of dreams, Floats on the wave in golden light; And lovely will the shadows be Of groves whose fruit is not for thee ! And breathings from their sunny flowers. Which are not of the things that die, And singing voices from their bowers, Shall greet thee in the purple sky ; Soft voices, e'en like those that dwell Far in the green reed's hollow cell. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 109 Oh, hast thou heard the sounds that rise From the deep chambers of the earth ? The wild and wondrous melodies. To which the ancient rocks give birth ? Like that sweet song of hidden caves. Shall swell those Isle- notes o'er the waves. The emerald waves ! they take their hue And image from that summer-shore ; But wouldst thou launch thy light canoe. And wouldst thou ply thy rapid oar, Before thee, hadst thou morning's speed. The sun-bright land should still recede ! Yet on the breeze thou still shalt hear The music of its flowering shades. And ever shall the sound be near. Of founts that ripple through its glades ; The sound and sight, and flashing ray. Of joyous waters in their play. But woe to him who sees them burst With their bright spray-showers to the Lake ! Earth has no spring to quench the thirst Tliat semblance in his soul shall wake, For ever pouring through his dreams. The gush of those untasted streams ! Bright, bright in many a rocky urn. The waters of our deserts lie, Yet at their source his lips shall burn, Parch'd with the fever's agony ! From the blue mountains to the main. Our thousand floods may roll in vain. 110 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. E'en thus our hunters came of yore Back from their vain and weary quest. Had they not seen th'untrodden shore, — And could they midst our wilds find rest? The lightning of their glance was fled. They dwelt amongst us as the dead ! They lay beside our glancing rills. With visions in their darken'd eye ; Their joy was not amidst the hills. Where elk and deer before us fly; Their spears upon the cedar hung, Their javelins to the wind were flung. They bent no more the forest bow. They arm'd not with the warrior band, The moons waned o'er them dim and slow — They left us for the Spirits' land ! Beneath our pines yon greensward heap Shows where the restless found their sleep. Son of the Stranger ! if at eve Silence be midst us in thy place, . Yet go not where the mighty leave The strength of battle and of chase ! Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile. Oh ! seek thou not the Fountain Isle I F. H. New Monthly Magazine. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 1 1 1 ANACREON. The reader will exercise his own judgment in deter- mining the relative merits of the following translations, of one of Anacreon's Odes. For our parts, we think the best of them, compared to Moore's, is like Cooper's translation of the Iliad compared to Pope's. — Ed. I subjoin different translations of an ode of Ana- creon, because I consider it one of the few genuine relics of this poet, and a chef-d'oeuvre in the art of contrast. These verses would suggest to any painter the picture of an old man seated upon the turf, amidst myrtles and roses, rising under the weight of years by his buoyant gaiety, forgetting past sorrows, and dream- of pleasures to come. The contrasts in this single personage are further heightened by the figure of love, who, with the levity and curiosity of youth, hast- ens forward to pour out wine for the old man, and listens to his song. But to pourtray the still greater contrast which is produced by the solemnity of the old man's song, is beyond the painter's art. For, instead of the praises of pleasure, his theme is the shortness of life, and the long and inevitable sleep of death ; whence he deduces the conclusive argument, that we must hasten to enjoy the present hour. — It appears to me that translators have not sufficiently availed them- selves of these sudden transitions. The ancients were rather intemperate in their use of them ; the mo- derns are too cautious in avoiding them. COWLEY'S TRANSLATION. Underneath the myrtle shade. On flowery beds supinely laid, Odorous oils my head overflowing. And around it roses growing ; 112 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. What shall I do, but drink away The heat and troubles of the day ? In this more than kingly state. Love himself shall on me wait. Fill to me. Love ! nay, fill it up ! And mingled cast into the cup Wit and mirth, and noble fires. Vigorous health and gay desires : • The wheel of life no less doth stay. On a smooth than rugged way j Since it equally doth flee. Let the motion pleasant be ! MOORE'S TRANSLATION. Strew me a breathing bed of leaves, Where Lotus with the myrtle weaves, And while in Luxury's dream I sink. Let me the balm of Bacchus drink ! In this delicious hour of joy, Young Love shall be my goblet- boy ; Folding his little golden vest. With cinctures round his snowy breast. Himself shall hover by my side And minister the racy tide ! Swift as the wheels that rundling roll, Our life is hurrying to the goal : A scanty dust to feed the wind. Is all the trace 'twill leave behind. Why do we shed the roses bloom. Upon the cold, insensate tomb ? BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 113 Can flowery breeze or odour's breath, Affect the slumbering chill of death ? No, no ; I ask no balm to steep, With fragrant tears, my bed of sleep ; But now, while every pulse is glowing, Now let me breathe the balsam flowing , Now let the rose, with blush of fire. Upon my brow its scent expire j And bring the nymph with floating eye. Oh ! she will teach me how to die. • Yes, Cupid ! ere my soul retire To join the blest Elysian choir. With wine, and love, and blisses dear, I'll make my own Elysium here ! ELTON'S TRANSLATION. On beds of tender myrtle leaves. Where trefoil grass its carpet weaves, 'Tis the passion of my soul To quaff the health-provoking bowl . Love, his mantle thrown behind. With the flag of Nile confined. Shall near me, ministering, stand. The heady goblet in his hand. As the chariot-wheel rolls on, Life runs, and, as it runs, is gone : Soon to dust our bodies turn ; — Our bones are crumbled, in an urn, I 114 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. What avails tlic perfume thrown On cold earth, or on a stone? While I live, let odours flow : Thick round my brows let roses blow, Call the mistress of my heart : Love ! ere yet I hence depart, To join the dance of ghosts below, I would scatter every woe. AN ITALIAN TRANSLATION. Sovra i mirti e fra Ic rose, Sovra molli erbc odorose, Adagiato io voglio bcr. Deh t' annoda al collo il manto, Beir Amore ! e mentr' io canto, Corri a farmi da coppier. Ahi ! 1' umana vita fugge Come ruota che si strugge Pill che gira e sempre va. Son no eterno in poca ossa Su la polvcre c fra 1' ossa II mio corpo dormira . . . *^ Ache i balsami e i conforti $ Su le tombe ? Ache su' morti Tanto vino e tanti fior ; A me il nappo, c la corona Or ch' io spiro, or che risuona La mia lira e m' arde il cor. Vicni c meco ti trastulla ; Qui m' invita la fanciulla BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITEDATURE. 115 Che sa ridere e trescar. Ah, cupido ! e meglio innanzi Che fra morti igiiudo io danzi Dai" gli affanui ai venti e al mar. Fosculd's Essays on PetrarcJi. THE DEATH OF LEONIDAS. BY THE REV, GEORGE CROLY, A. M. The imagery in the following lines is highly poetic ; but the antiquated style in which it is written, and the spirit of imitation that characterizes its author, cannot be too much censuj'ed. The poet who cannot rise to fame by following the impulse of his own genius, will never become immortal by serving a servile appren- ticeship to the Muses. — Ed. It was the wild midnight — A storm was on the sky ; Tlie lightning gave its light, And the thunder echoed by. The torrent swept the glen, The ocean lashed the shore ; Then rose the Spartan men, To make their bed in gore \ Swift from the deluged ground Three hundred took the shield ; Then, in silence, gathered round The leader of the field! i2 116 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. He spoke no warrior word. He bade no trumpet blow ; But the signal thunder roar'd. And they rush'd upon the foe. The fiery element Shovv'd with one mighty gleam, Rampart, and flag, and tent. Like the spectres of a dream. All up the mountain's side. All down the woody vale, All by the rolling tide Waved the Persian banners pale. And foremost from the pass. Among the slumbering band, Sj)rang King Leonidas, Like the lightning's living brand. Then double darkness fell, And the forest ceased its moan : But there came a clash of steel. And a distant dying groan. Anon, a trumpet blew. And a fiery sheet burst high. That o'er the midnight threw, A blood-red canopy. A host glared on the hill ; A host glared by the bay ; But the Greeks rush'd onwards still. Like leopards in their play. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE, 117 The air was all a yell, And the earth was all a flame, Where the Spartan's bloody steel On the silken turbans came. And still the Greek rush'd on, Where the fiery torrent roll'd. Till, like a rising sun, Shone Xerxes' tent of gold. They found a royal feast, His midnight banquet there ; And the treasures of the East Lay beneath the Doric spear. Then sat to the repast The bravest of the brave ! That feast must be their last, That spot must be their grave. They pledged old Sparta's name In cups of Syrian wine. And the warriors deathless fame Was sung in strains divine. They took the rose- wreathed lyres From eunuch and from slave. And taught the languid wires The sounds that freedom gave. But now the morning star Crown 'd QLta's twilight brow ; And the Persian horn of Avar From the hills began to blow. 118 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE., Up rose the glorious rank. To Greece one cup pour'd high — ^ Then, hand in hand they drank " To immortality !" Fear on King Xerxes fell. When, like spirits from the tomb. With shout and trumpet knell. He saw the warriors come. But down sAVcpt all his power, With chariot and with charge ; Down pour'd the arrowy show'r. Till sank the Dorian's targe. They gather'd round the tent. With all their strength unstrung J To Greece one look they sent. Then on high their torches flung. Their king sat on the throne. His captains by his side, While the flame rush'd roaring on, And their Pasan loud replied ; Thus fought the Greek of old I Thus will he fight again ! Shall not the self-same mould Bring forth the self-same men ? BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 119 ONE MOMENT MORE. We are pleased with the following lines, but we should fear to recommend them to imitation. The warrior seems to have no great delicacy of feeling in declaring his passion so aljruptly to his companion ; and we feel disappointed by the poet totally concealing from us the tender scene that is supposed to have taken place between the lovers. We are only told abruptly, and rather unceremoniously, that " the struggle's pa^t." In this there is a want of tenderness. — Ed. One moment more, ere fast and far. The battle-field 1 press j That past, I grasp my cymetar, And glory's form caress. Those bright blue eyes, — how tearful now That face, — ah ! pale indeed ; — To clasp that hand, to kiss that brow, — One moment rein thy steed ! And then, 'midst other scenes, — with thec,- ril drown this bitter agony. Thou wilt not chide, for thou hast known, What 'tis such joy to hold ! One moment then, few may be flown Ere we in death lie cold ! The struggle's past ! — Her golden hair Waves on my helmet's crest; Her angel face, all pictur'd fair. Sleeps on a soldier's breast : And to this faithful heart 1 strain The form 1 ne'er may clasp again. 120 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. Now follow to that charging shout, 'Midst Honour's eager train ; There will be conquest, or be rout, When next it sounds again. For bridal crown, or burial wreath. Her faith is plcdg'd to me ; — On, then, to glory or to death, A grave or victory ! Then, as my heart, be firm my brand ] For Mary and my native land ! ISeiv Eiiropeaji Magazine. THE RECLUSE. We are not ourselves much disposed for the enjoy- ment of solitary pleasures, if pleasures we may call those modes of feeling in which others delight, but which we are incapable of feeling ourselves, and which, consequently, with regard to us, have no exis- tence. We should wish, however, to possess a por • tion of the piety which the Recluse breathes in the folloAving lines, and " that first led to the vows which" he " made ;" and no doubt some of our contempora- ries would be gainers by it also. — Ed. 'Twas not the wild fancy of youth's giddy day. Nor the pangs of fond hope once betray'd. Nor the frenzy of zealots, which oft leads astray. That first led to the vovvs Avhich I've made. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 121 Ohj no ! 'twas the choice, — the fond choice of my heart. In those cloisters to fix my abode, WTiere my soul may her transports of feeling impart, Link'd in love (yet in fear) with her God. At midnight's still hour, when all nature's at rest. When all motion, all life, make a pause. Save night's silver queen, who, from east to the west. In her course still proclaims a first cause. Ah ! then while the moon's sober beams chace the gloom. From my cell, be my heart not less pure. Till my soul, wing'd with hopes of choice blessings to come. Takes her flight, no more ills to endure. Ewopean Magazine, VERSES ON THE DEATH OF BLOOMFIELD, THE SUFFOLK POET. BY BERNARD BARTON. We were never admirers of Bloomfield's poetry. Simplicity seems to be its only virtue, but what is sim- plicity, in the absence of that fire and imagination without which there can be no genuine, poetic enthu- siasm, no poetry that either Gods or men can tolerate. Mediocribiis esse poetis, Non Dii, non homines, uon concessei e cohimnw. The following, however, is a beautiful tribute to his memory, admitting him to possess all the merit which Mr. Barton attributes to him. — Ed. 122 BEAUTIES OP MODERN LITERATURE. Thou shoiildst not to the grave descend Unmonrn'd, unhonour'd, or unsung ; Could harp of mine record thy end. For thee that nide harp should be strung, — And plaintive sounds as ever rung Should all its simple notes employ. Lamenting unto old and young. The Bard who sang The Farmer's Boy. Could Eastern Anglia boast a lyre Like that which gave thee modest fame, How justly might its every wire Thy minstrel honours loud proclaim : And many a stream of humble name. And village-green, and common wild — Should witness tears that knew not shame, • By Nature won for Nature's child. The merry Horkey's passing cup 1 Should pause — ^when that sad note was heard The Widow turn her hour-glass up. With tcndcrest feelings newly stirr'd ; And many a pity- waken'd word. And sighs that speak when language fails, Should prove thy simple strains preferr'd To prouder Poet's lofty tales. Circling the old oak table round. Whose moral worth thy measure owns. Heroes and heroines yet are found Like Abner and the Widow Jones j There Gilbert Meldrum's sterner tones Jn Virtue's cause are bold and free ; And e'en the patient sufFrer's moans. In pain and sorrow — plead for thee. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 123 Nor thus beneath the straw-roof'd cot, Alone — should thoughts of thee pervade Hearts which confess thee unforgot, On heathy hill, in grassy glade : In many a spot by thee array'd With hues of thought, with fancy's gleam, Thy memory lives ! — in Euston's shade. By Barnham Water's shadeless stream ! And long may guileless hearts preserve The memory of thy song, and thee : — While Nature's healthful feelings nerve The arm of labour toiling free ; While Childhood's innocence and glee With green Old Age enjoyment share ; — Richards and Kates shall tell of thee, Walters and Janes thy name declare. On themes like these, if yet there brcath'd A Doric Lay so sweet as thine, IMight artless flowers of verse be wreath'd Around thy modest name to twine : — And though nor lute nor lyre be mine To bid thy minstrel honours live. The praise my numbers can assigi], It still is soothing thus to give. There needs, in truth, no lofty lyre To yield thy ^luse her homage due ; The praise her loveliest charms inspire Should be as artless, simple too ; Her eulogist should keep in view Thy meek and unassuming worth. And inspiration should renew At springs which gave thine own its birth. 124 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. Those springs luay boast no classic name To win the smile of Icttcr'd pride, Yet is their noblest charm the same As that by Castaly supplied ; From Aganippe's crystal tide No brighter, fairer waves can start. Than Nature's quiet teachings guide From feeling's fountain o'er the heart. 'Tis to THE HEART Song's uoblcst power — Taste's purest precepts nmst refer ; And Nature s tact, not ylrfs proud dower. Remains its best interpreter : He who shall trust_, without demur. What his own better feelings teach, Although unlearn'd, shall seldom err, But to the hearts of others reach. It is not quaint and local terms Besprinkled o'er thy rustic lay, Though well such dialect confirms Its power unletter'd minds to sway. But 'tis not these that most display Thy sweetest charms, thy gentlest thrall, — Words, phrases, fashions pass away. But Truth and Nature live through all. These, these have given thy rustic lyre Its truest, and its tendcrest spell ; These amid Britain's tuneful choir Shall give thy honour'd name to dwell : And Avhcn Dcatli's shadowy curtain fell Upon thy toilsome earthly lot. With grateful joy thy heart might swell To feel that these reproach'd thee not. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LFTERATURE. 125 To feel that thou hadst not incun'cl The deep compunction, bitter shame, Of prostituting gifts conferr'd To strengthen Virtue's hallow'd claim. How much more glorious is the name, The humble name which thou hast won. Than — '" damn'd with everlasting fame," To be for fame itself undone. Better, and nobler was thy choice To be the Bard of simple swains,— In all their pleasures to rejoice. And soothe with sympathy their pains ; To paint with feeling in thy strains The themes their thoughts and tongues discuss. And be, though free from classic chains. Our own more chaste Theocritus. For this should Suffolk proudly own Her grateful, and her lasting debt ; — How much more proudly — had she known That pining care, and keen regret, — Thoughts which the fever'd spirits fret. And slow disease, — 'twas thine to bear ; — And, ere thy sun of life was set. Had won her Poet's grateful prayer. 'Tis NOW TOO LATE ! thc sccuc is clos'd, Thy conflicts borne, — thy trials o'er ; — And in the peaceful grave repos'd That frame which pain shall rack no more ; — Peace to the Bard whose artless store Was spread for Nature's lowliest child ; Whose song, well meet for peasant lore. Was lowly, simple, undefil'd. 126 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. Yet long may guileless hearts preserve The memory of thy verse and thee ; — While nature's healthful feelings nerve The arm of labour toiling free. While Suffolk Peasantry may be Such as thy sweetest talcs make known, — By cottage-hearth, l)y greenwood tree, Be Bloomfield call'd with pride their oum ! London 3fagazrne. ELEGIAC STANZAS, JVrltten ly an Officer lor.g resident in Irdia, vn his return to Enu^land. The following Stanzas are worthy of being com- mitted to memory by young and old. They paint life and the fallacy of human e>:})cctations in their true colours, remove the veil wliicli fancy had thrown over them, and shew how different are the mellowed and subdued feelings of declining age from the ardour ofyouth,andits vivid imaginings of undying bliss. — Ed. 1. T came, but they had pass'd away, — The fair in form, the pure in mind, — And, like a stricken deer, I stray, Where all are strange, and none are kind ; Kind to the worn, the wearied soul. That pants, that stz'uggles for repose: O that my stc})s had reached the goal Where earthly sighs ajid sorrows close. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 127 2. Years have past o'er me like a dream. That leaves no trace on memory's page : I look around me, and I seem Some relic of a former age. Alone, as in a stranger-clime. Where stranger-voices mock my ear ; I mark the lagging course of time. Without k wish, — a hope_, — a fear ! 3. Yet I had hopes, — and they have fled ; And I had fears were all too true : My wishes too ! — but they are dead. And what have I with life to do ! "Tis but to bear a weary load, I may not, dare not, cast away ; To sigh for one small, still, abode, ^Vllere I may sleep as sweet as they: — 4. As they, the loveliest of their race. Whose grassy tombs my sorrows steep ; Whose worth my soul delights to trace, — Whose very loss 'tis sweet to weep; To weep beneath the silent moon. With none to chide, to hear, to see: Life can bestow no dearer boon On one whom death disdains to free. 5. I leave a world that knows me not. To hold communion with the dead; And fancy consecrates the spot Where fancy's softest dreams are shed. 128 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. I see each shade, all silvery white, I hear each spirit's melting sigh ; I turn to clasp those forms of light. And the pale morning chills my eye. 6. But soon the last dim morn shall rise. The lamp of life burns feebly now, — When stranger-hands shall close my eyes, And smooth my cold and dewy brow. Unknown I lived, — so let me die; Nor stone, nor monumental cross. Tell where his nameless ashes lie. Who sigh'd for gold, and found it dross. London Magazine. THE LAST MAN. WRITTEN BY T. CAMPBELL. Our observations on the Last Man will be found in our preliminary view of Modern Literature. All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom. The Sun himself must die. Before this mortal shall assume Its immortality ! I saw a vision in my sleep. That gave my spirit strength to sweep Adown the gulf of Time ! I saw the last of Imman mould. That shall Creation's death behold As Adam saAV her prime ! BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 129 The Sun's eye had a sickly glare. The Earth with age was wan. The skeletons of nations were Around that lonely man ! Some had expir'd in fight — the brands Still rusted in their bony hands ; In plague and famine some ! Earth's cities had no sound nor tread; And ships were drifting with the dead To shores where all was dumb 1 Yet prophet like, that lone one stood. With dauntless words and high. That shook the sere leaves from the wood As if a storm pass'd by. Saying we are twins in death, proud Sun, Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 'Tis mercy bids thee go j For thou ten thousand, thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears. That shall no longer flow. What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill ; And arts that made fire, flood, and earth. The vassals of his will ; — Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, Thou dim, discrowned king of day : For all those trophied arts And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Heal'd not a passion or a pang Entail'd on human hearts. K 130 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. Go, let oblivion's curtain fall Upon the stage of men,. Nor with thy rising beams recall Life's tragedy again. Its piteous pageants bring not back Nor waken flesh, upon the rack Of pain anew to writhe ; Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd. Or moan in battle by the sword. Like grass beneath the scythe. E'en I am weary in yon skies To watch thy fading fire; Test of all sumless agonies. Behold not me expire. My lips that speak thy dirge of death — Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath To see thou shalt not boast. The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall, — The majesty of darkness shall Receive my parting ghost ! This spirit shall return to Him That gave its heavenly spark ; Yet think not. Sun, it shall be dim When thou thyself art dark ! No ! it shall live again, and shine In bliss unknown to beams of thine. By him recall'd to breath. Who captive led captivity, Who robb'd the grave of Victory, — And took the sting from Death BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 131 Go sun, while mercy holds me up On Nature's awfal waste To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief that man shall taste — Go, tell the night that hides thy face, Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race. On Earth's sepulchral clod, The dark'ning universe defy To quench his Immortality, Or shake his trust in God ! THE DAUGHTER OF MEATH. Whether the story of Melachlin's daughter be true or not, it is related in the History of Ireland almost lite- rally as the poet describes it here ; and it is not a little remarkable that stories founded in history, even when they are originally mere fictions of the itinerant bard, or historical Senachcc, are still more interesting to all readers, than those which the poet himself immediately invents. The fact is, that Ave are always more willing to sympathize with real thanwith imaginary chiiYa.cter8, and all historical characters, descriptions, and events, appear real to us, whether they be so or not. — Ed. TuRGEsius, the chief of a turbulent band. Came over from Norway and conquer'd the land ; Rebellion hath smooth'd the invader's career. The natives shrank from him, in hate, or in fearj While Erin's proud spii it seemed slumbering in peace, In secret it panted for death — or release. The tumult of battle was hush'd for a while, — Turgesius was monarch of Erin's fair isle j k2 132 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. The sword of the conqueror slept in its sheath, His triumphs were hotioiir'd with trophy and wreath; The princes of Erin despair'd of relief. And knelt to the lawless Norwegian Chief. His heart knew the charm of a woman's sweet smile. But ne'er, till he came to this beautiful Isle, Did he know with what mild, yet resistless controul. That sweet smile can conquer a conqueror's soul — And oh ! 'mid the sweet smiles most sure to enthrall, He soon met one — Avhom he thought sweetest of all. The brave prince of Meath had a daughter as fair As thepearls fromLochNeagh, which encircledher hair; The Tyrant beheld her, and cried, " She shall come To reign as the Queen of my gay mountain home ; Ere sunset to-morrow hath crimson'd the sea Melachlin, send forth thy young daughter to me!" Awhile paused the prince — too indignant to speak. There burn'd a reply in his glance — on his cheek; But quickly that hurried expression was gone. And calm was his manner, and mild was his tone. He answer'd — " Ere sunset has crimson'd the sea. To-morrow — I'll send my young daughter to thee ! *^ At sunset to-morrow your palace forsake. With twenty young chiefs seek the Isle on yon lake; And there, in its coolest and pleasantest shades. My child shall await you with twenty fair maids ; Yes — bright as my armour the damsels shall be. Whom I send witli my daughter, Turgesius, to thee." Turgesius return'd to his palace; — to him The sports of that evening seem'd languid and dim ; BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 133 And tediously long was the darkness of night. And slowly the morning unfolded its light; The sun seeni'd to linger — as if it would be An age ere his setting would crimson the sea. At length came the moment — the King and his band With rapture push'd off their light boat from the land; And bright shone the gems on their armour, and bright Flash'd their fast-moving oars in the setting sun's light; And long ere they landed, they saw through the trees. The maidens' white garments that waved in the breeze. More strong in the lake was the dash of each oar. More swift the gay vessel flew on to the shore. Its keel touch'd the pebbles — but over the surf The youths in a moment had leap'd to the turf. And rush'd to a shady retreat in the wood, Where many veil'd forms mute and motionless stood. " Say, which is Melachlin's fair daughter ? — away With these veils," cried Turgesius, " no longer delay; Resistance is vain, we will quickly behold Which robe hides the loveliest face in its fold ; These clouds shall no longer o'ershadoAV our bliss. Let each seize a veil — and my trophy be this!" He seized a white veil, and before him appear'd No fearful weak girl — but a foe to be fear'd ! A youth — ^who sprang forth from his female disguise. Like lightning that flashes from calm summer skies ; His hand grasp'd a weapon, and wild was the joy That shone in the glance of the Warrior-Boy. And under each white robe a youth was conccal'd. Who met his opponent with sword and with shield. 134 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. Tiirgcsius was slain — and the maidens were blest, Melachlin's fair daughter more blithe than the rest; And ere the last sunbeam had crimaon'd the sea. They hail'd the Boy- Victors — and Erin was free ! T. BIRTII-DAY VERSES. <; TRANSLATED FROM THE DUTCH OF TOLLENS. Without being super-critical, we can perceive only three faults in the following lines. They are called " Birth-day Verses/' though they do not contain even an allusion to such a day. They would more properly take their title from the last than from the first day of our existence. The second is, that they are spoken by a young man of twenty- five. Would not the solemn character of the observations which he makes, and the wishes in which he indulges, be better suited to him at forty- five ? The last line is prosaic and unworthy of all its predecessors. If the expression " in God's name," be poetry, we know not Avhat is prose. — Ed. Restless Time ! who ne'er abidest. Driver ! who life's chariot guidest O'er dark hills and vales that smile. Let me, let me breath awhile : Whither dost thou hasten ? say ! Driver ! but an instant stay. What a viewless distance thou. Still untircd, hast travell'd now; Never tarrying — rest unheeding — Over thorns and roses speeding. Through lone places unforeseen — Cliff and vast abyss between. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 135 Five and twenty years thou'st pass'd, Thundering on uneheck'd, and fast, And, though tempests burst around, Stall nor stay thy coursers found : I am dizzy — faint — oppress'd — Driver ! for one moment rest. Svi^ifter than the lightning flics All things vanish from my eyes ; All that rise so brightly o'er me Like pale mist- wreaths fade before me ; Every spot my glance can find Thy impatience leaves behind. Yesterday thy wild steeds flew O'er a spot where roses grew ; These I sought to gather blindly, But thou hurricd'st on unkindly: Fairest buds I trampled, lorn. And but grasp'd the naked thorn. Driver ! turn thee quickly back On the self- same beaten track; 1, of late, so much neglected, Lost^— forgot — contemn'd — rejected — That I still each scene would trace : — Slacken thy bewildering pace ! Dost thou thus impetuous drive, That thou sooner may'st arrive Safe within the hallow'd fences Where delight — where rest commences ? WTiere then dost thou respite crave ?— All makes answer : " At the Grave.'* 136 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. There, alas ! and only there, Through the storms that rend the air, Doth the rugged pathway bend : There all pains and sorrows end ; There repose's goal is won — Driver! ride, in God's name, on. V. D. London Magazine. A CHIT CHAT LETTER ON MEN AND OTHER THINGS. From Ned Ward, Juru a Fellow in London, to Anthony Wood, Jun. a Fellow at Oxford. We like the wit and rambling manner of Ned Ward. It is not, indeed, in the highest strain of poetry, but neither should it be; for " wit and judgment ever are at strife," and he who is too ambitious of excellence, must be willing to sacrifice a great portion of his wit. Swift was a great wit but not a great poet : Ned is not so witty, but his associations are more poetical. — Ed. Dear Anthony 1 thy old friend Ned Is at his desk, and not a-bed. 'Tis twelve o'clock, — a chilly night,"— My chamber fire is full and bright ; And my sinumbra, like the moon Upon a summer afternoon. BEAUTFES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 137 Smiles with a pale and cloudless ray In tiny mimicry of day, — Shedding thin light, assoil'd from gloom. O'er the horizon of my room. *Tis twelve o'clock, — the watchman goes Lulling the hour into a doze,— Leading Time hy, and through the nose ;— Wrapping his voice in his great coat. And 'plaining in a woollen note. Of weather cold, and falling showers. And cloudy skies (for ever ours !) And the decay of drowsy hours. In gusts of wind, down comes the rain, Swooping like peas upon the pane ; Loud is the music of the sashes, — And through the solitary plashes. Dull hackneys waddle from the play, A rugged eighteen-penny way, — The driver wriggling on his seat. With haybands round his head and feet. I, slipper footed, sit and send These nothings to my college friend. Who now perchance, — a counterpart To me in idleness of heart, — Leans at his books, — Math toasted knees Against the grate, — and hears the breeze Ransack the midnight college trees — Hears bell to bell, from tower to tower. Sullenly murmur " the damn'd hour ;"* • One of the old dramatists says, " If there is any thing damned on earth, it is twelve o'clock at night." Some of our modern Farce writers think the same. 138 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. And who (so drcaminf^ thought will be !) May now be Lilting jjciis with me. Oh Anthony^ — as Brutus said, — How idle 'tis to be well read ! What stults are men to screw their looks Into the musty wood of books, — To pass their days on dry dry-land. In studying things at second hand. Of what avail is learning ? — What ? But to unparadise man's lot ! A book, that apple worse than Eve's, Comes with its bitter fruit in leaves. And tempts each college Adamite To cut his learned tooth, and bite ! What is the scholar's gain, for fooling His time with a perpetual schooling ? For parting with all kith and kind ? — A dusty, cabineted mind, A forehead scored like pork, — a pair Of legs that stutter every where — Nerves, ever trembling, — as one sees Bell-wires at public offices, — A black dress browner than the berries. And fit but to befriend the cherries ; A gait that offers food for candour, — Two eyes for Mr. Alexander ;* And, to complete this thing inhuman. The devil a bit of love from woman. Up ! from thy books ! — come — come — be idle ! Up ! up !— as saith the sage of Rydal ! * The great oculist. Alexander the Great, in the e^es of men. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 139 The sage alone — no poor abuse ! By adding to the sage, the goose. Oh Tony ! Touy 1 if thou thus Strugglest with tragic yEschylus, If thus thine eye by night-light sees The page but of Euripides — The leaves of Plato, dry as those Whieh Autumn withers as she throws With her burnt hands on Isis' marge : — By heavens ! man, thou wilt ne'er enlarge Experience of the gallant world. Through which life, when 'tis life, is hurl'd ; A sense of breathing joy — a heart To take thine own and others' part. Leave books and learn a wiser plan. Read that strange work, thy fellow man ! Awake ! — thou art awake in eyes, — Well then, poor fallen spirit, arise ! Shake off this mustiness of nature. Book thyself in the Regulator — And hither come to brighter ease Than slugs in fret- work colleges ! Come to thy friend — oh ! come to all That makes this London magical ! Oxford I know is dear to thee, (As thou hast often said to me,) For all its aged imagery, — Its sainted carvings of old stone, — Its air so learned and so lone, — Its fretted windows and calm men. And antique wealth of press and pen. 140 BEAUTIES OP MODERN LITERATURE. Its pleasant Isis, sweet to see, 80 reeded and so watery ! Its bosky banks, enriching well With green, old Learning's citadel ! Yet, after all, 'tis solitude Of stone, of water, and of wood. Of leaf, of river, and of brook. Of trencher-hat, and gown, and book : — Oh ! hfe at Oxford is but death Allow'd a little, — little breath ! Come up to town ! — come up to me — I have a knife and fork for thee, — A little room, — a sofa bed, — A platter, and a crumb of bread, — I An easy chair, — a merry fire, — And say, — ^What more can heart desire ?— Beneath my stairs in snug repose. Immured in sawdust, lie two rows Of those dark gentrj', who inherit Long heads of cork, and hearts of spirit. They shall our moralizers be. And hold the glass to thee and me ! And we will see ourselves, as free as Ourselves should see, not others see us. The postman's knock each morn shall shake ' Thy married eyelids wide awake : And if a little bilious (bottles Will raise the bile in lazy throttles), A taste of soda shall unyellow The eye-light of my Oxford Fellow. Then for a breakfast, slow and sure, (A hasty one I can't endure,) BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 141 A chat on Britain's own Fizgerald, A lounge upon the Morning Herald, Where Mr. White the fancy courts In his divine Police Reports. —The cloth removed — the cups from the board (You know^ we now expel the tea-board) A turn or two about the room ; Or if perchance the morning's gloom Be prevalent — a game of draughts To exercise each other's crafts. We'll none of chess 1 — I hate the name Of that old Tabernacle game. That " intellectual amusement," Meant half for fun, and half for use meant. That odious tedious mode of slothing, O'er which you hang and play for nothing — That bitter patience-teazing food — That sober gambling for the good. We'll have a hock of ham for lunching — A pair of muffled gloves for punching — Two stfcks to play at single stick — To try if heads be thin or thick, A pair of foils for button pinking— All things in short that Iead//-om thinking ! Dinner shall come — and we will beat Two aldermen in what we eat : Not in our quantity, — but in The dainties slidcd o'er the chin — The little lamb, the bright slim bean. The thin wine in the glass of green, — The cherry tart full of the fi-uit. The Stilton, with the ale to suit. 142 BEAUTIES OP MODERN LITERATURE. And the cool crimson store that keeps Its steady flow, till either sleeps ! Brief, and yet pleasant be our slumber. For tinkling cups, just two in number. And steaming kettle, — singing long And whispcringly its vesper song. Shall call us to our sweet bohea. And freshen us o'er fragrant tea ! You shall tell talcs of sober college. And libel old and gowned knowledge ; And I'll beguile the Chinese hour With English stories, bright in flower ! What for the night ? — My friend inquires Two candles and the best of fires — A pleasant game of double dummy. With cards not new, nor yet too thumhy ; Spicy the points — a stirring bet Our spirit in the game to whet ; Then hey 1 for thrifty play, and care. Shuffling and sorting — here and there — The cautious spade led through the king, The snitFd revoke — the " No such thing,"- The powers of candid dummy scann'd. The playing up to the weak hand — The gentle heart — the thundering club — There, double, single, and the rub ! Put by the cards, my gallant Tony, (Let me conclude you've paid the monc y,) The supper's here, quick at the call had. Stale bread— old beer— a lobster— salad. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 143 These set the appetite a-raving, Yet satisfy the fiercest craving : — And let me tell you — ^when you've pass'd An idle day from first to last. And labour'd hard at doing little,—- The stomach hungereth after victual. 'Tis getting late :— Oh, that's no matter — Here ! stay — there's brandy — there's the water — The sugar, — mix, yourself ! — no doubt (Some drink " warm with," some " cold without," You'll take what best your taste delights : — But something must be had a-nights ! Then sitting, lad, behind the glass. While the late moments mutely pass, — WewhifFthe fragrant mild cigar. And mount upon the silver car Of its bright clouds, in spirits then, — And dream into ethereal men ! — -To bed — to bed — as Macbeth's wife Whisper'd in sleep : the springs of life Are gone down with the sunken day; — And, we must rest. — ^To bed — away ! Such be your in-door pastime : — can A tidier be contrived for man ? — If you ivould read ; — ^Ned Ward (not I) The wit ; — Tom Brown — Arbuthnot — lie In a recess mahogany ; — With Swift — -and Congrc^•c — Vanbrugh — all That made our language magical ! — The less of reading, though, the better — This is the burden of my letter. 144 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. No more — now write, and say you come, Change your book cell for a warm room ;-— With London spirits all about you. And one with you, — who's nought without you ! Ned Ward, Jun. p. S.— Should you not "stir at this," Til write More wonders on another night ;— And show you " London Town" outright ! London Magazine. " POURQUOI EXISTONS-NOUS ?"— voltaire. Doctors, though skill'd in Nature's laws, . Are posed to find a final cause Why first she breathed upon man's clay. And caird him forth to light and day. To man, they ask, can it be given. Poor worm, to glorify high Heaven ? Or can Omnipotence require The nasal praise of earthly quire ? And, more presumptuous still, they task The fountain of their breath, and ask. Can Providence its business further By wars and famine, lust, and murder, — In tears, in sighs, and blood delighting, The equal fruits of love and fighting ? Such are the knotty points and curious Which men, by too much love made furious. Turn on all sides, — as dogs an urchin, — Yet gain no truth by all their searching. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITKRATURK. 145 Their reasoning, like the tread- mill's round. Covers the same eternal ground. And all their steps repeated o'er Leave them — just where they were before. Some old man born to live alone. To fast and prey, to sigh and moan ; Others as sapiently suppose Life's end is seated on the nose,* All virtue and perfection stinting Within the narrow bounds of squinting. So Western sages make it vicious When men grow thinking and suspicious ; And deem it not a venial slip. To look beyond the nose's tip ; Some recommend a spiritual purging Of sin, by means of corporal scourging ; While some would spend our prime's best age In vagabonding pilgrimage. Of strange opinions there's no dearth — Some think our business here on earth Is to consume the night's still noon In closest conference with the moon ; To fly upon the visutil wing And pick up news from Saturn's ring. There are, and surely these have reason. Who life with mirth and pleasure season. There are who hold, most indiscreet, That life is one perpetual treat, A feast, a mere debauch, a revel. And in hard drinking seek their level. * Tbe Indian Fakeers sit for days with tluir eyes fixed on tlie point of their nose. 146 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. The wiser deem the task of man On earth is but himself to scan. To help a brother in distress. To the great goal of knowledge press, T' enlarge the narrow bounds of mind. New remedies for evils find. Firmly to guard his countiy's laws. And bravely bleed in Freedom's cause. When the great cause of life I'd know. To such philosophers I'd go : With them I'd laugh at all those blockheads. Who for opinion's sake would knock heads. And limit every Christian brain To hold, just what their own contain : With them I'd think, with them I'd doubt. And hope I'd made the puzzle out. But, since the Fates degree to twine, — '■ thy thread of life with mine. The sceptic sinks into the lover ; Nor care I longer to discover A better cause why man should be. Than simply to exist with thee. Reposing on thy faithful breast. All doubts for ever sink to rest. On thee I gaze, and the bless'd sight Proves that " whatever is, is right ;" While, pleased, I own, howe'er life tend. The means must sanctify the end. New Monthly Magazine. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LnERATURE, 14/ SONNET. WRITTEN ON SEEING A GREEK AT VAUXHALL. The author of the following beautiful lines has, if we mistake not, erred, in placing the scene at Vaux- hall, as the Greek could not have happened to enter the gardens by chance, and ; if he went purposely, his purpose must be to enjoy, like others, the festivities of the place. How, then, could he be said to " Gaze around" him " Avith unquiet eye. As if the music and light revelry Butstamp'd a deeper sadness in" his "mind?" Ed. Still he beheld nor mingled with the throiii^, But view'd them not with misanthropic hate. Childe Harold. Thy soul is o'er the waters — there is not For scenes like these a sympathy within; And thou dost turn thee from the restless din Of pleasure's many voices, to the spot Where all thy soul's affections are enshrined; And gaze around thee with unquiet eye. As if the music and light revelry But stamp a deeper sadness in thy mind. Thou think'st of those firm hearts and trusty hands Which throb and strive for liberty and right. And every tranquil vale and giant height. Which lies or rises in that "land of lands," Where the blue sky hangs smilingly above The rushing Hellespont, with looks of love. London Maga-Jne. l2 H8 KKAiniKS OF MODKRN LD'ERATURE. ALFAIMA'S LAMENT.* To the lovers of romantic poetry, the following lines will be acceptable. We shall only observe, that the measure seems neither suited to the dignity of the queen, nor to the magnitude of her misfortunes. — Ed. Is a dungeon fit home for a queen. Where the day-spring ne'er pours its light ! Must she, in Grenada once seen In the plendour and pomp of a diadem bright — In the purple of power and bathed in delight, Be captived, forsaken, forlorn, An object of pity and scorn ! Beauty, royalty, innocence, now Alas ! ye can serve me no more ; To the cruel Boabdil I bow. To the rage of a husband and tyrant, before Youth's time is gone by or the minutes are o'er. When life is all hope, and we think Rich draughts without limit to drink. Ye Zegris, perfidious anc base, Ye slaughter'd my friends unaware ; Not enough was the blood of their race. But with them ye dared pierce with the shaft of despair. With calumny's arrow a heart that must bear To be victim, in fullness of woes, To the virtue and worth of your foes. * See the history of Boabdil, the last Moorish king of Grenada. I BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 149 Ye say I'm not true to the bed Of a monster of jealousy; That love's flame for another I've fed ; But the love of my honour is first love with me ; And if in the depths of my soul there should be One blush of ill passion concealed. It shall ever be kept unreveal'd. O Grenada ! O my sad home ! Do there none of thy warriors remain ? Not one that to save me will come And enter the list for his queen, and regain Her freedom once more ? Are they all with the slain ? O Mu9a, haste thou to my aid. Lest I perish belied and betray'd ! My country, my parents, my throne. Is the morn, the sweet morn of my days, Not its hopes and its wishes alone. But its mantle of grandeur, its incense of praise. To be trod in the earth ? are its glorious rays To be shorn from my royalty's brow, Polluted and darken'd as now ? The wolf keeps his haunt and his lair, The eagle his mountain-nest free. The peasant his home, and in air The birds soar in sunshine and liberty — But the queen of Grenada is captive, and she Must in sorrow and misery lie, Or dare, 'reft of honour, to die. O Mahomet ! weak is thy power When innocence suffers in vain ; When evil the good may devour — 150 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. Whenthoucanstnot the strongfromoppressionrestrainl 1 abjure thy religion, I own not thy reign, I will worship a God I can trust. To avenge me the cause of the just. New Monthly Magazme. ALL Of Ali, vve hav e spoken in our " Preliminary View." CANTO I. It was as beautiful a night As ever shadow'd earth and sky, To make the dim remains of light More loved in that obscurity. The sea slept stirless on the shore. Save haply when the dripping oar Its purple robe with gems besprinkled. Round which the circling eddies wrinkled. Young Selim's bark across the flood Its lone and silent way pursued. Now broke across the widening gleam Of pale Phingari's ocean-beam, Then swiftly o'er the darkling blue. Awhile invisible, it flew. Save by the shining track that swept The wave, and still its lustre kept, E'en when the boat had rcach'd the strand. And grated on the sloping sand. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 151 You might have traced from Hermon's hill. As clearly as the sunny rill Through Emerald vales is seen to wind. The silvery coui-se that keel had taken ; — The line, though thin, was yet unshaken ; It seem'd a cable of moon-beams twin'd. Some spirit's fairy prow to bind. — Are those the whispers of Autumn's breeze. As it lures the ripe leaves from the citron trees, Or is it the hum of the clustering bees. Thus breaking the silence of midnight's hour With murmuring music from yon grey tower. Whence gleams through the lattice a flickering ray. Like the beacon expiring at break of day ? Oh ! no, 'tis the voice of empassioned greeting. Oft silenced awhile by their soft lips meeting. For Selim has gain'd the turret's height. By none but Zella's eye discern'd, And now e'en the night lamp is hid from the sight In the shadow of him for whom it burn'd. Though the way was far, and the crag was steep. And the bower of his beauty the fort of his foe. And his path lay o'er the faithless deep, Lest a footstep awaken the warder's sleep. Yet whither did love ever fear to go ? His foot is as fleet as the bounding roe, And wherever the mountain-goat can climb, Regardless of the abyss below, There seems an easy way for him. And lives there one of Moslem faith W^ho would not brave e'en more than death To win the warm yet pure caresses 152 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. Of those fond arms that now are thrown Around his neck, whose ebon tresses Flow darkly mingling with his own, While still his lip her smooth cheek presses In rapture but to lovers known ? Yes, theirs was joy, but not unmix'd With untold fears of coming sorrow. For on the dread eventful morrow The weal or woe of both was fix'd ; — Long ere another sun shall set, Tliat youthful warrior's meteor-sword Must with the bosom-stream be wet Of those high turrets hoary lord : — Yon battlements, whose friendly shade Hath ne'er his nightly haunt betray' d. When, bounding to his beauteous maid. Their walls were dear to Selim's eyes As the blest bounds of Paradise, — The first bright glimpse of opening heaven. That greets the Peri as he flies To his lost home, with sins forgiven, — His brand shall give to blackening flame^ While crackling beam, and crashing tower,. Shall echo through the blissful bower Where late his noiseless foot-step came To love away the moonlight hour. Yet ere that work of dread is over. The grave may close on Zella's lover. And quench the blaze of that full eye The maiden now is gazing at. As if the countless lights on high Were ail concentrated in that. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 153 But, Oh ! should Selim live no more, Thy pangs, fond girl, would soon be o'er : Thou ne'er couldst linger on an earth Where not a bosom beat to love thee. But still wouldst feel affection's dearth. If Eden's fruits bloom'd fresh above thee. Though thou wert nurs'd in war's red lap, And scared by death in every shape, Yet meekest eyes can easier brook On thousand mangled forms to look. Of strangers in the death- grasp writhing. Than one loved face no longer breathing. Though (like the bud of Zeilan's palm When first its veil is rent asunder. Trembling beneath the deep ton'd thunder. That shakes the forest with alarm. And with loud prophet voice is heard Greeting with omens dire the birth Of that proud flower too highly rear'd Above each neighbouring child of earth) Thy cradled slumbers had been broken By the harsh trumpet's deadly clangor, — Though none but words of hate and anger E'en to thine infant ears were spoken. Though thy first sighs inhaled the air, The tainted breath of reeking war, Though pent within a fortress gloom. Like the steel helmet's quivering plume, — Thy soul was not less mild than theirs. Who never felt the spicy grove Where from the din thy youth would rove, Who never felt the wildering cares. Alike extreme of hate or love. 154 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. And thou no more couldst bear to see The death-gloom shadowing o'er the face Of him whose love was all to thee, Than the calm ocean's printless glass Can view the fragments of the rock, That thunder down to its floating base, And lie unruffled by the shock. " Yes, Selim, yes ! — I know it now, — Thou comest to bid adieu for ever; That quivering lip and that swollen brow Too well proclaim that we must sever. How different were thy looks when first. At the soft noon of midnight's hour. The radiance of thy bright eye burst Through the dark bars of this lonely tower, And, while thy Zella trembling stood, A burning blush on her pale cheek threw As the red flame of India's wood Sheds over all its crimson hue. Oh ! better far hadst thou return'd. While my green kerchief still was waving, Soon as thy pinnace I discern'd On the wild tide these turrets laving. Far better hadst thou ta'en my warning. Than come and leave me now to weep Over a bright and transient dawning Of joy, like the light which gilds the steep. When the dull eye of drowsy morning Opes and again is closed in sleep." " My bird of beauty say not so ; I might have shunn'd the beacon-blaze. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 155 But when that lovely arm of snow, And silken streamer, met my gaze, Had this been Eblis' dread abode, My bark would still have onward row'd, — If more than death had yawn'd between My boat and yonder surf- worn strand. The black abyss I ne'er had seen. While o'er the waters thy white hand So sweetly waved to warn me thither. To me it seem'd — forgive the thought By passion's flattering frenzy wrought — With its light motion beckoning hither. And would'st thou joy if all the bliss That hour and many since have brought, — All the fond transport, too, of this. Had never been, or now were nought ? Oh ! Zella, Zella ! could I deem Thy spirit e'er can wish to wake From love's unearthly, trancing, dream. Why let the thirsty war-hound slake His raving lip in Selim's gore. Which ne'er shall glow when not for thee, — Since all that sweeten'd life is o'er. What terror has the grave for me ?" " Alia forbid ! — oh ! be not rash. Trust me, my heart and soul are thine. True as the thunder to the flash — But, hark! I hear the hurrying dash Of oars across the rippling brine ! A boat !" " I know the purple sign That decks their prow, — I must to mine. 156 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. Adieu, my life ! nay, cling not thus, — Thou know'st not half the peril near, What ruin would alight on us. If my fierce comrades found me here, T hus ink'd within thy dear embrace, At such a time, at such a place, — When all are arming for the fight, And waiting but the morrow's light, — Thus absent from the battle-call. And, — what to them were worse than all, — Within the foe's detested wall. By them detested, not by me, While yet its round encircles thee. But morning's dawn shall break the tie Of thy harsh kinsman's tyranny. For he, if Selim live, must die. Yet if no more that face I see, Oh ! may the memory of our love A fount of endless pleasure prove. As the rich burden of the bee Becomes more precious every hour Than when first gather'd from the flower." She wildly pressed his throbbing hand, And then his manly figure scann'd. Bidding a long and mute farewell To every feature's heavenly spell. Never are blossoms more sweet and rare Than just before their beauties die. And never are forms more lovely fair Than when they are about to fly. Young Zella's look, though sad and fix'd, ^ith admiration's fire was mix'd. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 157 While pondering on the noblest frame That ever Crishna lent to men. To light and feed a virgin's flame, And which was ne'er so prized as then. 'Twas such a motionless regard. As though she hoped if ne'er they met. But in those realms heaven's high reward. She then might recollect him yet. — As though she deem'd there was an art Each worshipp'd feature's form to trace; In lines that from her deathless heart Eternity could not efface. But then the dread of losing him, Her only hope of bliss below. Made even Paradise look dim. To think it must be purchas'd so. A thousand horrors darkly roU'd Across her brain, yet all untold. And the first words her white lips wrought Were but the sequel of her thought. *' Remember, I have none but thou To cherish and to love me now : My sire and she who gave me birth, Are slumbering in their bed of earth ; And he who owns this gloomy pile. Although I am his brother's child, Did never yet upon me smile. Or smooth mine ear with accents mild. Yes, though a stranger were the foe. Prepared to strike his mortal blow. His weal could ask no tear from me ; Then think how friendless I should be. 158 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. Were aught of ill to light on thee ! Not the wild rosemary that blows, Unheeded, on the desert sands, Where not a cooling rivulet flows, Unrear'd by any fostering hands, Is half so desolate and lorn As I, if thou wert from me torn. Bethink thee, then, amid the strife, 'Tis thine to guard a twofold life ; The hand that crops the javelin- blossom Will rend the verdant curls that bound it, And the wound that pierces thy manly bosom, Will reach the maiden Avho clings around it." One kiss — another ! — he was flown, And Zella look'd on heaven alone. While down the beetling crags he wound, And his light shallop's prow unbound ; Then like a spectre o'er the tide. So swift and pale, she saw him glide, And as the dash more faintly broke Upon her ear at every stroke. Her heart's pulsation died away. Till cold and motionless she lay. Nor ever raised her drooping head. Until the early dawn of day Brought sounds so clamorous and dread. As would have roused the trance of death, — The tymbaton's unceasing clang. The clash of zel, and boisterous breath Of trumpet through the castle rang, — The snorting steed, the rattling spear, The yell of pain, the shriek of fear. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 159 Yet these, which made a hell of earth Were notes of harmony and mirth, Compared with what she soon must hear. Oh ! who can tell the deafening din. That shakes the massy battlement. When leaguering foes come pouring in From chasms in every quarter rent ? — When stifling smoke and flame arise. What awful peals ascend the skies ! While mix'd with women's shriller tones. The wounded vent their dismal moans. Till agony's convulsive groans Are silenced only by the crash. Of topling towers that downward dash Their headlong weight of thundering stones Upon a thousand writhing bones, And which around a crimson splash, Where'er the crumbling ruins gape. Like that express'd from juicy grape. But where was she, that helpless maid. By hands unknown, unseen, convey'd ? She passed the battling ranks along. Nor heard the din, nor view'd the throng ; And, when her terror pass'd away. Within the hostile camp she lay, Stretch'd on a rough and martial bed, By blood-stain'd hands in fury spread, Of banners captured from the flying, And garments torn from dead and dying. Oh ! what her feelings were when lifting From that rude couch her deathly cheek Pale as the snow o'er the mountain drifting. 160 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. She saw the pillow she had prest With red and flowing moisture reek, The blood — perhaps of Sclim's breast ! Yet had she not the power to fly From the fell sight that met her eye. But lay with such chill horror there As the lost wretch is doom'd to bear Who, faint and bleeding on the plain. Whence, whence he ne'er shall rise again, Beholds around his festering form The carcase-loving vultures swarm. And every moment perch more near. Losing their oivn, doubling his fear ; And when the feeblest cry — a wave. The lightest of his hand — would save From the fell prey-bird's famish'd beak. Nor arm can stir, nor tongue can speak. She felt upon that gory couch Her soul beneath its horrors crouch. As sinks the heart of him who lies. Escaped from shipwreck, on the strancl,- Alas ! without the strength to rise ! — And sees the encroaching wave dash o'er A wider portion of the shore, And sweep from off the shelving sand The nearest pebbles to the brim. Knowing 'twill next return for him. Her wilder'd glance in vain was wandering Amongst the crowd that round her drew ; On every warlike visage pondering. It could not fix on one she knew. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 161 " Oh, Alia !" then she inly said, « Has the bolt fall'n on Sclim's head ?— " It has, it has, for well I know " His sire was chieftain of the foe ; " And he must sure have sunk in fight ; " Or never would this sickening sight " His loved one here disgust and fright j — " Oh ! long ere this his step had sped *^ To bear me from this place of dread, '' Which, dreary as it is, were heaven '* If his loved presence here was given.'* But no ; not yet was Selim's fate So dreadful as her terrors painted,— Nor yet his soul had past the gate That opes to the Moslem by sin untainted ; But half on heaven's bright way had flown To claim its high and star-gemm'd throne. When as it cast one fond glance back On her it left so sad and lone It straight resumed its earthward track. Yes — nought but she could render life Endurable, nay, wish'd for too. When crawling from the scene of strife. Bathed in the blood of those he slew, Mix'd with his own breast's crimson dew. He long lay lingering on the plain, Grasp'd in the demon-clutch of pain. His was a maddening agony That bids all thought, all reason, fly j And the strong consciousness of one Wlio breathed for him, and him alone, M 162 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. Whose life with his was intertwined. Had more of instinct than of mind j As midst the phantasms of a dream, View'd but by Fancy's wildering gleam, One Avell-known form is brightly spied. When all are dark and strange beside. Yet Selim dreamt not; — ne'er could sleep The suffering in oblivion steep. His rest unnumber'd blades had pierced. But miss'd his life, and well, in sooth. Was every thrust with gain amerced By the swift arm of that bold youth. But he was bent on nobler prey. And ever since the light of day First broke on shining lance and mail. Whose whiteness made the morn look pale ; There where the bickering blade flash'd quickest, Where the dark shower of death fell thickest. Onward he prest, with all the zeal A bridegroom's throbbing heart can feel. Rushing to clasp his passion's prize. The cause and soother of his sighs ; With such an ecstacy of wrath He flies to cross dread Osman's path. And, as each mouldering fragment falls. Fears lest the rent and rocking walls Entomb within a grave of stone Their lord, whose head he counts his own. He knew the bower where Zella pined Hung o'er the verge of the dark sea. And, were all else to flame consign'd. Would still unscorch'd, unshaken be. i • mm BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 163 Like one small nest on a topmost bough. When ev'ry branch is lopp'd below. So nought of fear for her loved sake Could then his thirst for vengeance slake, And on he burst through foeman's rank. And as the giant turrets sank. And roll'd across his bloody track Their crushing fragments huge and black ; He o'er the vain obstruction sprang. And through the domes his loud voice rang. On Osman's hated name still calling. Nor heard the ruins round him falling. That seem'd to wait but till he past. " Bismiilah ! he is found at last !" Yes, it was Osman with a brow That never look'd so stern as now ; ■* Though smear'd with many a gory soil. Unwearied with the murderous toil. It lower'd on Selim such a scowl As hungry wolves, who nightly prowl For human prey, with startling howl. Fix on the traveller straggling near. And kill him, basilisk-like, with fear. 'Twas such a dark and envious frown As Eblis wore, when looking down From Eden's wall, he saw the first Fair shajjc of man, and decm'd his own Then doubly hideous and accurst 5 For if a face in anger seen Can aught of beauty still retain. If the far w^cst with evening sheen Beams lovely through the darkening rain, m2 ''i >i» 164 BEAUTIES OF M015ERN LITERATURE. Young Selim's form was then as bright As e'er was giveli to mortal sight. He knew not that, nor paused to eye The visage of his enemy. But with a whirl which, like the blast ^- That on the desert's leafless way Holds over all its withering sway, — No force could turn aside, or stay One mortal stroke, the first, the last. He clove stern Osman's turban head. Who, ere he lay among the dead. From his broad belt a pistol drew. And dying half avenged his fall. For Selim's breast received the ball. And down he sank in darkness too, tfk'' And weltering on the cold earth lay Till the first swoon had pass'd away ; _^ Then faintly dragg'd his wounded formlP O'er mangled heaps yet moist and warm. And though 'neath many tottering arch The next tophaike's resounding breath May topple down on all beneath. He needs must bend his bleeding march ; Oft would he pause awhile to trace The features of some well-known face That late was flush'd with health s red hue. But now o'erspread with livid blue. Until that open spot he gain'd Where now his stiffening frame remain'd, In torment few have e'er sustain'd. But when the battle's din was o'er, — The craven shriek, the cannon's roar. And crash of columns; heard no morCj— - « BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 165 When all was still, save the faint cry ^ Of some crush'd wretch, who, ere he die. Wishing one look upon the sky. With strength which is not of the world, |b A burning mass aside has hurl'd. And breathes the freshening air again, — Alas ! 'tis but to breathe in pain !— A band of stragglers roving round The field, the bleeding Selim found. And, when they knew him for their chief. They bore him to the Pasha's tent. Who soon, to give his son relief, A leach of skill unrivall'd sent. And piteous 'twas to see him vent O'er his fond boy a father's grief. But ere had set the blushing sun. That this foul scene had look'd upon, One litter slowly took the road Towards many a gilded minaret Whereon his last efililgence glow'd. As on the green-sea wave he set; And ere the night breeze had blown o'er Full many a prostrate arch and tower That erst his liberal course had stay'd. Ere Osman fell by Selim's blade. That youth had reach'd his father's home. The conquering All's princely dome. Hark ! to the notes of the lute and the timbrel. And fairy footfall of Almas dancing, Wherelate was the clang of the trumpet and cymbal. And thundering tramp ofthewar-stced prancing I 166 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATUReJL Red flow the goblets in All's hall, And thelampshaiigingovcr arc woncrrous bright, But oh ! far redder and brighter than all Arc the lips that tlicy moisten^— the eyes that they light! # For won in the battle where thousands died, — Like gems npthrown by the stormy tide, — ^ With cheeks that youth and passion dyed Deep as the hue of recent slaughters. Saved for the victor's love or pride, Each blooming as the Bulbul's bride. Like ivory note-keys side by side, «■ Were ranged the fairest of Asia's daughters. ^Ir The splendid scene had awhile removed The grief of many for those they loved, — For kindred slain, and fortune lost, — For blighted hopes, and wishes crost. The crystal fountains were sparkling around. And leapt to the roof with exulting bound, — As if eager to bask in the silvery light Which broke from the latticed Avindow's height On the spice- lamp's luminous, fragrant, breath, — Then murmuring sank to their prisons beneath. Where in basins of marble they darkening lie. Still charming with coolness, though veil'd from the eye. The board with richest fruits was spread That glow beneath an eastern sky, — The sweet pomegranate's living red. And golden grapes whose hue may vie . With that bright orb which gave their dye : — It seem'd as if each ripening ray BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. l67 Of summer light which on them fell. Had lov'd the resting-place too well To wing again its heaven-ward way. But there, in rebel brightness stood, To emulate its parent-god. But glistens no eye with a tearful beam. Like the tremulous rays on the midnight wave? — Which, awaken'd from pleasure's unreal dream. Would willingly close in the sleep of the grave ? Oh ! Zella, though now thy beauteous face Beams out amidst the admiring throng. Though now with that unearthly grace Among the crowd thou mov'st along. The fairest in that festal place, Thy heart, alas ! is far away; ^^ And when the thoughts are bent to stray, ^ However drear and sad their way, Not all the charms of wine and song Can lure the wanderers back again. Such fascination is in pain : Or if, perchance, the tearful eye Light on some object passing by, Whate'er it be, it makes but food To nourish on that joyless mood ; For melancholy throws o'er all. Alike her black funereal pall, Bidding the darken'd soul despond 'Mid scenes as bright as eye e'er saw ; And as the bees of Trebizond From purest flowers can venom draw, So from the sparkling ore of joy Can grief extract a dark alloy. 168 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. And thus it proved^ when from behind The sacred Harem's curtain'd shades, A blooming group was seen to wind, '* Of Iran's and of Yemen's maids. Footing it on the marble floor With step so delicately light. As would not crush the tenderest flower That fears to ope its leaves till night. There was a likeness in that sight To scenes she oft had view'd before. When in her own dear native land Among the comates of her youth Through the gay valleys hand in hand. At eve she led the laughing band Over the green sward cool and smooth j And o*er her cheek that mindfulness. Midst all the mirth and revel here, Dash'd the salt spray of many a tear.— Could it from any eyelid less. That oped not on one object dear; — On one the heart could wish to bless, — On one it loved with soul sincere ? For Zella breathed a warmer sigh Than that for childhood's hour gone by. « Oh ! Selim, Selim ! where art thou ?" She inly cried, — ^* I'd rather gaze ** A moment on the dark eye now " That flashes from under thy manly brow, *' Than all these bright-lamps' dazzlingblaze 3- *^ I'd rather hear one angel tone '^ Of thy loved voice in desert lone, «• " Than all the notes now gaily ringing BEAUTIES OF MODERN I,1TERATURB. 169 " Through this high and princely hall, " Where pleasure seems to shine on all, ,'^: " From yonder virgin-minstrel singing." And yet it was a thrilling strain 4^ That Zella deem'd so lowly of. And might have lighten'd any pain But from the rankling wound of love, ^ Which, like the flower- fed insect, brings At once life's sweetness and its stings. And lovely was the maid who swept With magic touch the silver strings. Whilst all such deep attention kept As when the Soul of Music sings. Where none but angels whose eyes are glistening. Like their own high towers of gems are listening. From her own Yemen's happy vales The girl was borne by hostile sails ; *' Wild as the goats that clamber o'er Her native crags so steep and hoar. Yet graceful as the antelope That springs along the mountain slope. And here her dulcet minstrelsy. Which o'er her fellows raised her high Oft soothed her long captivity. She paused a moment, — till the tone Of that preluding strain had died Away, while rising murmurs own Tlie tuneful power on every side, — Then playfully otf the mask she drew With which Arabian maids are shaded. And blushingly disclosed to view A face where not a rose had faded j fiW 1/0 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. ^ And with a voice, whose cveiy note Was heavenly as the sounds that float On the charm'd hike of Chindara, # She warbled forth this joyous lay. " Ye children of pleasure, come hasten away, — Yet hoAV shall we roam o'er an Eden like ours, Where a charm at each footstep invites us to stay. And each moment is fraught with the pleasures of hours ? Here all sunny hearts one emotion pervades. It heaves the smooth bosom, and lights the dark eye, MTiile the whisper'd consent of the bashfullest maid. Like the airy lute's music is won by a sigh. "ll Then let spirit and senses one rapture employ, And melt in delight ere its ardour be cold. Till our souls arco'erwhelm'd by the fullness of joy. As the camel bends under his burden of gold." Applauding clamors rose around, And broke the tenor of her song | ^* The tapers trembled at the sound I That swept the vaulted roof along ; And e'en the lovely minstrel maid Was at the tumult half dismay'd. And round the group her large eye strays. In doubt whereon to fix its gaze. And seek a refuge from the fire. She saw her magic strains inspire In every face she look'd upon. Too boldly bent upon her own. # BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 171 She had not learnt the fearless look That beams on all as none were by, Nor could she yet, unblushing, brook The stare of wild impurity ; ■* But turn'd an instant to the sky Which through the casement still was bright, Then seem'd to mete the chamber's height, '■ NoWj restless, on the floor she bent, — With pictured forms and gold besprent, — That hurried glance, half-pleased, half- righted, Which now on Zella's wan check lighted. Her soul was pure as new-sprung fountain, And like the calm wave at the base (^f frowning rock on flowery mountain. Whose colours tint the watery glass. Her floating eye would instant catch Whate'er expression lit another. And all its own emotions smother. So kindly would she ever watch. And many a smile she oft repressed. In fear to mock the aching breast. By mirth in' hour unmeet exprest. And thus it was when, 'midst the gladness The time, her youth, and praise, inspired, She look'd upon a sister's sadness. For each ecstatic thought retired ; And when she struck the lyre again, 'Twas not in that exulting measure. But the sad softness of the strain Flow'd rather like the balm of pain, Than the rich maddening draught of pleasure^ Yet still it had the fading glow. t 172 ** BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. Like the last hue of Autumn-leaves, Ere ice-drops gem the sparkling eaves. In climes that Avear the veil of snow. European Magazine. SUPPOSED TO BE SUNG BY THE WIFE OF A JAPANESE, Who had accompanied the Russians to their Country, The following lines breathe more of imagination and romance than of real passion, which would seem not to be in good taste, as the heart, when it is deeply A sunk with grief and affliction, seldom chooses to wan- der into the wizard retreats of fancy. Here, however, it is justifiable, for when the original intensity of passion is subdued by long disappointment, and softened by some faint glimpses of distant hope, imagination re- sumes her sway, and soothes affliction by her faiiy imaefes. I look through the mist and I see thee not— Are thy home and thy love so soon forgot ? Sadly closes the weary day. And still thy bark is far away ! Vr The tents are ready, the mats are spread. The Saranna is plucked for thee. Alas ! what fate has thy baidare led So far from thy home and me ? Has my bower no longer charms for thee ? Where the purple jessamines twine Round the stately, spreading, cedar tree. And rest in its arms so tenderly. As I have reposed in thine. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 173 In vain have I found the Sea-parrot's* nest. And robbed of its plumes her glittering breast. The mantle with varied hues to adorn : — Thou hast left me watchful and forlorn. -# ^'. Dost thou roam amid the eagle flocks. Whose eirie is in the highest rocks ? ^^fj^ Dost thou seek the fox in its lurking place. Or hold the beaver in weary chase ? Dost thou search beneath the foaming tide, Wherein the precious red pearlsf hide ? Return ! the evening mist is chill. And sad is my watch on the lonely hill. Return ! — the night wind is cold on my brow, And my heart is as cold and desolate now. Alas ! I await thee, and hope in vain, I ne'er shall behold thy return again ! H She stood on the beach all the starless night. But nought appeared to her eager sight ; ^ No mark on its bosom the ocean bore. And he whom she loved returned no more : For the strangers came from the icy north, And their words and their gifts had won him forth. Their ship sailed far from his native bay And it bore him to other regions away. jVew 3Ionthly Magazine. * They ornament their parkis, mantles, and all their dresses, with the feathers of the Sea-parrot, Storm-finch, and Maiiridor. t Japan produces red pearls, which are not less esteemed than white. 174 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. TO THE LAST LEAP OF AUTUMN. We would recommend the " Last Leaf in Autumn," and the j^^ moral deduced from it, to the attention of youth, for the okl '# need hardly be reminded of either. From the moment man begins to descend the vale of life, his last day is always obtru- ding itself upon him — always lessenina; the enjoyment of the AifL moment, always mingling with his lighter reflections. " Uay and niglit Hoveiin;r, unseen, aioinur* his *' way, And mid" his "loneliest musings near." But giddy youth always feel as if this day were never to ar- rive, and it is to be regretted, that the picture generally given of it from the pulpit, is clothed in such terrific and fearful dra- pery, that, instead of dwelling upon it as we ought, we endea- vour to chace it entirely from our memory. There is a sober and pensive sweetness, a holy resignation, in the following allusion to it, that strips it of all its terrors, and makes it al- most a pleasure to think of it. Such is the witchery of true poetry. — Ed. Frail child of Spring, that summer's sun Hath warm'd, thy race is nearly run ; O'er thee with cutting chillness blow Brown Autumn's blasts, to lay thee low ; ^ On the storm's wing thou soon must fly. And hurl'd to earth, decaying lie. All one to thee, now, sun oi* shade, — 'Tis night, thy last damp bed is made ! Once thou could'st flout thy sire the Spring, hi pride of green youth glorying ; Once thy fresh verdure shaded me «, i. I'll "bide my time," though small my gain, A pensive verse, a mournful strain. And hang a dead leaf, by a thread, .-.', With shrivell'd heart and aching head ; A wither'd scroll, an useless thing, i That may not see another spring ; A tired, ragged scrap of life. With winds, storms, seasons, time, at strife ; Emblem'd in this poor leaf's decay. The remnant of a brighter day. Yes, I'll, too, *^bide my time" and dare The tempests of the wintry year j Resign'd, like thee, poor leaf, at last To fall forgot beneath the blast -, But fix'd to live my utmost date. And meet undauntedly my fate ! J. m BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 177 SKETCHES FROM NATURE. He was proceeding with his soliloquy, — ^' Yet a little while, — and then," — " and then, what?" conti- nued a plaintive, female voice, from behind the curtain, that concealed her slender, but lovely form. " Is that you, Marianne, my love !" cried the unfortunate in- valid, as he stretched forth his thin, white hand to wel- come her. His eyes gleamed with unearthly bright- ness, his cheek was suddenly flushed with the hectic of joy, and then gradually resumed its wonted pale- ness. " I had quite given you up ; — I was endea- vouring to persuade myself it was all for the best, — that I should never see you more, — that I must pass into eternity without receiving and imparting the fare- well blessing. I know you will forgive me, but I could not help thinking there was something like unkindness in this last neglect, but now" — and his eyes sparkled as he spake, ''but now my fears are vanished, — I feel as though a load were removed from my heart, — as if happiness was yet in store for us." — The tone of tender melancholy, in which he addressed her, had thrown her into tears, — as he pronounced the last sentence, her face was, for a moment, enlivened by a gleam of hope, and she involuntarily exclaimed, " Indeed !" He saw, he heard her not ; he was wrapt in his subject ; and Marianne's soft blue eyes were again suffused with tears, as he mournfully concluded, " but not here, — not in this world." N 178 BKAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE, He was a young man, apparently, about nineteen, he could not be more than twenty ; he had been in the army, abroad, — had undergone the perils and fatigues of a two years' campaign in the Peninsula ; he was advancing in his profession, had attained the rank of Lieutenant, when his health declined, his strength gave way, and he returned home with the prospect of reco- very. — He hoped, in the caresses of his parents, and the smiles of his Marianne, that his health would be quickly restored ; — but, from the hurry of travelling, ere he reached his home, decay had made rapid in- roads on his constitution. He arrived, and his parents knew not of it ; they thought him on the mountains of Spain, and he Avas on their threshold. — Overpow- ered by a multitude of feelings, scarce was he able to throw himself into their arms ; — they bore him to his bed, and he had been there ever since ; — it was only three days — to him it appeared an age. His sole en- quiries were for his Marianne, — they told him she was from home ; it evidently prayed upon his spirits, it was, therefore, deemed prudent to deceive him no longer. She had been nigh him, and he saw her not ; she had heard him, and he knew it not. This was their first interview since his return from the Penin- sula. Marianne endeavoured to cheer him ; she spoke of the war, of the hardships he had endured, of the laurels he had reaped, of the prospects before him, — she faltered as she spoke. Every effort to avert bis mind from gloomy forebodings was unavailing; he saw through the affectionate little artifice, smiled hi& thanks, and she was silent ; the tide of feeling was at its height, — one word would have told all, — she rose BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 170 to retire, — the big tear trembled in her eye, and ere she had closed the door, a convulsive sob burst on the eare of the wretched William, and thrilled through his frame with indescribable anguish. Oh ! but there is something in woman's sorrow that insensibly M^ns the heart, and engages the best feelings of our nature in its behalf. The lamb-like resignation, — the vain attempts to arrest the ebullition of feeling, — the reti- ring meekness, that seeks to withdraw itself from the public gaze, — the calm despair and the wild throb of agony alternate ; — all tend to shew nature loveliest iii her weaknesses. It was impossible to witness a scene like this, and not inwardly curse the fiendish monster, War. My soul took an expansive glance over the un- known myriads this single war has swept to an un- timely grave, on the tens of thousands it has beg- gared, and on the millions of hearts it has widowed. I ask myself ; — and will it not be asked in another world ? " Why should man raise his hand against his fellow ?" His faculties, his feelings, his pleasures, and even his pains, bespeak him formed, not for himself alone, but for society, and yet, in this particular, we run counter to nature, — ^we become lions, we gloiy in reeking the blood of thousands, and, like Indians o'er their sacrifices, turn midnight into day, with lighted windows, bonfires, loud huzzas : and thus deluded thousands, whilst they mourn a husband, father, bro- ther, shout for the general weal. When falls the con- queror many nations mourn, bards swell the song, and statuaries join to tell posterity his deathless fame; but sons of mercy die, and none regards, — they pass untrophied to the quiet grave, but not forgotten. Oh, n2 180 BEAUTIES OK MODERN LITERATURE. no ! their tribute is the bounding of the grateful heart, not shouts of multitudes mingled with dying groans, — not widows' tears, but widows' blessings, — not the bereaved orphans' anguished cry, but songs of grati- tude, — not dying soldiers' curses, but their prayers, — not the world's fear, but the M-orld's veneration." I know not how much longer my reverie might have continued, had not the return of Marianne called my attention to what was passing around me. There was a calmness in her aspect that might easily be accounted for ; the full heart had overflowed, — the tide of her feeling had subsided, and she was now sunk into a deep and settled melancholy. During her absence, her lover had fallen into a gentle slumber ; fearful of disturbing his repose, she approached his bed-side on tip-toe, and having seated herself beside him, watched his pale and haggard looks with the most fixed and solicitous regard. He appeared to be dreaming, his lips muttered inarticulate sounds, his face became flushed, his brow bedewed with perspiration, his whole frame seemed agitated ; — she was alarmed ; she took his hand, and gently pressing it, exclaimed, "William, my love !" He raised himself from his couch, and wildly casting his eyes around, cried, as he earnestly seized her arm, "What, Marianne! hei-e still? me- thought we were separated for ever, — death was the divider, — and I was just casting a last glance on this transitory world ; — 'twas all a dream, — but shadows of truth, — for I feel my strength rapidly wasting, and, ere long, shall be as though 1 ne'er had been. Yes, yes, I am verging towards eternity ; each moment "bears me, like the boiling billow, farther from the BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 181 shores of time ; — my eye is dim, — my hand is feeble, — my fi-aine is relaxed, — but my soul, my immortal soul, is still the same ; — it lives through all, and flourishes in the midst of ruin : — to feel all the agony of parting, and to experience, with more poignant anguish, the sad and solemn reflection, that when I am reposing beneath the grass-green turf, there will be one kind and gentle spirit left, lonely and deserted, who must weep unnoticed, sigh uncomforted ; — in the hour of gaiety, joyless ; in the silence of solitude, drear and desolate : these are the thoughts that rack, — these the reflections that harass me : — she who loved me living, must mourn unconsoled o'er my memory when dead. Then, Marianne," continued he, " then, when you shall call for me unanswered, save by the hollow echo from the graves, — then, if parted souls may visit those they love, mine shall hover round you, watch over your destiny, reverberate your sighs, weep over your sorrows, if dis- embodied spirits weep, and be the first to hail your trembling spirit when it crosses the threshold of eternity." Those, and those only, who have stood be- side the couch, where all that is lovely and valued lies struggling with the last enemy, can imagine the devo- tional fervour, the something more than mortal inte- rest, with which Marianne beheld him. " This," said she, taking a little miniature from her bosom, " this is all that vrill remain to remind me of a hapless lover, — ^but my heart needs no remembrance, — none, none j 'tis withering at the core, and, ere long " The door slowly opened, and an aged lady, whose face bespoke a heart ill at ease, gently approached to his bed-side, enquiring, with much anxiety, how he felt himself. Ho 182 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. smiled, and would have reached forth his hand, but the effort was too much, and the willing arm fell heavy and languid by his side, " I am better now," said he, '^ much better," although his voice and fea- tures evidently bespoke him much weaker. Marianne was in tears, and her deep and repeated sobs at length attracted his attention ; suddenly raising himself in his bed, he stretched forth his arms, as if to clasp her, and then sunk exhausted with his head upon her lap ; she raised him tenderly, and having carefully smoothed his pillow, gently placed his head upon it. " This is the boon, which, through many a wearisome night, I have earnestly prayed, — to have my pillow smoothed by the fostering hand of early affection, — and now I die in peace : let them lay me," continued he, with pathetic softness, "let them lay me beside the little yew tree, in the north corner of the church- yard ; there shall I sleep in quiet, as I would have lived, but war forbade. There, when all the human race have forgotten me, and not a trace remains to tell that I have been — there, shall the rising and the setting sun shed his sweetest beams. Oh, Marianne ! do you re- collect that happy evening when first we made vow of mutual love ? We stood upon that spot, and lightly talked of many a future year, — and then you sighed, but not as nowyousigh, in deep despair, — 'tis past, 'tis past — all past, and now no more of joy, — of love, — of life, — of hope, — remains for us, — but bitter dregs. No ! no ! 'tis misery all; — before, — behind, — around; — whither, oh 1 whither shall the wretched flee, and be at rest !" His breath seemed departing, his bosom heaved with spasmodic agitation, and it was some minutes before BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 183 he was able to assure them, with a voice weak and tremulous, that he was recovering. " Heaven is our home," said Marianne, " there shall we experience that plenitude of bliss we fondly, vainly looked for here." It was pleasing to hear the touching tones of her melodious voice, thus breathing the spirit of religious consolation at a moment like this : it had the desired effect, — he ceased repining, and whispered, (it was all he could,) " Yes, there is a Providence that rules and directs all for the best, and to his benevolent protec- tion I can safely commit the dearest and most valued of earthly beings:— the taper of life waxes short, — I am faint and feeble j give me your hand." He pressed it to his lips, then to his heart. " Mother, your's too." iHaving done the same with it, he placed them in each other, and said, " My mother — my Marianne ; one of you is about to be childless, the other loveless : be a daughter, be a mother, to each other ; and when all around is cheerless and unpromising, and 1 am no more, think of futurity, of me, of heaven — where we shall all be united to part no more. 1 have a blessing for you, but it will die in my " His voice fal- tered, his lip quivered, his eye rolled carelessly round: the last spark of life seemed nearly extinguished. After a short struggle he appeared more composed, but grew gradually weaker and weaker. The convulsive clasp of his hand was still the same ; Marianne pressed it to her lips, and looked upwards, as if, in spirit, to im- plore heaven to spare him yet a little. His fading eyes were fixed on her ; she again placed his hand to her lips, and wept: he looked his gratitude, and closed 184 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. his eyes, — opened them, closed them again,— heaved a gentle sigh, and then, with a faint smile on his coun- tenance, breathed his last. J. R. W. European Magazine. THE CLASSICS AND ROMANTICS. Since the celebrated dispute of Perrault, no subject has been discussed with more earnestness among the French literati, than that at present pending in respect to the relative merits of the classic and romantic schools, or, to be more explicit, respecting the supe- riority of the style of the age of Louis XIV. which has been denominated the " Classic School" on the one hand; and the followers of a free national style, un- shackled by the laws of the ancients, on the other, distinguished by the appellation of " Romantic." In this war of words, the combatants have called to their aid every auxiliary power, and it may not be ami^s to give the reader an idea of a contest which will, in the end, produce an important change, for the better, ip the literature of the nation. The despotism of the academy, once so perfect, had frequently of late years received severe shocks upon isolated questions, and the revolution inflicted upon its sovereignty, a blow which it was impossible for it to survive. Its use to the Bourbon government, as an instrument of influence on theliterature of the country, has now nearly become inert, not by the conversion of the academy to the BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 185 side of truth and nature, but by the rising of a rege- nerated school of literature, more in harmony with modern civilization and congenial to the national feeling, as is the case in England. The wild and extravagant school of Hardy, was supplanted by the genius of Corneille, modelled upon the ancients, and Racine eclipsed Corneille in the opinion of his countrymen, by the introduction of what may be called, the court style of Louis XIV. Every thing was confined to a servile imitation of the ancients, and so far had the style of Racine, backed by the influence of the court, established itself as the model for French tragic ^vriters to follow, that Corneille himself was thrown into the shade in the opinion of most, by the ultra refine- ments of his successor, or rather cotemporaiy. The French academy adopted the taste of the court. By so doing, it confined tragedy within very narrow limits, both as respected language and subject; for the natural, it substituted the artificial, excluded national subjects, almost wholly, for foreign, and hampered, by fastidi- ousness and caprice, the range of genius which, regu- lated by good sense, should ever be a " chartered libertine." But there were other reasons than those connected with literature which made the example of Racine, and what is since called in France, the " classic school,"* more agreeable to the Bourbon despotism * For fear it should be supposed that by the epithet '* Classic School," censure is meant upon the unrivalled legacies of the ancients, it is proper to observe, that the temi is here applied to their servile imitators only, who follow them in every thing, without regard to the 186 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. and its ministers. By confining the labours of litera- ture, particularly those of the theatre, as nearly as possible to an imitation of the ancients, national topics were avoided; and by this compression of subject, national allusions, which might sometimes be disa- greeable to an absolute government, were spared to the public ear. Tragedy exhibited Grecian and Roman manners, and Roman and Grecian heroes; and the French audience were diverted by scenes of antiquity, from contemplating those that had passed in their own country. The Richlieus and Mazarines, were men of powerful minds, wary, arbitraiy, and unprincipled; and it is not giving them credit for too much penetration, to suppose they saw the advantage of patronizing this school in preference to any new-fangled theory that might offer. They knew that the school of monks and colleges had preserved, from time immemorial, the wrecks of ancient learning, but that ancient learning had no way, in their hands, been an instrument of op- position to the powers that were. In patronizing a school of literature that merely imitated the ancients, they neither endangered power, nor tempted the pub- lic to the discussion of novel doctrines and a search after truth. It is curious that the " classic school," as it is termed, has every where been the child of arbi- difference of mythology, nationality, civilization, or language. These imitators can appreciate nothing since tlie downfall of the Roman empire. They would establish one literature for all nations, and depress the manly freedom of the minds of men of genins, to one insipid level. The beauties of the ancient writers are as mnch es- teemed by the disciples of the " romantic" as of the self-styled "^classic school," perhaps, better. I BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 18/ trary power; the " romantic" of patriotism and liberty. The French are beginning now to feel this, as the English and Germans have long felt before them. They have discovered that the test of literaiy merit is public opinion alone, and that a strict adhe- rence to rules cannot command success. The aca- demy, both at its commencement and long after- wards, by uniting in the interests of the crown, the majority of men of talents in the nation, held the lesser fry of writers in vassalage. The influence of the members of the academy had diminished, when the revolution commenced; yet, even then, few thought of disputing its former decrees, particularly in poetry — there Aristotle and the ancients remained absolute, though in other studies innovations had stolen in, after Locke had made a breach in the meta- physical dogmas of the stagyrite. Upon a proper consideration of the subject, it appears an absurdity, that forty individuals, most of whom were collected by court favour, should be chosen to fix the literature of a nation, lay down laws which future writers were not to infringe upon, and forbid the toleration of works which did not, in their view, possess particular requisites. To bridle genius in its multiform, was an attempt worthy the instruments and vanity of the Bourbon dynasty, calculated to do irretrievable injury to"] the cause it professed to support, and to be only of temporary duration. The academy was the tool of the minister, and literature was held back and enchained by the academy. This must ever be the case with literary associations under absolute governments. The cnipire 188 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. of literature is a republic, confesses no temporal au-» thority, and, if enslaved for a time, will ultimately emancipate itself, and bury, under the foundations of a more splendid edifice, the ruins of its former servi- tude. On the formation of the institute by Napo- leon, almost all the men of distinguished talent in France were included in its list ; though the em- peror was less eager to encourage literature than the sciences, it was not forgotten ; and when it did not include interference with the objects of his ambition, genius was allowed full play. Though little of note was added to French letters during his reign, the seeds of the present contest were no doubt then planted. Talma, under his sway, laboured to overcome the monotonous drone of French verse, and assimilating his acting as much as possible to the romantic school, infused into his delivery and action, a feeling of truth and nature unwitnessed on the French stage before. But it was necessary that the turgid style of the French drama should be altered, before further advances towards what is natural could be made. A feeling favourable to such a change has continued to increase. On the re- establishment of the Bourbons, the academy has been restored to the plenitude of its absurdities ; and Tres- sinois, a bigotted fanatic, destitute of every qualifi- cation, but backed by the interest of a priest-ridden government, has been elected one of the forty, to complete which, according to the old joke of Piron, a cypher was necessary ; while men who possessed the strongest claims, in respect to talent,. have been passed over. All has been calculated after the era of Louis XiV. ; the natural result has ensued. Authors of con- I BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 189 siderable talent, out of the academy, have begun to act for themselves, and have been encouraged by the nation ; they have set the academy at defiance, and have become members of a republic of letters, amena- ble only to the general opinion of the nation. That the French people have made advances in tolerating works which are no better than heresies in the view of their " classic school," the translation and rapid sale of translations of the German and English drama- tists clearly prove. The French are sensible, in the present day, when the court is no longer an object of admiration, that the academy is but the thing of power, that it is the servile tool of a government, opposed, in every possible way, to the spirit of the age. This will assist the advocates of the " romantic school" in their innovations, and accelerate the progress of the literary emancipation of France. The " classic school" of France took its tone from the court, while the bulk of the nation was in a state of slavery and ignorance. Paris furnished the tone to the provinces, and the court to Paris. In fashionable tragedy, none but particular words or phrases were to be tolerated, excluding half the language, as not pos- sessed of sufficient dignity. The Alexandrine was the legitimate measure 3 inflation was taken for gran- deur, and the pomp of the court was infused into the literature, to make it worthy of the grand Mmiarque and his courtezans. How Racine, the father of this still courtly style, and other writers, succeeded so well, under such ignoble restrictions as they burthened themselves with, can only be accounted for by the capacity of genius for surmounting extraordinary ob- 190 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. stacles.* Prior to this change, France had a sort of free cycle ; she had her Marots, lodelles, Bellays, Baifs, Rousards, &c. &c. Corneille had refined upon them to excess, but in the judgment of the court he did not go far enough : — thus every thing was forced into artificial greatness ; bloatedness of bulk seemed to be mistaken for sublimity, and the glitter of Palais Royal paste, for the pure splendour of the diamond. It was in this spirit that the land was covered with chateaus to imitate Versailles, and that the nobles ruined their fortunes, and ground their tenants in the dust, in imitation of the monarch's waste of the sub- ject's wealth. The rage for imitating the ancients, it may justly be contended, did little in the way of introduction of a pure taste. Stage costume was as barbarous as ever. Court wigs were worn in the seventeenth century by the Alexanders and Csesars of the buskin, perhaps to assimilate them to Louis le grand. Shepherds wore embroidered silks. Rivers appeared in red stock- ings, and Alpheus made love in a fair full-bottomed pe- riwig and a plume of feathers. The refinements of that age, either in poetry or the arts, did not arise from genuine taste, they were the accidental result of fashion. True taste can only prevail and influence a nation where the road to excellence is free, and a generous emulation incites all to strive in overtaking it. The freer spirit of latter times, the increase of * The editor (of the New Monthly Magazine) coincides in general with the sentiments expressed in this article ; but he deprecates giving his sanction to the manner in which the writer speaks of Racine, of whose exquisite genius the author of the article seems to be insensible. I I BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 191 knowledge, and the more general habit of thinking and reasoning, have created a standard of opinion and a juster taste upon all subjects ; and France will shortly be little inclined to submit to the dictation of the court of Louis XIV. on subjects of literature. With us pastorals are no longer written in garrets, or trea- tises on manners by collegians, who have never passed the bonds of alma mater. If our poets describe day- break they do not now write about Phoebus harnessing the steeds of day and driving away Nox. iEolus no longer makes our storms, Jupiter our thunder, or Neptune our earthquakes ; nor are we sickened to death, as we once were, by lectures on syllogism, and figure, terms, prepositions, and predicates — these slumber peacefully in our Universities. Our riddance of them we owe to what is called, by Madame de Stael, le genre romantigue, but which in reality means nothing more than the freedom of adopting what is reconcileable to reason instead of following custom. Monsieur lony has lately written a tragedy, called " Sylla," wholly regardless of precedent, and has met with the most flattering success. The French are eager for works that possess freedom, delineate passion, and create emotion by a close adherence to nature. In short, by an attachment to the " ro- mantic school;" not, however, the literature roman- tigue of Madame de Stael, born of chivalry and Christianity, but the simple adherence to the most perfect representation of nature. The Germans have long ago entered into definitions of this term, when in France it would have been heresy. But now, in the latter country, the combatants are engaged in the 192 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. same argument, and it is no longer heterodox to the people. While the classics follow the rules of Aris- totle and the court of Louis, holding that laws made by the ancients should regulate all future writers, cling closely to the unities, reject all words except those that have been legitimatized by precedent, severely cut up language, pare every thing to the core, and rob all imagery of its sharpness ; they forget that French literature must be identified in time, language, climate, and mythology, with the ancients, before the latter can be arranged side by side with it in the con- test. The romantics may attack the French classics and not fire a shot at the ancients through them ; the term classic may, therefore, be better understood, as it regards the present dispute, by opposing the style of Dryden's "Tyrannic Love" to the " Macbeth" of Shakspeare. The romantics insist that their opponents do not paint nature faithfully ; that their colours are gaudy, artificial, and forced ; that they reject expressions of natural feeling, and substitute the language of the writer instead of that which the supposed speaker naturally use in his circumstances. That they adhere to the unities under the idea of rendering the drama perfect to spectators, when impossible things must still remain in every tragedy, even when the unities are carefully preserved. That a tragedy in which the unity of time is preserved agreeably to rule, will be performed in two hours, though it would have occupied eighteen or twenty in reality. Thus, as great an in- fringement on the unity of time often takes place when the technical law is preserved, as a change of BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 193 scene for a hundred miles, between the acts, would be in the unity of place. Furthermore, no audience has ever been deceived into a belief of the truth of what was represented before it on the stage, — the veiy house and audience belie such a deception ; it only expects to see an approximation to truth, a semblance of what has occurred before. Here the romantics have far the better of the argument. The hero of the romantic tragedy is made to speak, in his situation, all he would naturally utter were he the character he represents. The " classic school" gives only the language of the poet, and sinks nature in high-flown phrase and lofty declamation — in the language of actors and not of those who feel. This arises from the modern classic school, being imitators only, for the ancients kept to the truth of nature as it exhibited itself in their day, and wrote agreeably to their customs. Can it be consistent, then, that modern tragedies should possess no national truth, but be merely the reflection of antiquity ! The romantics assert that truth and nature must be followed as close- ly as possible, and that where this is adhered to, the effect must be more perfect, nature being always the same. In describing her emotions in the passion of love, for example, that writer will be most correct whose delineations impress the greatest number of readers with their force and truth ; his judges will then comprehend the greatest number of hearers, be- cause all understand what is natural ; — ^while the poet of the classic school will call in Cupid to his aid, or substitute general phrases, and the fruits of closet learning, for the exquisite developement of the passion O 194 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. Uself, and a knowledge of its effects on the human heart. Venus and Cupid have no place in our mytho- logy; but the brief language and peculiarities of ancient feelings and habits, have endeavoured to introduce them into nations with opinions, temperaments, and a mythology totally different, cramping genius and tying down a writer to rules, a breach of which con- signed him to the anathemas of the court and the academy.* Hence the genius of France seemed in- capable of any new flight ; it was confined in a nar- row space, and no one dared venture into a region of literary novelty. It must be confessed, however, that before the revolution it required transcendant talents to break the thraldom in which genius was entrammelled. " La nation Fran9aise," says De Stael, " la plus cul- tivee des nations latines, penche vers la poesie classique, imite des Grecs et des Romains ; la nation Anglaise, la plus illustre des nations Germaniques, aime la poe- sie romantique et chevaleresque, et se glorifie des chefs-d'oeuvre qu'elle possede en ce genre." It may be justly doubted, however, whether this definition has much to do with the present question. The French may lean in style towards the present writers, but the advocates for disenthraldom from the classic school, neither want a literature romanesque or chevaleresqiie ; they demand a literature which, while the characters and incidents it describes may be modern and even national, or barbarous, or of remote eras, shall be penned with a fidelity adapted to the universal feeling * If the Frencli classic school has, in some instances, been more true to nature and feeling than in others, it is becanse it insensibly leaned, at the time, towards the principles of its opponents. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 195 of truth, in every age and nation. They wish to have tragedy, which shall be neither Greek nor Roman, but French ; in short, they desire pictures of nature on the model of Shakspeare, and not of something neither ancient nor modern, a Gallico-Latin medley, to pre- serve the servility of which, originality and nature must be sacrificed, — they want high- wrought passion and high feeling in simple language. The exclusive character of classic, as an imitation of the ancients, with which the French Academy dignifies such wri- tings, is clearly a misnomer. Those writers alone are the classics of a nation whose works, sanctioned by public approbation, have established a lasting fame. Shakspeare is as much an English classic, in the nati- onal sense of the term, as the author of Cato — Burns as Pope. Whether a writer be an imitator of the ancients, or be an original, if the labours of his genius obtain for him lasting celebrity, he is a classic of his country. But the French Academy, adopting the style of litera- - ture of countries in which the manners and language were different from their own, in place of fostering a literature adapted to the language and feeling of the people, claim to be exclusively classic, while a national literature must be the expression of society. Great things arise from small beginnings. He must be blind indeed, who does not perceive, in the present dispute, the dawn of a new era of literature in France. The writers who have come forth in battle ordei against the Academy (or Sorboiine, as it is now dub- bed) are men of zeal and genius ; they have the public on their side, and the Government and Academy against them, — this alone helps their cause. The mi- o2 196 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. nistry is an object of dislike, and its measures are re- garded with just suspicion by the people, The public taste on literary subjects might have been influenced before the revolution, but that time is gone by. Lite- rature is no longer the tool of the government, but belongs to the nation. The present contest will be decided in the theatres ; the structure of the drama will be changed, and the innovations first introduced will make the impression irresistible. MM. Stendhal (Beyle), Soumet, Ancelot, Nodier, &c. &c. have openly appeared as advocates of a free national literature, or on the side of the ^' Romantics :" they possess talent sufficient to keep the subject alive, and promote the abrogation of the decrees that have enchained French literature, if not by the peculiar ex-' cellence of their writings, yet by their novelty, and the interest they excite in the public mind. They are aided by translations from the English and German writers of the " Romantic school ;" and other writers will, no doubt, appear in France, who, giving the rein to ima- gination, and finding themselves free from their former bondage, will give their country a new and more ex- alted literature than it has ever yet known, Horace Walpole says of Lord Chatham, that he not only wished to see his country fi-ee, but also other na- tions, — a desire in which he probably stood alone among the statesmen of his country. Let us cherish a similar spirit in regard to French literature : let us rejoice to see it emancipated from the shackles of tyrants and courtiers, and follow the line of truth and nature. In its renovated state it may furnish an object of rivalry to our men of genius, instead of chilling them BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 197 with its affectation, fatiguing them with its monotony, and disgusting them with its pompous pretensions, notwithstanding brilliant pens have, heretofore, sub- mitted to its guidance. Y. J, New Monthly Magazine, SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. " Hac in re scilicet un& Multum dissimilcs." — Hor. In a visit which we paid some time ago to our wor- thy contributor, Morris Gowan, we became acquainted with two characters j upon whom, as they afford a perfect counterpart to Messrs. " Rhyme and Reason," recorded in No. I., we have bestowed the names of Sense and Sensibility. The Misses Lowrie, of whom we are about to give our readers an account, are both young, both hand- some, both amiable : nature made the outline of their characters the same j but education has varied the co- louring. Their mother died almost before they were able to profit by her example or instruction. Emily, the eldest of the sisters, was brought up under the immediate care of her father. He was a man of strong and temperate judgment, obliging to his neighbours, and affectionate to his children ; but certainly rather calculated to educate a son than a daughter. Emily 198 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. profited abundantly by his assistance, as far as moral duties, or literary accomplishments, were concerned ; but for all the lesser agr^mens of society, she had no- thing to depend upon but the suggestions of a kind heart, and a quiet temper. Matilda, on the contrary, spent her childhood in England, at the house of a rela- tion ; who, having imbibed her notions of propriety at a fashionable boarding-school, and made a love- match very early in life, was but ill prepared to regu- late a warm disposition, and check a natural tendency to romance. The consequence has been such as might have been expected. Matilda pities the distressed, and Emily relieves them : Matilda has more of the love of the neighbourhood, although Emily is more entitled to its gi'atitude ; Matilda is veiy agreeable, while Emily is very useful ; and two or three old ladies, who talk scandal over their tea, and murder grammar and reputations together, consider Matilda a practised heroine, and laugh at Emily as an inveterate blue. The incident which first introduced us to them, afforded us a tolerable specimen of their different qua- lities. While on a long pedestrian excursion with Morris, we met the two ladies returning from their walk ', and, as our companion had already the privi- leges of an intimate acquaintance, we became their companions. An accurate observer of human man- ners, knows well how decisively character is marked by trifles, and how wide is the distinction which is frequently made by circumstances apparently the most insignificant. In spite, therefore, of the similarity of age and per- son which existed between the two sisters, the first BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 199 glajice at their dress and manner, the first tones of their voice, were sufficient to distinguish the one from theother. It was whimsical enough to observe how every object which attracted our attention, exhibited their respective peculiarities in a new and entertaining light. Sense entered into a learned discussion on the nature of a plant, while Sensibility talked enchantingly of the fading of its flower. From Matilda we had a rapturous eulogium upon the surrounding scenery ; from Emily we derived much information relative to the state Of its cultivation. When we listened to the one, we seemed to be reading a novel, but a clever and an in- teresting novel; when we turned to the other, we found only real life, but real life in its most pleasant and engaging form. Suddenly one of those rapid storms, which so fre- quently disturb for a time the tranquillity of the finest weather, appeared to be gathering over our heads. Dark clouds were driven impetuously over the clear sky, and the refreshing coolness of the atmosphere was changed to a close and overpowering heat. Ma- tilda looked up in admiration, Emily in alarm : Sensi- bility was thinking of a landscape. Sense of a wet pelisse. " This would make a fine sketch," said the first; " We had better make haste," said the second. The tempest continued to grow gloomier above us : we passed a ruined hut, which had been long deserted by its inhabitants. " Suppose we take refuge here for the evening," said Morris ; " It would be very romantic," said Sensibility ; " It would be veiy disagreeable," said Sense: " How it would astonish my father!" siiid the Heroine ; " How it would alarm him !" said her 200 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. sister. As yet Ave had only observed distant prognps- tics of the tumult of the elements vi^hich was about to take place. Now, however, the collected fury of the storm burst at once upon us. A long and bright flash of lightning, together with a continued roll of thunder, accompanied one of the heaviest rains that we have ever experienced. " We shall have an adventure !" cried Matilda ; " We shall be very late," observed Emily. *' I wish we were a hundred miles off," said the one, hyperbolically ; " I wish we were at home," replied the other, soberly. " Alas ! we shall never get home to-night," sighed Sensibility, pathetically; " Possibly," returned Sense, drily. The fact was, that the eldest of the sisters was quite calm, although she was aware of all the inconveniences of their situation ; and the youngest was terribly frightened, although she began quoting poetry. There was another, and a brighter flash ; another, and a louder peal : Sense quickened her steps. Sensibility fainted. With some difficulty, and not without the aid of a conveyance from a neighbouring farmer, we brought our companions in safety to their father's door. We were, of course, received with an invitation to remain under shelter till the weather should clear up ; and, of course, we felt no reluctance to accept the offer. The house was veiy neatly furnished, principally by the care of the two young ladies, but here again the diversity of their manners shewed itself very plainly. The useful was produced by the labour of Emily ; the ornamental was the fruit of the leisure hours of Matilda, The skill of the former was visible in the sofa-covers and the curtains ; but the latter had decorated the card-racks, BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 201 and painted the'roses on the hand -screens. The neat little book-cases too, which contained their respective libraries, suggested a similar remark. In that of the eldest we obseiTed our native English worthies,— Milton, Shakspeare, Dryden, and Pope : on the shelves of her sister reclined the more effeminate Italians,— Tasso, Ariosto, Metastatic, and Petrarch. It was a delightful thing to see two amiable beings with tastes so widely different, yet with hearts so closely united. It is not to be wondered at, that we paid a longer visit than we had originally intended. The conversation turned, at one time, upon the late revolutions. Ma- tilda was a radical, and spoke most enthusiastically of tyranny and patriotism, the righteous cause, and the Holy Alliance. Emily, however, declined to join in commiseration or invective, and pleaded ignorance in excuse for her indifference. We fancy she was appre- hensive of blundering against a stranger's political prejudices. However that may be, Matilda sighed, and talked, and Emily smiled, and held her tongue. We believe the silence was the most judicious ; but we are sure the loquacity was most interesting. We took up the newspaper : there was an account of a young man, who had gone out alone to the rescue of a vessel in distress. The design had been utterly hope- less, and he had lost his life in the attempt. His fate stnick our fair friends in very different lights. ^' He ought to have had a better fortune," murmured Ma- tilda ; " or more prudence," added Emily. " He must have been a hero," said the first ; " or a madman," rejoined the second. The storm now died away in the distance, and a 202 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. tranquil evening approached. We set out on our re- turn. The old gentleman, with his daughters, accom- panied us a small part of the way. The scene around us was beautiful ; the birds and the cattle seemed to be rejoicing in the return of the sun-shine, and every herb and leaf had derived a brighter tint from the rain- drops with which it was spangled. As we lingered for a few moments by the side of a beautiful piece of water, the mellowed sound of a flute was conveyed to us, over its clear surface. The instrument was delight- fully played : at such an hour, on such a spot, and with such companions, we could have listened to it for ever. "That is George Mervyn," said Morris to us. " How very clever he is!" exclaimed Matilda; " How very imprudent," replied Emily. " He will catch all the hearts in the place," said Sensibility, with a sigh ; " He will catch nothing but a cold I" said Sense, with a shiver. We were reminded that our companions were running the same risk, and we parted from them reluctantly. After this introduction, we had many opportunities of seeing them. We became every day more pleased with the acquaintance, and looked forward with regret to the day on which Ave were finally to leave so en- chanting a neighbourhood. The preceding night, it was discovered that the cottage of Mr. Lowrie was on fire ; the destructive element was soon checked, and the alarm quieted, but it produced a circumstance which illustrated, in a very affecting manner, the ob- servations we have been making. As the family were greatly beloved by all who knew them, every one used the most affectionate exertions in their behalf. When BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE, 203 the father had been brought safely from the house, several hastened to the relief of the daughters. They were dressed, and were descending the stairs. The eldest, who had behaved with great presence of mind, was supporting her sister, who trembled with agita- tion. " Take care of this box," said Emily. It con- tained her father's title-deeds." " For heaven's sake, preserve this locket !" sobbed Matilda ; it was a mi- niature of her mother I We have left, but not forgotten you, beautiful crea- tures ! Often, when we are sitting in solitude, with a pen behind our ear, and a proof before our eyes, you come, hand in hand, to our imagination ! Some, in- deed, enjoin us to prefer esteem to fascination ; — to write Sonnets to Sensibility, and to look for a wife in Sense. These are the suggestions of Age, perhaps, of Prudence. We are young, and may be allowed to shake our heads as we listen ! P. C. The Etonian. CRITIQUE ON THE LUSIAD OF CAMOENS. This Critique we have extracted from Bouterwek's History of Spanish and Portuguese Literature, as the subjet cderives an interest from its having been made a subject of controversy among the critics, since Vol- taire attacked it. The present critique is rendered still more interesting by its originality, as the critic takes a view of the Lusiad different from that of all former commentators. The extract is so long, that 204 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. we cannot venture to lengthen it by any observations of our own, except that we agree, in general, with the views of the critic. There are, however, some posi- tions to which we should object, and which we may no- tice at some future time, in treating on Portuguese literature, as we cannot, without considerably exceeding the limits which we have proposed to each article, treat of it here. — Ed. " The Lusiad of Camoens is a heroic poem ; but so essentially different, in the unity of the epic plan, from all other heroic poems, that to avoid falling into the unwarrantable misconception, with which this noble work is eveiy where judged, except in Portugal and Spain, it is necessary, in considering it, to drop the ordinary rules of comparison, and to proceed on the general idea of epic poetry, unmodified by any prepos- session for known models.* Camoens struck out a totally new path in the region of epopoeia. The style of his poem is formed chiefly on the ancient models, and in his diction he has imitated the elegant stanzas * Even the apology for Camoens, which precedes Mickle's version of the Lusiad, defeats itself, for the English translator makes the Homeric epic his standard, and, in order to justify the Lusiad, miscon- strues the machinery of the Iliad. The remarks on the Lusiad, by Voltaire, in his Discours sur le Poeme Epique, are beneath criticism ; and the judgment pronounced on this poem, by Von Junk, in the Intro- duction to his Portuguese Grammar, evinces a total want of poetic taste. No one should attempt a translation of the Lusiad, who does not possess an intimate acquaintance with the Portuguese language and poetry for it is otherwise impossible to seize the spirit of Camoens. The English translation by Mickle is, hitherto, the only one in which it can be said that, at least, the elegant dignity of Camoens' style is represented. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 205 of the Italians ; but the epic idea of the work is entirely his own ; and the kind of composition which forms its ground-work, was something entirely new in poetic literature. The object of Camoens was to recount, in epic strains, with pure poetic feeling, the achievements of the heroes and great men of Portugal in general, not of any individual in particular, and consequently not of Vasco da Gama, who is commonly considered the hero of the Lusiad. He was not to be satisfied with drawing up a poetically- adorned official report, like the Spanish Azaucana, written at a latter period by Ercilla.* The title which Camoens gave to his heroic poem, sufficiently denotes the nature of its sub- ject. He named it Os Lusiadas, that is to say, the Lusitanians or Portuguese. This choice of a title was doubtless influenced by the prevailing taste of the Portu- guese poets of that age, to whom the common name of their nation appeared unpoetic, and also by the popular notion that the favourite term, Lusitania, was derived from a certain mythological hero, named Lnsus, who visited Portugal in company with Ulysses, and who, conjointly with the Greek warrior, built the city of Lisbon (Ulyssijjolis). Camoens is not to blame if the editors of his poem, wishing to reconcile its somewhat unusual title with the names of other epic composi- tions, have converted the Lusiadas into the Lusiada.f But the poem may be designated by its common title, • See the History of Spanish Literature, p. 408. + The edition with the Commentaries of Faria e Sousa, published in the year 1636, has the old title of Lusiadas ; but in the book itself, the poem is frequently styled the Lusiada. The latter title is, therefore, far from being a recent innovation. 206 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. without offence to its spirit or its subject. At the same time, it must not be forgotten, that the Lusiad is a totally different kind of heroic poem from all those epopees, whether successful or unsuccessful, in which a single hero is the mainspring of the whole epic ac- tion. According to the plan which Camoens sketched for his national poem, he was enabled to dispense with the choice of a hero, whose achievements should throw those of all others into the shade, and form the sole source of epic interest. To this plan, however, an es- sential beauty of epic poetry was necessarily sacrificed. The composition lost the advantage of those little groups of characters, which would otherwise have been assembled around the principal character. From its plan, therefore, the Lusiad cannot be accounted such a model of epic perfection as the Iliad, or even as the iEneid, in which that perfection, more faintly present- ed, is still to be found. But as a narrative poem, deri- ving a total effect from the union of its parts, the Lusiad may be considered an epic whole, and conse- quently, a poem entirely different in kind from the Metamorphoses of Ovid, or even the Divina Comedia of Dante. A poetic and epic grouping of all the great and most interesting events in the annals of his native country was what Camoens wished to accomplish. He, therefore, very happily selected the event which constitutes the most brilliant epoch in Portuguese history, as a common keeping point for all the different parts of his epic picture. The discovery of the passage to India by Vasco da Gama, was certainly not an heroic achievement, in the usual sense of the term, but in that age, when such adventures bordered on the BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 20/ incredible, it was a truly heroic enterprize. Camoens made this event the ground- work of the epic unity of his poem. But in that unity, Vasco da Gama is merely the spindle, round which the thread of the narrative is wound. His dignity, as the leader of his intrepid coun- trymen, renders him, in some degree, conspicuous ; but in other respects he is not distinguished, and the interest of the whole poem depends no more on him than on his companions. The heroes who shine with the greatest lustre in the Lusiad, even the constable, Nuna Alvarez Pereira, who is the most remarkable among them, are all introduced, in, what are styled, the episodes. But the Lusiad has in reality no episode, except the short stoiy of the giant Adamastor. Ano- ther portion of the work, which is commonly called an episode, is a poetic sketch from the ancient history of Portugal, and belongs as essentially to the whole as any of the other principal parts of the great picture. It even occupies near one half of the poem. It is precisely on these parts, called episodes, that the epic grandeur of the whole composition rests, and in them the finest passages in the poem occur. Unless the idea of the plan of the Lusiad be rightly seized, the composition will appear in a false light on whatever side it may be viewed. The Lusiad, designated as a whole, may, therefore, be termed an epic national picture of Portuguese glory, something greater than a mere gallery of poetic stories, but less than a perfect epopee. The principles of the composition are exceedingly simple ; but, that they may not be misconceived, it is necessary to understand the epic machinery of the poem, as the poet himself 208 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. would have it understood, and as it was understood in the spirit of the age by his cotemporaries. Camoens was too truly a poet to exclude from his Lusiad the charm of the marvellous, and the co-operation of su- pernatural beings. But he was either accidentally less happy than Tasso in the choice of epic machinery, for a modern heroic poem, or he purposely preferred the Greek mythology as the most beautiful. Nothing prevented him from assigning the necessary parts in his machinery to the good and bad agents of popular Christian belief; and the subject seems particularly calculated for such an application, as the diffusion of Christianity, by the discoveries and conquests of the Portuguese, is, in the poem itself, made the highest merit of the nation. Camoens, however, appears to be of opinion, that an epic poem, such as he had plan- ned, should be adorned with learning, and particularly mythological learning ; and besides, by the introduc- tion of the Greek deities, the whole composition seemed to be raised to the true poetic region of the ancient epopoeia Thus there remains the singular incongruity of the Greek mythology, and the achievements of the Portuguese Christians, who, on no occasion, neglect to act and discourse in the true spirit of their faith. But, in the mind of Camoens, this incongruity was removed by the opinion, which he shared in common with his contemporaries, that the machinery in epopoeia was merely a poetic figure, and that all the heathen deities might be introduced as allegorical characters, in mo- dern narrative poetry, by the same privilege which enables Cupid to keep his place in the lyric composi- tions of Christian poets, without any theological or I BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 209 literary offence. Tims Camoens allegorically intro- duced Olympus into his poem. The erroneous opi- nion which misled the poet, does not, it is true, redeem this defect in the poem, though it contributes to cast a veil over it. But if the reader admits the opinion, which he must do in order to understand the poet in his own sense, then will even the offence against taste be found to vanish imperceptibly. This compromise once made, the whole poem becomes not only singu- lar, but even wonderful in its singularity, particularly where Vasco da Gama and his companions sport with Thetis and her nymphs allegorically, and yet, in good earnest; and the historical material begins, as if sud- denly enabled by magic, to shine in the full light of poetry. The Lusiad assumes a mythological character im- mediately after the introductory stanzas. Vasco da Gama, with his squadron, has already doubled the Cape of Good Hope ; and steering along the eastern coast of Africa, he approaches the Indian Seas. The gods are then assembled on Olympus to deliberate on the fate of India. Venus and Bacchus form two par- ties ; the former in favour of the Portuguese, and the latter against them. In this application of the allegory, the poet, doubtless, gratified his patriotic pride ; for Portugal was, even by the Spaniards, styled the native land of love ; and temperance in the use of wine was a national virtue of the Portuguese. In order to give a still higher import to this allegory, Venus is made to consider the Portuguese as modern Romans, and to entertain for them the same regard which slae formerly extended to the people of ancient Rome : but Bac- P 210 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE* chus recollects his expedition in India, and is indig- nant at the Portuguese, whose enterprize threatens to eclipse his glory. Among the gods who declare them- selves friendly to the Portuguese, Mars is particularly conspicuous. Meanwhile Vasco da Gama's fleet touches at several places on the eastern coast of Africa. Vasco endeavours to enter into amicable relations with the King of Mombaza ; but Bacchus transforms himself into a Mahometan priest, and, by treacherous tokens of friendship, plans the destruction of the Portuguese, in Mombaza. Venus, however, discovers the treachery in time to prevent it. She appeals to Jupiter. Her prayers for the Portuguese fleet are heard. Mercury warns Vasco da Gama in a dream, and Vasco escapes the danger that is prepared for him. He sails onward to the African kingdom of Melinda. The king of Melinda, though also a Mahometan, gives a hospitable reception to the Portuguese, whose courage and na- tional glory excite his warmest admiration. Here the poet connects the thread of those narratives which have been erroneously regarded as the episodes of the Lusiad. At the request of the king of Melinda, Vasco da Gama relates the most interesting incidents of Por- tuguese history, and closes his patriotic narrative with a description of his own voyage up to the period of his arrival at Melinda. The king of Melinda now becomes the enthusiastic friend of the Portuguese : and here the second half of the poem commences. Vasco da Gama proceeds on his voyage with the pilots^; who are to shew him the nearest course to India. Bac- chus, however, descends to the bottom of the sea^ nd implores the gods and goddesses of Neptune's king- BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 211 dom to assist him in destroying the Portuguese fleet before it shall reach India. A dreadful storm arises, and seems to promise the accomplishment of Bac- chus's wish ; but at the critical moment, Venus again rescues her favourites, and the Portuguese arrive in safety at the kingdom of Calicut, on the coast of Malabar. Vasco da Gama is at first very favourably received by the Zamorim, or Prince of Calicut. This opportunity is seized by Camoens to supply a sort of supplement to the poetic narrative of the events of Portuguese history ; for he makes Paulo da Gama, the brother of the admiral, explain to the Catual, or In- dian Governor of Calicut, the historical tapestries and pictures on board the Portuguese ships. At length Bacchus, who is not yet weary of playing the part of Mussulman for the annoyance of the Portuguese, stirs up such a misunderstanding between Vasco da Gama and Zamorim of Calicut, that the projected commer- cial treaty between Calicut and Portugal is set aside, and the Portuguese fleet is once more exposed to the risk of destruction. But the grand object of the voyage is now attained, and Vasco da Gama weighs anchor, and directs his course back to Europe. Dur- ing the homeward voyage, Venus prepares for the enterprising navigators a brilliant festival, on an enchanted island in the great ocean, where goddesses and sea nymphs, wounded by Cupid's darts, become enamoured of the Portuguese, who land on the island. The voluptuous magic festival, at which the goddess Thetis, or Thetys, (for both names denote the same deity,) becomes the bride of Vasco da Gama, affords the poet the last opportunity of completing his pic- p2 212 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. ture of Portuguese national glory; for a prophetic nymph relates the most conspicuous achievements of the Portuguese commander in India. And Thetis, tak- ing Vasco to the top of a high mountain, explains to him, on a magic globe, the geographical descriptions of the different countries. All the objections which may be urged against an epic composition of this kind, are so very obvious tliat, from a mere sketch of the contents of the Lusiad, it is impossible to conceive how a poet, even of the most uncommon talents, could form a grand and beautiful whole on a plan at once so trivial and so irregular. But the plan of the composition of this poem resem- bles a scaffolding, which is surrounded and concealed by the beauty and grandeur of the building, and which serves to connect the parts in a singular kind of union, yet has no share in producing the unity of the effect. The unity of effect, and consequently of the poem, rests wholly and solely on the execution of the plan, out of which only a poet like Camoens could have created a Lusiad. But the historian of Portuguese poetry, who is not inclined to concede the just claims which this poem possesses on the admiration of all ages, must present to his readers another and a totally different analysis of the work from that which has just been given. A suitable opportunity will thus be afforded for more particularly noticing the beauties with which the Lusiad abounds, and the faults, in which it is not deficient. The introductory stanzas mark with sufficient pre- cision the tone which the poem maintains to its close. " Arms, and the renowned men who, from the western BEAUTIES OF MODERN' LI lERATURE. 213 shores^ of Lusitania, penetrated beyond Taprobana by seas never before navigated ; who, amidst frightful dangers and warfare, accomplished more than could be expected from human power ; and, in a remote region of the world, founded and raised a new kingdom ; also the glorious achievements of those kings, who extend- ed their faith and their dominion, and spread terror through the wicked regions of Africa and Asia ; and others whose glorious deeds have raised them above the laws of mortality," are announced as the objects of the poet's strains. Then follows an effusion which has more of a patriotic than a poetic character, combined with a panegyrical dedication to king Sebastian, con- taining no less than sixteen stanzas. The narrative, which commences with the nineteenth stanza, opens amidst the course of these events, and in a truly epic strain. The reader may now readily perceive that he must not expect to find in the Lusiad a work written in the spirit and the style of classic antiquity. It be- trays, indeed, a certain degree of loquacity which seems to run counter to the effect of the lofty epic. But there is something captivating in the enthusiasm of the poet's manner ; his patriotism rouses sympa- thetic feelings ; we expect to find his poem the off- spring of an overflowing heart ; we are charmed with the natural, elegant, and noble language of the work ; and, as soon as the narrative begins, the poetic point of view seems likewise to be fixed. The mythological machinery which Camoens conceived to be indispen- sably necessary to epic .dignity, forms a peculiar kind of ornament, for which indeed the reader is prepared from the commencement of the poem. The dcscrip- 214 BEAUTIES OK MODERN LITERATURE. tion of the council of the gods on Olympus, with which the narrative opens, though somewhat at vari- ance with the ancient costume, is nevertheless pleasing and not devoid of dignity. Here the poetic spirit of Camoens is evinced in some picturesque comparisons, in which he vies even with Homer. All these similes bear the impress of the poet's powers of active per- ception and representation. They are neither far- fetched nor common, and they abound in poetic truth and energy. In the forty-fourth stanza, Vasco da Gama is for the first time mentioned, and, in few words, characterized as a man of " proud and lofty spirit, on whom fortune ever smiled." But there soon occur passages in which the poetic light of the repre- sentation is totally extinguished. Passages of this kind are afterwards frequently repeated, and their prosaic dryness is the more displeasing when -contrast ed with the deep poetic spirit which pervades the more beautiful parts of the composition. The descrip- tion of the first engagement between the Portuguese of Gama's fleet and the treacherous Moors of Mosam- bique, affords the poet another opportunity of dis- playing his talent in picturesque comparison. But it becomes obvious that this talent must have been form- ed on the model of Ariosto rather than that of Homer. There occur indeed in his representations of the tumult of the battle, some imitations of Ariostic exuberance which do not strictly harmonize with the prevailing style of the Lusiad. In the second canto the mythological machinery be- comes still more remarkable, when at Mombaza, on the coast of Africa, Bacchus assumes the disguise of BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 215 a christian priest, and, on an enchanted altar, goes through the ceremony of the christian worship, for the purpose of deceiving the Portuguese. But the gro- tesque application of the machinery in this passage prepares the mind for scenes of a similar character, and thus the comic effect of subsequent parts of the poem is in anticipation softened. The reader who enters into the spirit of the poet becomes unconsciously ac- customed to this view of the ancient mythology ; and he is even soon reconciled to the incongruity of Vasco da Gama offering up prayers as a christian to Provi- dence, and those prayers being heard by Venus, who once more intercedes Avith .Jupiter in favour of the Portuguese, resembles Ariosto's description of Alcina. Here the poet, for the first time, evinces his predilec- tion for voluptuous pictures of beauty. This charming description may be said to possess a nationally classic character. The speech of Vasco da Gama's ambassador, which gains the king of Melinda to the interests of the Portuguese is excellent, and the pompous meeting of the king with Vasco, on board the Portuguese ad- miral's ship, is elegantly and picturesquely described. At the commencement of the third canto, a new life is infused into the poem. But to try this poetic suiTey of Portuguese history, as it stands in connexion with the whole, by any rule of prosaic similitudes, would be to depart from the poetic spirit of the Lusiad. In order to understand the narrative which Vasco da Gama relates to the king Melinda, it is necessary to possess that knowledge of the events alluded to, which Camoens presumed every reader to possess, but which in all probability could not have been possessed by a 216 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. sovereign of Melinda. The reader who peruses this narrative without the necessary knowledge of the his- tory of Portugal, will be incapable of appreciating many of the most essential beauties of the Lusiad. In so far as Camoens may be denominated the Portuguese Homer, he is indebted for that title to the poetic epitome he has given of the histoiy of his country ; and this epitome is a rapid succession of pictures, which flit away like shadows before those who are un- acquainted with their historical ground-work, for the poet evidently expected readers who would be gratified to observe how art was capable of elevat- ing the events of real life to the regionof epic invention. This portion of the poem, which extends from the third to the end of the fifth canto, contains passages which, in point of classic elegance, leave nothing more Lo be desired 5 but even here Camoens has, in some instances, made an unpoetic display of his erudition. Previously to the narrative of Vasco da Gama, the poet speaks in his own character, and patriotically elevates (he Portuguese nation above every other. Vasco's narrative commences with a cold geographical enume- j'ation of the different countries in Europe in which the Swedes, Danes, Prussians, Russians, and Livo- iiians, are styled estranha gente (strange people), just as a modern traveller might speak of the Ostiaks and iSamoides. Spain is denominated the head of Europe, and Portugal the crown of that head. Viewed in the light of probability, the invectives in which Vasco da Gama at every opportunity indulges against the Maho- metans, must be supposed offensive to the king of Melinda ; but Camoens, in his patriotic zeal, lost BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 217 sight of many circumstances which would have claim- ed the consideration of any other poet. Among the most beautiful passages in these three cantos of the Lusiad, may be numbered the tribute to the memory of Egaz Moniz, the Portuguese Regulus, who, how- ever, ended his career more happily than the Roman consul ; the description of the battle of Ourique, which laid the foundation of the kingdom of Portugal ; the description of the visit of queen Maria, of Spain, to her father the king of Portugal, to implore assis- tance for her husband in his contest with the Moors ; the relation of the tragical fate of Inez de Castro, which is the most celebrated of all the exquisitely beautiful passages in the Lusiad; the description of the sanguinary battle of Aljuabarrota, the greatest victoiy the Portuguese ever gained over the Castilians ; and some others, of the like character, which might still be enumerated. The picture of the Battle of Aljuabarrota excels all the similar descriptions which occur even in the Lusiad, remarkable as that poem is for such passages. The valiant Nunno Alveres, who by his eloquence and personal authority, no less than by his courage, saved the political existence of Por- tugal, shines with such conspicuous lustre at the head of the Portuguese warriors, that he, with far more propriety than Vasco da Gama, might be denominated the hero of the Lusiad, were it a work which ought to be judged according to the rules usually applied to epic poetry. Even in this great battle-picture, the finest touches are unquestionably copied from nature, for the poet was no less in his place in the tumult of war than in the more tranquil region of the Muses. 218 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. In the continuation of the narrative of the first dis- coveries of the Portuguese in the east, the particular interest which the poet took in allegoric description, is again displayed in a novel manner. The two principal rivers of India, the Indus and the Ganges, are made to appear to king Emanuel, in a dream, under the personification of two old men. The representation is truly excellent. In Vasco da Gama's narrative of his own voyage, the following passages must always be particularly distinguished : the description of the farewell to the Portuguese shore ; secondly, a sort of didactic episode, consisting of reflections made by an old man on the vanity of human ambition, quite in the spirit of that true poetry which embraces the whole range of human existence ; and thirdly, another kind of episode, which introduces the giant Adamaster, whom Camoens con- jured up from the old world of fable, to render him the spirit of the Cape of Good Hope. In the description of this part of the voyage, Camoens, for the first time, uses the freedom of relieving the solemn seriousness of his narrative by some comic touches. Tunao V^l- loso is the humorist among the enterprizing followers of Vasco da Gama. Camoens also occasionally breaks the poetic tone of the whole description by a display of his mythological and historical pedantry, and by his endeavours to express, in a poetic manner, things which are totally unpoetic ; as for example, in alluding to the day of the departure of the fleet, he says, — " When the eternal orb of light had entered the sign of the Nemean monster, and when the decaying world, in its sixth age, moved feebly and slowly, after having BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 219 ©bsen'ed the sun's circuitous course repeated fourteen hundred and ninety-seven times." These deformities sometimes injure the beauty of the finest parts of the poem. The chief portion of the second half of the poem, from the sixth to the tenth Canto, is thrown into shade by the first half; and the essential want of arising interest, weakens the epic character of the whole. But these last five Cantos of the Lusiad abound in classi- cally beautiful passages ; and that kind of unity, at which the poet aimed, is on no occasion forgotten. The description of the palace of Neptune, and the sea deities in the depths of the ocean, is equally charming and novel ; though it must be allowed, that the portrait of Triton degenerates into the grotesque. In order to omit no opportunity of interweaving into the compo- sition of the Lusiad, whatever might shed a poetic lustre on the Portuguese name, Camoens makes Vel- loso, for the amusement of the ship's crew, relate the history of the Lusitanian knights, who, according to Portuguese tradition, are called Os doze de Ingla terra, (the twelve of England). In the description of the storm which follows, the powerful painting of the dreadful picture once more reveals the poet, who had himself passed through like scenes of danger. The same stamp of tnith is apparent in the succeeding descriptions of Indian objects, which no great poet, (except Camoens, has sketched from nature. The poem is not injured by the long and energetic apostrophe to the European powers, with which the seventh Canto commences. According to the view to be taken by a Catholic Christian, Camoens was justified in extolling 2*20 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE, the national glory of Portugal, above that of all other Christian nations, on the ground that while the Por- tuguese, by their valour, were extending the dominion of the Catholic faith, and had not, for a considerable period, waged war against any of the European states, those states were contending against each other, and even in a certain measure, against the church of Rome. To strengthen, in some degree, the poetic probability by a matter of fact, Camoens has introduced, at the period when the intercourse between the Portuguese and the Indian Prince of Calecut commences, a Moor, named Monzayde, whose destiny had conducted him over land to India; through this mediator, who speaks Spanish, and who finally becomes a Christian, the In- dians are made acquainted with the power of the Por-' tuguese and Spanish arms. This Moor is also the interjjreter, who, in the eighth canto, assists Paulo da Gama in explaining the historical pictures and em- broideries to the Indian ambassador. In point of poetic merit, this supplement to the abstract of the history of Portugal, is far inferior to the narrative in the third and fifth Cantos : — but Camoens could find no other means of accomplishing his purpose ; for he was equally reluctant to omit any thing which he con- ceived to belong to his pictures of Portuguese national glory, or to crowd too many of the events of former times into one part of his poem. None of these his- torical descriptions, which occupy a large portion of the eighth Canto, form finished pictures ; they are mere sketches, and are, in general, deficient in poetic warmth ; but the ninth Canto makes ample amends for this fault. The magic festival, which Venus pre- BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 221 pares to recreate her beloved navigators, after the fatigues they have encountered, is boldly conceived, and charmingly executed ; and in this part of the composition, the poet's fancy has revelled with evident delight. Camoens, like all the Portuguese poets of his age, next to the indulgence of heroic feeling, and all-powerful patriotism, was fond of luxuriantly pour- traying the passion of love. Except the fate of Inez de Castro, and the achievements of Nuno Alverez Pereira, at the battle of Aljuabarrota, the poet has exe- cuted no portion of his poem with such decided pre- dilection, as the visit of the navigators to the enchanted island ; and to no other part of the poem is so much space alloted in proportion to the whole. The long description of the preparations for the luxuriant festi- val, and of the festival itself, which commences at the eighteenth stanza of the ninth, and extends into the tenth Canto, is full of picturesque beauty. Its great prolixity, however, must, even according to the correct plan which Camoens followed, be accounted a defect in the composition. But the reader, like the poet himself, soon forgets every thing but the seductive painting, which sometimes, it must be confessed, only just respects the boundaries of decorum, which yet, upon the whole, offends no elevated feeling, and which has not been surpassed by any later poet in the same style. The first idea of the island of love, on which Camoens makes Venus entertain the Portuguese na- vigators, seems borrowed from Ariosto, but Ariosto's description of the magic gardens of Alcina, scarcely affords a ground-work for the scenes and situations in the Lusiad. There is, however, little room to doubt 222 BEAUTIBS OF MODERN LITERATURE. that Tasso, when he trod in Ariosto's footsteps, in order to describe the abode of Armida, availed himself of the description of Camoens. In the tone of frank simplicity, with which the festival is announced, the character of the poet is again manifested. It is de- scribed as merely " a refreshment for restoring the exhausted strength of the navigators ; some interest for those fatigues which render short life still shorter.' Venus, in her car drawn by doves, descends from Mount Ida in quest of Cupid. She finds him with a throng of loves employed in forging arrows. The fuel used in the process of forging, is allegorically and whimsically described to be human hearts, and the red hot arrows are cooled in tears. Cupid and his little deputies are directed to wound a number of god- desses and sea- nymphs, so that every individual on board Vasco da Gama's fleet, shall, on landing on the magic Island, find himself in the situation of a happy lover. Meanwhile Venus adorns the island with the loveliest charms of nature. On first landing, the na- vigators know not where they are, but they are soon satisfied with the pleasing reality, without concerning themselves about the nature of the miracle which has transported them to a terrestrial heaven. When the festival is drawing to a close, the poet, for the first time, explains the object of the fiction, by stating it to be an allegorical representation of the happiness which is the rcM'ard of courage and virtue. After this cold manner of dissolving the enchantment, the unpre- judiced reader feels little interest in the conclusion of the poem. The stanzas in which the prophetic nymph celebrates the future achievements of the Portuguese, BBAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 223 are historical fragments, the connexion of which must be studied, in order to form a just estimate of their poetic merits and demerits. The geographic supple- ment, which is put into the mouth of Thetis, is still colder, notwithstanding the singular idea of the globe which hovers in the air, and which exalts the miracle of the geographic lecture. But thus is the sympathy of the reader more powerfully excited by the passage towards the end of the Lusiad, where Camoens speaks of himself, which he had refrained from doing in the preceding part of the work. As he approached the close of his labour, he was impressed with the con- viction, that no earthly happiness awaited him ; and now saw " his years descending, and the transition, from summer to autumn, near at hand ; his genius, frozen by the coldness of fate, and he himself borne down by sorrow into the stream of black oblivion and eternal sleep." His heart then pours forth the epi- phonema of the poem, consisting of a didactic apos- trophe to his sovereign, full of loyalty, but not less abounding in honest zeal for truth, justice, and virtue. An epic poem, so powerfully imbued with intensity of feeling and character as the Lusiad, naturally calls to mind Dante's Divina Comedia, and Klopstock's Messiah. But the Lusiad bears, in other respects, no more resemblance to the Messiah, than to every other great poem, in which the beauties make amends for the exercise of indulgence towards numerous faults. The Lusiad presents a greater similarity to the works of Dante. Both poems are epic, though neither are epopees, in the strict sense of the term. Both are singular, but truly poetic in invention, and, in both. 224 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITEFtATURE. the full Stream of purest poetry is incessantly broken by false learning, and various unpoetic excressences. But, with respect to the invention, the Divina Come- dia is, in its original plan, trivial, and only becomes grand by the poetic filling up of the vast divisions of hell, purgatoiy, and heaven. The Lusiad is more poetic in its outline, but not so rich in its internal parts. Finally, the two poems are distinguished by the kind of feeling which prevails in each, and by a total difference of style. Dante introduced all the variety of the ter- restrial world, of which he had perfect command, into the mystic region of a celestial and subterraneous exis- tence, in which he, as a Christian, placed faith ; and the whole plan of his extraordinaiy poem has for its object, the pious apotheoses of his beloved Beatrice. Camoens glowed with patriotism and heroism ; and to avoid weakening the patriotic, and nationally heroic character of his poem, by the force of rehgious inte- rest, he preferred introducing into his terrestrial fic- tion, the heaven of mythology, because he felt that it afforded him the finest imagery. Dante's style is, throughout, energetic, frequently rude, and always characteristic of the spirit of the extraordinary writer, who stood alone, and who, in a great measure, him- self created the language in which he expressed his feelings. Camoens, like Ariosto, was wholly the man of his age, and his country ; a fact which is sufficiently evident from the delicate and luxuriant style, which he partly borrowed from Ariosto, and which he only cultivated as far as was necessary, for the expression of the serious epopceia. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 225 MEMOIR OF MADAME CATALANI. The distinguished character who forms the subject of our present memoir, was born in Sinigaglia, a small town in the papal territories, about the year 1782. Though the accident of birth can add nothing, in the sight of universal reason, to those mental or physical qualities which lead to excellence, and which nature only can bestow, it is, however, due to the celebrated Angelica Catalani to say, that she was born of pa- rents highly respectable, though poor ; and that this circumstance, which, in England, only facilitates the approach to the temple of fame, was nearly depriving the world of those splendid powers, which are the ad- miration of the present, and will continue to be the theme of future ages. Madame Catalani owed more to birth than to fortune ; and she was, therefore, des- tined to take the veil, like other females similarly circumstanced. When fortune and birth stand at a distance, and view each other with jealous eye, the one too proud to court, and the other too capricious to favour, the nunnery is the only asylum which the pride of birth has discovered, in Italy, to secure the fair sex from the contingencies of circumstances and situations. Angelica, however, discovered such superior powers during her noviciate, in singing the praises of her Creator, that her parents were induced, by the solici- tation of friends, to change their intention of with- drawing their daughter from all commerce with the Q 2*26 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. world. She was, accordinglyj suffered to cultivate her musical powers, and the combined energies of nature and of art, soon qualified her to take the first parts in serious opera. Her vocal powers, however, were not the only qualities which recommended her to public favour. Beauty and youth, when accompanied by elegance and grace of deportment, will not easily yield their contested sovereignty to the dominion of music. There is a witcheiy in beauty as well as in sound ; and it is so difTicult to say which exercises the strongest influence over the heart and its affections, that the ad- mirers of the fair Angelica were at a loss to determine, which recommended her most to public esteem ! In the latter, however, she stood unrivalled ; in the former, she had many competitors ; and if her innocence and beauty were more highly esteemed, it was only because they were found connected with such extraordinary endowments. It is certain, however, that the grace and elegance of her movements and person, heightened and refined as they were by the severe dignity of vir- tue, rendered her one of those miracles of nature, which only certain ages are permitted to behold. Her celebrity procured her an invitation from the prince and princess of Brazil, now king and queen of Portugal. The opera house at Lisbon boasted, at this time, some of the first Italian singers in Europe. The fascinating Grassini, and the still more enchanting Crcsccntini, were among its principal ornaments j and to the instructions of the latter, who was deemed a prodigy in his art, Madame Catalan! owes much of the celebrity she has since obtained. She remained five years in Lisbon, on a salary of three thousand BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 227 moidores, and was honoured with many presents of great value. During her residence in this capital, she married Monsieur Vallebraque, still retaining the name which had raised her to such celebrity : instead, however, of Signora, she was henceforth known by the name of Madame Catalani. She received letters of recommendation to the royal family of Spain, from the princess of Brazil, who was particularly attached to her ; and whose esteem was less founded on her pro- fessional eminence, than on her private virtues. In Spain she was honoured with the friendship of the royal family, and became extremely popular with the nobility and gentry during her residence at Madrid. After having visited the French metropolis, in 1806, she arrived in England, and appeared at the opera- house, in the Hay Market, in the latter end of that year. Her annual salary was only ^2000, and one benefit, a sum not more than half what she received at Lisbon, but she looked forward to that encouragement which, if it is not always, at least should be always, the prize of superior attainments ; and her expecta- tions were amply realized. Madame Catalani made her first appearance on the 13th of December, 1806, in the character of Semira- mide ; and, to give a full display to her powers, anew composition of Portogallo was substituted for Bianchi's original music, as being more suited to her natural and acquired powers. She was accordingly received with the most unbounded applause, and her fame became every day more firmly established. In 1808, her salary was increased to ^5250, and two <;lear benefits. Her health, however, did not keep q2 228 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. pace with her fortune, and became as variable as the climate. Madame Dussek, accordingly, was to perform in serious opera, and take the part of Bufta whenever Madame Catalani was unable to perform. A fracas, however, took place between her and Mr. Taylor in 1809, which -diminished her popularity in England. Mr. Taylor offered her 60001. and three clear benefits ; but though this engagement was highly liberal, she refused to accept of it. The public attributed her refusal to a spirit of avarice, but in doing so, they judg- ed by first appearances. The real motives that prompt us to action, like the latent causes of natural effects, seldom hang on the surface of things, and it requires time and opportunity to trace them to their source. Hence it is, that public opinion is always fallible, though not always erroneous, when its object is the immediate public conduct of individuals; they gene- rally refer the conduct of distinguished persons, to a better or worse source, than that from which it ema- nates- The cause of this error seems to be, that the public judge of all individuals alike who are placed in similar situations, without reflecting, that every indi- vidual is the creature of habits, feelings, and impulses^ which belong to no other but himself, that these feelings exercise an influence over him which reason can seldom repel, or bend to its own designs ; and that, consequently, out of fifty individuals who happen to act alike, not five may be prompted to it by similar motives. One rule, however, should never be forgotten, in regulating our judgments, and that is, that the motive to which we ascribe any action, should always be compared with the general tenor and character of BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 229 the actor's life ; and out of all the possible motives to which it can be referred, always to select that which harmonizes best with this general tenor and character. Whoever is guided by this rule, and what rule can we discover that approaches nearer to infallibility, must instantly free Madame Catalani from the imputation of avarice, in her quarrel with Mr. Taylor. Her liberality, and the readiness with which she has always been known to attend, and promote the objects of all charitable institutions, are known and published throughout Europe ; and, even when her health has sometimes prevented her from singing in aid of such institutions, her purse has contributed to effect that good, which was sought for from her vocal assist- ance. The delicacy of her health frequently obliged her to decline many engagements, which were suffici- ently tempting, if avarice had been the god of her adoration ; and when we know that she refused 240,000 roubles, about 10,000 guineas, from the Mus- covite nobility, for giving ten concerts in their ancient capital, we cannot think of ascribing her refusal of Mr. Taylor's offer to a spirit which, if it had existed, would have certainly gratified itself, by embracing the offer of the Muscovite nobility. Perhaps the state of her health, in 1809, was not the sole cause of refusing Mr. Taylor's offer. She thought her brother's talents not sufTiciently appreciated by the situation appointed him in the orchestra, and, therefore, as Mr. Taylor refused him the place to which she thought him enti- tled, it is certain that she acted more under the influ- ence of her feelings than of her reason, at the moment. To him, however, who can make no allowance for that 230 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. irritability of feeling, which is the inseparable attend- ant of genius, we can only say, that he knows too little of the human art to estimate, as he ought, the moral value of human actions; for though weakness and irritability are not to be defended, yet, as they form a part of our nature, and are frequently found united with virtues of a superior order, they should not be too hastily condemned. Another circumstance contributed, at this moment, to render Madame Catalani less popular, namely, her refusing to sing for a charitable institution. The public erroneously attributed this refusal, as well as her difference with Mr. Taylor, to motives of avarice ; but if this were the real cause of her refusal, how can we explain the fact, that she sent twenty guineas as a private donation to that very charity ? If this be the manner in which avarice manifests itself, it were well for charitable institutions that all the world were misers. After the fracas between her and Mr. Taylor, she appeared occasionally at private musical parties. She performed at the principal towns in the three king- doms ; at the grand music meetings at Oxford and Cambridge, and at several charitable institutions. She was at length induced to go to Paris, where the Emperor of France granted her the patent of the Theatre Royal Italian, with a yearly salary of 6^^7000 sterling. This theatre, which was then by far the most elegant in Paris, she manageb with great ability for four years, and alternately engaged the celebrated composers^ Paer and Spontine, to conduct the musical department. She also engaged the first singers of Italy, both male BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 231 and female. The receipts, however, were trifling when she did not sing herself, so that her attention to the interests of the establishment became a fatigue to which her health was unequal, and she determined to resign the charge, and visit the capitals of Europe. She went first to Berlin, where she was received by his Prussian Majesty with the most flattering respect. The Prussians were at a loss which to admire most, her surprising talents or beneficence. Of this she re- ceived the most honourable testimonies from all the Prussian courts, and his Majesty sent her, accompa- nied by a most gracious letter, the grand medal of the academy, (similar to that which the great Frederick sent to Voltaire.) This letter was published in all the journals of the time. From Berlin she proceeded to Hanover, where she was graciously received by His Royal Highness the Duke of Cambridge, and all the ladies of the court. She was crowned at the theatre with her usual success^ and after giving a concert for the benefit of the poor, she departed for Stutgard. We are informed that the melody of her voice made such an impression on the late king, who was passionately fond of music, that he pronounced her name a few minutes before his death. From Stutgard she went to Munich, but, in conse- quence of some trifling misunderstanding, she departed without singing. She was persuaded, however, to return shortly after, and was affectionately embraced by the Queen, who greatly regretted the mistake which had taken place. The King was not less atten- tive to her, and recommended her to the friendship of his daughter, the Empress of Austria. 232 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. Vienna was the next theatre of Madame Catalani's vocal powers. Here her success was unparalleled ; and a simple statement of facts will easily evince the enthusiasm with which she was received. The great room of the Redoubt was filled to excess, at each of her concerts, though it contains 3000 persons, and the tickets of admission were very high. The Em- peror, as a mark of his royal favour, presented her with a superb ornamental of opal, enriched with dia- monds. Here her benevolence and liberality to the poor, who always participated in iier success, displayed itself as usual. Every mouth resounded her praise, and the magistracy of the city, to testify the high sense which they entertained of her character, caused a me- dal to be struck, which bears an inscription highly flattering to her. Madame Catalina had long cherished a wish to visit Russia, from which she had received many invitations. On leaving Austria, therefore, she proceeded to St. Petersburgh, where she commenced with a concert, the tickets for which were fixed at twenty-five rou- bles. The success which attended her performance the first night, was so great, that several hundred per- sons were disappointed of seats each succeeding night. She was persuaded to give her concluding concert at the public exchange, where she was honoured with the presence of 4000 individuals. The receipts of this concert she devoted to the relief of two hundred dis- tressed families in St. Petersburgh. Such is the illus- trious character who has been charged with avarice in the metropolis of the British Empire ! We must confess it gives us sincere pleasure, that it should fall to BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 233 our lot to present these proofs of her liberality to the public, or, at least, to that portion of the public who honour our pages with a perusal. At her departure from St. Petersburgh, the Empress embraced her in a most affectionate manner, and the reigning Empress presented her with a pair of gold ear-rings, and a dia- mond necklace. The Emperor Alexander, not less sensible of her virtues, kissed her hands at her depar- ture, and made her a present of a magnificent girdle of brilliants. She remained four months in Russia, during which time, she gave concerts at St. Peters- burgh, Riga, Moscow, and Wilna, M^hich produced her, exclusive of all expenses and the sums she be- stowed on charity, upwards of 15,000 guineas. WTien she went from Moscow to Warsaw, she was presented, on her arrival, with a letter from the Muscovite nobi- lity, offering her, as we have already observed, 240,000 roubles, if she would come and give ten concerts at their ancient capital during the winter. Apprehending her health would not endure the severity of the cli- mate, she declined the flattering and advantageous invitation. She made her second appearance in England in July last, (1822,) and gave a concert at the Argylc Rooms, on the sixteenth of that month, where she was received with themost enthusiastic applause. Nothing could equal the effect which she produced in singing Rhodes' violin variations. In this extraordinary exercise of her vocal powers, she displayed at once her surprising rapidity, strength, and sweetness. She gave another concert on the 30th of July, the profits of which amounted to up- wards of ^300, and which she devoted to the funds of 234 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. the Westminster General Infirmary; and indeed, the whole tenor of her life shews the mistaken prejudice which had been, at one time, excited against her in this countiy. From London, Madame Catalani proceeded to Glas- gow, and afterwards visited Edinburgh, Newcastle, York, and Liverpool : here she was joined by Mr. Yaniewiez, who has ever since been the sole director of her concerts. From Liverpool she proceeded to Leeds, and next visited Sheffield, where she was sud- denly taken ill, while the audience were assembling, or, rather, after the greater part of them had assem- bled. The effect of her illness produced a temporaiy suspension of her vocal powers, and she continued for three days in this alarming state. She left Sheffield without a concert, promising to return shortly, which she did, after visiting Birmingham, Bath, and Clifton. From Sheffield, she proceeded to Nottingham, and from thence to London, where she still continues. During this excursion, she has cleared above .^6000, over and above the heavy expenses, which she must have necessarily incurred. She is now performing in London, Avhere her success is without example. At this, however, we feel no surprize ; for, since she first commenced her musical career to the present moment, she has been not only the first singer in Europe, but, in fact, the only singer who may be truly said to have had no competitor. The public mind never hesitated a moment, between the comparative merits of her and any other performer ; and when we say the public mind, we do not mean the English public alone, but that public, of which all the nations in Europe are BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 235 composed. No country could produce a second to her, though Italy, France, and England, have produced singers, of whom, perhaps, it would have been said, "the force of nature could no farther go ;" and if the illus- trious Angelica Catalani had been silently immured in a nunneiy, and her transcendent powers known only to her cloistered sisters, their innocence or credulity would, in all probability, have deemed them rather the work of inspiration, than one of those unattainable gifts which nature bestows on her own peculiar fa- vourites. Eiirojjean Magazine^ EMBALMING AMONG THE EGYPTIANS. The Egyptians, of all nations of antiquity, are most deserving of our attention. To this wise and ingeni- ous people, who made such advances in arts and science, in commerce and legislation, succeeding na- tions have been indebted for whatever institutions civilize mankind and embellish human life. The priest- hood of this veiy religious people, to whom knowledge was exclusively confined, being wholly free from an- xiety about secular matters, as they were provided for by the state, devoted themselves to the semce of the community. Their time was divided between the performance of their sacred duties and the improve- ment of the mind. Study was their business, the good of the people was their sole object, and whatever could 236 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. contribute to the political or moral welfare of their country, was pursued with a zeal worthy of imitation in Christian societies. It is not then surprising that they made such amazing progress in physic and other oc- cult sciences. And though the art of embalming, as practised by them, is now obsolete, and the medicated herbs which they used, may not now be ascertained, yet we may gather, from the custom, what study and attention they employed in discovering the virtues of simples, though the science of medical chemistiy was probably unknown at that early period. The art of embalming the dead was peculiar to the Egyptians ; they alone knew the secret of preserving the body from decay. In the Pentateuch, we find that, when Abraham and Isaac died, they were simply buried ; but Jacob, and afterwards Joseph, were embalmed, because those two Patriarchs died in Egypt. This mys- terious trade descended from father to son, as an here- ditary and sacred privilege : the embalmers were held in high repute, conversed with the priests, and were by them admitted into the inner parts of the temples. Embalming may have been practised in Asia, but as there is not any authority for this presumption, it may be inferred, that the custom prevailed among the Chal- deans, on account of the proximity of their country to Egypt, and the similarity of pursuits and doctines ; an intercourse, no doubt, subsisted between these two philosophical nations from the earliest ages. After the death of Alexander the Great, the Egyptians and Chaldeans were ordered to dress the body in their own way, (curt. lib. subfin.) but this event was many hundred years after the times when Egypt flourished BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 287 under the Pharaohs. The washing and dressing of the body, alluded to by Greek and Roman writers, was merely an external application of unguents, performed with facility and dispatch, not for the purpose of pre- serving the corpse, but in honour of the deceased. The ceremony among the Egyptians was sacred and solemn, and the process tedious, intricate, and expen- sive. In the patriarchal history, the sacred writer tells us, that forty days were employed in preparing the body of Jacob for sepulture. And Joseph com- manded his servants, the physicians, to embalm his father, and the physicians embalmed Israel, Gen. 1, 2. And here it is to be observed, that the officers, called physicians, did not profess the art of curing ; for phy- sic, (as it is now called) was not, at that time, a pro- fessional pursuit; not a word is said of physicians being called in during Jacob's sickness. Besides, the Hebrew word is rendered in the septuagint, by those who prepare the body for burial ; it is true, the author of the Pentateuch does not particularise this ceremony, but Herodotus, and Diodorus, are clear and diffuse in every thing relative to this interesting country. The Egyptians believed that the soul was immortal, or ra- ther, that it was eternal ; they imagined that it not only was not subject to death, but that it had existed from all eternity, having neither beginning nor end ; they thought that as it was immaterial, it was increate, and as it was increate, that it was a part of the divine spirit, divince particula aurce, and co-existent with that being from whom it emanated. In order to substan- tiate this doctrine, they asserted that the soul had been in a state of pre-existence, and at the dissolution of 238 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. the outward man, it passed into various states ; and after a circuit of three thousand years, it returned to re-animate the human body. Pythagorus first trans- planted this dogma from Egypt into Greece, and, though no works of that philosopher are now extant, yet we may gather, from later writers, the essential tenets of the Pythagorean sect. Plato, after the death of Socrates, inculcated the same principle, in order to validate the })rimary tenet of the Socratic school — the immortality of the soul. Virgil has shown himself veiy sedulous in propagating the same doctrine among the Romans. These two nations were of opinion, that death separated the soul from the body ; they were, therefore, no longer concerned about the perishable part of man; and being enlightened by the rays of rational philosophy, through the mists of error and superstition, they looked forward to a future state as a reward for the virtuous, and a punishment for the damned. The Egyptians, on the contrary, Avere more solicitous to preserve the material part from putrefac- tion and injury, conceiving that the soul was insepa- rable from its body, so long as the latter was free from corruption. Inspired by this superstition, they stu- died and put in practice every means of preserving the human frame : they applied to the study of natural history to discover the virtues of simples, and provided buildings of the greatest magnitude and durability, as depositories for the dead, which still remain the most stupendous monuments of human labour in the world. Tliat the pyramids were built as sepulchres for the kings, there appears no reason to doubt, — this is fully testified by modern travellers. Besides, Diodorus BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 239 says expressly, that Chemnis and Cephron constructed them for this purpose. The principal care of the Egyptians was turned to the preserving the dead ; they looked upon their houses as temporary dwellings, but to their cemeteries, they gave the name of the eternal mansions. Among the three modes of embalming, that adopted by the rich was very tedious in its pro- cess, and expensive in its preparation. As soon as a man of any consideration died, the relations of the deceased, after the most violent expressions of grief, sent for the embalmer, who carried away the corpse. The first part of the operation was to extract the brains through the nostrils, with a crooked instrument of iron ; for the more ready performance of which, the medium septum of the nose was cut away; the va- cuities were then filled up with perfumes and aro- matic composition. After this, the body was opened with much ceremony ; for this purpose the priest made a mark on the left side, just above the hip, to shew how far the incision was to be made. A particular officer made an opening with a very sharp Ethiopian stone. As soon as the people saw this, they pelted him with stones, and pufsued him with maledictions ; for the Egyptians looked with abhorrence upon any one who offered violence to a human body, either dead or alive. The embalmer then inserted his hand, and drew out all the viscera, except the heart and kidneys, while the bowels were washed with odours. The en- trails were not restored to the abdomen, but, from a religious motive, they were thrown in the Nile. After- wards the belly was filled with cinnamon, myrrh, and other odoriferous drugs ; and then the orifice of the 240 BEAUTIKS OF MODERN LITERATURE. wound was closed. The body outwardly was anointed with the oil of cedar, and other preservatives, for thirty days. This length of time was necessary to ad- minister the preparations for drying it and preventing its putrefaction. At the expiration of this term, the corpse was again washed, and wrapped up in many folds of linen, painted with sacred characters, and sea- soned with gums and other glutinous matter. This renders the cloth so durable, that it has preserved its consistence even to the present day, as many of the specimens lately exhibited in this country fully testify. These swathes of cere-cloth were so manifold, that there are seldom less than a thousand yards of filleting about one body : and so ingeniously were the wrap- pings managed, that the lineaments of the deceased were easily discernible, even though the face was covered with a kind of mask filled with mastic. On the breast was spread a broader piece of cere- cloth, on which was inscribed some memorable sentiment j but, for the most part, having the figure of a woman with expanded arms. The embalmer having done his duty, the mummy was sent back to the kindred of the defunct, who deposited it in a wooden coffin, made of a species of sycamore, called in Egypt, Pharaoh's fig- tree. Some few coffins have been found of solid stone j a miniature model of one, in marble, was to be seen at Belzoni's exhibition, from which he says the body had been taken. The top of the wooden coffin, or mummy chest, was carved in the shape of a woman's head, the face had been richly painted ; the rest of the trunk was adorned with hieroglyphics, and the lower end was broad and flat like a pedestal, on which the coffin liEATJTIK"^ OF MODERN LITERATURE. 2-1} was placed erect in the place designed for its recep- tion. The body of Joseph was put in a coffin. The corpse was lastly conveyed down the Nile to its final destination, in a vessel called Baris. The mode just described, was the most expensive, and adopted by the rich only ; those, however, who were unable or un- willing to go to so great an expense, had recourse to a more simple process. A quantity of cedar-oil and aromatic liquors were injected, by means of a syringe, into the body, at the anus ; after this, it was laid in nitre for seventy days, when the pipe was withdrawn, and the oil running out, carried Avith it the paunch and entrails, while the nitre consumed the flesh, leav- ing nothing but skin and bones. The bodies of the poorer people were filled with a nitrous composition, which had such virtue and efficacy as to consume the intestines. They were afterwards wrapt up in bundles of reed, or branches of the palm-tree. The same care was bestowed on the sacred animals, such as the ibis, the dog, the cat, the ape, the scarabseus, the sheep, and in some parts the crocodile ; but more especially on the sacred apis, or ox, whose festivals were cele- brated with great solemnity and rejoicings. What rail- lery have this superstitious people been exposed to, from their foolish veneration for irrational creatures. Herodotus, Diodorus, and Aelian, are consentient in their ridicule of this stupid idolatry. When a house was on fire, the father of a family would be more anxious to rescue his cat from the flames, than to save his wife, his children, or property So infatuated were they, that, mothers accounted it a blessing (oh, horror !) for their children to be devoured by the ravenous cro- R 242 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. codile ; they gloried that their offsprings became food to that fierce creature. (Aelian de Nat. Animal, 1. 10, c. 21.) Nay, more, in the extremities of famine, it is said that this deluded people, would rather eat one another, than lay violent hands on these disgusting objects of worship, (Diod. lib. 1, p. 93). Juvenal ex- poses these enormities in nervous and eloquent lan- guage. Classical Journal. THE GENTLEMAN. " He is complete in manners and in mind, Witli all good grace to grace a Gentleman.'* Shakspeare. To the knight-errant of the age of chivalry, and the gallant loyalty of the cavaliers, has succeeded the title of " Gentleman." It is difficult precisely to state what is generally comprised in this denomination of character. The perfect Gentleman, or, at least, the nearest approach to perfection, is distinguished by characteristics, of which I shall attempt a sketch. He is not great, in the ordinary sense of the term. His attainments are rather numerous than lofty. He has more grace and beauty of mind, than sublimity. The quality in which he is most eminent, is refined taste. He is more accomplished than learned. His attain- ments, including all the elegant exercises of the age, consists more of the ornamental, than the positively useful. He has too many refined avocations, to be I BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 243 eminent either in music, or the other fine arts. He is something, and avowedly but little, of an amateur. He possesses very polished manners, a mingling of case, grace, and dignity. He is acquainted with the classics, and the fashionable modern languages. He writes elegantly, and sometimes he *' lisps in num- bers ;" but he is not ambitious of the name either of poet or author. He is eminent in conversational brilliancy ; yet he disdains the profession of a wit, and the wranglings of a disputant. His honour is as pure, though not as cold, " as the icicle on Dian's Temple:" and his bravery, if it has not been proved, has, at least, never been questioned. Outlines of Character. THEORY OF LOVE, BY LORENZO DE MEDICIS. PREFIXED TO HIS AMATORY POETRV. With justice might I be blamed, had I been so richly gifted by nature as to make it easy for me to perform every action in a perfect manner j but this pre-eminence has been granted to very few, and even to these only on very rare occasions, during their lives : whence, upon considering the frailty of humanity, and being bound, for safety's sake, to confine ourselves to the common condition of mankind, and the constant practice of the world, I think those actions are to be preferred which give rise to the fewest evils. Now, Love is so far from being reprehensible, that, r2 244 BEAUTIKS OF MODERN LITERATURE. on the contrary, it is the surest indication of a noble and lofty mind ; and a special -cause that allures and excites men to the active practice of the virtues which dwell in the soul. Whoever seeks for the true defini- tion of Love, discovers it to be only a desire of the BEAUTIFUL. And, if this be the case, vice and defor- mity, in every shape, must be disgusting to him who truly loves. Beauty of countenance and mind is the principle and guide, which leads man to seek for beauty in other objects, to mount up to virtue, which is beauty half earthly, half divine, and come, at last, to repose in the sovereign beauty, that is God. The conditions which appear necessarily to belong to a true, exalted, and worthy love, are two: — 1st, To LOVE BUT ONE ; 2d, To LOVE THIS ONE ALWAYS. Not many lovers have "hearts so generous as to be capable of fulfilling these two conditions ; and exceedingly few women display sufficient attractives to withhold men from the violation of them ; yet, without these, there is no true love. For, in addition to natural charms, there must be found in the person beloved, talents, accomplishments, propriety of behaviour, elegant man- ners, a graceful presence, suavity of speech, good sense, love, constancy, and fidelity. Beauty and the eyes first give birth to love, but other endowments are necessary for its preservation. Because, should sickness, or other accidents, discolour the cheek, or early beauty fade away in age, the gifts of mind remain, and are not less dear to the heart, than beauty to the eye, and pleasure to the senses. The senses, it is true, open the door to love, but after- wards the soul must cherish it like a hallowed fire, BEAUTIES OF MODERN LlTERATUllK. 245 must refine and purify it by degrees, and feed on it. x'\nd yet these estimable qualities may not be enough, unless the lover possess sensibility of heart to discern them, and elevation and generosity of soul to appre- ciate them. But when the above-mentioned conditions meet in two enamoured persons, — she becomes more beautiful of soul, more wise, more happy in her affec- tions, — and he, to please her ever more and more, must, in all his actions, endeavour to excel in virtue, and beautify his soul, that he may emulate the moral and corporeal graces of his mistress. THE SAME THEORY, ILLUSTRATED BY SHAKSPEARE. SONNET CXVI. Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love. Which alters when it alteration finds. Or bends with the remover to remove ; O no ! it is an ever-fixed mark. That looks on tempests, and is never shaken ; It is the star to every wand'ring bark, ^Vhose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come ; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks. But bears it out, e'en to the edge of doom : If this be error, and upon me prov'd, I never writ, nor no man ever loved. Essays on Petrarch. 246 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. A NIGHT ADVENTURE. Fit pugil, et medictim iirget.— HoR. Sir, I WILL not preface the detail which I am about to transmit to you by any long introduction. It is suffi- cient to inform you, that I am one of those who are afflicted by a romantic imagination, which, however it may inspire or enchant us in our moments of poe- tical inspiration, is, as we all know, troublesome beyond measure, in the ordinary affairs of life. The circumstances which I am going to relate, are an exemplification of this trite, but true observation. It was on a beautiful autumn evening that I stole out unperceived, from a party engaged in discussing the merits of some of my father's oldest claret, and left him eloquently and feelingly declaiming in its praise, to take a solitary ramble through the extent of grounds that had so often witnessed my infant gam- bols, or seen me, at a more advanced age, performing the voyages of ^neas, by means of a horse- pond and washing-tub ; — or, imitating my favourite Hector, in the destruction of the Grecian navy, to the imminent peril of Farmer Ashfield's neighbouring hay-rick. It was an evening, to delineate whose beauteous gran- deur would require a heart teeming with all the in- spiration of the Muses — a pen dipped in the brightest colours of imagination. A soft mellow silence per- I BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 247 vaded the whole expanse of air and earth ; the 8un, just sinking beneath the horizon, still retained influ- ence sufficient to leave a bright tinge of red upon the western sky, and to deepen the verdure of the aged oaks, which, wreathing their huge gigantic branches into a thousand fantastic forms, overshadowed my path, and scarcely deigned to wave beneath the passing zephyr, that agitated their foliage for a moment, and, in the next, left all as still and solemnly silent as the grave. It was such an evening as would be peculiarly fitted to conjure up all the fantasies of a warm ima- gination ; which might easily have pictured to itself Queen Mab, and her fairy attendants, skipping nimbly over the herbage, or holding their sportive gambols far from the sight of intruding mortals, beneath the shade of some favourite beech. " On such a night as this," I wandered unconsciously along, forgetful almost of my own existence, totally absorbed in contemplation, and forming, in idea, the most unearthly and romantic images. Long had I thus roamed, indifferent to every thing around me, and in a kind of delicious forgetfulness of the world, and its unpleasant ac- companiments. Already had the darkness of night succeeded to the shades of evening, but so gradually had its sombre light given way to the gentle brightness of the moon, that I was far from perceiving the change, and still pursued my way, unconscious of the dews that began to fall around me, till a sudden cloud, ob- scuring the rays of the bright luminary above, and a sharp air, that died away in threatening forebodings through the grove below, recalled my scattered senses, and, arousing me to the knowledge of myself, and my 248 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERAJ f I.E. situation, brought to luy recollection the deserted party, and the supposition that, in all probability, tlie family would be alarmed at my absence. I was next reminded of a still more unpleasant circumstance; that, having no small distance to return, I should, in all probability, be caught in the storm which 1 now, for the ftrst time, perceived had been accumulating all its horrors from every point of the heavens, and was just ready to burst forth with terrifying violence. As all this passed in quick revolution through my brain, 1 had already turned my face homewards, and, with buttoned- up coat, was on the point of starting forward with as great rapidity as the increasing darkness and devious path would admit, when my purpose was sud- denly checked by the rain, of which 1 had been but so lately forewarned. It fell in torrents, so violent, that to proceed was impossible. I took refuge under a spreading tree, and had much ado to console myself with the reflection, that I had met with an " Adven- ture." " An Adventure," sir, it certainly was ; a most la- mentable one. I had not remained a minute in my uncomfortable situation, before I perceived two figures, of a most mysterious appearance, sheltering them^ selves from the storm, beneath the next tree. They were muffled up closely in thick cloaks, wore large slouched hats, and carried in their hands most villa- nous sticks. What could 1 suppose ? WTiat conclu- sion could I form, but that which all your readers, sir, would form, under similar circumstances ? — I was within a few yards of a brace of highwaymen ! WTiafc could 1 do ? Escape was impossible ! the least BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 249 noise was death to me ! Silently and anxiously I lis- tened to the conversation of my foes ; and my terror was not abated when I overheard these dark and ter- rible expressions : — " Upon the word of a gentleman !" said the first, " I have not touched a single guinea since I came into this part of the countiy !" " Business is, in truth, very duU !" said the other; "I have practised here for twenty years, and never M^as there a time when people have been so shy of putting themselves in my hands as they are at present !" No wonder ! thought I. "I am afraid," resumed the first, " there is a strong pre- judice gone abroad against our profession !" Prejudice! thought I. "You are right," replied the other ; "not one blockhead can die within ten miles round, but a hundred other blockheads cry out, that I killed him !" My blood ran cold ; but at this moment the violence of the tempest increased, and, for some minutes, I heard no more of the discussion. By degrees, the tumult of the elements abated, and I again caught a few words. " Your system, brother, is too violent ; I have always employed milder me- thods." (Blessings on you, thought I.) "I disap- prove of your indiscriminate use of steel, in all cases." '^ Steel, sir," cried the other, "steel !— Nothing is to be done, in our way, without steel." They began to move towards me ! I felt my brow grow clammy — my hair stand on end — my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth. They approached nearer ! — nearer ! Despair gave mc cou- rage. I seized a large branch, which had been rent 250 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. from its parent tree by the wind, and dashed it, with all the fury of hopelessness, " Full on the footpad's forehead ! down he sank, Without a groan expiring." I heard my name vociferated as I fled, but I staid not for this. With inconceivable rapidity I fled from the place of combat, and, after traversing a space of many miles, perceived, to my great satisfaction, that I was not pursued. I was endeavouring, though without much chance of accomplishing this desirable object, to discover the road I ought to take, when my ear was suddenly startled by a sound, which very much resem- bled a groan. At first, I treated it as a fanciful sound, though I confess my eyes were turned, with not the most comfortable feelings, upon the rugged branches, and broken stumps, that might have, to a terrified mind, borne the appearance of Satan and his sable at- tendants. A second, more loudly repeated, convinced me of its reality, and immediately looking in the direc- tion whence it seemed to proceed, I espied something white lying upon an open tuft of grass ; but I was, unfortunately, short-sighted, and this, added to the natural darkness, rendered me incapable of distin- guishing the nature of the mysterious appearance. A third, and deeper groan, vibrated on my ear : imagi- nation immediately resumed its sway, and concluding it to be a woman, and fancying I could distinguish her garments, *'^Alas, unhappy one!" thought I to myself, *' thou wast once, perhaps, lovely, in the bloom of youth, and surrounded by all the blessings of peace and innocence j but now, by the arts of some infamous BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 251 seducer, art become a fugitive vagabond, cast upon the wide world, houseless and helpless, with no one to pity, no one to succour thee ! Yes, by heaven ! there is one," I exclaimed, rushing forward with the most fervent feelings of humanity and pity : " there is one shall help thee, poor victim, and shelter thee from the furious storm. There is one," I continued, with all the ardour of a mind inspired with the most generous bene- volence, " that shall recruit thy weary limbs, and, if possible, restore thee to happiness ;" and, approaching still closer, 1 bent down, and was preparing to modu- late my voice in the softest accents of pity, when up it started, Mr. Editor, not in the shape of either a Chloe or Lucinda, but in that of one of my father's favourite Dorsetshire sheep, which, while enjoying the slumbers I had disturbed, uttered those hard breath- ings which, to my ear, sounded as groans. " Damn humanity \" I exclaimed, as the animal retreated with frightened rapidity, through an opening in the trees. " Damn humanity," I exclaimed, as I hurried back on my way, in no very placid temper, and in the next instant found myself at the bottom of a ditch, the existence of which I had entirely forgotten. Luckily, it was a dry one, but, unluckily, of such a depth, and defended by such steep banks, that, notwithstanding I received no injury by the fall, I was soon aware that the retreat would be a labour of much greater diffi- culty than the entrance had been j and, to add to my troubles, the long-expected rain began to fall in tor- rents. Thrice I attempted the steep ascent, and thrice, with nails begrimed with dirt, and muddy knees, met with a repulse. My labours might have continued 252 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. much longer, had not a large Newfoundland dog, ac- companied by the butler, sent to search for me, smelt out my retreat. With the joint assistance of Hector and John, I was soon rescued, and, in a short time found myself at the hall-door, surrounded by all the sen'ants, who had been on the look- out, and who, while listening to John's account, passed not a few jokes on young gentlemen studying the stars in a ditch. Heedless of these, and their stifled laughter, and having relieved my father's fears, I had the grati- tude to recall my oath, and thank Humanity for my safe return ; and when I found myself established by the blaze of a good fire to dry my moistened garments, " Bless Humanity !" I exclaimed, " for had she not directed Hector, I might still be exposed to yon rum- bling thunder, and all the fury of the tempest, with a ditch for my bed, and in no better plight than — the unfortunate victim of seduction." This suggested an instructive thought : " Pshaw!" I cried, " that must be forgotten till the next meeting of the King of Clubs, and then, perhaps, I may be inclined, though at my own expense, to furnish ample food for laughter to the mem- bers, by sending an account of my adventure. Ster- ling will deliver a lecture on star-gazing, and Mus- grave descant upon the propriety of having lamps to a night-coach. Peregrine, perhaps, will dish it up as a pretty morsel of a tale in ' The Etonian.' It will be a warning to all warm and poetical imaginations, not to stray too far, allured by the beauties of an autumn evening, until, after mistaking a Dorsetshire wether for a frail one, repenting of a faux pas, they shall slip, by ?i faux pas, into a ditch, after the manner of Theodore Aveling." BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 253 P. S. I forgot to mention, that the apothecary's lad brought a complaint the next morning against Master Theodore, for " breaking Mr. Gargle's head, in the storm, last night." Tlie Etonian . SELECT SOCIETY. WITH OBSERVATIONS ON THE MODERN ART OF MATCH-MAKING. Diilce sodalitium ! Connubio jungam stabili, propriiimque dicabo. If society be the end and object of civilization, it must be confessed, that we English, of the 19th century, are in a very barbarous condition. Never was an in- tercourse with the world clogged with so many impe- diments as at the present moment : never did good company cost so much pains to arrive at, and never did it afford so little in return. God be with the good times, when the sole capacity required to figure among men, was that of a two-gallon cask, and when we were sure to get on with the females at the expense of a little " civil speaking, lying and slandering." Then, alas ! any body was company for every body ; and the first lord in the land did not think shame, faute de onienx, to take up with the conversation of his butler, or his game-keeper, over a tankard ; while the young ladies, faute de tout, danced " Bobbing Joan," with 254 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. the rest of the domestics, in the servants' hall. But now-a-days, folks are grown so confoundedly precise, — or, to use their own word, so select, for sooth, in their society, that a man requires fresh qualifications for every house he enters. The rigour of the Vienna aristocracy of the first class, is not more unbending to the hourgeoiscy nor more uncompromising in a quar- tering, than our pretenders to selection, in their several degrees. A stranger might as well attempt to " work his way" into a Freemason's Lodge without the sign, as one of the profane to find favour in the eyes of a eo- cene without its specific qualification. That the supreme bon tmi of the supreme bon genre, should be a little par- ticular is but right, seeing the number and pertinacity of the intruders. Almack's has nothing of the "facilis descensus Averni," nor should it. On the contrary, to get out of Newgate, or the Fleet, is less difficult than to get in to the rooms in King-street; and this I take to be a merciful dispensation of ^^ their selectnesses," the committee ; since none but those bred to the trade are capable of standing the quietude of extremely fine manners, which is just one degree less than that of the tomb. But high rank and bon ton do not stand alone in this pretension. We have it running through all the classes and predicaments of society, from the Four-in- hand Club to Mrs. Hourglass's " tea and tracts," the amateur concerts at the Jew's Harp, near Whitecha- pel, and our friend's blue-stocking association in Houndsditch. Even the footmen of the House of Lords, we are told, keep clear of the borough-mongers, and country puts of the lower house. This selection is bore enough for those who have (to BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 255 use a French phrase, ^^ germain to the matter") found their assiette in society ; but to him who is not yet placed, it is a source of bitter disappointment. Shortly after leaving the university, on. my arrival in London, I was asked to dine at the house of one of our country neighbours, who, having been nominated M. P., had moved to town. This struck me as an eligible opening for making my way in good company, and I accepted the invitation with eagerness. Upon entering the drawing room, I soon found that I was the only person not of " the house." Adam Smith, David Ricardo, and Mons. Say, would have been mere fourth-form boys to this quintessential selection of the " collective wisdom." The conversation was wholly of " the shop ;" but though I do sometimes read the papers, I was very soon completely nonplused,''and at once made up my mind to bound my ambition to acquiring the reputation of a good listener. Sauntering down the street, something out of spirits at this discomfiture, I was attracted by the lights in my aunt Lady Mary Mildew's drawing room ; and, arriving at the door, just as Mr. , the bookseller, was " bundling out" a coach-load of literary lions for her Ladyship's inspection, I determined to step in, and see " what was going on." 1 had not been long in the room, when my aunt introduced me to a good-looking, but rather prim young lady, as newly arrived from Cambridge. Being a tolerably good French and Ita- lian scholar, and having a bowing acquaintance with our best English writers, I thought I should find my- self pretty much au fait to the young lady's indigo ; and I entered the list with some spirit, in the deter- 25G BEAUTIES OK MODERN LITERATURE. mination to make good my claim to a place among the blues, and to set myself off to advantage. But here again I was utterly thrown out : I could not tell my fair questioner, whether Lady lodina Crucible was " intellectual," I had omitted to attend Mr. Sapphic's Lecture, at the institution, I mistook the author of the Fall of Jerusalem, for the American Addison, I was two novels behind-hand with the " Great Unknown," Sydney Sm — th passed without returning my bow, and I totally failed in naming the authors of the two" crack" articles of the current Quarterly. Need I add, that I was, after five minutes effort at conversation, deserted by my companion, whose contemptuous dejection of countenance, as she whispered her next neighbour, and glanced her eye hastily at my person, convinced me that I was already black-balled, at least, by this member of Lady Mary's squad of selects. Hurrying down stairs with the speed of a detected pick-pocket, I stumbled upon Tom Headlong, of Je- Sus, the squire's nephew of Headlong Hall, who found much favour in my sight, by voting my aunt a quiz, and her party, the blue devils, and, on this account, he had the less difficulty in carrying me to the club, of which I had just been elected a member. There, I thought I should, at least, be welcome ; for my credit is good, and my money as acceptable as another's. But all is vanity and vexation of spirit. Notwithstand- ing that Newmarket is within fourteen miles of Cam- bridge, my ignorance of the technicalities of a horse- race was sufficient to exclude me from the conversa- tion of the night, which ran exclusively upon Epsom. My ominous silence on this interesting topic, boded I BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 257 me no good. Then I could not name the odds at some point of the game, when asked ; I mistook the round in which Gas had his '' lights doused ;" was totally out about his opponent's head being " in chancery." In short, I shewed myself up as complete as a Spooney, fell out of the conversation, and was left to eat my supper in silence, with what appetite I might. The next disappointment I encountered was at the house of a maiden relation, whom I had not seen for some years. The memory of her good-natured and unpretending simplicity, of her moderate endow- ments, and still more moderate acquirements, assu- red me that I might make myself "quite at home" with her. On arriving at her house, I found a formi- dable circle of Quaker-looking ladies, in the midst of which, stood a spruce and punctiliously-dressed gentle- man in black, who, somehow or other, brought to my mind a certain necessary personage in a sabbath of witches. My entrance interrupted the reading of some book, and as my fair relation came forward to greet me, I could not but observe, that though her reception was friendly, it was more measured and subdued than childish recollections induced me to expect. After the customary inquiries after absent friends, &c. the con- versation seemed to lapse into a train of ideas, inspired by the now suspended " readings." Its subject seemed to be religious ; but it was so wrapped up in something between technical jargon and cant, as to be nearly unintelligible, and I sunk by degrees into a reverie, in which my unfitness for society, and very imperfect education, formed a prominent and a painful part. Mortified by such repeated failures, I began to 258 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. lower my expectations, and to look no higher than the forming one amongst those cyi^hers which swell the sum total of a " squeeze," fill up door-ways and stair- cases, and obstruct the King's highway, by their at- tendant carriages. But, ^' non cuivis homifii," it is not every one's lot to enter at once, even this numerous corps. In order to be asked every where one must be seen every where, and known to every body; and there are those who, after spending a fortune in ices and wax-lights, are, at the end of twenty years' strug- gle, only just creeping on. To be distinguished in this " ge}ire," and to carry the place by a coup de main, is morally impossible ; because, where nothing is expected, where no qualification is required, there is no advantage- ground afforded for attracting the at- tention of an " admiring public." As a last resource I determined to advance myself by the merits of my dancing master, to ride into society on a ^' dhniqueue de chat," and to wind my- self round the hearts of my friends by a " cliaine An- glaise." But this also is not to be done at will, for it requires much patience and more intrigue to get enlisted into a set, or to be received in morning practising parties. As, however, I am an eldest son and the family estate is unembarrassed, my probation in this particular, was considerably shortened. The sort of society to which I was thus introduced was not altogether " Le bon genre." It was made up, for the most part, of what are called " respectable families ;" i. e. families whose easy circumstances, heaven knows how acquired, prevent their ranking absolutely as nobody, without very distinctly proving that they are any body : — East India baronets, militaiy BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 259 and civic knights, the small fry of country- gentlemen, (who spend a year's revenue in a two months' visit to London, or to some fashionable watering-place, living all the rest of the year in their lair at Clodpole-hall, as Cobbett would call it) together with those success- ful mercantile families and speculators, who, accord- ing to the same authority, are elbowing the said coun- try gentlemen out of their estates. Though pleasure and dissipation are the objects of some of these per- sonages in mixing with the world, and seem to be so with all, yet the fo7ide of the society consists of a class who unite business with amusement ; or rather, under the guise of pleasure, carry on an unremitting effort to strike a great stroke in life. These are the mothers who have marriageable daughters to dispose of, and whose views upon the persons of bachelors are any thing but disinterested. Being myself, as I have already hinted, one of those enviable young men who have " every qualification for making the married state happy," I w^as eagerly seized on as aproper victim of this systematic conspiracy of mothers to get off their daughters, and I soon got a pretty near insight into the whole affair. Veiy few houses indeed are open to a regular ball, or even to a " early dance" in which there is not a daughter or a niece to be disposed of. The money lavished on gaudy decorations, soups, wild fowl, ices, and champaign, is, therefore, merely put out at usance to be returned in a good settlement ; insomuch that the more ap- parently wanton the profusion, the closer may be deem- ed the calculation, seeming hospitality being nothing on earth but a well- baited trap. s2 260 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. On these occasions every body is asked for some- thing. Lords, baronets, &c. for their titles ; dragoons for their regimentals ; frightful old women, in their blue gowns and silver tissue turbans, for their sons and heirs ; handsome married women to draw the men ; ugly girls as foils ; and pretty girls, because the ball cannot go on without them. Some are invited to make up a card-table for the rich dowager mother of an heir at law ; some, because they have an air of fashion, or write " Albany" on their card. Eveiy thing, in short, is measured to the minutest particular, that can proceed or retard the great event, which is the mainspring of the whole. Although it is a part of good policy in a hawking mamma to fly her girls generally at all young fellows of decent fortune, yet she has, for the most part, some individual in view who is more particularly the object of pursuit : and it is truly astonishing how uniformly that favoured individual finds himself in contact with the " young lady" who has him in chase. Tall, thin, pale girls arc my aversion ; yet for two months I was nightly haunted by such a spectre, who forced me to ask her to dance, by " meeting my eye in an early hour of the debate," by planting herself as- siduously at my side, and engaging me in a series of innocent questions at the first preparatory scrape of the violins. Somehow or other I was always obliged to hand her down to supper, and, consequently, to sit beside her at the table. From this persecution I fortunately escaped by a lucky equivoque, which seem- ed to hint that I Avas engaged to a girl in the country, whose estate joins our's ; and the next evening I had BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 261 the happiness to see the stately galley bear down on another prize. It is a curious but a melancholy sight to behold the long rows of over-dressed girls, many of them, I hope, unconscious of the purpose for which they are thus launched on society, — with their fidgety, anxious mothers settling, from time to time, their hair and dress, nodding disapprobation, or smiling encourage- ment (as the puppet contradicts or favours the pur- pose in hand by her carriage and demeanour) and hav- ing no eyes, no ears, but for the one object of painful solicitude. Still more melancholy is it to witness the last struggles of an unfortunate " ahandonata" whose tenth season is passing in vain, with " nobody com- ing to marry her, nobody coming to woo-oo-oo !" (I hope the reader can whistle the tune for that last desponding monosyllable) while each causeless giggle intended to display a dimple, bears evidence of ano- ther accident in the " human face divine," which I forbear to name ; and a profusion of finery eclipses charms that it is no longer prudent to expose to the broad glare of lamps and wax lights. When a gudgeon is observed to rise freely to the bait he is asked to dinner, and engaged on riding parties in the mornings. A luncheon is also set out, as a rallying point for young men, whose appetites are often more ductile than their passions. Hearts are thus ensnared through the medium of cold tongue, and bread and but- ter, and a sure love potion is Madeira and Soda-water. When all else fails, the good old lady herself hints very plainly her reasonable expectations, and strives hard to carry an hesitating swain by a barefaced innuendo. 262 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. Ay I have my own reasons for not going into those schemes, and prefer taking a wife (when I shall take one) from purer sources, I have ever been more an- noyed than flattered by such distinctions. And this probably has made me feel the more keenly the gene- ral ill effects on society arising from these maternal in- trigues, in which the married and the poor go for nothing. If one, belonging to either of these classes, engages a girl's attention and distracts her from the business of the night, you may see the mother prowl- ing about with fretful uneasiness, like a cat whose kitten is in the paws of some unlucky urchin, and at last fairly breaking in upon the conversation to hurry her daughter aM^ay from the troublesome interloper. I have felt the deepest compassion for many a worthy fellow, whose accomplishments^ talents, and virtues, should have made him a most desirable match, thus warned off the premises, like an unqualified sports- man, and treated with contempt in the quarter in which contempt is most insufferable, merely for the want of a little dross. Where these practices are car- rying on, in a family, all agreeable and instructive con- versation is banished the house. Even in the most intimate sociality the necessity of knocking up a qua- drille to the piano-forte, or of engaging the musical misses in the display of their acquirements, cuts short all sweet converse. All the dust of the carpet is beaten into your eyes and throat, your ears are stun- ned, your person pushed about the narrow room, or you are condemned to listen for the five thousandth time, to " Bid me discourse" and a " Di tanti palpiti," sung in that time and tune which it pleaseth fortune. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 263 or the no less capricious tempers of tiie melodious exhibitaiits. For these and a thousand other reasons^ Avhich for brevity I must now omit, it becomes a point of pru- dence and good policy to adopt a plan that shall con- sign matrimony, like all other trades, to the forenoon, and to the commercial parts of the city, leaving the haunts of pleasure and the hours of recreation to their legitimate purposes. In France marriage is transacted by " private contract." The unmarried whey faces are kept in the back- ground, and talking does not spoil conversation in the saloons. This arrangement, however, in which the young folks are not brought out, is too foreign for our habits, and cannot be re- commended. But nothing could be more convenient than the erection of an exchange exclusively appro- priated to matrimonial speculation. The neighbour- hood of Mark Lane would afford a good site, as coun- try gentlemen might dispose of their corn and their daughters at the same time. Or a room might be hired in the Auction Mart, or at Tattersall's, for the purpose. The fitting up of shew rooms, or bazars, in the neighbourhood of Bond Street, might have its utility, in which each girl might be ticketed, and " no second price taken." This would answer the better, as in bazars " no credit can possibly be given," and " no goods are returned after they have left the shop." Subservient to this scheme, registers might be opened, in which an inspector might, at a glance, know how far any number in the catalogue would suit. By such arrangements we might have our evenings to ourselves, and mammas their daughters, and young gentlemen of 264 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. good expectation, might, each and all, enjoy the de- lights of social intercourse, undisturbed by anxious speculation, and unharassed by the dread of spring guns and steel traps in concerts, dances, and opera suppers. As things are now conducted, we must marry in one's own defence, and run the risk of perpetual annoyance at home, in order to obtain some chance of a little tranquil enjoyment abroad. This certairdy re- quires reform, and something might be done in the shape of a rider, to some of the many Marriage Acts which are daily passing the two Houses of Parliament. Let the members look to it, at their leisure. CM. New Monthly Magazine. MEMOIR OF WILLIAM ROSCOE, ESQ. " Full many a gem of purest ray serene. The dark, unfathom'd caves of ocean bear." These lines are peculiarly applicable to the birth and parentage of Mr. Roscoe. He was a " gem," pro- duced in obscurity, whose lustre did not seem intended for the gaze and admiration of mankind, but, happily, he was destined to emerge from the lowliness of his situation, and to surmount the difficulties which the humility of his birth had opposed to his advancement and literary fame. He was born at Liverpool, of ob- BEAUTIES OF MODERN IJTERA'IURE. 265 sciire parents. Both his father and mother were en- gaged in the service of a bachelor, a gentleman of the most amiable and generous disposition, in whose ser- vice it is probable they first became acquainted. A mutual attachment became the consequence of this acquaintance, and it was approved of by their master, to whom their fidelity had strongly recommended them. They were, consequently, married with his consent, and young Roscoe, their first-born, was brought up at his expense. Having died without an heir, he left the greater part, if not the entire of his property, to the subject of our memoir. It does not appear that his patron paid any atten - tion to his early education, and his father had no higher ambition than of making him acquainted with writing and arithmetic. Through an obstinacy of temper, however, which, in many minds, is the forerunner of genius, Roscoe could not be prevailed upon to submit to the tame drudgery of scholastic discipline ; and, consequently, he did not avail himself even of the small advantages of education which his parents were able to afford him. Indolence, however, was not the character of his mind ; and though he would not attend school, he studied assiduously at home. He began early to perceive the advantages of thinking for himself, on every occasion ; and the habits of thought and mental application, soon gave evidence of that genius, which has since shone forth with so pure a lustre. At this period, however, he studied things, not words. He endea- voured to resolve into their individual elements, all his general conceptions, and to form general theories from an aggregate of individual principles. He pur- 266 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. sued nature through her mazy march, and the wizard perplexity of her course was not more unaccountable to him, than the variety of appearance and dresses which she assumed, at every deviation from her direct course. But while he was thus endeavouring to com- bine the kindred, and separate the heterogeneous attrr- butes of things, he seemed to be perfectly free from the dominion of that restless spirit which pants after fame ; and his studies to have been determined by no other stimulus than the desire of gratifying that, im- mediate thirst of knowledge, which, in him, was rather an instinct, than the result of mature deliberation. He never reflected, that the treasures of intellectual know- ledge, which he was amassing at this early period, might lead either to the promotion of his future inte- rest, or literary reputation. He studied, because study was pleasing to him, — ^because the charms of science, the captivating scenes of ideal creations, and the syren images of imagination and the muse, were per- petually hovering around him in sportive maze, and communicating a secret gratification to the most simple occurrences and occupations of his youth. As pre- sent enjoyment, and not prospective advantages, was, therefore, the secret magnet by which he was attracted, he totally neglected the study of languages, in which there is nothing to gratify, or enchant the youthful mind. A knowledge of Greek and Latin is an endless source of pleasure to him who possesses it, but, until a language is known, this pleasure can have no existence, and Roscoe entered only into those regions of science, where every prospect presented some romantic imagery. He was awoke, however, from his fairy dreams, by BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 2G7 engaging in more active pursuits, in which the ideal- isms of the poet, and the hypotheses of the philoso- pher, are equally imknown. He was articled to Mr. Eyes, a respectable attorney in Liverpool, and now, for the first time, he was made acquainted with the difference between practical and speculative acquire- ments. A clerk in the office boasted, one day, of having read Cicero de Amicitia, and commented largely on the classic elegance and simplicity of the illustrious Roman ; and Roscoe, though much more deeply versed in general literature, was obliged to remain silent, and tacitly acknoAvledge a conscious sense of his own infe- riority. He felt his situation veiy poignantly, but it was not a feeling that remained dormant in his breast. He found a new passion awake in his bosom, and he was no longer prompted to study by that spirit of idle curiosity which proposes to itself no final object. Pride and ambition took immediate possession of him, and he henceforth yielded to their restless but inspir- ing influence. He now thirsted after knowledge, be- cause he felt its value, and he spurned that effeminacy which delights to linger in the softer recesses of sci- ence, and dares not pursue her to her most formidable and difficult retreats. He immediately procured Ci- cero's treatise de Amicitia, and, by a perpetual recur- rence to his grammar and dictionaiy, he soon became acquainted with those elegancies of style, and beauties of diction, which no art could transfer to his native tongue. He did not rest his career, however, till he became a perfect master of the Roman language, and inti- mately acquainted with the best Latin poets and 268 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. historians. In the accomplishment of this arduous task, he derived very considerable assistance from his intercourse with Mr. Francis Holden. A knowledge of the Latin tongue was not, however, sufficient to satisfy his ambition. He now applied himself to the study of the French and Italian, in the latter of which, he is universally alloAved to be as pro- foundly versed as the most distinguished of its native vn,'iters. When we reflect, that he acquired this know- ledge during the intervals of business, and never ab- sented himself from the duty of his office, we must acknowledge it as an instance of application which has few parallels in the history of literature. His first passion for poetry and works of imagina- tion, though it was moderated for a time by the toil of more rigid pursuits, assumed its original strength and energy, after he became acquainted with the Latin, French, and Italian poets. His first production, ac- cordingly, was a brilliant effiision of imagination. He wrote " Mount Pleasant" in his sixteenth year; and, we must say, that we know of no poem, composed at so early a period, that combines such fertility of idea with such correctness of taste. We are told that, after the expiration of his clerk- ship, he was taken into partnership by Mr. Aspinwall, a very respectable attorney of Liverpool ; and the en- tire management of an office extensive in practice, and high in reputation, devolved upon him alone. In this situation, he conducted himself in such a manner, as to gain universal respect ; for notwithstanding his va- rious pursuits, he paid strict attention to his profession. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 269 and acquired a liberal and minute knowledge of the law. In clearness of comprehension, and rapidity of dispatch, he had few equals. About this time, he formed an intimacy with the late Dr. Enfield, Avho was at the academy at Warring- ton, a tutor in the belles lettres. When he published the second volume of the Speaker, Mr. Roscoe sup- plied him with an " Elegy to Pity," and an " Ode to Education." About the same time, he became ac- quainted with Dr. Aikin, who was then resident at Warrington. These gentlemen were not less admirers of his refined and elegant manner as a writer, than of his chaste and classical taste in painting and sculpture. In December, 1773, he recited before the society form- ed in Liverpool, for the encouragement of drawing, painting, &c. an ode, which was afterw^ards published with " Mount Pleasant," his first poetical production. He occasionally gave lectures on subjects connected with the object of this institution, and was a very ac- tive member of the society. He also wrote the preface to Dalby's catalogue of Rembrandt's Etchings, in which he displays, not only an original view of en- graving and painting, but an intimate acquaintance with the opinions of the best writers on the subject. No person saw more clearly the excellencies and de- fects of Rembrandt, and the causes to which his faults were properly owing. While the combined powers were engaged in re- storing the ancient order of things in France, Mr. Ros- coe, animated by the rapid glow of youthful emotions, and the enthusiasm inspired by the love of freedom, attuned his lyre to the cause of liberty, and composed 2/0 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. his celebrated poems, "^ The Vine-covered Hills" and " Millions he Free." He also translated one of Petrarch's odes, which was inserted in the Mercurio Italico. Those compositions are deservedly classed among the most elegant and classical productions in the English language. While France maintained her long contested strug- gle with this country and the combined powers, Mr. Roscoe devoted himself to his immortal work, the history of Lorenzo de Medici. It was began in 1/90, and completed in 1/96. Its reputation did not stand in need of adventitious aid. Public feeling had deter- mined its character, even before the tribunal of criti- cism had time to derogate from, or emblazon its merits. Even the Cynical Mathias, who seems to have prided himself in scoffing at merit of the highest order, has not ventured to impeach the character of this work, and we believe the lines which he has devoted to its praise, are some of the happiest in his " Pur- suits of Literature. We are informed, that when Mr. Roscoe undertook his " Life of Lorenzo de Medici," he lived at the dis- tance of two miles from Liverpool, whither he was obliged daily to repair, to attend the business of his office. The dry and tedious details of law, occupied his attention dliring the whole of the morning and af- ternoon ; his evenings, alone, he was able to dedicate to study: and it Avill be easily conceived, that a gentleman surrounded by a numerous family, and whose company was courted by his friends, must have experienced, even at these hours, a variety of interrup- tions. No public library provided him with materials. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 2/1 The rare books which he had occasion to consult, he was obhged to procure in London, at a considerable expense. But in the midst of all these difficulties, the work grew under his hands ; and in order that it might be printed under his own immediate in- spection, he established an excellent press in the town of Liverpool. Shortly after the publication of this work, Mr. Ros- coe abandoned the profession of an attorney, and entered himself at Gray's Inn, with a view of becoming a barrister. He availed himself of the leisure which he derived from this circumstance, and began to study the Greek language, in which, we are told, he made very considerable proficiency. The '^^ Life of Lorenzo de Medici" made too strong an impression on the public mind, to suffer its au- thor to pursue in peace the practice of a profession for wbich, though he was one of its highest ornaments, nature had never intended him. He was called upon by the general voice of the public to write the life of the celebrated patron of literature, " Leo the Tenth" the son of Lorenzo, who was also the Mecenas of his age. Mr. Roscoe engaged in the work with a sort of filial devotion to the memory of a family, whose fame will descend to the latest posterity. He found Leo not to be the patron of genius and the Mecenas of his age, but, in fact, the actual reviver of literature in Europe. He recognized in him all those attributes of munifi- cence and princely bounty, which characterized his father Lorenzo. His popularity suffered considerably, however, for a time, because he dared to do justice to a man whose creed was at variance with his own, but. 272 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. whose actions and conduct through life have com- manded the esteem and admiration of mankind. To do justice to an enemy, is the distinguishing charac- teristic of a noble and liberal mind ; and yet Mr. Ros- coe's liberality has been termed bigotry and infidelity, by those whose expansion of sentiment never ventures to extend itself beyond the niggard pale of their theo- logical creed. We are told he is an apologist for popery, by those very people who accuse him of re- publicanism and licentiousness of religious opinions. The public, however, have subsequently done justice to his Life of Leo the Tenth. While he was engaged in the completion of this work, he was invited to become chief partner in the banking house of Clarke and Sons, at Liverpool ; a situation which he reluctantly, and we regret to say, unfortunately accepted. He was also a zealous advo- cate of Mr. Fox's political principles, and in 1806, stood candidate for the representation of his native town, at the solicitation of the whigs who were then in office. He was triumphantly returned, but his friends having retired from office the following 1 year, he judged it prudent to decline another contest, i It should not, however, be forgotten that, during his i short parliamentary career, he was very instrumental in abolishing the African slave trade. He published ■ some political pamphlets after retiring from parlia- ment ; and though they were received by one party with abuse, and by the other with unqualified applause, all parties acknowledged they were dictated by a spirit of moderation and mildness, which seldom characterize the productions of polemical controvertists. BEAUTIKS OF MODERN LITERATURE. 273 While he was thus actively engaged, a series of un- foreseen circumstances led the banking house to sus- pend payment. The creditors, however, had so much confidence in Mr. Roscoe's integrity, that the bank was afforded time to recover from its embarrassment ; and Mr. Roscoe, on first entering the bank after this accommodation, was loudly greeted by the populace. The difficulties, however, in which the bank was placed, rendered it impossible for the proprietors to make good their engagements. Mr. Roscoe did all that could be ex- pected from an honest man : he gave up the whole of his property to satisfy his creditors. His library, which was very extensive, and consisted principally of Italian works, was the only sacrifice which he had reason to regret ; as it deprived him of that intellec- tual society which he found in communing with, and imbibing the sentiments of kindred minds. The failure of the bank is supposed to have been occasioned by the great number of other failures which took place at that time. Mr. Roscoe, when young, was extremely handsome. His countenance was open and generous, and his de- portment dignified and majestic. He has long enjoyed the honour of ranking at the head of the circles of taste in Liverpool ; and has always evinced himself the friend and patron of genius. Whoever was fortu- nate enough to receive a letter of recommendation to him, was certain of being noticed and patronized in Liverpool. Minasi, the celebrated musician, was in- debted to him for his early popularity. He was re- commended to him by Mr. Smith, of the British Mu- seum ; a gentleman universally respected for his T 274 KEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. urbanity of manners, and polite attention to all who have occasion to visit that valuable collection of lite- rary and scientilic curiosities. Though born of humble parentage, Mr. Roscoe has evinced through life, that unaffected dignity of manner, that delicate sense of honour, and that pride of acting up to its most rigid and jealous dictates, which prove, that the principle which constitutes true greatness of mind, is not the exclusive birth- right of ancestry. He is a zealous advocate for the rights of mankind, and the voice of freedom inspired him to sing " The Wrongs of Africa," and to pourtray them with a spirit and strength of colouring, that gave a new im- petus to the enthusiasm which animated the friends of liberty at the time, and which eventually restored the degraded African to that equal freedom, which is the birth-right of the human race. It was this love of liberty, or rather the great and generous emotions which it awakens in the soul, that inspired him, when he breathed the following impas- sioned strains : There Afric's swarthy sons, their toils repeat Beneath the fervors of the noon-tide heat. Till broke with fervor, helpless and forlorn. From their weak grasp the lingering morsel torn. The reed-built hovel's friendly shade deny'd. The jest of folly, and the scorn of pride. Drooping beneath meridian suns they lie. Lift the faint head, and bend the imploring eye. Till death, in kindness to the tortured breast. Calls the free spirit to the realms of rest. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 2/5 Mr. Roscoe intended to publish his Wrongs of Africa in three parts. The first appeared in 1787, and the second the year following ; but the public was never gratified with the third. The subject, it is true, ceased to possess interest after the Slave Trade was abolished, and to this alone we can attribute the circumstance of its not having appeared. Mr. Roscoe, both in and out of Parliament, never ceased his exertions till this great event Avas happily accomplished ; and one of his most argumentative and spirited works, is, a refutation of a pamphlet in defence of the Slave Trade, entitled, " Scriptural Researches info the Licitness of the Slave Trade." Mr. Roscoe entitled his answer, "A Scrip- tural Refutation of a Pamphlet lately jmhlished hy the Rev. Raymond Harris." He was the first who succeeded in bringing the literature of the middle age into repute in this countiy. His Life of Lorenzo de Medici, and of Leo X., rendered an acquaintance with the characters, discoveries, and historical occurrences of those times, an indispensable qualification in any per- son, who would mingle with the literary and fashion- able circles. We have learnt, with unfeigned satis- faction, that he is at present engaged in editing Pope's works. He has lately favoured the public with an able defence of his Life of Lorenzo de Medici, which has been attacked by some foreign writers of high literary repute. As the work, however, is well known to our readers, and was reviewed in our last two numbers, we mention it only as a circumstance which should not be omitted in a Memoir of his life. To his edition of Pope's works, we look forward with great interest ; for the controversies which have lately engaged the t2 276 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. public attention, relative to Pope's poetical character, will, we doubt not, be investigated in that distinct and perspicuous manner, which is characteristic of all Mr. Roscoe's writings. He who travels with him, is cer- tain of not being led through the regions of "Cim- merian darkness." He never aims, like many of our modern writers, to astonish his readers, by pretending to teach them what he does not understand himself. What he perceives clearly, he expresses simply and lu- minously. The same chaste simplicity and perspicuity of manner, were the distinguishing characteristics of the great poet, in the elucidation of whose works he is now engaged. JSuropean Magazine, SIR THOMAS NESBIT'S DEFINITION OF A GOOD FELLOW. " Vir bonus est quis !".— HoR. Being desired by his Majesty to draw up, for the instruction of all whom it may concern, " a definition of a Good Fellow," I thought it proper to apply to the members of the club, individually, for such hints as they could furnish me with, for the prosecution of the design, I received the following : — MR. GOLIGHTLY. A good fellow is one who rides blood horses, drives four-in-hand, speaks when he's spoken to, sings when BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 277 he's asked, always turns his back on a dun — and never on a friend. MR. L£ BLANC. A good fellow is one who studies deep, reads Tri- gonometry, and burns love-songs ; has a most cordial aversion for dancing and D'Egville, and would rather encounter a cannon than a fancy ball. HON. G. MONTGOMERY. A good fellow is one who abhors moralists and mathematics, and adores the classics and Caroline Mowbray. SIR. T. WENTWORTH. A good fellow is one who attends the fox dinner and drinks the Queen's health, — who would go to the Indies to purchase independence, and would rather encounter a buffalo than a boroughmonger. MR. M. STERLING. A good fellow is a good neighbour, a good citizen, a good relation ; — in short, a good man. MR. m'farlane. A good fellow is " a bonnie, braw John Hieland- man." MR. O^CONNOR. A good fellow is one who talks loud and swears louder, cares little about learning and less about his neckcloth, — loves whiskey, patronizes bargemen, and wears nails in his shoes. MR. MUSGRAVE. A good fellow is prime — flash — and bang-up. 278 HEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURK. MR. BURTON. A good fellow is one who knows " what's what," keeps accounts, and studies Cocker. MR. ROWLEY. A good fellow likes turtle and cold punch, drinks Port when he can't get Champagne, and dines on mutton with Sir Rohert, when he can't get venison at my Lord's. MR. LOZELL. A good fellow is something compounded of the preceding. MR. OAKLEY. A good fellow is something perfectly different from the preceding, — and Mr. Lozell is an ass. And now, after so many and so excellent descrip- tions, what can Sir Thomas add. Why to be sure I am placed in rather a difficult situation j however, with due deference to the above highly-respected gentlemen, I must conjure up the beau ideal of " a good fellow." First of all, as a foundation for a multitude of virtues, he must be abundantly good-natured. Now, by good-nature, I do not understand that easy, timid, unmeaning sort of complaisance which says " yes"* to every body, merely from the fear of saying " no ;" nor that soft simplicity, which, without any will or controul of its own, suffers itself to be turned about like the weather- cock on the steeple, hardly inquiring whether it moves * No rtflectiou on our worthy friend, Mr, Lozell, on Uie word of a true Nrsbit. BEAUTIES OF Mc^DKRN LITEUATUKK. 2/9 to right or wrong purposes ; and which, by taking eveiy thing in good part, however ill-meant, acquires the enviable distinction of standing as a public butt, at which any tool thinks himself entitled to take a random shot, and invariably confers upon its possessor the honourable appellation of cawker. My hero should have just enough of this temper, to enable him to give a joke and take one, with equal pleasure. He must be seldom passionate, and even sulky; not inclined to quarrels, but still less to stand calmly by, if his schoolfellows or himself were unprovokedly attacked. He should never give up his accomplices, although threatened with tenfold punishment, and should run the risk of a flogging himself, and save another from the certainty of one. I would have him with just sufficient reading to have something to say for himself, and just sufficient wit to make what he says agreeable. I will admit, however, that there is not much objection to his being a pretty good scholar, provided he is ready to communicate his knowledge where there is occasion, — to construe the lesson for the general good, — and to do a few verses now and then, upon a push, for some unfortunate blockhead on a regular week, — provided, too, that he is never caught out in a quotation. He ought to like all sorts of games, though it is not at all necessary that he should excel in any one, provided that he enters into the spirit of them, and takes particular care not to give his adver- sary a wilful kick at foot- ball, and not to direct his cricket-ball against the legs instead of the wicket of the player. With all these perfections, it is his abso- lute duty to hate pride as he docs lying, — to hate lying 280 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURfi. as he does hypocrisy, — and hypocrisy as he does the devil. Thus you see he will be kind, generous, plea- sant, and useful, and what further can any one desire ? Perhaps you may be inclined to think I have exacted rather too much, I have, indeed, some reason to suppose that very few of the above-mentioned qualities arc requisite to form what, an Etonian would call, a good fellow 3 and that term seems so often applied to undeserving and opposite characters, that I am inclined to think, that the judgment of the school, in this respect, is neither veiy severe, nor very consistent. Once I was extremely surprised at hearing a boy mentioned as a good fellow, whom I had always held in the light of a reputed bully, whose tyranny, in common with others, I had fre- quently felt, and abused. This change was accounted for, by his having assisted a party in a contest with some blackguards, either out of wantonness, the mere love of fighting, or perhaps, after all, because he could not help it. I have often been present when the epithets of beast and good fellow have been given to the same person, in less than a minute, the latter of which, was apparently used as a conciliatory, upon his consenting to lend a book, which he had before refused. What way of entreating can be so efFectivej so moving, as the usual form ?■ — " Pray do me what I ask, and you will be a good fellow." The name, hack- neyed as it is, seems to have an inexpressible charm — it is equivalent to thanks and to flattery — an incite- ment to perform a service — a reward when it has been performed. I, for my own part, entertain a great respect and veneration for this honourable title, and I BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 281 cannot sufficiently regret that it should be given to the ill-natured, because they happen once to have deviated from their usual practice ; to the sullen, because they sometimes laugh ; to the stingy, because they now and then squeeze out from their purses an extravagant shil- ling ; to the bully, because he for once in a way bullies those who deseiTC it. I think, however, it may, with great justice, be applied to whoever is strongly attached to his own pursuits, but never abuses those of others. In this opinion I am the more decided, from my willingness to allow this title to many who are defici- ent in most of the above-mentioned qualifications. In short, I am very ready to extend the appellation to every one who has a kind heart ; to every one who " lives as he ought to do ;" to every one who sweetens his last glass of port, by drinking " prosperity to Eton, happiness to his schoolfellows, and long life to The Etonian." T. N. The Etonian. THOUGHTS ON TRANSLATION. We think that the exercise of translation is the very worst plan that a young man of literature could set out with. Unhabituated to any style, his ideas yet unsettled and unlinked to their proper terms, he is sure to yield to the language which he translates. This may flatter the foreigner who prepares the original, that he is rendered the more forcibly ; but he is de- ceived. The expressions will not strike the public car 282 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. as they have struck his. He is misunderstood, or, more generally, not understood at all ; while the young trans- lator loses his vernacular tongue, and becomes after- wards incapable of expressing his own thoughts in his mother tongue. For this reason it is likely that France will be a long time ere she can revive any thing like a literature. She has evinced such a rage for transla- tions, and such a contempt for any original works, that her men of literature can produce, that booksellers are compelled, by their own interest, to publish trans- lations, and translations only. So far is this carried, that original essays have been published lately, and sold in France, as translations from the English and German. Hence it is that Paris overflows with what are called young men of literature, but who, in fact, do nothing but translate.* They neither read nor write to any worthy purpose, and their taste is formed, of course, in prejudice of the literature over which they are obliged to spend some time. These young men are all romantic, whilst the old stagers are classic, in taste nearly as ignorant, and having read little beyond the Moniteur, Corneille, Racine, the tragedies and light pieces of Voltaire, they are scarcely able to hold their ground against the partizans of the romantic, — and only hold their ground, because that, by prescription? they have possession of the public journals. The pre- * * Tlic mode is, for some literary man of reputation, to advertise liis name as the translator, while the translation is performed, in fact, by young men, for ever so little per sheet. Thus the wretciied translation of Siiakspeare by Guizet. Guizet never wrote one word of it, except tlie iiitroinictory essay. On liie same plan, iie is Iraiislatint;; a seri»s of onr historians during the civil v\ar, and has begun witli ihomas May. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 283 sent race of French writers, (of the lighter kind,) arc translators, — the next will be mere imitators. We already begin to return them the compliment, of im- posing a foreign school upon their taste, which is evi- dent from the verses of La Martine, their most popular living poet. Blackivood's Magazine. CHARACTER OF PETRARCH. Nature had doomed Petrarch to such a necessity of interchanging affections, that he never seemed happy unless when loving or being loved. Affection, in his eyes, levelled the inequalities of education and fortune, and, in spite of his yearning for solitude, he was solus sibi, totus omnibus ; omnium locomm, om- nium horarum, omnium fortunarutn,omnium mortalium homo. He speaks in the same terms of the peasant and his wife, who waited on him at Vaucluse, as he uses when recording the good qualities of his power- ful friends. — " He was my counsellor, and the keeper of all my most secret designs ; and I should have la- mented his loss still more grievously, had I not been warned by his advanced age, that I could not expect long to retain possession of such a companion. In him, I have lost a confidential servant, or, rather, a father, in whose bosom I had deposited my sorrows for these fifteen years past ; and his humble cottage was to me as a temple. He cultivated for me a ii^w acres of indifferent land. He knew not how to read, 284 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. yet he was also the guardian of my libraiy. With anxious eye he watched over my most rare and ancient copies, which, by long use, he could distinguish from those that were more modern, or of which I myself was the author. Whenever I consigned a volume to his custody, he was transported with joy; he pressed it to his bosom with sighs ; with great reverence he repeated the author's name, and seemed as if he had received an accession of learning and happiness from the sight and touch of a book. His wife's face was scorched by the sun, and her body extenuated by la- bour ; but she had a soul of the most candid and ge- nerous nature. " Under the burning heat of the dog- star, in the midst of snow, and of rain, she was found from morning till evening in the field, whilst even a greater part of the night was given to work than to repose. Her bed was of straw ; her food was black bread, frequently full of sand ; and her drink was wa- ter, mixed with vinegar ; yet she never appeared weary or afflicted, never shewed any desire of a more easy life, nor was even heard to complain of the cruelty of destiny, and of mankind." It was on account of his natural benevolence, that Petrarch seemed free from that feeling by which almost all men of letters, if not during the whole, at least, in gOme moments of their lives, are inwardly humiliated. The mystical tradition of Apollo flaying his competitor, is related by a Greek antiquaiy, with such praises of the musical skill of Marsays, and with such imputa- tions of trickeiy and cruelty on the god of poetry, that it was probably an allegory, not so much of the chas- tisement merited by presumptuous ignorance, as of BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 285 the vindictive jealousy of scholars. The protestations, which Petrarch mingles with the confessions of his other failings, and which he repeats in his old age, — " that envy never dwelt in his heart," sprang from one of the countless illusions which bewilder us, precisely when we fancy that our own heart can hide nothing from our penetration. Envy remained dormant, be- cause no one about Petrarch was pre-eminent enough to awaken it. He uttered rarely the name, and affected never to peruse the works, of Dante ; and if he cannot always avoid speaking of his predecessor, it is to re- cord less his excellencies than his faults. With re- spect to his contemporaries, Petrarch was so far above jealousy himself, that he often contrived to extinguish it among them. But whenever his interference was not attended with success, he lamented it as an unde- served misery, to which, however, he submitted, per- haps, from the ambition of displaying his superiority. To this trait of his character he seems to allude in some lines which, undoubtedly, were prompted by his own experience. Witli anxious toil, he, through his Icngthen'd life, The copious flood of eloquence applied, In vain ! to quench of learned hands the strife ; For with the growth of arts, grew envious pride. Wisdom herself but fann'd the raging pest, And urg'd its veuom o'er the inflated breast. Although his vanity was gratified at the expense of his peace, his mediation in the literary quarrels was grounded on the generous principle, — " that they who burn with the love of their country, being essentially virtuous, are formed by nature for indissoluble friend- ship." But lofty maxims, when proclaimed amongst 283 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. people with whom they are impracticable, inevitably provoke ridicule ; and Petrarch, by reproving those who laughed at his advice, in some measure justified the jest against him. A literary club of young men at Venice, brought him to a formal trial, for having usurped and exercised an illegal jurisdiction over all questions of learning. They appointed, from their own body, judges and counsel ; and after hearing the plead- ings for the prosecution, and the defence, they decided that Petrarch's crime consisted only in being a good sort of man. Of this farce no one, save Petrarch him- self, took any serious notice. To repel the insinuation, he composed a large book, which has actually forced posterity to join in the merriment of his accusers. Thinking that mankind conspired, not so much against him as against wisdom and virtue, his charac- ter acquired a tint of misanthropy by no means na- tural to him. All those who approached him nearly, perceived that he had more of fear than hatred, more of pity than contempt, for man. Indeed, the propen- sity to be useful to others, although too loudly professed, was born with him, and, instead of being abated by the selfishness of old age, it grew into an anxiety which ceased only with his life. When one of his friends was persecuted, he wrote to him : — " Take your choice, either come and find an asylum under my roof, or you will compel me to come into France for your protec- tion." The lessons of early adversity, which harden selfish dispositions, had taught the generous heart of Petrarch to feel for the sufferings of others ; and shun- ning — like all men, who are merely busied with their own feelings and intellectual faculties — " the exertion BEAFTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 287 necessary for the acquirement and preservation of riches/' he was led, in the fearlessness of youth, to spend for the benefit of others, nearly all of the scanty inheritance he derived from his parents, who died in exile. He bestowed one part as a dowry on his sister, who married at Florence, and gave up the other to two deserving friends, who were in indigent circumstances. He lent even some classic manuscripts, which he called his only treasures, to his old master, that he might pawn them : in this manner, Cicero's books De Glo- ria were irrecoverably lost. If his presents were de- clined, he attached some verses to them, which com- pelled his friends to accept them ; and he distributed his Italian poetry as alms amongst rhymesters and ballad singers. As he advanced in years, the sovereign contempt for riches which he continued to profess, was more apparent than real, especially towards the end of his career : yet he never forgot those who looked to him for aid, which he always bestowed with kind- ness. Among the many legacies of his testament, he left to one of his friends his lute, that he might sing the praises of the Almighty ; to a domestic, a sum of money, intreating him not to lose it at play, as usual ; to his amanuensis, a silver goblet, recommending him to fill it with water in preference to wine ; and Boc- cacio, a winter pelisse, for his nocturnal studies. Nor did he wait till death had compelled him to be liberal. " In good truth," he writes to Boccacio, " I know not what you mean, by answering that you are my debtor in money. Oh ! if I were able to enrich you ! — but for two friends like ourselves, who possess but one soul, one house is sufficient." 288 BEAUTIIZS OF MODETIN LITERATURE. These offers arose, also, from the loneliness in which Petrarch often passed his days. To be the parent of illegitimate children, chilled the domestic charities, which alone could offer consolation to his ardent heart. His son, either from the perverseness of his disposition, or from the father's excessive anxiety about his future eminence, was a source of tribulation and shame ; and he never mentions him by any other name than — the youth, — so that, had it not been for D. Sade's recent discovery of a bull of Clement VI., legitimating him, nobody, not even Tiraboschi, could have guessed that he was Petrarch's son. He was appointed a canon at Verona, and when he died, his father recorded the event in the same copy of Virgil wherein he had in- serted the memorandum of Laura's death. — " He, who was born for my vexation and sorrow, who, while he lived, was the cause of grievous and endless cares to me, and whose death opened a wound in my heart, after having enjoyed a few days of happiness, departed in the twenty-fifth year of his age." The older he grew, the more desolate he felt, and the more he longed for " that youth, whom he professed to hate when alive, but on whom his thoughts now dwelt with fondness ; his heart cherished ; his memoiy continually set before him ; and his eyes sought every where." Petrarch had less reserve in speaking of his daughter, whom he loved the more, because she resembled him in features and disposition. Yet, it would seem, that she never set a foot in his house, until she was married ; and, in his will, he only makes the following indirect allusion to her, " I beg Francesco di Brossano" (this was his- daughter's husband) " not only as my heir, but as my BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 289 very dear son, to divide whatever money he may find, after my death, into two portions j one he will reserve for himself, and the other he will bestow upon the person whom he knoweth. While he longed to have somebody always near him, who might love him, yet was he often condemned to live quite alone, by the fear that a too frequent inter- course with the persons dearest to him, would furnish him with reasons for distrusting them. It was by open- ing his heart and his purse more frequently than his doors, that he boasts, and with reason, " that no man was more devoted to his friends, and that he never lost one." Even in his early youth, when the heart is more confiding, and he really wished to live with them, he was always afraid of discovering their defects. " Nothing," says he, " is so tiresome, as to converse with a person who has not the same information as one's self." But the moment that he felt disposed to give himself to society, he conversed with the utmost freedom. *' If I seem to my friends," says he, " to be a great talker, it is because I see them seldom, and then I talk as much in a day as will compensate for the silence of a year. In the judgment of many of them, I express myself clearly and strongly ; but, in my own opinion, my language is feeble and obscure, for I never could impose upon myself the task of being eloquent in conversation. I have never liked dinners, and have always considered it as troublesome as it is useless, to invite, or be invited, to them ; but nothing gives me more pleasure than any one dropping in on me at my meals, and I never eat alone if I can help it." To the very end of his life, Petrarch cherished his habits of U 290 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. strict temperance, to which he had been accustomed from his very infancy : he seldom eat more than one meal a day : he disliked wine, lived chiefly upon vege- tables, and often, during seasons of devotion and on fast- ing days, bread and water constituted the whole of his dinner. As his fortune increased, he augmented the number of his servants and transcribers : these he al- ways took with him on his journeys, and kept more horses to carry his books. Twelve years before his death, he gave his rich collection of ancient manu- scripts to the Venetian Senate, and rhus became the founder of the library of Saint Marc. He requested, and received, by way of remuneration, a mansion in Venice. The only fault which he contracted from the possession of wealth, was the custom of boasting too much about the good use he made of it. Essays on Petrarch. READY-MONEY JACK. On the skirts of the neighbouring village, there lives a kind of small potentate, who, for aught I know, is a representative of one of the most ancient legitimate lities of the present day, for the empire over which he reigns has belonged to his family time out of mind. His territories comprise a considerable number of good fat acres ; and his seat of power is in an old farm- house, where he enjoys, unmolested, the stout oaken BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 291 chair of his ancestors. The personage to whom I alhide, is a sturdy old yeoman, of the name of John Tibbets, or, rather, Ready-Money Jack Tibbets, as he is called throughout the neighbourhood. The first place where he attracted my attention, was in the church-yard on Sunday, where he sat on a tomb- stone after the service, with his hat a little on one side, holding forth to a small circle of auditors, and, as I presumed, expounding the law and the prophets, until, on drawing a little nearer, I found he was only expa- tiating on the merits of a brown horse. He presented so faithful a picture of a substantial English yeoman, such as he is often described in books, heightened, indeed, by some little finery peculiar to himself, that I could not but take note of his whole appearance. He was between fifty and sixty, of a strong muscular frame, and at least six feet high, with a physionomy as grave as a lion's, and set off with short, curling, iron- grey locks. His shirt collar was turned down, and displayed a neck covered with the same short, curling, grey hair; and he wore a coloured silk neckcloth, tied very loosely, and tucked in at the bosom, with a green paste brooch on the knot. His coat was of dark green cloth, with silver buttons, on each of which was engraved a stag, with his own name, John Tibbets, underneath. He had an inner waistcoat of figured chintz, between which and his coat was another of scarlet cloth, unbuttoned. His breeches were also left unbuttoned at the knees, not from any slovenliness, but to show a broad pair of scarlet garters. His stock- ings were blue, with white clocks ; he wore large sil- ver shoe-buckles, a broad paste buckle in his hat-band, u2 292 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. his sleeve-buttons were gold seven shilling pieces^ and he had two or three guineas hanging as ornaments to his watch-chain. On making some enquiries about him, I gathered, that he was descended from a line of farmers that had always lived on the same spot, and owned the same property; and that half of the church-yard was taken up with the tomb-stones of his race. He has all his life been an important character in the place. When ■ a youngster, he was one of the most roaring blades of the neighbourhood. No one could match him at wrest- ling, pitching the bar, cudgel play, and other athletic exercises. Like the renowned Pinner of Wakefield, he was the village champion ; carried off the prize at all the fairs, and threw his gauntlet at the country round. Even to this day, the old people talk of his prowess, and undeiTalue, in comparison, all heroes of the green that have succeeded him ; nay, they say, that if Ready- Money Jack were to take the field even now, there is no one could stand before him. When Jack's father died, the neighbours shook their heads, and predicted that young hopeful would soon make way with the old homestead ; but Jack falsified all their predictions. The moment he succeeded to the paternal farm he assumed a new character ; took a wife, attended resolutely to his affairs, and became an industrious, thrifty farmer. With the family property he inherited a set of old family maxims, to which he steadily adhered. He saw to every thing himself, put his own hand to the plough, worked hard, ate hear- tily, slept soundly, paid for every thing in cash down, and never danced, except he could do it to the music BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 293 of his own money in both pockets. He has never been without a hundred or two pounds in gold by him, and never allows a debt to stand unpaid. This has gained him his current name, of which, by the bye, he is a little proud, and has caused him to be looked upon as a veiy wealthy man by all the village. Notwithstanding his thrift, however, he has never denied himself the amusements of life, but has taken a share in every passing pleasure. It is his maxim, ; / that " he that works hard can afford to pay." He is, therefore, an attendant at all the country fairs and wakes, and has signalized himself by feats of strength and prowess on every village green in the shire. He often makes his appearance at horse races, and sports his half guinea, and even his guinea, at a time ; keeps a good horse for his own riding, and to this day is fond of following the hounds, and is generally in at the death. He keeps up the rustic revels, and hospita- lities too, for which his paternal farm-house has always been noted, has plenty of good cheer, and dancing at harvest-home, and, above all, keeps the " merry night,"* as it is termed, at Christmas. With all his love of amusement, however. Jack is, by no means, a boisterous jovial companion. He is seldom known to laugh, even in the midst of his gaiety, but maintains the same grave, lion-like de- meanour. He is very slow at comprehending a joke, • Merry Night. A rustic merry-making in a ferra house, about Cliristmas, common in some parts of Yorkshire. Tiiere is abundance of homely fare, tea, cakes, frnit, and ale, various feats of agility, amu- sing games, romping, dancing, and kissing withal. They commonly break up at midnight. 294 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. and is apt to sit puzzling at it with a perplexed look, while the rest of the company is in a roar. This gravity has, perhaps, grown on him with the growing weight of his character ; for he is gradually rising into patriarchal dignity in his native place. Though he no longer takes an active part in athletic sports, yet he always presides at them, and is appealed to on all occasions as umpire. He maintains the peace on the village green at holyday games, and quells all brawls and quarrels by collaring the parties, and shak- ing them heartily if refractory. No one ever pretends to raise a hand against him, or to contend against his decisions ; the young men having grown up in habitual awe of his prowess, and in implicit deference to him as the champion and lord of the green. He is a regular frequenter of the village inn, the landlady having been a sweetheart of his in early life, and he having always continued on kind terms with her. He seldom, however, drinks any thing but a draught of ale, smokes his pipe, and pays his reckon- ing before leaving the tap-room. Here he " gives his little senate laws ;" decides bets, which are very generally referred to him, determines upon the cha- racters and qualities of horses ; and, indeed, plays now and then the part of a judge in settling petty disputes between neighbours, which otherwise might have been nursed by country attorneys into tolerable lawsuits. Jack is very candid and impartial in his decisions, but he has not a head to carry a long argument, and is very apt to get perplexed and out of patience if there is much pleading. He generally breaks through the argument with a strong voice, and brings matters to BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 295 a summary conclusion, by pronouncing what he calls the " upshot of the business," or, in other words, " the long and the short of the matter." Jack once made a journey to London, a great many years since, which has furnished him with topics of conversation ever since. He saw the old king on the Terrace at Windsor, who stopped and pointed him out to one of the princesses, being probably struck with Jack's truly yeomanlike appearance. This is a favourite anecdote with him, and has, no doubt, had a great effect in making him a most loyal subject ever since, in spite of taxes and poor's-rates. He was also at Bartholomew fair, where he had half the but- tons cut off his coat, and a gang of pickpockets, at- tracted by his external .show oif gold and silver, made a regular attempt to hustle him as he was gazing at a show, but for once they found that they had caught a tartar ; for Jack enacted as great wonders among the gang as Samson did among the Philistines. One of his neighbours, who had accompanied him to town, and was with him at the fair, brought back an account of his exploits, which raised the pride of the whole vil- lage, who considered their companion as having sub- dued all London, and eclipsed the achievements of Friar Tuck, or even the renowned Robin Hood himself. Of late years the old fellow has begun to take the world easily : he works less, and indulges in greater leisure; his son having grown up and succeeded to him both in the labours of the farm, and the exploits of the green. Like all sons of distinguished men, however, his father's renown is a disadvantage to him, for he can never come up to public expectation, though 296 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. a fine active fellow of three and twenty, and quite the " cock of the walk ;" yet the old people declare he is nothing like what P«.eady-Money Jack was at his time of life. The youngster himself acknowledges his inferiority, and has a wonderful opinion of the old man, who indeed taught him all his athletic accom- plishments, and holds such a sway over him, that I am told, even to this day, he would have no hesitation to take him in his hands, if he rebelled against pater- nal government. The squire holds Jack in very high esteem, and shows him to all his visitors as a specimen of old English " heart of oak." He frequently calls at his house, and tastes some of his home-brewed, which is excellent. He made Jack a present of old Tusser's " Hundred points of good Husbandrie," which has fur- nished him with reading ever since, and is his text book and manual in all agricultural and domestic concerns. He has made dog's ears at the most favourite passages, and knows many of the poetical maxims by heart. Tibbcts, though not a man to be daunted or flutter- ed by high acquaintances, and though he cherishes a sturdy independence of mind and manner, yet is evidently gratified by the attentions of the squire, whom he has known from boyhood, and pronounces " a true gentleman every inch of him." He is also on excellent terms with Master Simon, who is a kind of privy counsellor to the family, but his great favourite is the Oxonian, whom he taught to wrestle and play at quarter- staff when a boy, and considers the most promising young gentleman in the whole county. Bracebridge HalL BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 207 Indefinite Progress of Human Happiness and Perfec- tibility of the Understanding. It is the opinion of many that not only art and science will indefinitely advance and improve, but also that human happiness will indefinitely increase, — that though mankind cannot attain perfection, they will ever continue to approach it. But as happiness consists in agreeable thoughts and sensations, on thought and sensation it must still depend. Can they become more swift, more numerous, or more vivid ? The rapidity of thought is as great as its nature will admit. Ideas may become more accurate in propor- tion as science advances ; but though the judgment may be improved by a nicer analysis and a closer comparison of its mental stores, the imagination will, in consequence, lose much of its illusion and its charms. An equilibrium will thus be preserved-— what is gained in one respect is lost in another. The influence on the sensations is the same ; if they be- come more susceptible to pleasure they will also be more subject to pain. Even should the happiness of the majority of man- kind increase — should the means and circumstances on which it depends, become more favourable to its pro- gress, and many of its obstructions removed, the happi- ness of the gifted few does not in its nature admit of any material increase. Much of that happiness depends on the superiority they possess over others. The 298 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. struggles for this distinction, the means of exciting high admirationj the lofty sympathies which are aroused, can never be attended with greater distinction or advantage than has already prevailed. The contrast between misery and happiness, between poverty and riches, between genius and stupidity, will never be greater than it has been. The probability is, that the distinction will be far less, and that " the peasant's toe will come still nearer the courtier's heel." — All, there- fore, that was calculated to heighten happiness by its rarity, and to impart a dazzling value to acquisitions from the difficulty of their attainment, and the novelty of their possession, will undergo rather a diminution than an increase. ITiough it be difficult to describe the precise limits of the capacities of human enjoyment, scarcely any one who does not mistake an idle for a solid judg- ment, can really come to the conclusion that those capacities are unlimited in their power of cultivation, and indefinite in their susceptibility of improvement. These notions have, evidently, arisen from a spirit of enthusiasm, and they possess no facts or experience to support them. It may be that those who entertain more moderate opinions are considered by the enthu- siastic as deficient in force of intellect — that the highest order of the faculties is indicated by creating or espousing new systems and doubtful theories. It happens, however, that all theories cannot be true ; the majority of them are false. They generally consist in selecting a few plausible circumstances — in shutting the understanding against those which are unfavour- able, and, out of a few slender materials, construct- BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 290 ing a specious fabric, which is blown to its original nothingness by the first rough breeze that visits it. Some, indeed, are of a hardier growth j and, if they chance to survive the blast, the accidental escape is adduced as an argument to support their eternal immu- tability. It is certainly an evidence of great mind to form a system of order and regularity out of disjointed and scattered principles ; but the probability is, that such systems will be fallacious, unless constructed by judgment, instead of fancy. There are, in truth, no facts to support, and no experience to justify, the belief in the doctrine of perfectibility. Outlines of Character. CLASSICAL STUDIES. Homer — Virgil — Demosthenes — Cicero — Modern English Poets. Classical literature was, for some years after he quitted Douay college, the delight of the Reminiscent (Mr. Butler) ; such it had been even before that time. He distinctly recollects his almost infant admiration of Tasso in Fairfax's translation, and of Homer in Pope's, and that, even then, he felt the splendid invocation with which Homer introduces his catalogue of the ships, and the noble speech of Sarpedon to Glaucus. At Douay he read, in the original, the two great epic poems of antiquity, and then preferred the Roman to the Grecian 300 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITEKATURE. bard. At a subsequent time, he renewed his Greek education under the late Dr. Harwood, and he then began to be sensible of the transcendent beauties of the latter. Homer has since been his favourite author. The sublime conceptions, vivid figures, interesting narra- tives, but more than all, the exquisite style and perfect common sense of the Maconian bard, are far above any praise w^hich they can receive in these pages. His work is a prodigy ; we must suppose, either that he was preceded by other writers, who had brought poetry to the perfection, or nearly to the perfection, in which we find it in his writings ; or that he himself was the creator of the poetry of his own immortal work. It is observable that Herodotus* seems to declare for the latter opinion. ' As for the Gods,' these are his words, " whence each of them was descended, or whe- ther they were always in being, or under what shape or form they existed, the Greeks knew nothing till veiy lately. Hesiod and Homer were, I believe, about four hundred years older than myself, and no more ; and these are the men who made a theogony for the Greeks, who gave the Gods their appellations, defined their qualities, appointed their honours, and described their forms. As for the poets who are said to have lived before these men, I am of opinion they came after them." Herodotus seems here to express himself as if he considered the Grecian Theogony to have been the invention of Homer and Hesiod ; but whoever reflects on its nature, its complication and contrivance, its BEAUTtES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 301 countless, but coherent relations and dependencies, must be sensible that this was impossible. Even if this opinion were admitted, a further diffi- culty would press upon us. The poetry of Homer is complete ; the structure of the hexameter is equalled by no other mode of versification in any language ; the formation of the phrases, the collocation of the words, the figurative diction, the animation of inanimate nature, whatever else distinguishes poetry from prose, is introduced, in its most perfect mode, into the poems of Homer. The universal opinion of all ages, has ac- knowledged these to constitute the true poetical cha- racter, and no succeeding age has improved on any of them. Was he, then, the inventor of them ? This exceeds human power. Was he preceded by other bards, upon whom he refined, and whom he transcen- dently excelled ? If this were the case, what has be- come of these antecedent poets ? To solve these difficulties, the Reminiscent begs leave to insert a conjecture, in which he has sometimes in- dulged himself ! — that there existed in central Asia, a civilized and powerful nation, in which the Sanscritan language was spoken, and the religion of Brama pre- vailed ; this the initiated' might reconcile, by emble- matical explanation, with philosophy ; but, in the sense in which it was received by the people at large, it was the rankest idolatry ; — that, coniparing what the writers on India, and the Siamese, Chinese, and the Japanese writers, relate of a celebrated man, whom they severally call Budda, Sommonocoddon, Fohi, and Xaha, we have reason to suppose that he was the same person, and a reformer of the Sanscritan creed and 302 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. ceremonial ; that his reformed system may be called Buddism, that this still prevails in Tartary, China, and numerous islands in the Indian Archipelago ; but that Sanscritism still exists in Indostan ; that either before or after the Buddistichism, and not far from the time usually assigned to the fabulous ages, the Sanscritans spread their doctrines and languages over the countries which lay to their west ; so that, in the course of time, they became the religious creed and language both of Greece and Italy, that civilization, and the arts and sci- ences, flourished among them ; that those who introdu- ced them into Greece, were called the Pelasgi ; that those who introduced them into Italy, received the appellation of Hetruscans j that, by degrees, the Sanscritan was moulded into the Greek language ; that from the Greek it degenerated, in Italy, into the Latin ; that this state of things continued in Greece, till the irruption of the Dorians and Heraclidse into Peloponnesus, about eighty years after the Trojan war; and in Italy until the pe- riod assigned for the foundation of Rome, when, from some unknown event, the glories of Hetruria were considerably impaired ; that, after the settlement of the Dorians and Heraclidse, in Peloponnesus, but while the former traditionaiy learning of Greece was still remembered. Homer wrote ; that, in the confu- sion that followed this event, the memory of Homer, and the preceding or contemporary poets, was lost ; and that the minor poets were never revived, but that the super-eminent merit of Homer resuscitated his poems, and restored them to celebrity. This conjecture receives some countenance from the opinion generally entertained by the ancients, that BEAUTIES OF MODERN LrTERATURE. 303 Homer acquired his knowledge in Egypt, and the Egyptians theirs from India ; and from the system of Sir William Jones,* respecting the identity of the In- dian, Grecian, and Italian deities : among these, if we believe Dr. Milne,t we should include the national deities of China. But, whatever opinions may be formed on the points which have been mentioned, surely no doubt can be entertained of the supreme merit of the Homeric poems. In one respect, the strong and exquisite delineation of character. Homer has, unquestionably, excelled all other writers. His heroes constitute nearly all the genera into which mankind can be divided ; the spe- cies of them he left to his folloAvers. Sometimes, how- ever, he descends to these, and then his pencil is equally powerful and distinct. All the principal actors in his poems have the heroic port, and, therefore, inspire awe ; but they are all human, and, therefore, interest by their successes and misfortunes. Here, Virgil miserably fails. With the exception of Dido, and, perhaps, of Turnus, in his latest hour, he has scarcely introduced into the iEneid, a single personage who either imposes by the grand, or inte- rests by the amiable, features of his character. iEneas is worse than insipid : — he disgusts by his fears, his shiverings, and his human sacrifices ; and, in his inter- view with Helen, while Troy was on fire, he is below * In his excellent dissertation upon this subject, in the " Asiatic Researches." t See liis " Retrospect of the First Ten Years of the Protestant Mission to China,"' — an interesting work, printed at the Anglo-Chinese press in Malacca. 304 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. contempt. Amata, however, is Virgil's crime ; he had invested Dido with grandeur, he might have made Amata lovely ; and, as he had excited our admiration for the Tyrian queen, he might have drawn our tears for the daughter of Latinus. It must be obvious to every reader, that Homer's women are infinitely preferable to Virgil's ; but it is not a little remarkable, that the women of Ossian are equal in grace, and superior in delicacy and feminine tenderness, to both. The icicles on Diana's temple are not more pure, more chaste than they. This seems to the Reminiscent to afford a strong, but, in his opi- nion, a solitary argument, in favour of the authenticity of the poems which describe them.* The "Paradise Lost" did not admit the discrimi- nation of character, or excitement of feeling, which the Iliad contains, and in this respect it necessarily is its inferior. Bat the ability with which Milton strug- gled with this overwhelming difficulty, is prodigious, and mayjustify our asserting the equality of the poets, while we admit the inequality of the poems. Per- haps, neither the Latin nor the English epic con- tains any insulated passage which can be compared Avith the description of the Mourner at the Scsean • The roagic of exquisite poetry is, perhaps, no where more con- spicuous than in the description of Dido's silent and indignant scorn of iEneas, on the infernal shore, and her return to Sicbaeus. Divested of the charm with which it is invested by the poet, the scene is dis- gustingly ludicrous ; but, as it is related by Virgil, it rises to sublimity. In fact, if the whole adventure on the Tyrian shore had been told by the ordinary poet, tlie widower and the widow would always have been in view, and been comic. 1 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 305 Gate, or of Priam's begging the body of Hector : — to these only, Milton's description of Satan, in his first book, and some scenes in wiiich he introduces Adam and Eve, are inferior. There is no part of Homer which we read with so much pleasure as the second and sixth books of Virgil. The story of Nisus and Euryalus is exquisite ; but is it not exceeded by the night adventures of Ulysses and Diomedes, in which we hear every step, and feel every breath ? Homer's language is uniformly idiomatic : Is not Virgil's, occa- sionally, too highly polished ? Does it not sometimes cease to be Latin? Has it not too many Grecisms? Has not the poem of Lucretius, have not the epistles of Horace, more of the true raciness of the Latin soil ? The Reminiscent recollects the little real admiration with which, when he was at Douay, he read the Olyn- thiacs and Philippics of Demosthenes, and the prefer- ence which he then gave to Cicero ; but when he afterwards perused them with Dr. Harwood, and, by attending the debates in Parliament, was acquainted with the nature and effects of public speaking, he be- came sensible of the excellence of Demosthenes. As an orator, Cicero always appeared to the Reminiscent to be entitled to the full measure which he has re- ceived of universal admiration . — he trembles to add, that he thinks Cicero's philosophical works defective in order and precision, and that they contain too many words. His letters are beyond praise : it is observable, that an epistle to Lentulus, in the first book* of his familiar correspondence, contains the ablest delinea- • Epist. ad Familiares, L. l, Ep. 7. X 306 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. tion of ratting, and the most artful apology for it, that has appeared. No letters, ancient or modern, are comparable with Cicero's. Rapine always carried in his pocket a volume of those to Atticus. LordBoling- broke s may be thought to approach nearest to them. From the specimens which we have seen, it may con- fidently be expected, that the letters of Mr. Burke will be found eminently beautiful and interesting. Of the works of the ancients, which time has inter- cepted from us, it is difficult to fix on that of which we should most lament the loss. Mr. Fox mentioned to the Reminiscent that he principally regretted the lost tragedies of Euripides, and the comedies of Mean- der : some think the Decades of Livy, and the portions of Tacitus which have not reached us, a greater loss. If the Reminiscent could obtain any of the opera deperdita by a wish, it would be the Memoirs of Megasthenes, the Ambassador of Seleucus at Palibo- thra, the capital of the Prasii, or the country watered by the confluence of the Ganges and Jumna. What a store of ancient Indian learning might we not expect them to unfold ! Classical literature naturally leads to a consideration of modern poetry. The Reminiscent's almost complete ignorance of the Italian language does not allow him to speak of the poets of that country. He was once familiar with those of France, but his total neglect of them, with very few exceptions, during the last thirty years of his life, has driven them from his recollection. He remembers, however, his admiration of the perfect style of Boileau, without a useless epithet or imperfect word, and with very little of that inversion which is BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITEUATURE. 307 the great defect of French poetry ; — he also recollects his admiration of the poems of Jean Baptiste Rous- seau : who appeared to him to possess more of the true poetic character than, perhaps, with the excep- tion of Racine, has been bestowed on any of his coun- trymen. His works are little known in this countiy ; a selection of them, — (for unfortunately several are highly objectionable) — -was made by Father Pseree,^ — an English reader will be delighted with them, he will find that in several the French bard has ascended the winged steed, and soared with no middle flight. It was not till " the subtle thief of youth" had stolen all his early years, that the Reminiscent was really sensible of the wonders and charms with which the pages of the bard of Avon abound, and which, notwithstanding his countless deformities and absur- dities, place him in the British theatre without a rival or a second. Shakspeare perhaps is the only poet who has put into the mouth of an actor a speech which the person whom that actor was intended to represent, might have spoken on the occasion to which it is assigned. Brutus and Antony might have uttered the very speeches, Hamlet might have pro- nounced the very soliloquy, Macbeth and his Lady might have held the same dialogue, and FalstafF and the Merry Wives of Windsor might have had the same conversation as Shakspeare has ascribed to them. This is his peculiar praise, and (at least with the single exception of Homer) no poet has so many real touches of simple or sublime nature a«i are to be found in his writings. On a late perusal of some of the best works of x2 308 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. Dnjcien and Poj)e, the Reminiscent thought he per- ceived a great superiority in the former ; he remem- bers when he thought the contrary. Age, he believes, makes us fastidious in poetry, and feel, much more than we do in youth, the truth of the known observation of Horace, Mediociihiis esse poetis, Non dii non homines, non concessere ColumniE. He remembers when he knew by heart a great part of Dodsley's Collection j he is now insensible of the merit of the greater number of the poems which it contains. Very little poetry which has appeared since the decease of Pope now affords him pleasure ; but Goldsmith, Collins, and some passages in Churchill, he yet peruses with delight. This very year he read the Comus of Milton, and his Allegro and Penseroso, with all the zest and admiration of youth. Every verse of Gray is imprinted in his memory. It is remarkable that, notwithstanding the obscurity, the stiffness, the bad rhymes and disgusting alliterations of that poet, his works are more read and remem- bered than those of any other English poet. If all the printed copies of the poems of Gray were annihilated, there is not a county in England, or parish in London, in which all his English and all his Latin Odes, and his incomparable Elegy, might not be sup- plied by the recollections of some of their inhabitants. How very little of Goldsmith is known by heart ! yet his language is at once more simple and more elegant, and his rhymes more perfect than those of Gray. He has nothing of Gray's alliteration, stiff- ness, or obscurity, his images are drawn from real BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 309 life, and all he says comes home to men's business and manners. To what, then, are we to attribute the superior popularity of Gray ? Certainly not to Gold- smith's want of excellence : but the muse of Gray was of a higher order. To use an expression attributed to Dr. Johnson, if she has sometimes the contortions she has often what Goldsmith never has, the enthu- siasm of the Sybil ; and even her ordinary gait shews her divine origin.* The greatest compliment which can be paid to Gray is to mention his acknowledged superiority to Gold- smith. The most eminent English poets of our own times are confessedly Cowper,Lord Byron, Sir Walter Scott, and Southey.f The true poetic character is spread over all their poems. Those of Coivper are particularly set off by a general tinge of religious and moral melan- choly, that adds to their general effect ; but a multi- tude of his lines are rough, a multitude prosaic; this renders the perusal of them a task, and the pleasure which attends it does not always compensate the labour. It is surprising that Soiithey, who has writ- ten and still Aviites so much, should, as in his Don Roderick, have written so well. Lord Byro7i's poems contain many passages of great sublimity and pathos, and many of exquisite gaiety and humour, but the characters of his principal personages often disgust by their satanic wickedness. Sir Walter Scott's poems abound with passages of the highest splendour and ele- gance, he carries his reader into the scenes which he dc- * Et vciaiucessu paliiit Dca. — Viug. + Qiiere, is not Moore superior to either 310 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. scribes, and makes him partake of their agitation. An antiquarian picturesque is frequently introduced, which, particularly to those who are skilled in antiquarian lore, has an indescribable charm ; but his ease is not always laboured, and the attention which it is neces- sary to exert for understanding the stoiy, and following the clue of the narrative, renders the reader less sen- sible of the charms of the poetry. One may apply, both to him and Lord Byron, what Cardinal de Rctz says of the grand Conde, " that he did not do justice to the greatness of his own merits." We hope, and we believe, that neither has yet produced his greatest work. CraZ»;6e,-^sometimes the Teniers, — sometimes the Salvator Rosa of modern poetry, will accompany those who have been mentioned to posterity. When a per- son has succeeded so well in one line, it may be im- prudent to wish he had engaged in another ; yet it is impossible not to lament that his muse has not oftener frequented the abodes of virtue, of innocence, of comfort and joy. To return to Mr. Pope, — the merit of his translation of Homer is admitted by every person of learning, taste, and candour. It is true that he often generalizes while Homer dwells in particulars j that he too often expresses the whole, while Homer expresses a part only of Avhat he wishes his readers to understand ; and that by describing common things, or occurrences with too much pomp, he sometimes borders on the burlesque. This may be thought to justify Gibbon's expression, that " Pope's translation has cveiy merit except that of likeness to its original." BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 31 1 Melmoth, in his " Letters of SirThomas Fitzosborne," produces several instances in which the translation is, in his opinion, superior to the original. He cites, among them, the celebrated Night Piece in the eighth book of the Iliad. Here we think the admirers of Homer would quarrel with the critic. Mclmoth pro- ceeds to contrast different parts of the versions of Pope and Dryden, and gives a decided preference to the former. One passage cited by him is that which describes Andromache returning after the interview at the Scaean gate to her maidens in the palace. Dryden thus translates the original : — ' ** At this, — for new replies he* did not stay, Bnt laced liis crested helm and strode away ; His lovely consort to her house returned, And, looking often back, in silence mourned. Home when she came her secret woe she vents, And fills the palace with her loud laments. These loud laments her echoing maids restore, And Hector, yet alive, as dead deplore." It is thus rendered by Pope, " Thus having said,— the glorious chief resumes Histowry helmet, black with shading plumes.t His princess parts with a prophetic! sigh; Unwilling parts, and oft reverts her eye, That streamed at every look, — then, moving slow, Sought her own palace, and indulged her woe. There, while her tears deplored the godlike man ; Through all the train the soft infection^^ ran, * Hector. t Does this convey the meaning of the original ? J There is no sigh in the original, and Homer certainly would not have called it " prophetic." § Nothing can be less Homeric than this cxpicssiou. 312 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. The pious* maids their mingled sorrow shed, And mourn the living Hector as the dead." May not the justice of the preference given by Mel- moth to Pope's version of this passage be questioned ? Ts not the simplicity of Dryden, homely, perhaps, as it may be, thought greatly preferable to the Ovidian graces of Pope ? An excuse for the ornaments, with which Pope has studiously attempted to set off his translation, is fur- nished by the remark of Dr. Johnson, that " though Virgil wrote in language of the same general fabrick with that of Homer, in verses of the same measure, and in an age nearer to Homer's time by 1800 years, yet he found even then the state of the world so much altered, and the demand for elegancef so much in- creased, that mere nature would be endured no longer; and that, perhaps, in the multitude of borrowed pas- sages, very few can be shown which he has not embel- lished." It is impossible to deny the general justness of this remark ; but may not the Reminiscent be al- lowed to hint, that no embellishment should have been admitted that was contrary to the genius of the origi- nal ; and to ask whether many embellishments of this kind have not found their way into the translation ? With the translation of Pope that of Cowper will sustain no comparison. It is literal, and may be thought to bear, on that account, a nearer resemblance to the original. It is true, that if it be examined word for word, this will appear to be the case ; but if the • Where did Pope find the piety of the maids ? + Would not " refinement" have been a more proper word ? BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 313 gcncrareffect of any one speech, or any one naiTative, be^considered, the result will be very diflferent. Let their translations of that part of the first book of the Iliad, which describes the walk of the priest on the loud-resounding shore, and his address to the chiefs be compared : — which will be found to give the best notions of the exquisite charm of the original ? Even the most orthodoz Grecian must give the palm to Pope. Dr. Johnson pronounces his translation to be a poetical wonder, — a production which no age or nation can pretend to equal." Is this exaggerated praise ? Dryden's translation of the iEneid stands nearest to it ; a poet by profession, in search of poeti- cal imagery, poetical combinations, and poetical dic- tion, will perhaps find more of these in Dry den ; but general readers will unquestionably give a decided preference to Pope. Reminiscences of Charles Butler, Esq. THE ROCKY LABYRINTH OF ABERSBACH, IN BOHEMIA. The village of Abersbach, in Bohemia, situated in a valley at the foot of the Giant Mountains, at the extreme confines of Silesia, is celebrated for the extra- ordinary groups of rock which rise in its environs, and extend, though with frequent interruptions, as far as Heuscheuer. The village borders on a most beautiful 314 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. mead, watered by a small rivulet, which has its source in the midst of this rocky labyrinth. It is bounded on the south by large masses of rock which stand upright, contiguous to each other, and separated only by cre- vices of different widths. The greater number of them are one hundred feet high or upwards, and pre- sent forms which are singularly diversified. Some of them resemble works of art, as columns, walls, towers ; some are bounded at the top by irregular curve lines, though their sides are as perpendicular as if they had been cut by a level. Others are bent in all direc- tions, and their craggy summits, which hang in the air, threaten to descend every moment from their perilous abode. Some of them stand upon an im- mense base, and diminish as they rise, while others retain the same uniform dimensions from their base to their summits. The bases of many of them are rounded by the action of the waters. The most remarkable of these rocks is that commonly called the inverted sugar loaf, an appellation which sufficiently designates its singular form ; and many isolated pillars which, though only a few feet in diameter at the base, elevate themselves amid their compeers like a range of chimneys. The moment we enter the labyrinth, we perceive on all sides groups of rock, which surprise us the more, because we are not in a situation to examine their height and extent. They encircle a beautiful mead, which may be considered the vestibule of the laby- rinth. An old honest forester generally serves as guide to those whose curiosity leads them to explore this ro- BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 315 mantic labyrinth. They follow a path which is co- vered, in many places, with sand and rubbish, formed from fragments of the rock. This path, which is sometimes twenty feet wide, and sometimes not more than two, continues its course through innumerable windings between the perpendicular groups, and those masses which, like walls, enclose them on the right and left. A person is frequently obliged to crawl across the intervals, above which the rocks lean one against the other. The imagination of the old con- ductor has discovered, in the most irregular masses, resemblances to a palace, a church, a monastery, a pulpit, and an infinity of other objects. By this happy discovery, he hopes to render them more worthy the observation of the curious. In this labyrinth, a person is obliged to go conti- nually zig-zag; one time he walks on the naked sand, at another on the moss and flowery turf; at one time lie passes under low saplings, at another, he pursues the course of little rivulets, whose smooth and limpid waters follow the multiplied sinuosities of their course. These little streams are, in many places, provided with little bridges, or crossed by planks, for the conveni- ence of those Avho explore this little mysterious world. After journeying about a league and a half, the tra- veller arrives at a place, extremely cool and agreeable, ornamented with saplings, hung with all sorts of mosses and plants, and closed up, on all sides, by tremendous rocks. The loud murmuring of a rivulet, which pre- cipitates from a sort of basin, adds an inexpressible charm to the delights of this solitude. Underneath two lofty saplings, near a fountain, as cool and trans- 316 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. ^ parent as imagination can conceive, stands a table, a bench, and some scats, formed out of the rock. This place is frequently rendered the scene of festive hap- piness, and is frequently greeted by morning visitants, who come to breakfast there. The repast is rendered delicious by the agreeable coolness of the place, which invigorates the animal faculties in a surprising manner. From this resting place there is an ascent, by a nar- row opening. The way is difficult, as it leads over heaps of sand, produced by the wrecks continually fall- ing from the rocks, and which are as friable as the ashes near the crater of a volcano, for, at every step, the traveller loses his feet, and sinks in the uncertain sand. But when he arrives at the top, he is more than recompensed, by the sight of a cascade, which preci pitates from the summit of the rocks. The water falls, in its first descent, from a height of twenty feet, on a rock, which impedes its perpendicular course ; glides afterwards down a gentle descent, and completes its course by flinging itself into the lower basin. Near this stream, the rocks have formed a dark and lofty vault, which presents a most majestic and terrible aspect. It is a work of many days to traverse all the different paths which cross this labyrinth ; but next to the na- tural beauties which we have already described, is an ancient castle in niins, situated in the midst of those masses of rock, and which, in all probability, served as an asylum for robbers. The guide, before he takes leave of his company, generally fires a pistol near the narrow 0})ening by which it is entered. The sound. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 31/ which is reverberated and increased by the distant echoes, resembles the rumbling sound of thunder. The learned are generally agreed as to the origin of the singular forms of these rocks. They imagine, that the whole space which they cover was formerly a mountain of sand, and that a violent irniption of wa- ter, forcing a passage through the parts which were less compact, carried them away, and left, consequently, deep spaces between the solid masses. Such is the general opinion, but it is still doubtful, whether the effect has proceeded from a sudden irruption, and whe- ther it may not be more naturally traced to that slow but unremitting action of nature, which metamorphoses every thing after a certain lapse of time, though its immediate agency excites no attention. The mountain, known by the name of Heuscheuer, or Heuschaar, forming the southern extremity of this chain, is in Silesia, in the county of Glatz, about two miles and a half north-east of the town of this name, and a mile and a half to the north of the little town of Reiner z. In approaching the mountain in this direc- tion, a most delightful meadow opens at its feet. It is difficult to reach it on this side, though considerable efforts were made, in 1763, to facilitate the access. The traveller passes constantly over ledges of rocks, which are detached, and laid one over another, in all directions. Some of them are as large as houses, others equal churches in magnitude ; nor can imagina- tion give its creations a greater diversity of form than these rocks present. The greater part of these rocks are naked, but at a considerable height we meet a space which has been called the garden, and which 318 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. contains trees and plants of various kinds. The rocks lift themselves all around, piled one over another. On the summit of Tafelstein, Avhich is one of the most ele- vated, there is a most interesting and romantic pros- pect. The rock on which it is fixed is cut perpendi- cular, like a wall, at a depth of many hundred feet, and extends through various windings, along the fron- tiers of Bohemia. A balustrade has been erected there, in consequence of its being honoured with a visit by the Prince of Prussia. This balustrade leads to the very extremity of the rock, where the spectator may contemplate with security the delightful prospect which opens before him, in all directions. Under his feet he beholds the lofty mountains extending south and west, and presenting summits which are sometimes rounded, and sometimes terminated in a point. The extensive prospect carries the eye of the spectator over the dis- tant Braunau, Nachod, and a great number of other places in Bohemia, immortalized by the annals of the thirty, and of the seven years' war. The traveller has some difficulty, however, in believing that he has Bohe- mia actually before him, for, at this immense height, the mountains, which separate the towns, castles, villages, and convents, disappear from the sight, so that he imagines that he perceives nothing but a level and ex- tensive plain. The Eiuropean Magazine. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 319 THOUGHTS ON THE WORDS "TURN OUT." " We all, in our Turns, " turn out." — Song. Turn Out ! ! ! There are in the English language no two words which act so forcibly in exciting sympathy and compassion. There is in them a melancholy ca- dence, beautifully corresponding with the sadness of the idea which they express : they awaken in a mo- ment the tenderest recollections, and the most anxious forebodings: there is in them a talismanic charm, which influences alike all ages and all dispositions; the Church, the Bar, and the Senate, are all comprised in the range of its operation : indeed, we believe that in no profession, in no rank of life, we shall find the man who can meditate, without an inward feeling of mental depression, on the simple, the unstudied, the unaffected Pathos of the words " Turn Out." Is it not extraordinary, that when the idea is in itself so tragic, and gives birth to such sombre sensations, Melpomene should have altogether neglected the illus- tration of it ? Is it not still more extraordinaiy that her sportive sister, Thalia, should have dared indeco- rously to jest with a subject so entirely unsuited to her pen ? To take our meaning from its veil of metaphor, is it not extraordinary that Mr. Kenney should have written a farce on the words "Turn Out ?" We regard Mr. Kenney's farce as a sacrilege, a profanation, a bur- ■I 320 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. lesque of the best feelings of our nature ; and in spite of the ingenuity of the Avriter, and the talents of the performers, huuKinity and its attendant prejudices revolt in disgust from the scene which endeavours to raise a laugh by a parody of so melancholy a topic. It is not difficult to account for the pensive feelings which are excited by these words : they recal forcibly to our mind the uncertainty of all human concerns ; they bid us think on the sad truth, that from power, from affluence, from happiness, we may be " turned out" at a minute's warning ; they whisper to us that the lease of life is held on a precarious tenure, subject to the will of a Providence which we can neither con- trol nor foresee ; they oblige us to look forward to that undiscovered country, from whose dark limits we would fain avert our eyes ; they convince us of the truth of the desponding expression of the Psalmist, — ^' Man is but a thing of nought ; his time passeth away like a shadow." Are not these the reflections of eveiy thinking mind ? If they are not we must intreat the indul- gence of our readers for the melancholy pleasure we take in the discussion of the subject. The words may, indeed, be more than ordinarily affecting to ns, inas- much as they remind us of a friend who in his life was " turned out " from every thing that life can bestow, but who in his death shall never be " turned out" from that consolatory tribute to his manes, — the recollec- tion of a sincere friend. Poor Gilbert ! the occur- rences of his eventful existence would indeed furnish materials for the poet or the moralist, for a tragedy of five Acts, or a homily of fifty heads. His father BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 321 always prophesied he would turn out a great man ; and yet the poor fellow did nothing but turn out^ and never became a great man. At fourteen he turned out with a bargeman, and lost an eye ; at seventeen he was turned out from Eton, and lost King's ; at three- and-twenty he was turned out of his father's will, and lost a thousand a year; at four-and twenty he was turned out of a tandem, and lost the long odds ; at five-and tAventy he was turned out of a place, and lost all patience ; at six-and-twenty he was turned out of the affections of his mistress, and lost his last hope ; at seven-and-twenty he was turned out of a gaming- house, where he lost his last farthing. Gilbert died about a year ago, after existing for some time in a miserable state of dependence upon a rich uncle. To the last he was fond of narrating to his friends the vicissitudes of his life, which he constantly concluded in the following manner : — ^' So, Gentlemen, I have been turned out during my whole life ; you now see me on the brink of the grave, and I don't care how soon 1 turn in" We had not heard from him for a considerable space of time, and were beginning to wonder at his protracted silence, when a friend, who was studying the Morning Post, apprized us of his decease by the folloAving exclamation : — " My God ! old Gilbert's dead ! Here's a quaint turn out ! " Alas ! how often does it happen that we are not aware of the value of the blessings we enjoy, until chance or destiny has taken them from us. This has been the case in our acquaintance with our lamented companion. How bitterly do we now regret that we Y 322 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. (lid not, while liis life was spared, make use of liii!? inestimable experience to collect some instructions on- the art of " turning out," both in the active and the neuter signification of the words. For surely no two things are more difficult than the giving or receiving of a dismissal. To go through the one with civility, and the other with firmness, is indeed a rare talent, which every man of the world should study to attain. When we consider the various chances and vicissi- tudes which await the citizens of our little common- wealth, in their progress through life ; when we recol- lect that some of them will enter into political life, in order to be turned out of their places ; others will enjoy the titular distinction of M. P.'s, that they may be turned out of their seats the next election 5 while others again, by an attachment to Chancery exjiedition, will endeavour to get turned out of their estates ; — it is surely worth while to bestow a little attention upon- the most proper mode of behaving under these unfor- tunate circumstances. IVIr. Monxtoii receives a turn out better than any political man of our acquaintance. It was of him that Sir Andrew Freeman, a Hertfordshire independent, who, to do him justice, would be witty if he could, broached the celebrated remark, — " He has turned out so often, that I should think he's turned wrong side out oy this time." Mr. Monxton, is, indeed, a phe- nomenon in his way. The smile he wears on coming into oflice^ differs in no respect from that which he assumes on resigning all his employments. He de- parts trom the enjoyment of place and power, not with the gravity of a disappointed minister, but with BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 823 the self-satisfied air of a successful courtier. The tact with which he conceals the inward vexation of spirit Tjeneath an outward serenity of countenance, is to us a matter of astonishment. When we have heard him discussing his resignation with a simper on his face, and a jest on his lip, we have often fancied that Mr. Kemble would appear to us in the same light, were he to deliver Wolsey's soliloquy with the attitudes and gestures of a harlequin in a pantomime. Juvenile politicians cannot propose to themselves, in this line of their profession, abetter model than Mr. Monxton, Nor is this art less worthy the attention of the fair sex. There are very few ladies who have the talent of dis- missing a lover in proper style. There are many who reject with so authoritative a demeanour, that they lose him, as an acquaintance, whom they only wish to cast off as a dangler : there are many again Avho study civility to such an extent, that we know not whether they reject or. receive, and have no small difficulty in distinguishing their smile from their frown. The deep and sincere interest which we feel in all matters relat- ing to the advantage or improvement of the fair sex, induces us to suggest that an academy, or a seminary, or an establishment, should be forthwith instituted for the instruction of young ladies not exceeding thirty years of age, in the most approved method of saying " Turn Out." So far indeed has our zeal in this laud- able undertaking carried us, that we have actually communicated our ideas upon the subject to a lady, who, to quote from her own advertisement, " enjoys the advantages of an excellent education, an unblem- ished character, and an aimablc disposition." ^^^e are y2 324 BF.ATTTIF.S OF MODERN LITERATURE. happy to uform our friends, and the piihlic in general^ that Mrs. Simkins has promised to devote her attention to this branch of female education. By the end of next month she hopes to be quite competent to the in- struction of pupils in every mode of expressing "turn out:"— the Distant Hint, the Silent Bow, the Positive Cut, the Courteous Repulse, and the Absolute Rejec- tion. We trust that due encouragement will be given to a scheme of such general utility. In the mean time, until such Academy, or Semi- nary, or Establishment, shall be opened, we invite our fair readers to the study of an excellent model in the person of Caroline Moworay. Caroline has now seven- and-twcnty lovers, all of whom have succes-" sively been in favour, and have been successively " turned out." Yet so skilfully has she modified her severity, that in most cases she has destroyed Hope Avithout extinguishing Love : the victims of her caprice continue her slaves, and are proud of her hand in the dance, although they despair of obtaining it at the altar. The twenty-seventh name was added to the list of her admirers last week, and was, (with the most heartfelt regret we state it,) no less a personage than the Hon. Gerard Montgomery. — Alas ! unfortu- nate Gerard ! — " Quanta laboras in Charybdi, Digne puer meliore flamma." He had entertained us for some time with accounts of the preference with which he was honoured by this miracle of obduracy, and at last, by dint of long and earnest entreaty, prevailed upon us to be ourselves witness to the power he had obtained over her affec- BEAUTIES OF MOI>ERN LITERAT^JRE. 325 tions. We set out therefore, not without a consider- able suspicion of the manner in which our expedition would terminate, and inwardly anticipated the jest •which "The King of Clubs" would infallibly broach upon the subject of Gerard's "Turn Out." Nothing occurred of any importance during our ride: Gerard talked much of Cupids and Hymen, but inas- much as we were not partakers of liis passion, we could not reasonably be expected to partake of his in- spiration. Upon our arri\-al at Mowljray Lodge, we were shewn into a room so crowded with company, that we almost fancied we had been ushered into the Earl's levee, in- stead of his daughter's drawing room. The eye of a iover, however, was more keen. Gerard soon per- ceived the goddess of the shrine receiving the incense of adulation from a crowd of votaries. Amongst these he immediately enrolled himself, while we, apprehen- sive that our company might be troublesome to him, hung back, and became imperceptibly engaged in con- versation with some gentlemen of our acquaintance. To speak the truth, on our way to " the Lodge" these '•'Thoughts on Turn Out" had been the subject of our reveries, and whatever expressions or o})inions we heard around us, appeared to coincide with the cogi- tations with which we were occupied. We first be- came much interested in the laments of an old gentle- man, who was bewailing the "Turn Out" of a friend at the last election for the county of . Next we listened to an episode from a dandy, who was discuss- ing the extraordinary coat "Turned out" by Mr. Michael Oakley at the last county ball. Finally, we 326 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. were engaged in a desperate argument with aWic- caniist, upon the comparative degree of talent "turned out" from each of the public schools during the last ten years. Of course we proceeded to advocate the cause of our foster-mother, against the pretensions of our numerous and illustrious rivals. Alas ! we felt our unworthiness to stand forward as Etona's Panegy- rists, but we made up in enthusiasm what we wanted in abihty. We ran over with volubility the names of those thrice-honoured models, whose deserved success is constantly the theme of applause, and the life- spring of emulation amongst their successors. We had just brought our catalogue down to the names of our more immediate forerunners, and were dwelling with much complacency on the abilities which have, during the last fcAV years, so ncbly supported the fair fame of Eton at the universities, when our eye was caught by the countenance of our Honourable Friend, which, at this moment, wore an appearance of such unusual despon- dence, that we hastened immediately to investigate the cause. Upon inquiiy we learned that Montgomery was most romantically displeased, because Caroline had refused to sing an air of which he was passionately fond. We found we had just arrived in time for the finale of the dispute. "And so you can't sing this to oblige me?" said Gerard. Caroline looked refusal. "I shall know better than to expect such a condescension again," said Gerard, with a low sigh. " Tant mieux!" said Caroline, with a low courtesy. The audience were unanimous in an unfeeling laugh, in the midst of which Gerard made a precipitate retreat, or as O'Connor ex- presses it, "ran away like mad," and we followed him BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 32/ a.s well as wc could, though certainly not " passi/nis tEguis." As we moved to the door we could hear sundry criticisms on the scene. " Articles of eject- ment ! " said a limb of the law. " The favourite dis- tanced!" cried a Newmarket Squire. " I did not think the breach practicable!" observed a gentleman in regimentals. We overtook the unfortunate object of all these comments about a hundred yards from the house. His woe-begone countenance might well have stopped our malicious disposition to jocularity ; never- theless, we could not refrain from whispering in his car — " Gerard ! a decided Turn Out /" " I beg your pardon," said the poor fellow, mingling a smile for his pun, with a tear for his disappointment, " I beg your pardon, — I consider it a decided take in." — F. JV. The Etonian. XXXI.— 3. €o77iparisoH of the JFriters in the British Em of Literature, ivith those of Louis XIV. — Fro)n Mr. Butler's "Reminiscences." Subscribing to the well-known verses of Lord Ros- common, , " The weighty bullion of one English line, " Drawn through French wire, would through whole pages shine; he yet doubts, whether, speaking generally, French writers are not superior to the English in perspicuity and method. Their superiority in the former, if they really possess it, may be thought owing to the mul- titude of connective words in the French language j 328 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. and to its genders, inflections, and varied terminations ; their superiority in the latter, to the mode of French education, in which a large portion of time, even in their humblest academies, is given to a course of rhetoric. Equally subscribing to the decided superio- rity, which the English assign to Shakspeare and Mil- ton, over all the poets of France, the Reminiscent yet feels that other nations do not seem to acquiesce in this opinion. This is usually ascribed to their imperfect knowledge of the English language ; but it may be observed, that fcAV, who are not natives of France, have that complete knowledge of the French language which enables them to feel and judge of those niceties of language, which constitute the difference between a perfect and an imperfect style. It must be added, that both Mr. Fox and Mr. Gibbon, the former a real, the latter a professed admirer of the Grecian School, are said to have preferred Corneille and Racine to the two great English bards. In the second order of French poets, none can be compared to Diyden: Boileau and Pope, may be considered to be equally balanced, the style of the former is singularly perfect : it has nothing of the useless epithet, the pertncss, or the ribaldry, which too often disfigure the strains of Pope ; but in vain should we seek in the pages of Boileau, for the fire, the imagination, the dignity, the elegant playfulness, or the occasional, though not frequent, tenderness M-hich Pope displays. Who that reads his happyimitation of the Intermissa Vemis dm of Horace, does not wish he had oftener touched the mournful chords ? We have nothing to oppose to the comedies of Moliere, the fables of La Fontaine, or the elegant trifles of Chalieu or Gresset. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITEllATUUR. 320 In novels, — certainly the most numerous oflspring of modern literature, — England, — (at least, if we except the two most perverse productions of human talent, the Einile, and the Nouvelle Hi^loise), has the pre- eminence. The French allow the superiority of Ba- con, Locke, and Sir Isaac Newton, over their own philosophers ; and the superiority of Hume, Robert- son, and Gibbon, over their own historians ; but they observe, that while Bossuet, Bourdaloue, and IMasillon, are to be found in all libraries, and many toilets, in every part of the continent where literature is culti- vated, scarcely one English preacher or divine is read out of England. With respect, also, to Sir Isaac New- ton, they remark, that since the death of that great man, the English mathematicians have done little more than slumber under his glories, while d'Alembcrt, Lc Gendre, La Grange, La Place, and Carnot, have pur- sued his discoveries, have completed the grand edifice which he left unfinished, and may, therefore, be said to have given him a kind of posthumous domicile in France. In general, the French mathematicians do justice to his memory ; but, recently, M. Bossut, in his history of mathematics, has endeavoured to rob him of the glory of being the inventor of fluxions. This appears to make it veiy desirable, that a new edition of the Commerciuni Epistolicnm of Collins, with a prelimi- nary history of the discovery of that sublime science, of the important consequences which have emanated from it, and of the disputes to which it has given rise, should be published. Is it not to be wished, that some mathematical Mcctenas would make it agreeable to 330 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. a Wollaston, an Ivory, or a Babbage, to employ his time on such a work ? This is the more to be desired, as the Commercium Epistolicum is become extremely scarce. XXXI.— 4. Tiie present general Diffiision of Learning among all Ranks of Persons. The circimistance which most distinguishes the present era of British literature from all others, is the general diffusion both of useful and ornamental know- ledge, among every rank of society, in a manner un- ^ known to former times, and yet unknown to every other nation. With all the faults imputable to news- papers, and other periodical effusions of the press, how much useful information is conveyed by them, to every rank of society ? The author of an excellent article in the Edinburgh Review, for October, 1819, shews, that in a given time, an Englishman reads about seventy- five times as much of the newspapers of his country, as a Frenchman does of his. What a spread of infor- mation ! It may be said, that the reading might be more useful and edifying ; but what an exercise of the mental powers ! "U^iat an excitement to better reading, to further attainment. XXXI.— 5. General Diffusion of Literature among the Ladies of Great Britain. But while the dissemination of useful and orna- mental knowledge, among persons of every rank in this BEAUTIES OK MODERN LITEIIATURK. 331 country, is thus generally mentioned, it Avould be wrong not to take particular notice of its extensive diffusion among the purest and gentlest portion of the commu- nity. " Women," says Fenelon, in his Treatise on Female Education, " were designed, by their native elegance and softness, to endear domestic life to man, to make virtue lovely to children, to spread around them order and grace, and to give to society its highest : polish. No attainment can be above beings, whose \ end and aim is to accomplish purposes at once so ele- gant and so salutaiy : every means should be used to invigorate, by principle and culture, such native excel- lence and grace." How generally, and in what a high degree, these attainments are possessed by the daugh- ters of Albion, all persons must have observed, to whom opportunities of observing it have been given, and who have availed themselves of them. Even in the learned languages, and the abstruse sciences, se- veral are respectably informed ; those to whom the best writers of their own country, and the best in the French and Italian languages, are familiar, are nume- rous : few are so scantily instructed, as not to listen with pleasure and advantage to the conversation of men of learning and taste, or who do not view with taste, the productions of the painter or statuary ? It is rare to find among them one, who docs not express herself, both in conversation and upon paper, with correctness and grace. The Letters of the late Lady Hervey are deseiTedly admired. Are there not many English ladies capable of writing letters, which, if com- pared with her's, would not suffer on the comparison ? Their mild, retiring, and unpretending manners, add 332 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. to the charm of their accomplishments. Most Gallic ('legantes have something of that spirit of exhibition, which we see displayed by the Corinne of Madame de Stael, nothing of this is discoverable in our country- women. With all their accomplishments, " Hide me from day's gaiisli eye,'' Milton. seems to be their almost universal wish. A Frenchman once triumphantly asked the Reminiscent, whether any English lady could have written the Considerations snr les principaux Evenemens de V Europe of Madame de Stael, a work certainly of extraordinary merit. The writer believes there are many ; but that there are none who would have written the pages of egotism, with which it abounds.* We must add, that Madame de Stael, the witty protegee of the Duchess de Maine, could have written better and more interesting con- siderations. Pope says, "Most women liave no character at all," and intended to be satyrical : but this line, in one application of it, may be considered to express a very high degree of praise. \^^omen are never so perfect as when they possess an assemblage of excellencies, each of them suited to the rest, but no one outshining the others, and thus making'it her character. Such are the women by whom Shakspeare attracts the fa- vour of the spectators ; his Desdemona, Imogen, Mi- * If the "courts of Elizabeth and James the first," liad then ap- peared, the Reminiscent would have said that Miss Aikiii could have published jjctier considerations. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 'SXi randa, and Ophelia. Such too, is the Amelia of Field- ing, the Rebecca of Sir Walter Scott. Each is the perfection of female excellence, each attracts love and reverence, each excites interest ; in all there is an union of charms, but no one charm predominates ; none shines with surpassing gloiy. Whether ladies, even with the greatest disposition for literaiy acquirements, should study the learned languages, may be thought a question. The contrary, was once suggested by the Reminiscent to a lady of great mental ardour : she observed that, the inferiority of the female capacity for acquiring the dead languages should not be taken for granted : " I'll engage," she said, " that if we were sent to Eton or Harrow, we should become as good classical scholars as boys." " True," — it was replied, " but you are not sent to Eton or Harrow: this makes the difference?" The fact is, that the structure of the Greek and Latin differs so much from that of modern languages ; their gram- mars are so complex and obscure, their prosody so abstruse, and, for several years, the acquisition of it is, in a great measure, so much a mere act of memory, and without a perfect knowledge of it, the real beauty of the diction is so little felt, that any thing like a com- petent knowledge of them can scarcely be obtained, except at a public school, where the boys acquire it much more by hearing their school-fellows repeat over and over again their daily tasks, than by learning their own. Of this advantage young ladies are necessarily deprived. It is observable, that, at a certain time of life, even gentlemen who are most ardent in literary pursuits. 334 BKAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. relax iu their zeal for the prosecution of them, if their studies be not direeted to a particular object ; and that, from the want of such an object, they gene- rally fall into a course of desultory, listless reading, which leads to nothing. This was remarked by Mr. Burke to the Reminiscent; and he acknowledged that, in one period of his life, he himself, with all his literary enthusiasm, experienced something of this paralysis. To prevent it, would it not be advisable for ladies of cultivated minds, when they begin to feel its approach, to employ their minds on some literary or historical enquiry, which will fix their attention, and, while it confines, will animate their daily appli- cation ? The late lady Crewe desired the Reminiscent to furnish her with a course of study of modern history. He inserts his answer in the appendix.* In framing it, he took care to mention, with one exception only, — no work, which is not in Hookham's well-stocked catalogue. Another, and perhaps a better course, for female reading would be, to peruse ' Anquetil's Abridgement of Ancient and Modern History,' attending particularly to its geography, and minuting down its chronology — Or, if modern history only be the object, to peruse, but with particular attention, and with a proper maj), always to view, the " Tableau des Revolutions de I' Europe, par M. Koch," now in 4 Vols. 8vo. Here the Reminiscent presumes to mention an obser- * Note III. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 335 \ atioii made to him by a learned and intelligent friend, on the subject of pursuing the study of the learned lan- guages too far. For some time after the Reminiscent quit- ted college, he continued smitten with the love of Greek and Roman lore. His friend remarked to him that it was a vain pursuit : " you and I" he said, " are willing to think that we understand the French language as I^tII as Ave do our own : most gentlemen, who have received a liberal education, do the same. Yet, ho^v little do any of us feel the beauties of French poetiy ? How little are we sensible of that indescribable charm of the verses of Racine, of which every Frenchman talks to us with so much rapture ? Now, if this be the case, in respect to a language Avhich we hear spoken every day, and the writers in which are countless, how much more must it be the case in respect to a dead language, when the writers, whom we possess, are so few ? The utmost knowledge, which, by the most persevering application we can obtain of the literary merit of their compositions, so far, at least, as respects the beauties of their style, must be very limited." In this observation, there seems to be good sense : one, of an import somewhat similar, and leading to a simi- lar conclusion, was made to the Reminiscent by Mr. Porson. '^ The number of ancient Avriters," said that gentleman, " Avhich has reached us, is so small, that we cannot be judges of the expressions, or even of the words appropriated to any particular style. Many, suited to the general style of Livy, would not be suited to that of Tacitus : of this, we necessarily are, in a great measure, insensible ; and use them indiscrimi- nately. This must be wrong ; Avhcn, therefore, we A LETTER TO THE DRAMATISTS OF THE DAY. We quote only the latter part of the first of these let" ters, which appeared in the London Magazine for July, 1823, as it contains the essence of the Avriter's reason- ings. We perfectly agree with him in his obseiTations on this subject, but he does not appear to have perceived the true source of tragic pleasure. Action, it is trucy co-operates ia producing the etfect ; but why does it 336 beattties of modern literature. write in the Latin language, our style should be most unambitious ; Ave should carefully avoid all fine words and expressions, we should use the most obvious and most simple diction ; beyond this, we should not j aspire ; if we cannot present a resemblance, let us not exhibit a caricature." It was a remark of Boileau, that if the French had become a dead language, and few only of its approved AATitcrs had survived it, a poet, who wished to describe a person gathering sand on the bank of a river, might mention him. " Sur la rive du jieuve amassant de Varhie,'' and justify the line, by producing from approved authors, every Avord it contained. " But noAV," said Boileau, " the most ordinary writer knows that the expressions rive du Jieuve and amassant de Varhie, are insuppor- tably bad ; and would Avrite Sur le Lord de la riviere and amassant du sable." BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 337 SO co-operate ; or must the action so co-operating, possess a certain character ? If so, what is the cha- racter that gives interest to action ? These are ques- tions which the writer^ not only seems unable to resolve, but which he would appear never to have asked himself. Could he reply to them satisfactorily, he Avould have little difficulty in discovering many other particular means of producing tragic interest, besides that of mere action, and he would also find, that action possesses no interest, unless it possess, at the same time, a certain character. — Ed. The dramatists of this day would appear to a less profound observer than I am, (who can spy out the cause in our present ultra-refinement of mind,) to have entered into a conspiracy for the exclusion of every thing which might possibly assist their genius in theend they, as tragedists, should aim at. Action is the essence of drama ; nay, its definition : business, bustle, hurly, and combustion-dire, are indispensable to effec- tive drama; at. least, if pathos run not very copi- ously through the piece, in which case, action may be partly compounded for by tears, though, perhaps, not without some hazard. But that essence, and these indispensables, you, gentlemen, seem, with one con- sent, sedulously to avoid meddling with, to shun as you would fire and brimstone. You seem to think, that the whole virtue of tragedy lies in its poeticity ; and the softer, the sweeter, and the more soul-sooth- ing, the more hushing the poetry is, the better you think it, though the audience go to sleep under your noses. At any rate, if you don't think thus, you M'rite as if you did. One great instrument of keeping an audience on the fret of attention, is a good plot ; an Z 338 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. excellent reason, as it would appear with you, to select bad or iiidiffcrcnt ones. Oh ! so as we deliver forth poetry enough, what a plague have we to do witii plot- ting ? You either poke into the crevices and corners of history, real or fictitious, for insignificant events, which you neither amplify nor adorn by addition or decoration, as Shakspearc might have ensampled you J or, being the architects of your own stories, your designs are so light and graceful, so economical in point of material, and of so very corinthian an order of elegance, that they are nearly invisible to the gross sense of our popular eye- sight. London Magazine, Description of a Battlehettveen Ninety -three Paivnec' Loup Warriors, against a large Body of Jetans, Arrapahoes, and Kiawas. This severe battle was fought by ninety-three Pawnee-Loup warriors, against a large body of Jetans, Arrapahoes, and Kiawas. The party was led by the most distinguished Brave of the village, and half-bro- ther of the MetifT chief, but of unmixed blood, and a principal supporter of the influence of that chief. The party, who were all on foot, vi'ere on their way to cap- ture horses, but they were badly armed for a contest, and had but twelve guns amongst them. They were proceeding cautiously along in the prairies, between the head waters of the Arkansa and the Rio del Norte, BEAUTIES OF MODKUN LITERATTJRK. 1^39 Wlicn one party of their runners, or discoverers, came in with information, that a great body of the enemy were a-head, and liad not seen them ; another party of runners soon came in, with the same information. The whole now halted to wait for night, to capture horses, and busied themselves in preparing their ropes and halters, and in putting themselves in the best order, in case of attack. One of the party ascended a small eminence, and perceived three of the enemy mounted, and coming on in full career ; presently, more appeared, and soon after they began to shew themselves in every quarter. It was now evident to the party, that the enemy were the first discoverers, and that they were now necessitated to contend against a vastly superior force, better armed than themselves, and possessing, also, the advantage of being all mounted on good horses. It was obvious, also, that there was no hope for them but in the display of a desperate valour. Their first wish had been to gain a creek, at some distance in their rear, which was margined with small timber ; but as their enemy now completely sur- rounded them, this was impossible. The battle com- menced about ten o'clock, A. M., and soon raged with great fury. Every muscle was called into action hi our little band, who hung firmly together, discharging their arrows, and occasionally a fusee, at the enemy, with the steadiest aim. The dead and wounded were falling in every direction, in both parties. The enemy were so numerous, that numbers of their Braves, armed only with a shield, having rejected their offensive wea- pons, hovered in front of their companions, intent only upon the acquisition of the renown dearest to the 22 340 BEAUTIES OK MODERN LITERATURE. heart of the warrior, that of first striking the body of a fallen enemy ; many of them were, however, killed, even by their own people, as they rushed along, and intercepted the flight of the arrow or bullet from its destined mark. The combatants were at veiy close quarters, and the arrow had its full effect. They were for some time intermingled, and contended with their war-clubs and knives. The Partisan, who had been wounded severely, early in the action, and had re- ceived several more wounds during its continuance, now was struck with an arrow, which buried itself to the feathers in his body. He knew the wound was a mortal one, and fell, but supported himself upon the ground, to encourage his men : " My Braves," said he, " fight whilst you can move a limb, and when your arrows are expended, take to your knives." Look- ing around now upon his companions in arms, he per- ceived that nearly all his principal Braves were killed or disabled, and with his dying words, he ordered those who were still on their feet to pierce the sur- rounding enemy, and endeavour to save themselves in the timber of the creek. As soon as it was ascer- tained that their Partisan was dead, his orders were carried into effect ; and the remnant of the party fought their way to the creek, where the enemy abandoned them, and returned to exult over the slain. One only of the principal Braves was left in this shattered band ; he declared he v/as ashamed that he had survived, and he immediately ran back to the enemy, although much wounded, and was seen no more. The party now found that they had left fifty-three men, dead or disabled, on the battle ground, amongst whom were BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 341 all their Braves, who had exposed themselves to danger more than the others. Of their numbers, now dimi- minished to forty, all were wounded, with the excep- tion of seven only, and some of these very desperately; ■ one individual had eight different wounds. As they had thrown off their robes, breech-cloths, and leggings, at the coraniencement of the battle, they were now absolutely naked, and the weather was extremely cold. They made cars, on which they drew along those who could not walk ; and thus they commenced and pro- ceeded in their slow and laborious march to their vil- lage. During the journey, some of the wounded re- quested to be killed, or left to die alone ; and one who was wounded in the knee, after soliciting death from his brother repeatedly, in vain, sought an opportunity to die, and finally plunged his knife in his heart. The party subsisted by killing a few bisons on the Avay, and partially clothed themselves with their raw hides, a miserable defence against the intensity of tlie cold. •James's Expedition to the Rocky Mountains, Memoirs of the Life and TFritings of the Rigid Hon, Lord Ryron. These memoirs are dedicated to Mr. Gifford, and the work is evidently not the first production of its author, for it bears, throughout, the impress not only of an experienced and practised hand, but the confi- dence which experience and practice invariably in- 342 TiEAUTlBS OF MODERN LITERATURE. spire. The anonymous writer has not, therefore, concealed his name through that fear and trembling, with which our first productions are generaUy laid before the public. Be tlie author whom he may, how- ever, we can perceive no just reason for coacealing his name ; for, as he himself veiy properly observes, " It is every individual's duty to check the current of baneful principles, especially when those principles are sent forth clothed with the attractive ornaments of jitei-aiy elegance, and recommended by the potent spells of rank and popularity." No person, surely, needs blush to avow an act which he knows to be his duty, and as the present work was professedly intended, as the author informs us, to check the current of Lord Byron's baneful principles, to undeceive those who are liable to be lost in the wilds and witcheries of the moral delusion which prevails in his writings, the author en- gaged in the performance of a duty, which he ought not blush to acknowledge. Concealment, in such a case, leads us to suspect that Lord Byron's ^' baneful principles" were not altogether so baneful as they are represented, and that the author, consequently, thought it prudent to skreen himself from the just indignation of the noble Lord by concealing his name. This, per- haps, was not the cause of concealment, but it is, at least, the first caase that suggests itself to an impartial reader. There are two objects aimed at in the present work ; the first is, to make us acquainted with the life, the second with the writings, of Lord Byron. With the first we have no concern : facts speak for themselves, and wc believe the author has misrepresented no cir- I BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 343 cumstance of Lord Byron's life. Indeed, we cannot help saying, that he evinces throughout a rigid un- bending honesty of principle, and we cannot, with some of our contemporaries, attribute the severity of » his strictures on Lord Byron's moral principles to the spirit of pre-determined hostility. In our opinion, the author's warmth arises from a stubborn attachment to truth, and a belief, whether Avell founded or not, that Lord Byron is one of its most dangerous enemies. But whether he be free from enmity to the noble Lord x)r not, it is idle to accuse him of it till the fact be proved. No proofs, however, have been l)rought for- ward, for the critics who have been most severe upon the work, do not mention one circumstance which he has either garbled or misrepresented. So far, then, as these memoirs regard the Life of Lord Byron, we think we may safely recommend them to the perusal of our readers. Our limits will not suffer us to give even a retrospect of them, and even if we could, we do not conceive that our pages would be the proper place to seek for such information. We are not bio- graphers, and therefore we have nothing to do with the relation of facts. It is the business of a reviewer to let his readers know, not what facts are stated by the author, but whether they be fairly stated, and having discharged this duty, his business afterwards is with his opinions alone. When we have given the author of these memoirs credit for honesty of inten- tion, and freedom from enmity to Lord Byron, we have given a sort of general character of the biogra- phical, or narrative part of his work; but his opinions must be considered separately, because honesty of 344 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. principle, though it never suffers us to fall into error in matters of fact, except through inadvertence, is no safeguard in matters of opinion. A man may be very honest, who, in point of intellect, is only one degree above an idiot, and we fear the present writer did not sufficiently ^veigh when he engaged in these memoirs : — Quid valeant humeri, quidferre recusent. We must confine ourselves, however, to such parts of his com-' ments on the poetry of the noble Lord, as are most highly important to the general interests of literature. Lord Byron, alluding to his studies at Harrow school, observes, that we become tired of studying the Greek and Latin poets " before we can comprehend their beauty, that the freshness is worn away, and the fu- ture pleasure and advantage deadened and destroyed by the didactic anticipation, at an age when we can neither feel nor understand the power of composition, which it requires an acquaintance with life, as well as Avith Latin and Greek, to relish or reason upon, so that, when we are old enough to enjoy them, the taste is gone, and the appetite palled. In some parts of the Continent, young persons are taught from more com- mon authors, and do not read the best classics till their maturity." With this opinion our author does not agree, and brings forward Dean Vincent's " Defence of Publick Education," and " Childe Harold's Monitor," to prove the contrary. In questions of this nature, authority is of little consequence, abstracted from the arguments on which it rests ; and, if mere authority decided the question, Lord Byron has much higher authority on his side, than that of the Dean or the Monitor, namely, BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 345 the authority of Milton^ Cowley, and Addison. Their opinion, however, he treats as paradoxical : let us hear his reason. " If the attainment of Latin and Greek, is at all necessary, it is obvious that those languages cannot be acquired in perfection, but through the me- dium of the finest writers^ as well in verse as in prose." This reasoning is true ; but it maintains what, perhaps, no man but a fool would contradict. Lord Byron does not maintain that Ave can have a perfect ac- quaintance with the Greek and Latin writers without studying the classic poets. He merely maintains that we should not commence this study before we are capable of feeling and relishing their beauties, and that we should receive our elementaiy education from more common authors. For this assertion, his Lord- ship gives the best of all reasons ; that if Ave commence them too early, " the taste is gone, and the appetite palled, when we are old enough to enjoy them." This truth is confirmed by the experience of every one who consults his own feelings. Burke tells us, that he found more pleasure in Don Bellianis of Greece, when a youth, than he could derive in his riper years from the finest passages in the iEneid, which Avonld not have been the case, had he never looked into it before he was prepared to feel and enjoy its beauties. As for Dean Vincent's " Admirable Defence," as our author calls it, his arguments have still less to do with Lord Byron'sview of classic education than his own. "Childe Harold's Monitor" quotes the line, " Horace still charms with graceful negligence ;" as if Lord Byron denied the classic beauties of Ho- 346 liKAtlTIES OK MODKRN LITERATURE. race. We should think it a waste of argument to shew that he was better acquainted M'ith them than the Monitor, Dean Vincent, or our anonymous author. He never denied them, and we cannot but think bttlc of the comprehension of any writer who would infer, that he had denied them from the passage we have now quoted from him. Another chai'ge brought against his lordshij) is, that " he despised academical honours, and treated willi contempt tlie peculiar studies by which alone they miglit be procured." We could not wish for a better' [)roof of his lordship's original powers of n)ind, and our author's ignorance of what constitutes real genius. A mind pregnant with ideas of its OAvn cannot endure the drudgery of encumbering itself with those of others. Yet this is all that is necessaiy to procure academical honours. Whoever can best remember what others have written on the peculiar studies which lead to these honours, is sure of obtaining them ; so that academical honours are not the prize of genius, or original endowments of mind, but of a retentive memory. All that a person who has obtained these honours can bOast of is, consequently, that he knows what others have written, not that he knows any thing of his own. And those who can boast of nothing higher, must not presume to tread that holy ground which is consecrated to genius. With his observations on "Childe Harold" weperfectly agree, as well Avith regard to its faults as to its beauties. He says, that Harold is represented " an unprincipled, impenitent profligate, contrary to all our conceptions of chivahy, without the least reason wliat(;ver been BEAUTIES OF MODERN LiTKRATURE. 34/ assigned for making the character vicious iiistciid of yirtuous and honourable. Had the noble lord been writing a novel, he was at full liberty to have sketclied out a monster of debauchery and profancness in as dark colours as it was possible for the imagination to figure human villainy. But when, in undertakhig a narrative of his own travels in foreign countries, the noble lord thought proi>c<* to clothe his remarks in a poetic dress, and to convey them as the observations of a fictitious character, he should have taken care to make that convenient personage a respectable and not an abandoned being." His observations on the beauties of this poem are equally just, and the quotation which he gives of his personification of " Battle," stamping his foot on the rock overhanging the plains of Tala- vera, may be justly ranked among the sublimcst pas- sages in ancient or modern poetry. It reminds us of Collins's picture of danger. •' IjO ! where the giant on the mountain stands, His blood-red tresses deepening in tlic sun, With death-shot glowing in his hands, And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon ; Restless it rolls, now fixed, and now anon, Flashing afar, and at his iron feet Destruction comes to mark what deeds are done ; For on this day three potent nations meet To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet." His observations on " The Corsair," we do not think equally just. He cannot conceive, he says, how a heart of such sensibility as Medora possessed, should feel such intense anxiety for the fate of Conrad, whom she knew to be a dark, designing villain. He thinks his demoniacal qualities ought to havi' driven him 348 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. from all humai'. kind. We think otlysi'wise ; and even if we admitted him to be what our author has no authority in supposing him, we should think so still ; for we should still be unable to perceive any thing un- natural in Medora's affection for the Corsair. With- out pretending to any extraordinary acquaintance with the human heart, experience alone places sufficient evidence within our reach of the fidelity of woman to her partner for life. A woman once attached to the person of a man, remains so, and there was nothing in the person of Conrad which could lead us to think it impossible that a woman would fall in love with him. , " Robust, but not Herculean to the sight, No giant frame sets forth his connnon height ; Yet in the whole who paused to look again, Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgarnien} They gaze and marvel how — and still confess, Tliat thus it is, but why they cannot guess." Are we to suppose such a figure incapable of gaining the affections of a woman, and of retaining them through life, notwithstanding his vices ? At the same time, v/e need not have recourse to this argument to defend the probability of such an attachment, for we do not conceive that the character given of Conrad by Lord Byron, justifies our author in calling him a devil in- carnate ; nor do we think that the following passage, which he quotes as an instance of his infidelity, con- tains a single sentiment that authorises the conclusion, " There is a war of chaos in the mind. When all its elements convulsed, — combined, Lie dark and jarring with perturbed force, And gnashing with impenitent remorse, That juggling fiend— who never spoke before. BEAUTn=;s OF MODERN I-ITKRATURF. 349 But cries, ' I warned thee,' wben the deed is o'er. Vain voice ; the spirit burning, but unbent. May writhe, rebel — the weak alone repent." These are not sentiments of infidelity. On the contrary, they arc what divines would call sentiments of returning grace. They express the conflict of a mind which dares not give itself over altogether to vice, but which still wants courage to embrace the sterner paths of virtue. A confirmed infidel feels no " chaos" of " mind," no " dark, jarring, and con- vulsed elements." These are only felt where virtue and vice combat with each other, but where no spark of virtue remains, the slave of vice travels forward smoothly and quietly in the paths of iniquity. The Corsair, however, was far from suffering every prin- ciple of virtue to perish within him ; and he seems to be continually at war with himself for not quitting the predatory life which he led, altogether. In the following lines he acknowledges not only his belief in a God, but that the life Avhich he led was opposed to his will : — " My sole resources in the path I trod, Were these — my bark — my sword — my love — my God ; The last I left in youth, he leaves me now." The critics generally admit that Macbeth was at bottom a virtuous man, though hurried to evil acts by the predominance of one prevailing passion. He every where betrays the same chaos and conflict of mind with the Corsair ; and, if we admit him to have been naturally virtuous, how much stronger claims has the Corsair to that title. It is difficult to find a parallel for the chivalric heroism of mind which he 350 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. displays in refusing to kill Scyd Pacha while he was asleep, deeniins^ it dishonourable to attack any man unarmed, though Seyd was his mortal enemy, and an enemy too who had decreed him to suffer an excrucia- ting death. But Macbeth had no such scrupulosity of character : he put to death a monarch who had loaded him with his favours, nor was it only on this occasion that he proved himself an assassin. No wonder, then, that Medora should be distractedly attached to the Corsair, who, on all occasions, displayed the greatest magnanimity of character. She was more intimately acquainted with his heart than our author appears to have been, and she knew it to be tender and affection- ate, notwithstanding the sternness of countenance which he assumed. In a word, she knew him to be, at bottom, naturally virtuous. Two lines from the passage in which she endeavours to persuade him to abandon his course of life, abundantly prove what we assert : — How strange that heart, to me so tender still, i)hould war with nature and its better will." We do not, however, maintain that all Lord Byron's characters are free from sentiments of infidelity ; but If we could assure ourselves of his own orthodoxy, Ave see no reason why he might not make his fictitious characters infidels, or atheists, or whatever he thought proper. Virtue is not in danger by the exposal of vice unless this vice be presented to us as virtue. We do not believe that the noble lord has any where at- tempted to affect this metamorphosis, though We are not so blind as to perceive that he frequently treats virtue with too much levity. Indeed, we have no hcsi- TiEAlITlKS OF MODERN r.ITEllATURK. 351 tation to assert, that Lord Byron's genius is of tlial character which is nearly alhed to madness. The im- petuosity of his passions trample every thing under foot, and, therefore, he never inquires, for a moment, whether what he asserts be true or false. Hence, in all his descriptions, he consults his feelings and pas- sions alone, never reflecting whether the objects, images, and situations, which they picture to his mind may be reconciled with the dictates of reason or not. In a word, he gives every thing the colouring of his own passions. It is very easy to perceive, that if he had as frequently spoken the language of reason as of passion, he could no longer display that deep and in- tense pathos, that bold, sublime, and rapid imagery which characterize his writings, and place him at the head of all our living poets. We must not read his works, therefore, to become acquainted with philo - sophy or religion ; we must read them merely to enjoy the high delights of poetic rapture, and to rove at large through the Elysian retreats and fairy habita- tions of the ideal world ; but we must forget, at the same time, that we are feasting, not in the virgin para- disc of Reason, but in the sensual bowers of Calypso. The works of Lord Byron must, therefore, be read for enjoyment and not for improvement. We know it is possible to mingle morality with poetry, but we know that, except to minds very rigidly disciplined to moral habits, poetry has more attractions without it ; the cool and sage demeanour of the one but ill accords with the frenzied eye, and glowing countenance of the other. Let us not then seek for morality where it ought not to be expected. Lord Byron does not 352 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LTTERATURE. profess himself a divine ; — why then censure him for not discharging' a duty which belongs to others ? He M'ho wishes to be instructed, let him apply to the church : he who wishes to be pleased, let him apply to Lord Byron. We must, however, say, that though it is not the business of a poet to preach morality, neither is it his business to expose it to ridicule. He may be luxuriant without being rampant. And we doubt not, when the effervescence of youthful passion begins to give way to the dominion of reason, but that Lord Byron will alter the style and character of his poetry. Until then we have little hopes. Our limits will not permit us to extend our obser- vations on this work further. With the author's opinion on the controversy between Lord Byron and Mr. Bowles, with whom he takes part against his Lordship, we do not agree ; but the subject is already so familiar to the public, that we shall not notice it here. We repeat, however, what we asserted at set- ting out, that the author of this work seems not to have undertaken it in the spirit of enmity to Lord Byron, but through a zeal for what he supposed to be the cause of insulted truth. He selects the finest pas- sages to be met with in his works, and does every justice to his poetic beauties. He acknowledges in the most unequivocal manner, his superiority to all the poets of his age, and if he could only compromise so far as to overlook his moral imperfections, we know not of a more real or zealous admirer of Lord Byron's poetry and poetical genius. European Magazine, BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 353 WRITERS OF IMAGINATION. Do we not owe much more to writers of imagination than is generally acknowledged ? This is a query which I think must be answered affirmatively. Litera- ture has mainly contributed to the present advanced state of civilization ; and, in enquiring what branches of it have more particularly tended to those refine- ments which spring from generous and noble feelings, it must be conceded to our poets and romance writers. Much was gained from the ancients, that produced an influence upon the character of modern nations 3 but perhaps their writings operated most beneficially, by exciting a love of research, and arousing genius to exertion. This idea gathers strength from the fact, that the study of the ancients, did little in awakening the flame of civil liberty.* They were long the inmates of cloisters and of courts, but they effected no direct change in favour of liberal feelings. Inquisitors tor- tured, popes duped, monks cheated, and princes trampled on mankind, but no spontaneous spirit of resistance was roused among the people by the free circulation of the classics. They were, no doubt, an indirect cause of original thinking and the uncon- trouled operations of genius, by propagating a taste for study, and feeding the flame of emulation ; but, * The editor begs leave to say, that he thinks this correpondent utterly at fault, in his opinion, respecting the influence of classical learning on the progress of liberty in the modern world. 2A 354 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATUaE. directly, they were harmless enough to be tolerated by the present Czar of Muscovy, or the feudal sove- reign of Hungary himself. It will be found that their present state of literature, or, at least, that state in which there is the most extensively diffused taste for letters, is a pretty good criterion of the gradations of the different nations of Europe in refinement. Whatever each separate class of authors may have contributed to this end, the diffusion of high and generous feelings is principally owing to writers of imagination. To them we are largely indebted for the better sentiments of the age, and for all that, by exciting the passions, leads to eminence and renown. This is mainly owing to their prominent principle of keeping the mind dissatisfied with common-place things, their power of creating images superior, in every respect, to reality, which we admire, and would fain imitate ; and the admiration they infuse for what is good and excellent, sublime and daring. Writers on science have me- liorated the physical condition of man, enlarged his stock of information, and increased his luxuries. In devoting themselves to their peculiar studies, they were urged on by the desire of improvement, which very desire, the moving spring of all, is increased by the dislike of standing still ; and the spirit of ambi- tion which imaginative writers greatly assist nature in sustaining. Like the trophies of Miltiades, that would not let Themistocles rest, the visions and day-dreams that haunt the mind and fill the soul with things better than the world and society afford it, by making us discontented, spur us to pursue those beyond our reach, and keep us in progression. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 355 What can some branches of literature effect towards the refinements of social life — writers on law, for ex- ample ? They may enable the lawyer to improve his practice, and arrive at the end for which he labours — his private profit : for, in spite of cant, this is the sole object of the profession. For this, the members drudge and dispute on both sides of a question, or on either side, just as they are hired, and their efforts, in plain fact, are alone directed to their individual ad- vantage. There is no enthusiasm in the pursuit be- yond what springs from the love of gain, and, inas- much as it is for the public good, that intricate and contradictory laws should be made clear, when they can be made so at all, writers on law may be merely styled useful, and nothing more. A pure legislation must depend on civilization ; but this is not the lawyer's, but the statesman's calling, and emanates from public opinion, expressed by its representatives, and its spirit must be governed by the variations of time and circumstances. Writers on grammar, medi- cine, and technical and limited arts, contribute, indirectly and remotely, to refinement. The Bentleys of their age, who devote volumes to the correction of a comma, or the supposed use of an obsolete letter, are but abstractedly beneficial, inasnmch as they smooth the way to learning for the great spirits that are destined to operate good through the medium of the passions. Those writers who appeal to. reason, make very slow progress in imposing conviction, com- pared with those who operate the other way. By the alchemy of association, and the power to appeal to the heart through its vivid pictures, more impressioa 2 a2 356 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. is made by one writer of imagination, than by twenty reasoners. Reason will never be any other than a regulator. The writer of imagination leads us to better objects and desires than the world exhibits to our senses, and thereby keeps alive a perpetual wish of improvement by the contemplation of what ought to exist, and dissatisfying us with what really does. Let us examine facts. Writers of imagination, far above all others, have been in advance of the time in which they lived. Gifted with a species of intellectual foresight, they have appeared to pour forth their effu- sions as if in the midst of times they were never des- tined to see, but in the more refined spirit of which they were fully qualified to partake. They breathed a different intellectual atmosphere from contem- poraries, and were acknowledged by those of the highest refinement in their day, with a respect that could only have arisen from a sense of discriminating admiration. Monarchs and courts, till late times, associated with poets and romance-writers, the court formerly being the most enlightened and refined circle in the state, the centre of knowledge and fine feeling, there was a natural affinity between them. As a por- tion of the people attained a higher state of mental culture, they approached the court itself, and, at least, equalled, and a numerous body of them surpassed, most of the individuals composing it, in cultivated intellect. Writers then naturally felt the tone of a considerable portion of the popular feeling to be most in unison with their own, and the latter became to writers of imagination, what courts had been in earlier times. Part of the people having become as discerning BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURli. 857 es the individuals whom chance, interest, or caprice, may have elevated to cany on affairs of state for the monarch, where talent and intellect should have con- stituted the qualification — talent that, discarding prejudice, would have assimilated things to the light of the age — is one great cause of the present feverish feeling of some European nations. In Russia, for in- stance, where the court is among a dark people, it is still the centre of the intellectual refinement of the empire. Writers of imagination, born with more vivid conceptions than other men, have lived in an ideal world, which the nature of human desires led them to pourtray more perfect and noble than the world of reality. This gave them more independent spirits, more lofty and romantic ideas, and also ena- bled them to reason ; for Locke allows, that it is not necessary for men to devote their lives in the study of logic, to reason well. Pure thoughts and lofty prin- ciples, influenced by genius, that do not suffer common prejudices to affect them, will weigh things with the greatest impartiality, and come to the most rational conclusions. In past, and even in the present days, how much that the world sanctions, appears absurd and barbarous in the eye of genius. The judges would have burnt all the old women in England without compunction, if evidence had been tendered that they were witches, in the days of John Milton, and even for fifty years afterwards ; the poet, we may answer for it, would not have condemned one. Dante would never have made a hell for many great men of his time, deemed by the multitude among the mighty and noble, had he looked upon them with the eyes of his own 358 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. age. He contemplated them as not of his own time, and with the impartiality of a future and wiser gene- ration. Vulgar minds cannot comprehend the ideas of men of genius; they think them audacities, or chimerical innovations ; but they who contribute to the improvement of mankind, belong but a small part of them to the present time, — they are the heritage of unborn ages. Honest and good men may labour in their world of realities in a circle of minute duration, be useful, industrious, and virtuous followers in a bea- ten track, content with what they see, and thinking the world precisely as it should be in every respect. They, however, are but the wheels of society, not the moving causes. Sir Thomas More is a remarkable instance among imaginative writers, and seems at first to constitute an exception to the foresight, if it may be demonstrated, of that class. But he was bred a lawyer, and suffered the pernicious leaven of the pro- fession to neutralize the effect of the divine spirit with which he wrote. More condemned persecution in his works as not fit for his Utopian state of society; but he practised it, from his inveterate obedience to cus- tom, when he should have nobly resisted it from prin- ciple. Writers of imagination, by what is wrongly called deception, more properly fiction, send us in search of better things than we already possess. Present and limited use is not so much their object as to delight and allure. From the spirit of correction and improve- ment, which originates in the desire of possessing better things than we see around us, old and bad laws are repeated, the legislative body bows to public opi- BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 359 nion, and changes old and absurd usages for those that are more rational and useful ; the commercial restric- tions of past times are removed ; a more liberal tole- ration is sanctioned, and a system consistent with the state of mental culture is introduced. Fixed things are injuries to that eternal desire of perfection, with which the better order of minds is imbued. We must not stand still, but we shall infallibly do so, if we have no longing after idealities. Our line of action may be uniform, but, notwithstanding, we must pursue, if from the expectation of overtaking what is better than we have yet come up with. Genius is, most of it, that eternal hope ever alive in the mind, of something bet- ter than present good, — the quenchless vestal fire, the soul of every thing great and noble in this world. Imaginative writers dwell in a world of spirits, glorious in beauty, and boundless in extent. Let the tale be a deception, — let the poem be a fiction, — let the meta- physician show his teeth at it, and the mathematician snarl and sneer, because he cannot lay down its length and breadth ; it is from this very cause its beneficial effects arise, and that it is so useful to mankind ; it is because it keeps alive better things than their philo- sophy can teach, and its elements are so valuable. A touching ballad shall make a million of friends to a virtuous object ; a hundred sermons shall not procure one. A " lilibuUero" shall uncrown a tyrant before a mathematician can construct a fort in which to shel- ter himself from his fury. The direct effects of works of the imagination, sometimes seem irresistible ; and if any chance to be impugnable on the score of princi- ples, — for all writers will have their imperfections. 360 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. more or less, — there is a property mysteriously at- tached to the mass of public opinion, that makes it reject what is erroneous, as* it were, by the subtlest intuition, and profit by the purer portion. Let us examine the earliest writers of imagination, and compare them with mere schoolmen, — how liberal are their views, — hoAV refined their sentiments ! Matter- of-fact men, who deal only in the tangible, are of the earth, earthly : the natural is their sphere, — they deal in cubes and blocks, — they must see and touch, to be- lieve. They ever gravitate to the centre : their looks are always '^ downward bent," and they enjoy no ** visions beatific ;" their grovelling and heavy imagi~ nations are unequal to mounting with the " sightless couriers of the air ;" they see only with " leaden eyes that love the ground ;" and if they dream, they dream by rule and compass. The eye that " doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven," is to them the organ of a distempered brain. Where should we arrive, if we considered human nature only in the mere matter-of-fact way it exhibits itself in the world, — a thing of petty interests, selfish, over- reach- ing, deceitful, infirm, and perishable, — if we always kept to the reality of the picture, and contemplated it in its naked truth? If we could not mark out nobler destinies for it than its realities show, and fill up the defects of what is, with the images and desires of what would render existence more delightful ? What a glo- rious light flashes on the offspring of imagination, the herald of a more perfect state of things existing some- where ! How they seem imbued with qualities of the most redeeming character 1 Even in the darker times, BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 36l how they sparkled with native radiance ! What a con- trast they formed to the bigotry, prejudice, and igno- rance of ecclesiastical writers, and the plodders after the dogmas of blind scholastics ! Before philosophy glimmered, and Galileo was incarcerated by church- men for promulgating sublime truths, too vast for the understandings of Monks and Cardinals, writers of imagination had forced their way for ages, and satirised the crimes of consistories, and the knaveiy of the Apostolic Church, — thus insensibly undermining the Vatican Fiction, triumphed in the cause of truth, and, opening the eyes of mankind, innovated on established order, preparing Europe for the reformation. Boc- caccio, by exposing the licentiousness of the Clergy in his Decameron, contributed to this good end nearly two hundred years before Luther appeared. There seemed to be such an innate love in remote times, for writers of imagination, that they flourished in spite of secular and ecclesiastical opposition, secretly applauded by the enlightened among the great, at a time when works of science, that interfered with superstition, would have been strangled in their birth, and their authors burned at the stake by a council of churchmen from pure V amour de Dieu. Poetry being the first step among barbarous nations towards refinement, made way for civilization ; while in latter times, princes and courts loved and encou- raged poets, and writers of romance were deemed almost divine. But the regard for literature is now more strong among the people. Modern princes have not kept pace with the advancement of their people, because taste and knowledge cannot increase hcredi- 362 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. tarily ; they must, therefore, be content to follow, with their courts, the current of public opinion, and be, in this respect, on a level with the rest of the nation. Few modern princes will wish to show an isolated condition of mind, pretending to despise that which they cannot comprehend. Nor will they, because their subjects are become more refined, affect the vulgar feeling of Louis XIV. when he said to the Duke de Vivonne, who was a healthy, ruddy- looking personage, "Mais i quoi sert de lire?" and got the following reply, " Sire, la lecture fait a I'esprit ce que vous per- drix font a mes joues." -There seems to be no affecta- tion, however, in the Emperor of Austria on this head ; his intellects, indeed, are naturally weak, and his no- tions feudal. Else, while he trampled upon Italy, he would not have doomed Pellico, the young, the charm- ing poet of that country, to wear out life in chains and in a dungeon, merely on suspicion of being a friend to his native land. Pellico, to his misfortune, was not slave enough in spirit. Had he been a slave, he had breathed the pure air of Heaven, — he had now seen the sun that will probably never again shed its beams upon him ! The direct communication of dry facts would not improve mankind, unless all were able to reason im- partially and well. Alas, how few can ! The best relation of the life of a virtuous man, accurately given in cold narrative, would not do half as much in the cause of virtue as a fictitious character of suffering goodness, worked up with the graces of style and the embellishments of eloquence, and written to touch the passions. Every-day examples would not move us BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 363 towards what is excellent. There is something more than bare truth by which men are to be affected. A stimulant must be applied to the mind as well as the .body. We must contemplate ideal goodness, if we i avoid retrograding. We must follow a route, trackless as the eagle's, and, rising above a real, keep hope alive by contemplating an invisible, creation. The reign of poetry and romance, is one of a spirit engender- ,ing enthusiasm and inspiration, the quality that makes a hero of a soldier, an artist of a mechanic, and a martyr of a saint. It cannot be enjoyed without a temporary abstraction from what is around us, but must rise above the impure and tainted atmosphere of common life. The air-woven delicate visions of poe- tical inspiration, will not appear in the clouded, foggy, dense climate of every-day routine ; they must float in "gaily gilded trim," beneath unclouded skies, and in the full gloiy of the sun-beam, in fields of ether, and amid the rich hues of the rainbow. But for scenes of imagination, those cities of refuge to which the mind may fly now and then from the toil, dulness, and weary repetitions of morning, noon, and night, and night, noon, and morning, what care-worn wretches should we be ! So far from valuing works of fancy less as we advance in civilization, we shall love them more, be- cause we fly to them with more enjoyment from the fatigue of professional pursuits, and the right-angle formalities of daily avocations, which multiply around us, as luxury increases our wants. No 5 let the author of Waverley write on ; let poets pour forth their strains ; let the Radcliffes of the time lead us into the horrors of romance, and let the empire of magination 364 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. live for ever ! Let the plodding lawyer worship his fee, confound right and wrong, and entangle his clients as he may, scoffing at the splendours of fiction. Let the physician look wise and considerate, and shake his head, while his patient suffers nothing but "consump- tion of purse." Let the merchant traffic, and the tradesman truck ; let the jew cheat, and the attorney inveigle : let earthquake and plague devastate : let man be cruel and oppressive to fellow-man, sell his blood and muscle, or butcher him in war for the sake of a hogshead of sugar, a roll of tobacco, or the dreamy right of some king divine to "govern wrong:" let dulness and impudence prosper, and merit remain in obscurity; let ignorance and incapacity fill the seat of justice, while common sense is pilloried : let all these things be daily, and go their round-about as matter- of course : — whither can we turn from them ? Where can we go aside from observing them with repulsion and disgust, but to the empire of imagination ? Sick- ened with such objects as constitute the greater part of our realities, we may meditate on forms of female beauty like the Juliet of Shakspeare, or the Rebecca of Ivanhoe, — we may solace ourselves with " mask and antique pageantry," and •' Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream :" — with the deeds of Roncesvalles, or of British Arthur, or " Call up him that left half told The story of Cambuscan bold, Of Camball and of Algarsife, And who had Canace to wife :"— . we may visit scenes and beings of a purer world than BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 365 our own; and when forced to return to every-day things, return to them with renovated spirits, and the liope that the delightful creations in which we have been revelling, may at some future time be realized to our senses ; if not in this world, in another. Y. LETTERS FROM MISS FLIRTILLA TO MISS PRUDENTIA. It seems requisite, before the reader enters upon the following correspondence, to remind him of our having, on a previous occasion, remarked how much the introduction of French frivolities into the manners of the Scottish fair is at variance with their customary habits and deportment, and how much we doubted that the pretended improvement would be ultimately and generally beneficial. We shall now leave him to draw his own conclusions from this part of a corres- pondence betwixt two amiable young ladies of differ- ent characters, united by the bonds of friendship, and only separated by circumstances : namely, the former's being on her travels in order to give the last polishing touch to her person and education, whilst the compa- nion of her early youth was doomed, from a more limited income, to remain at home — discreet, sedate, and contented with her lot. Now to the letters. LETTER I. Dear Prudentia, Paris. It has been with much difficulty that T refrained 366 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. from writing to you sooner, for a number of interest-' ing things took place on my road here ; but you know Ma's old-fashioned economical way : she has forgotten the first impulses of the heart, and calculates the postage of a letter; so she insisted on my not putting you to this expense until I arrived in Paris, and even now wants me to wait for Mr. Ballantync, who thinks of visiting your cold and smoky capital in three weeks. " C'est un eternity pour ramour," As somebody says (but this somebody must not be brought in before the proper time and place) ; so you see, my dear girl, I stole out by myself, without fear of being run away with by the light and volage cheva- liers Francais, and went personally, whilst Ma was in the arms of Morpheus, and put this (my letter) in the Grande Poste, in the Rue Jean Jaques Rosseau, and I was followed and looked at by legions of admirers ; aye, my love, and some of these gay youths were of the Legion of Honour too ! what say you to that ? Entre nous, how a little bit of red ribbon does give a finish to a gentleman's dress, just peeping out of his button- hole, like a grandee \n co^ -. the black stock, bushy hair, rakishly worn hat, and a thousand sweet et cceteras, not forgetting what I call game-spurs, and high-heeled boots. And now, my dear Prudentia, I am so bewildered with delight at every thing in this dear, dissipated metropolis, that I don't know where to begin. First, the Thuilleries are splendid, — the entrance to Paris is magnificent, — the Column grand, — the Opera enchanting, — the Feydean captivating, — the attentions of the men overpowering, and their BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATTTRE. 36/ manners divine ! I should have been ruined if I had not learned waltzes and quadrilles before I came here: I might have been accounted a rustic amongst rustics, ■ an uneducated amongst the vulgar 5 but you advised i me never to waltz with a foreigner, who, between you and T, are the only people worth waltzing with. Such murmuring of vows and oaths as we whirl round toge- ther; — such humble yet warm attentions, so much . mischief done with the eye, and such elegant exertions ! to set off a partner to the best advantage. Who would dance with a Scotch loon after these, a rough animal who handles you as he Avould the reins of a coach - horse, merely to give himself exercise and to get you on ? French women are not driven thus, and why should we be so? They are gently led in wreaths of flowers and vive ! The rosy wreath say I ? But my poor little head is straying, and you must not chide me for it. They who have not drank of the cup of pleasure know not its bewitching effect. I dare say, notwithstanding, that a sober cup of tea would satisfy my dear Prudentia just as well : however, I must try and convert you, and bring you over here by hook or by crook. A propos, I have already named you to the very cream of elegance, the pearl of perfection ; a gallant young lancer of twenty-two years of age, with one of those faces which you meet with in a picture gallery, with berry-black whiskers, and chintuft a la Henri Quartere, an eye like an eagle, and a high forehead of polished marble, a lofty air, seducing smile, and covered with military decorations. He evinced much interest to see you. How romantic ! To see my friend, he observed, would be like seeing 368 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LltERATURE. my second-self; a thing that always must have high interest with an admirer. He hinted too that he was devoted to me a la vie, a la mort, that he had a dear comrade as brave as he is engaging, and covered with wounds and glory, whom he would introduce to you, and who would be almost intuitively in love with you before he saw you. He too has two orders dangling on his breast ; but I am going on too fast. I must tell you that we M'^ent first to Meurice's Hotel, where eveiy thing was so extravagant that we were forced to leave it, at which I was not ill- pi eased, for I saw nothing but our own country people, (I mean Britons) there ; and they do indeed, Prudentia, lose by comparison, — don't be angry. Neither our men nor women know how to dress, and you will allow that the exterior is the first thing we judge by ; and as to politeness, they know it only by name. Bless you, a French nobleman of the first rank takes his hat off respectfully to the hum- blest class of our sex — dear woman is his idol ! From Meurice's, Ma, from economy, removed to the JFau- bourg St. Germain, the other side of the water ; I at first shed a tear at being borne away from the centre of high fashion, but I was consoled by the agreeable inmates of our private hotel, or lodging house, consist- ing of a countess, — no less, my love, — of about thirty, as giddy and as playful as a girl of fifteen, whose husband is at his chateau three hundred miles off, and three militaires, one a lancer, and the other two Gardes du Corps, but all titled ; the Marquis de Mai- sonvude, the Vicompt Volage, and the Chevalier d'Or- court. The former is my dying swain, the other two his confidants, and of the same part of France, BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 369 Aiivergne. We have been every where : to the play, to church, to the Palais Royal^ to the Chapel Royal, to the Promenade, and I know not where. The Marquis wanted to take me in his cabriolet to the Bois de Bou- logne, but Ma ill- naturedly refused, and I would not eat any thing the whole day, nor utter any thing be- yond yes and no. She cannot bear Frenchmen, a proof of her bad taste. The Countess, however, gave what she called her little impromptu at night, and forced Ma to come and bring me. Now this impromptu con- sisted in a concert and a ball sans facon, with a cold collation at one in the morning. How your poor dear friend Flirtillaj who is thought so slightly of at home, was flattered, sought for, and admired : I blush as I recite my triumph. The French ladies were all envy. One youth protested he had always had a penchant for English ladies ; a colonel of hussars stole my glove, and swore that he would keep it more reverentially than a saint's relick ; J'en at trop vu en Mspagne, said he : and two captains of the Garde, nay, all, as- sured me, that they were dying for the felicity of being my partner. There was no Miss, or Ma'am, are you engaged for the next dance?" But " may I aspire to the honour of Mademoiselle's dancing the next qua- drille with me ?" On assuring one of them that I was engaged for four dances, but that then I should be happy to accept his offer, he replied, " four dances hence ! that is an age, but" (with a sigh), " J'attoi- drai toujours." Now where Avould you find such refinement in Scotland ? The truth is, that English women were quite the rage. I don't know how many marriages, elopements, and faux pas have not taken 2B 370 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. place this winter. Our countrymen begin to look quite blue, and rich fathers are frightened to death about their girls. Poor Ma don't appear quite at her ease about myself: if they look to fortune, she need have no apprehension, hut furthermore this dejjonent sayeth not. I am disgusted a jamais with our Sandys and Willises, and Donalds, and Alisters : how different the sounds of Victor, Adolphe, Auguste, Hippolite, Amed^, &c. I must tell you that the grand ballet at the opera is sublime : they dance like demi-gods. I do not understand the French of the drama complete- ly : doubtless it is heavenly, and I shall know all about it in time. The conversation of the French is spirited to a degree ; at first I thought it a little too free, but I am getting over that prejudice daily, as I am surmounting all the awkward obstacles to comfort which stood in t^he way of convenience and bon ton, when first I arrived ; suoh as draggling a pair of white satin shoes for fear of showing my ankles j keeping my partner at arms length in a waltz for fear of looking bold ; (it is impossible to waltz gracefully thus) hold- ing down my head when complimented j and asking Ma's leave upon every trivial occasion. I have taken the Marquis's advice, who tells me that a pretty woman ought to be a despot, her will is absolute — I must take breath — would you believe that I am considered as quite a beauty ? Such a complexion, they say : so natural ! so artless ! Even my golden locks find favour in their sight,* and I assure you that I spare no pains in setting *. Here Mademoiselle Flirtilla has been flattered into an error : the Ficiich particularly dislike red hair, but aditlation stops at nothing: it aims at turning the brain, and tlje conaequj^wp^ lU,^y be fat^l. The BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 371 off my ringlets to the best advantage : nay, I now may be mistaken for a French woman in every article of my dress, if ever I come back — but far distant be the thought : I have forgotten every thing but thee, my Prudentia: and now, whilst it is in my head, I will certainly contrive to smuggle over to you some Paris shoes and gloves, and the last mode in a bonnet. And now adieu, my dear Prudentia j ma bonne et tendre amie. I hear my lancer singing his favourite air : he is a charming rattle, and the words suit his character well. This song is a signal for me to go out a walking with the countess ; one of the Gardes dit Corps is her beau, and is to be one of the party — ^hark, I hear him again. " Atijourdliui encore de la folie, Et je serai sage demain." Adieu, your's most truly, Flirtilla. letter ii. Indeed, my dear Prudentia, your preaching letter is too sombre for the light and airy sphere in which I move, and for the warm climate which I inhabit. One would think that pleasure, instead of being a charming aerial spirit with gilded wings, was some haggard demon of frightful aspect, from which a young woman must fly as from deadly temptation. Surely a little flirtation with a few butterfly beaus is no such great sin. Why should I let the French fair ones bear away conquest of one Angloise is a greater triumph to a Frenchman than * score of victims of his own country. 2b2 372 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. the palm of admiration from me ? No, no, my dear girl, youth and beauty are spring flowers, and, as my admirer says, " II n'y a qu iin tenis pour vivre Amis, passons le gaiement ;" and I am determined so to do : nay, more, it shall not be my fault if I do not make a convert of you, and if I do not prevail upon you to quit the frigid zone, where you are frozen up under a non-intercourse with the votaries of pleasure, and visit fashion's most favourite haunts ; to wit, la bomie ville de Paris. But now let me treat you with an account of our last ball. I pre- vailed upon Mamma to give an impromptu two nights ago : our dear countess ordered the music, the decora- tions, the supper, &c. and I assure you all was magni- fique, although Mamma grumbled at the expense, and was out of her element all the night. You would nave been astounded to see the incense which was offered to what was called my charms; to have beheld so many gay flatterers about me j such rivalry for the advantage of dancing with me j such high request as I was in amongst the elegantes, I had written a list of promises made to aspiring partners as long as my arm, and I was not able to fulfil one half of my engagements. The disappointed many claim my hand for another ball next week, at the duke de 's ainbigu, a party with- out form or ceremony, at the duke's hotel, which is gi- ven weekly. The voice of scandal breathes a vile report respecting that house, namely, that the lady who does the honours is the duke's chere amie, that the birth of her daughter is doubtful, and that hotel is a scene of intrigue and a match-making place. Mademoiselle, liEATTTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 373 it is added, is to go off in wedlock to the best bidder, the heaviest purse being the object in view. Eh Men ! What is that to me, or to any one else but the party concerned ? But to return to our soirde : I was dressed in a robe h la vierge of white taffetas, richly trimmed with expensive lace, my hair all in simple ringlets, kept back by a costly comb, which, by the way, is not paid for yet ; white satin shoes completed my artless ap- pearance, for which I was idolized by a legion of lovers. Every one with some two or three orders dangling from their button-holes. Dear, delightful creatures ! how well they do understand the art of flatteiy. I did not dance with one Englishman the whole of the night, for which I gained much praise from the Paris heaux. The fact is, that an Englishman in Paris is a mighty insipid being ; he looks like a fish out of water, and a queer fish too. The French militaires eclipse them completely, and place them in darkness visible. I had a pretty scolding from Mamma the next morning for what she terms levity ; but, on the other hand, I was les delices of the French for my sprightliness and amia- bility ; and I was assured that I might be mistaken for a French elegatite du premier ton; that is just what I aim at ; and I trust that if ever I return to Scotland I shall not be recognizable. But far from me be the horrid thought of quitting dear France ; I could pass my life in this admirable metropolis ; and, between you and I, I should have no objection to becoming the partner for life of some young colonel, with the title of count or baron tacked to his name. How the Scotch lasses would envy me ! -Apropoa, I have had one offer, but of this hereafter. One thing my intended must 374 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. make up his mind to, if he takes me, namely, that he will not have a tame, tasteless, British matron for a wife, but one, whose manners and habits will be all French : one who will flirt when and where she pleases, and have her own will in every thing, d, la mode de Paris. To be sure, women were born to reign, instead of being the complying, obeying, sermonizing, house- hold stuff, without a will, and as gentle as o. petit moii- ton, like most of the English married dames. No faith, I have learned another lesson here : I am otherwise schooled : however, this I shall keep to myself; it will be time enough for my caro sposo to know this when I have him in Hymen's chain — there's high spirit for you ! Do not believe a word against the French ; they are the best flirts, the most agreeable admirers in the world, and some of them very good husbands ; and as matrimony is but a lottery, why should not I get a prize as well as another ' Noav I think I see you looking gra\"e, and shaking your head, and thinking that your poor Flirtilla is on the road to ruin. Not a bit — this is all mere sportiveness, aimablefolie, a thing not understood in the Land of Tliistles. Here we know only the ro- ses of life's j!>cw^erre, but — true — ^yes, 'tis he — I see my swain, and the hour of the post's departure approaches also. How pale I look ; last night's dissipation has spoiled my complexion. I must away to my dressing room, and keep the dear man waiting for at least a quarter of an hour, that is hon ton ; besides, my ring- lets must be adjusted, and dear, how pale I look ! Shall I borrow a blush from the countess's book ? No, that won't do for a Demoiselle ; it will be time enough to practise that attraction when I become Madawte ; BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 375 my admirer will, doubtless, find me Men interressante as I am. What a pity it is that the fatigues of pleasure should disfigure the bloom of youth ! But n'impoi-te, I hear my admirer taking up my guitar, and playing a romance, — I must away; once more farewell — My dear girl, believe me, with all my lightheadedness , as you are pleased to call it, still Your unalterable friend, Flirtilla. P. S. I send you the Almanac des 3fodes. We have here an almanack for every thing : one for the Muses, one for gluttons, &c. &c. &c. so that one runs after a new fashion, and another after a new dish or a new sauce. You will, perhaps, say that I am saucy enough without. " Comme vous le voulez, ma bonne amie." Encore^ adieu. Impossibility of forming an obscure Co7iception of a primary Cause until it be perfectly discovered. Obscure Ideas have no existence. When I first reflected on the difficulty of explaining how the same sensation should be at once pleasant and painful, I consulted several works on the subject before f discovered that Hume devoted one of his Essays to the resolution of this curious phenomenon. Du Bos, Lord Kaimes, Dr. Johnson, Dr. Blair, Knight, Lessing, Schlegel, Fontenelle, and almost all the %vri- t€rs who have attempted to explain it, may be more 376 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. properrly considered critics than philosophers ; or, if this distinction should appear obscure, as criticism and philosophy sometimes glide into each other, they were better qualified to distinguish between impressions, and to point out the '^ rainbow hues" which connect them together, than to trace these impressions, and their voluble, impalpable connectives to their original source. The common observer perceives effects and impressions in the gross, but cannot ascertain their momentum, or the precise point to which they do, and beyond which they cannot, extend. This is the business of the critic : his duty is to point out where propriety ends, and where absurdity begins ; and, therefore, the true critic never outsteps the modesty of nature. But the philosopher, not satisfied with marking the proper boundaries that distinguish impressions, and their im- mediate causes from each other, seeks to trace each of them distinctly to its primary source. As the resolution of the present problem belongs to philosophy, and not to criticism, T was not much sur- prised to find tile writers whom I have now mentioned, in their attempts to trace the pleasures resulting from Tragic Representation to its original cause, not only contradicting each other, but contradicting those first truths or principles of reasoning, which are admitted by themselves, and by all mankind. He who contra- dicts first truths, however, will frequently be found to contradict himself, because he is continually admitting these truths where they serve to support his collateral or incidental arguments. That this has been the case with the writers who have treated on the present sub- ject, will manifestly appear from the following pages. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 377 111 detecting their inconsistencies and self-contradic- tions, I observed, that they invariably arose from not sulficiently generalizing the cause of the pleasure of which they were in pursuit ; for nothing can be more easily demonstrated, than that many proximate causes co-operate in producing the pleasing emotions result- ing from Tragic Representations, which no stretch or torture of reasoning can refer to any one of the causes to which these writers trace the agreeable effect. As critics, they have certainly displayed great ingenuity, penetration, and good sense ; but not one of them has viewed his object from a sufficiently elevated situation to grasp it entirely, and examine it in all its parts. From not having sufficiently generalized, therefore, the cause of Tragic Pleasure, all they have written eventually amounts to nothing. Some of them, it is true, travelled farther than others, and consequently advanced nearer to their object ; but he who is within ^ few paces of the place of his destination, is, with regard to his object, in the same situation with him who is a thousand miles off, if he can proceed no far- ther. A man of seven feet high cannot, without leap- ing, seize, with all his efforts, a ball placed half an inch above his reach ; whereas, if he were half an inch taller, he could lay his hand upon it with ease. How- ever trifling, therefore, half an inch may appear, the want of it baffles all the efforts of this tall man to seize the ball : it is as safe from his attempts as from those of a dwarf. It is so in science : the philosopher, in tracing effects to causes, and consequences to pre- mises, should pursue his chain of reasoning until he discovers the original cause of which he is in pursuit ; 378 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. and he frequently fails from not adding another link to the chain, which might have led him to its disco- very. Of this cause, therefore, nearly as he approached it, he knows as little as the clown who cannot com- prehend the second link in the chain. However mys- terious this cause may seem, it would appear simple and obvious to the philosopher the moment he disco- vered it, for all truths are obvious to those who per- ceive them ; but, not having discovered it, he does not form the remotest idea of its existence. A logical reasoner frequently arrives at conclusions, from which many incontrovertible truths might be deduced, of which he is totally ignorant, because, having his mind constantly fixed on one object, he overlooks every conclusion to which his arguments lead, except those which serve to prove the position which he seeks to demonstrate. Of these tniths he is, consequently, as ignorant as he who could never discover the conclu- sions from which they result. Hence it follows, that however nearly we may approach the discovery of truth, we can form no conception of it, if we can ap- proach it no nearer. We may discover, indeed, some of its appendages, but the appendages of a thing form no part of its essence. In fact, until a truth be per- fectly discovered, it is not discovered at all. If it should be said, that even he who cannot perceive the object, or the truth of which he is in search, clearly and distinctly, may still have an obscure idea of it, and consequently be better acquainted with it than he who forms no idea of it at all, I reply, that it is im- possible to form an obscure idea of any thing ; we either see the thing clearly, or we have no perception BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 379 of it. We may, indeed, see part of an object clearly, while the rest of it is concealed in impenetrable dark- ness ; but here there is no obscurity. Of the part which is concealed from us, we form no idea at all ; * for, as an idea is a mental perception of some thing, how can we perceive what is concealed from us ? to say that we can, is to say that it is not concealed. We may, indeed, figure to ourselves a mental image, and call it an image of that part of the object which lies ; concealed ; but is it not obvious, that the idea which then exists in our mind, is an idea of the image, and not of the concealed object ? neither is there any thing obscure in our idea of the image, as we cannot create an image without perceiving it ; for the act of creation is only known to us by the act of perception. We cannot pretend, however, that this image is an image of the object concealed, because this is to maintain, that we know what the object is ; in which case, it cannot be concealed. If, then, we do not know what the object is, neither do we know whether the image present to our mind be an image of it or not. It may, for aught that we know, be as different from it as day is from night. There can be no obscurity, then, in our idea of that part of an object which is concealed from us, be- cause we can form no idea of it at all : neither can there be any obscurity in our idea of that part of the object which we perceive, because perception removes all obscurity. All, then, that we perceive of the object we perceive clearly, and the part which we do not perceive clearly, we do not perceive at all ; for, with regard to our perceptions, it has no existence. Be- sides, the part of the object which we perceive forms 380 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE, a complete and distinct object in our mind. It stands there by itself, for we can trace no relation or point of connexion between it and the part which is supposed to be concealed. To be able to trace such a relation, necessarily implies that we know the thing concealed j for, as we can reason only from what we know, it is impossible we can perceive relations, either between things of which we are ignorant, or between things which we know, and things of which we know no- nothing J for, if there be any quality in the latter simi- lar to the former, it is a quality of which we are ignorant, simply, because we know nothing of the object in which it inheres. To say that we may perr ceive thp quality of an object without perceiving the object itself, is to say what no person can understand, as pur idea of qualities are made known to us by the subjects in which they are perceived. Had we never seen an extended object, we could never form an idea of the quality of extension. As, then, the part of the object which we perceive, forms a clear and distinct object of itself in our minds, we have no right to consi- der it as part of the concealed object, but as a complete object in itself, of which complete object we have not an obscure, but a clear idea. In nature, indeed, it may form only part of an object ; but this is more than we can tell, until we extend our perceptions farther, and see the part to which it is connected. If we can never see this part, neither can we ever pretend to say, that such a part exists ; and, consequently, the part we see is the only part to which we can apply the words, clear or obscure, because it is the only part of which wp can affirm any thing. BEAUTIES OF MODKRN LITERATURE. 381 These observations on clear and obscure ideas, par- ticularly apply to the writers who have treated on the primary cause of Tragic Pleasure. Neither of them has discovered the primary cause, and consequently ' neither of them has ever formed either a clear or ob- scure idea of it, because they have formed no idea of it at all. They have perceived, however, many of the proximate or immediate causes by which this pleasure is produced ; and of these proximate causes they had consequently clear and distinct perceptions ; but as these causes were mere effects resulting from the pri- mary cause, they only saw a part of the object of which they were in pursuit, and of this part they had clear perceptions. Not being able to perceive the part Avhich was concealed from them ; it was therefore impossible for them, as I have already shewn, to form any idea of it, and, consequently, they never dreamt of its exist- ence. The part they saw, necessarily stood in their minds for the entire of the object of which they were iia pursuit, and consequently each of them substituted that secondary cause beyond which he could not tra- vel, for the primaiy cause of which it was merely an effect, so that of the primary cause, they consequently knew as little as those who had never treated on the subject. Their failure has, therefore, arisen from confining themselves to effects, instead of tracing these effects to their primary source. But, as I have already observed, the business of a critic is to watch effects Avith a dili- gent and discriminating eye, not to travel up with the philosopher to the primary causes of these effects ; and the writers of whom I s})eak have treated this question as critics, not as philosophers. 382 BEAUTIES OF MODERP< LITERATURE. From Hume, however, I expected a more philoso- phic solution of this problem, as he seldom traces any effect to a secondary, where a primary cause can be discovered. As a critic, perhaps, he is inferior to Du Bos, Dr. Johnson, and Dr. Blair; but as a philosopher, however dangerous may be the tendency of some of his writings, he is evidently above them all. I cannot help saying, however, that his philosophy has failed him in discussing the present subject, and that the source of the pleasures resulting from Tragic Repre- sentations, has hitherto eluded the acumen of criticism, and the generalizations of philosophy. Hume has' added little to Avhat had been already written on the subject ; and that little is the worst part of his " Essay on Tragedy." What he has quoted from Du Bos and Fontenellc, is worth a thousand of the theories which he has adopted himself; but he must be allowed the merit of perceiving that their theories approached nearer to the truth than any of the rest. They are, however, im- perfect, as will hereafter appear, though they have made so near an approach to the truth. As Schlegel, an eminent German critic, is the latest writer on Dra- matic criticism, a subject which he has treated atveiy considerable length; and, as he has examined and re- jected the most popular theories on the source of Tra- gic Pleasure, and substituted one of his own, I shall first inquire into the philosophy of these theories, and of that which he has substituted in their stead. Schlegel is the ablest commentator on Shakspeare, as Mr. Haz- lett very justly observes, in his criticisms on that poet; and it would seem, that we owe these criticisms more BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 383 properly to Schlegel himself, than to Mr. Hazlctt ; for he acknowledges, in his preface, that " some little jealousy of the national understanding was not without its share in producing the undertaking." " \Ye were piqued" (he says) "that it should be reserved for a Foreigner to give reasons for the faith which we, En- glish, have in Shakspeare ; certainly, no writer among purselves, has shewn such enthusiastic admiration of his genius, or the same philosophical acuteness in pointing out his characteristic excellencies." Such is the critic, with whose theoiy, on the source of Tragio Pleasure, I shall commence the following inquiry. After examining what he has written on the subject, and the various hypotheses which he quotes and rejects, I shall offer some observations on the theories M^hich have been adopted by other writers. My own theoiy shall follow, in which I shall examine those of Du Bos, Fontenelle, and Hume. Fhilosophical Inquiry into the Source of the Pleasures derived from Tragic Represen- tations, by M. M'Dermot. REMARKS ON POETRY AS COMPARED WITH PAINTING AND SCULPTURE. The received opinion, that every well-described poem must also furnish a good subject for the artist in painting or sculpture, and that the representation of the two latter is the absolute criterion of the j)oet's merits, so far at least as the artist is able to follow the 384 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. poet in all the features of the poem, requires some limitation, even when the sphere of both is considered « pi'iori. For poetiy must be considered to possess a much wider sphere than the fine arts, in the unlimited region of the fancy, and the immateriality of her figures, which may coexist in the greatest number and variety, without one covering, or injuring the other : whereas, in the representation of the things themselves, or of their natural symbols, by the artist, it is con- fined within the limits of time and space. However, though the sphere of the fine arts cannot comprehend the greater one of poetry, yet it must be acknowledged that the former is always contained in the latter ; that, though it cannot be said that every subject on which the poet descants ^vill produce the same good effect, when represented on canvas, or in marble, yet every pleasing representation from the artist must produce the same effect when described by the poet. For what we find beautiful in works of art does not prove to be so by its effect on the eye alone, but by its in- fluence on our imagination through the medium of the senses; if, therefore, the same image could be raised in our minds by the arbitrary symbols of language, as its representation by the painter or sculptor, it would produce a similar effect on our imagination. The idetitity of Poetry and Painting. Poetry and painting alike present to our minds ab- sent objects as present — representing appearances as realities ; both effect an illusion, and the illusions of both please. The pleasing nature of both has its origin in the same source, in the form of beauty. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 385 That conception of beauty which is formed in our imagination through the process of the mind in abstract- ing the variety of forms from material objects, is sub- ject to general rules, and may be applied to actions, thoughts, and forms. But, notwithstanding this essential identity, it could not be said with correct- ness, that painting is but mute poetiy, or that the latter is a loud expression of the former ; and it was justly observed, even by the ancient critics, that though the works of both produce a similar effect on our fancy, yet they are dissimilar both in their pro- ductions, and in their manner of imitating nature. The limited nature of Painting and Sculpture compared with Poetry. The boundaries which the ancients have fixed to the productions of art, are: — 1. Beautiful objects, so as to exclude from its eftbrts the mere pleasure to be pro- duced by a true imitation only, when the object re- presented is not pleasing on account of the beauty of its form. To this strict rule the Greek artists particu- larly adhered. They, moreover, condemned every effort to represent a likeness by exaggerating tlie ugly parts of the original ; in other words, they condemned caricature. To represent beauty in all its forms was the chief rule of the Greek artists, with but few excep- tions. The general characteristic in the painting and sculpture of the Greeks is, according to Mr. Winkel- man, a graceful naivete and a solemn grandeur, both m the attitude and expression of the objects represent- ed. As the depth of the sea remains continually calm amidst the rage which reigns on its surface, in the 2C 386 BEAuriBs OF modern literaturb. same manner does the expression in the statues of the Greeks, under the dominion of the passions, exhibit a great and steady soul. 2. The distinguishing boundaries of art, in compa- rison with poeti-y, were, with the Greeks in particular, — never to represent the extreme expression of the various passions, but always to confine their imitations' of them to some degrees lower, and to leave it to the imagination of the beholder to guess at the rest. — Those degrees of the various passions which manifest themselves by an awkward distortion of the face, and which cause the whole body to assume such a posture,- that the beautiful lines, by which the human figure is circumscribed, are lost. Were either not respresentdd at all, or, at least, some fainter exhibition of the same passions were fixed upon by the Greek painter or sculp- tor. Rage and Despair are never represented in their masterpieces ; and it may be said, that they never depicted a Fury. They lowered indignation to mere earnestness. According to their poets, it is indignant Jupiter who slings the lightning, but their artists represent him as merely grave. Lamentation was turned into sorrow by these artists, and where this softening could not be effected, as in the picture of Timanthes, representing the sacrificing of Iphigenia, in which sorrow, in all its various degrees, is depicted in the faces of the byestanders, the countenance of the father, which must have expressed the highest degree of it, is, as has been well remarked, veiled, in order to hide the distorted face of Agamemnon, which must otherwise have been so respresented. In a word, this covering of the father's face, far from considering it. BEAUTIES OF MODERN Ll'TERATURE. 38/ as some have supposed it, a prudent step of the pain- ter not to strive to represent the sorrow of a father on such an occasion, which must be above all rcprc- * sentation, should be rather considered as a sacrifice i on his part to the forms of beauty, in only depicting that in which beauty as well as dignity could be main- tained ; but that which he could not, in compliance with the rules of beauty, represent, he left to the ; imagination to guess. However, modern artists have enlarged the afore- said limits in their representations, and extended their efforts at imitation to all visible objects in nature, of Avhich those which are beautiful, form but a small part ; and have conceived that as nature itself gene- rally sacrifices beauty to higher purposes, in like manner must the artist allow beauty of form to yield to expression and truth : and never follow beauty farther, but rest satisfied that in realizing the latter, he has made a deformed object of nature, a handsome one of art. But even allowing these ideas to remain undisputed, still the artist must, in some measure, be restricted in representing the expressions of the mind, and never fix upon the highest degree of expression in any human action. The reason for this is as obvious as it is indisputable ; for as the artist can imitate nature, which is ever changing, in one of her single moments only, and even that single moment can be represented by the painter only from one point of view ; therefore, if both the sculptor and the painter wish their performances to be perceived not only at one time, but to be repeatedly contemplated, and to be reflected upon for a long interval of time, it must 2 c 2 388 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. be obvious, that the single moment, and the single point of view of that single moment, in the imitation of the catastrophe, can never be chosen too prolific for the fancy of the observer, and that that image alone can be considered as such which leaves ample scope for the imagination. The more the beholder sees, the more he must be able to add to the parts of the ob- ject represented ', the more he fancies, the more must he imagine to find in the work. But in considering any effect whatever, in all its various degrees, we shall not find one single moment less favourable in effecting the former object, than when the utmost extreme of such an effect in nature is re- presented ; for beyond that is nothing more, and to shew to the eye the uttermost is to clip the wings of the observer's fancy, and to force the imagination to occupy itself with weaker images beneath the repre- sentation, as it is impossible for it to overreach the impression produced on the senses by the representa- tion, the perceivable plenitude of which the imagina- tion dislikes. When the sculptor represents Laocoon as sighing, our imagination is able to hear him crying out ; had he represented him as crying out, the ima- gination would not be able to advance a step higher, or to descend lower, without changing the whole into an uninteresting scene. Our fancy would then either hear him but sobbing, or perceive him already dead. Further, as the single moment of the effect obtains by the representation of the artist an immutable dura- bility, it is certain that the former ought not to express such as cannot be conceived by the mind, except as transitory. All those phenomena, to the nature of BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 389 which we think it essential that they can only for one moment be what they appear to be, all such pheno- mena, whether they produce an agreeable or a horrible effect, obtain by the permanency which the artist gives them, such an unnatural appearance, that with each repeated contemplation their impression becomes weaker, and we are at last either disgusted or shocked by the representation. La Metric, who has been re- presented by the painter and engraver as a second Democritus, laughs at the first sight ; but if we look at him often, the philosopher appears like a fool, and his laughter like a grin. It is the same with the re- presentation of one ciying out with pain, &c. The violent pain which forces a man to cry out, either subsides soon, or it destroys the suffering object. Al- though, therefore, the bravest man may sometimes cry out, yet he does not do so incessantly, and it was owing to the seeming continuity produced by the imi- tation of art, that the artist was prevented from repre- senting Laocoon as crying out, although it might not in any way have injured the beauty of the form, and it would be the same if it had been alloA^'cd to the artist to express a state of sutTcring without a beauti- ful form. Among the ancient painters, Timomachus seems to have best chosen the moment of the utmost effect in his representations. His raving Aj ax, his infanticide Medea, were much admired paintings. He represented them so that the observer had to imagine the utmost, but not to behold it ; he chose such moments as we do not necessarily connect with the idea of bciiig of but of transitory duration. He represents the Medea, 390 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. not in that moment when she actually murders her children, but at some minutes previous to the mur-* der — at a time when motherly love still struggles with jealousy. The artist makes us but anticipate the catastrophe that ensues, and our imagination out-? stretches every thing Avhich the painter could have exhibited to us relating to that horrible moment. But so far from blaming the painter for representing Medea to us in a moment when the struggle is undecided, we rather wish it would have remained so in the real occurrence, that the combat of the passions had either remained undetermined, or at least had lasted suffici- ently long for time to subdue her rage, and at length insure a victory to maternal feelings. As to his Ajax, Timomachus does not represent him when he is raging, but sitting down, exhausted after having performed his mad deeds, and forming the design to kill him- self ; and this is really the raging Ajax, not because we see him in a rage, but because we perceive that he has raged, — because we are forcibly struck with the magnitude of his previous rage, which we conjecture from his being now driven to despair by shame, of which he himself appears to be sensible ; in like man- ner as we perceive the violence of a storm by the wrecks and corpses which are throAvn on the shore. As to Poetry and the extent of its efforts, without at present entering into an examination how far the poet can succeed in describing corporal beauty, this must be considered as indisputable, that the whole of the im- mense region of perfection is open to his imitation ; that the imperceptible covering under which he makes an accomplished object to appear beautiful, is but BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 391 one of his feeblest efforts to render his subjects in- teresting to us. Beauty, so far from being a principal object with the poet, is often entirely neglected by him, assured that his hero, to gain our affections, must so much occupy our attention by his more noble qualities, that we shall not even think of his bodily form, or that they will so far prepossess us in his favour, as to lead him to suppose we shall imagine him handsome. Much less will the poet have regard to the perception of our senses in the delineation of those features which do not immediately belong to the face, ^^'hen Virgil de- scribes his Laocoon as crying out with pain, who when reading it will imagine, that, in order to a person's erying out, an enlargement of the mouth is necessary, and that such a mouth disfigures the face ? — it is suffi- cient that the poet powerfully strikes the ear with ** clamores horrendos ad sidera tollit," however faint the effect may be on the eye. The next advantage the poet has over the artist is, that he is not obliged to concentrate his effects at one single moment ; he assumes, at his pleasure, every action of the catastrophe, commencing at the origin, and following them through all their modifications to the end, and thus unites them in one description ; whereas the ar- tist is obliged to divide them into so many different re- presentations. Owing to this succession of moments in the event he describes, the poet is able to soften some of the less agreeable tones, either by some subsequent or antecedent effects, so that the whole will produce the best impression. When, for instance, we read in Virgil that Laocoon cries out when bitten by the ser- 392 BEAUTIES OF MDDERN LITERATURE. pents, although it may be considered unbecoming for a man to cry out in the agony of pain j yet as this Laocoon is the veiy person whom the poet hafe previously called us to admire as a prudent patriot, and a tender father, we do not attribute his crying out to his mental weak- ness, but solely to his insupportable sufferings. If it has been proved to be just in the painter not to repre- sent his Laocoon as crying out, still it should be con - sidered justifiable in the poet so to describe him. Another distinction between the poet and the ar- tist is, that the artist ought not to represent his images as covered with garments ; and to this rule we find that the ancients adhered. For instance, the poet describes his Laocoon as clothed with a pontifical dress, but the artist represents him as naked. The reason for this deviation in the latter is obvious : for though it may be considered as contrary to the rules of costume to represent the son of a king, who was also a priest, as undressed, yet no garment wrought by slavish hands can possess so much beauty as the work of eternal wisdom, expressed in an organized body. Necessity has given rise to dress, but what has the artist to do with that? Beauty is the highest object for the imitation of art ; and although it be agreed that there is some beauty in dress, yet what is it when compared with the beauty of the human form ? Should he who can accomplish the greater object satisfy himself with the less ? It is not so with the poet ; a garment with him is no gar- ment, for it covers nothing : our imagination pene- trates every thing. If the forehead of Laocoon, de • scribed by Virgil, is encircled with a priestly turban, so far from injuring, it strengthens the conception we BEAUT[ES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 393 have formed of the sufferer. But should the scul})tor, in placing before us the group, represent tlic forehead of Laocoon as bdund with a turban, he woukl con - siderably weaken the effect : for the forehead woukl be partially covered^ and the forehead is the scat of expression. THE SOULS OF THE .lUSr. Souls of the just ! whose truth and love, Like Light and warmth, once lived below, Where have ye ta'en your flight above. Leaving life's vale in wintry woe ? God hath withdrawn you near his throne. Centre and source of brightness all. As o'er yon hills the evening sun Recalls his beams when shadows fall. But there are wistful eyes that find A loss in every parting ray ; And there are exiled souls behind That long with you to fly away. Oh ! happy hour, when ev'ry germ Of captive spirit shall be free. And shine with you, all bright and warm. Around one glorious Deity ! T. D. ISIetv Monthly Magazine. 394 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. MATCH-MAKIWG. " An amorous thing is want."— Hudibuas. In my early youth I made a voyage of enquiry to the Sister Isle : the songs of Ossian inspired me with a wish to examine this warlike people on their own territory, and the fame of green Erin gave me an idea that I should find a rich superiority in her soil and produce, when contrasted with the Highlands of Scot- land. Moreover, I had met with so many students in Edinburgh, and subalterns in the regiments occasion- ally quartered there, each of whom had five hundred a year and a park, that I counted on a hospitable reception, choice society, and much amusement in my tour. In the growth and numerical strength of the Hibernians I was not disappointed, nor as to their warlike appearance and disposition. I found the lower orders intrepid and irascible to a high degree ; nor were they over nice about the cause or nature of the quarrel, nor the degree of provocation. I have very often seen Pat knock down his friend after spending his half-crown, and then sympathize with him for the wound which he had inflicted. — Nor was club-\Q.w con- fined to these classes alone ; the higher ones possessed veiy gladiatorical habits, and were prone to indulge in liquor, love, and war. The fine Hibernian soil equally satisfied me that I was right in my expectations ; but where the generous earth was most lavish, I observed I)overty still fix her dire abode. The culture was out of BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 395 all proportion with the capabilities of the land ; while education and civilization fell equally short of the strength and numbers of the people ; nay, industry was paralized by distress, and emulation cramped for want of encouragement and pecuniary means. In my quality of examiner I have no right to talk to go- vernment on these subjects, but (Scotchman like) the less I said on this subject, the more I thought, and the more I was convinced that Caledonia was the happiest and best used Sister of the two. In vain I looked for the parks and five hundreds per annum of the O.'s and the Mac's, my studying and travelling acquaint- ances. The father of one of them tenanted a mud edifice upon a bog, and was ground to death by tithes, taxes, and a bad landlord. Perhaps these parks, rent- tolls, &c. were mere figures in speech, and as such let them rest. There was no lack of noble mansions and fine estates springing up amongst surrounding misery, the possessors of which were, even then, absentees ; and whose stewards and land-agents were pounding the cattle of the indigent, and driving them to despair. This prefatory matter may, perchance, be considered superfluous by my reader ; but I beg leave to assure him, or her, that it leads to the subject of Match- Making. In the course of my tour through a great part of the country, I sojourned for a short time in the Counties of Galway and Roscommon ; from the former I Avas frightened away by the constant reports of pistols dis- charged in duels, sometimes fought in public ; for the amateurs there would turn out to see a couple of gen- tlemen decide an affair of honour, Avith as much avidity 396 liEAUTlES OF MODERN LITERATURE. as the fancy resort to Moulsey Hurst, or Wormwood Scrubs, to witness two fellow-creatures half-murdering each other for a purse of gold and their colours, a silk handkerchief, of vulgar pattern, for the neck of a ruffian. How much more honourable would it be to bleed for their national flag ! But there is knavery as well as barbarity in these contests, and we will leave the scrubs of all denominations to themselves. From the latter I was driven by the almost certainty (if I remained) of breaking my neck over the stone walls, which it was quite fashionable and almost necessary to leap over, in and out of the sporting field. In each of these counties there was a prodigious deal of Match- Making ; the country gentlemen who really had some hundreds of pounds annually, dipped and mortgaged a little, had another drawback of their unem- ployed stock, in the form of fine-grown, smiling-eyed, affable young ladies : now the market being over- stocked, and the price being much lowered by the over-produce of these fair and flourishing plants, the owners were obliged to part with these valuables (for such as wives and mothers, they generally were) at a very low rate indeed ; since this was not a dead stock on hand, but one which consumed other articles which must come from, instead of going to, market. For these mighty reasons, parents were incessantly on the alert for sons-in-law; sisters helped each other off" in the best manner they could ; the brothers turned husband-hunters ; and if a stranger came amongst them, he was not made game of in the vulgar ordinary way, but he was either ensnared by bright eyes and ^varm complexions, brought down by the long bow of BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 397 a brother, or taken by hook or by crook, by the an- gling, wiling, coursing, and heart-shooting of sisters and self, all of whom the happy man might be fortu- nate enough to have for six months in the year at his table. When these gamesome practices and pairings failed, the field was very often taken in another way ; incautious birds were winged, and shy ones were now and then bagged by the undertaker, in punishment for their want of taste and feeling, and for their stub- born adherence to celibacy. It has erroneously and impolitely been advanced, that you could not look at an Irish woman at table without her saying, " Port, if you please:" this I never found; on the contrary, I always met with ladies of this country, who were as mild and temperate as any in the world ; and I must say, that I consider them charming creatures at table and every where else ; but although I deny the asser- tion of " Port, if you please," I must confess that I often trembled lest, by looking at a pretty girl in Galway or Roscommon, I should draw on me the question, from a big brother, or militia cousin, of, " Pray sir, are your views honourable towards Mary- Ann, Eugenia, or Fanny ? Which of them have you fixed your eye upon ? I have perceived very markea (an observation worthy of a marksman!) attentions to the first, and she has much susceptibility, and shall not have her feelings sported with," &c. Right sport- ing language ! thought I, to myself, so I kept much on my guard, and departed as soon as possible ; for, be it observed, the questioning gentleman is always a sporting character, and a good shot ; the lady is usu- ally the sister who has been longest on hand ; no time 398 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITEftATUliE. is to be lost ; and if the lover is not off like a shot, a shot may be off at him before he can cry " peccavi." Under these impressions, I returned to Scotland, convinced that Match-IMaking belonged most to the Irish, in which idea I was confirmed by two gentlemen having each disposed of a daughter (the one to a Northern Peer, and the other to a Colonel, since a Ge- neral officer) pretty much in the way just described. On my return T trumpetted the uxorious disposition, the marriage-making, nuptial-seeking propensities of my western friends all over Edinburgh ; but had to change my opinion ere long, finding, from having now directed my attention to the subject, that the Irish were not match-monopolists ; the same trade being successfully carried on in the north, and even in the capital thereof, the manner only differing, and being far 7nore discreet. It was submitted to my consider- ation that large families were no rarities in the Land of Cakes, and that if, in the Land of Potatoes, an off- hand kind of dexterity was used in marrying the fe- males of the families to the first or best bidders at home, a quiet system existed in the former, of export- ing its golden-haired lasses to warmer climates 5 and, that where one took growth, half a dozen sisters or cousins were sure to be planted by her side. Then again, the provident and affectionate brother of Bel, Barbara, and Janet, only requires to get a footing in a productive country, and he will speedily have a brace of sisters out on speculation, the one to keep his own, the other his neighbour's house ; whereas Pat, when he migrates, leaves all entailments behind him, and his changeful disposition operates against the young BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 390 ladies' change of condition and home. Of the truth of this remark I soon became convinced ; for, on going to a private ball in Edinburgh, and seeing the crowd of female candidates for partners, the thing became still more obvious. I enquired of one worthy dame Avhere her other fair daughters were (there being three in the room) and she told me, " Marion is with her brother in India, her sister Jessie is very well married in the same country \ Bessie has just ta'en a planter in Jamaica, and she has sent for Susan as her compa- nion ; but " (turning to the only grown up daughter of the remaining three) " there is your old acquaint- ance Annie." As much as to say, " she is grown up a fine lassie, and is to be had if sought for." A gentle traffic this, but doubtless a successful one ; for I ob- served son James engaging his sister to a number of his brother officers, on leave of absence, and after one engagement another, perhaps, may follow. As further instances of Scotch match-making, a lady of very high rank was such a dab at these negotiations that, when she married off all her daughters to titles and fortunes, which she almost did vi et armis, which let us translate by the force of argument and those arms which female attractions make use of on these occa- sions, she turned her views to pairing off her more distant relations ; and so fond was she of these matchings and marryings, that an old baronet informed me, he dared not go to Castle, for fear she should insist upon his wedding one of her maids or other female attendants, just by way of keeping in her hand, and having something to do in this line. 400 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. The last match-making matter which came witliiii my notice was that of a friend of my own. It must be allowed that there are coming ladies, and goint( ladies, engaging misses and forbidding misses ; there are also pretty maidens, who, (to use a vulger expres- sion) go for to come, such as love " to wander not unseen." Or, like the flirting Galatea of the Latin bard, when she flies to the grove to escape her suitor, " se cupit ante videri." Of these coming, engaging misses, these fair runaways who expect to be followed, was my friend, Amanda APMatchem. One of a dozen fine children, and second of seven daughters ; she hung out for promo- tion at an early age, more for the good of Ma and family than from any self-interested motive, or from her feeling lonesome, as Widow Wadman did. The Laird or eldest male held the estate, out of which he, like a dutiful son, gave a liberal allowance to his mother, and she expended a great proportion thereof in dressing her daughters, whilst the four other chil- dren were giving a dressing to their country's foes wherever they met them, by land or by sea, in Europe, India, or America ; for their swords were their chief inheritance, and they all served in the navy and army. The seven sisters, hke the streams of the Nile, glided on together in perfect harmony with each other, until it became necessary to direct their attractions into some other channel, and they were nothing averse to visiting a foreign shore, more rich than the rock which bore 1 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 40l them, and on which they sprung np like wild flowers lovely and unperceivcd. Determined, therefore, no longer " to blush iiiisitn, And waste (^tlieii) sweetness in the desert air," a council was held of Ma and the seven sisters, and it was agreed upon to make great sacrifice in dress and entertainments this winter, to give lively balls at home, and to go abroad (within the limits of the city) as much as possible, frequenting all public places, and figuring in all public walks. These seven stars shone in a cluster, similar to the septempleiades of the starry firmament, each looking forward to be the lucky star of some gazing astronomer. Their beauties were rather the gifts of Hygeia than of Venus ; healthful, robust, active, and fair, they were mutual resemblances, like the flourishing branches of a comely plant; and it might be said of them, as of the progeny of the ocean-nymph Doris — " facies non omnibus una. Nee diversa tamen : qualem decet esse sororum." Amanda, however, seemed to lead the van of these female champions for the matrimonial prize, whilst their emulations were so well concerted, that the good of one was deemed the good of all. There was no jealousy amongst them least a younger sister should outstrip an elder one in their exertions for the ring, and thus give her seniors green stockings,* no trying * We hear in England of wearinj? the willow for being deserted ; in Scotland the green stocking is the livery of an elder sister who re- mains mnnarricd after her younger ones are disponed of in the roii- jngal line. 2D 402 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. to take a beau from each other, no diversions and drawings off, which are so common in the south ; but if a youthful swain looked preference, or admiration on one, the other sisters fanned the flame, by men- tioning her perfections of mind, her good nature, her cheerful disposition, her domestic turn and companion- able qualities. Amanda possessed commanding attractions; Isabella had much rhetoric, and a persuasive turn ; Arabella was keen and discerning, prudent and circumspect ; Corinthia was fascinating and sly ; Phoebe playful and a wit ; Phillis affected a graver tone, and Septima was the snow-drop just come out, on whom the approving glance of old age fell like a wintry sun. She was marked out for a nabob or a banker ; but, up to the eventful winter, " There (was) nobody coming to marry mr. Nobody coming to woo." sung in harmonious cadence and full chorus by the sister-seven. The winter wore on with no signs of change ; the active sisters shone in strathspeys and reels ; displayed their agility by being constantly on the boards ; they were much praised for their steps, but they hoped to have other steps yet to take : the Edinburgh lads were " cold as wintry brooks." Willy M'Worldly flirted a little with Amanda, but it was at long shots ; he would choose her for one dance, but he could nae mak himsel particular by dancing a second. Peter Parchment, the writer, was a daily walking companion ; but he took care not to offer his BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 403 arm, lest the hand should be expected to accompany it. Pat Michaelson, a gay aide-de-camp, admired them all, but he was too dissipated to be fixed ; the laird of Craigclarty cast a sheep's eye at the eldest, but he went off, whistling " I'm over young to marry yet." At length a 77ian of tvar hove in sight, and he loomed like one richly laden t his fingers were bediamonded with rings, he had a jewel of high value for a brooch, a repeating watch, the nine gems as seals, boxes, canes, trinkets, and shawl waistcoats ; every thing looked comfortable about him. Besides, he had ar- rived at high military rank, and had saved a round sum of ready money. There were a few drawbacks on this concern ; namely, that he w'as neither tall nor handsome, was climate-worn and lame, had lived very hard> and seemed very bilious and lusty ; from his temporary lameness he could not dance. The case required consultation ; he was an old bird, and could not be caught with chaff ; he had been a gay deceiver, and thrice slipped his neck out of a noose in which he had been half secured. He was a general lover, and the cousins of the seven ladies had already set their caps at him. No time was to be lost: he bad been introduced to them in the morning, and he was to be at the ball at night. The sisters contrived to keep two always disengaged, in order to look out for prizes, whilst the other five were in the merry dance. The hero arrived, supported by an Irish Captain and a mercantile friend, the former brought him into line with the two vidette sisters, one of whom took the 2d2 404 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. Captain's arm, whilst the other engaged the merchant" man. Isabella was the sister on the right flank, and Septima the light infantry of the left ; the friend of the family drew out Isabella so as to have it in his power to open in high terms on the good qualities of all the sisters, and in the praise of the fair sex he was no niggard. A feint, or demonstration, was now made on the right ; whilst Septima made a diversion so as to keep the mercantile friend employed. The first at- tempt failed ; the artillery of the eye was silenced by perceiving this great gun direct the elevation of his glances towards Amanda, then quitting a partner at the conclusion of a dance; the Captain, by ?iforivard movement, brought her down to bear upon the rich yeteran ; and, separating from his wing, left an in- terval through which she marched up, supported by the arm of the former. Mercator was drawn off by Septima, and thrown into confusion by her youthful charms, so that the main body was separated from all communication with the second corps, and had no reserve at command. The able Hibernian embraced this favourable opportunity, (what would he not have embraced to serve a lady ?) and, disengaging himself from Amanda, skirmished in sight; whilst the man of war was led off captive to a bench in the rear of tlie dancers ; placed betwixt Isabella and Amanda, the wounded chief remained for some hours, " liOokcd and sighed, looked and sighed, Looked and sighed, and sighed again." The protector-general (such was the Captain's nick' name), now returned and poured in the grape and BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 405 round of his battery on tlie defeated spirit, who had entered the room BacchiplenHs{iul\ of wine). Amanda retreated for a short time, but returned to the charge and found the eloquence of the sister star, and the impudence (boldness or valour let us call it) of \\e//e-stratagems, can prove of any use to parties concerned in such manoeuvres, they are ofFerod without a comment by a friend to the fair f»ex. SCOTUS. European Magazine^ 4 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 40/ TABLE TALK, ON LONDONERS AND COUNTRY PEOPLE. I DO not agree with Mr. Blackwood in his definition of the word Cockney. He means by it, a person who has happened at any time to live in London, and who is not a Tory — I mean by it, a person who has never lived out of London, and who has got all his ideas from it. The true Cockney has never travelled beyond the purlieus of the Metropolis, either in the body or the spirit. Primrose-hill is the Ultima Thule of his most romantic desires ; Greenwich Park stands him in stead of the Vales of Arcady. Time and space arc lost to him. He is confined to one spot, and to the present moment. He sees every thing near, superficial, little, in hasty succession. The world turns round, and his head with it, like a roundabout at a fair, till he be- comes stunned and giddy with the motion. Figures glide by as in a camera obscura. There is a glare, a perpetual hubbub, a noise, a crowd about him ; he sees and hears a vast number of things, and knows nothing. He is pert, raw, ignorant, conceited, ridi- culous, shallow, contemptible. His senses keep him alive ; and he knows, inquires, and cares for nothing farther. He meets the Lord Mayor's coach, and with- out ceremony treats himself to an imaginary ride in it. He notices the people going to court or to a city-feast, and is quite satisfied with the show. He 408 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. takes the wall of a Lord, and fancies himself as good as he. He sees an infinite quantity of people pass along the street, and thinks there is no such thing as life or a knowledge of character to be found out of London. " Beyond Hyde Park all is a desert to him." He despises the country, because he is ignorant of it ; and the town, because he is familiar with it. He is as well acquainted with St. Paul's as if he had built it, and talks of Westminster Abbey and Poets' Corner with great indifference. The King, the House of Lords and Commons, are his very good friends. He knows the members for Westminster or the City by sight, and bows to the Sheriffs or the Sheriffs' men. He is hand and glove with the Chairman of some Committee. He is, in short, a great man by proxy, and comes so often in contact with fine persons and things, that he rubs off a little of the gilding, and is surcharged with a sort of second hand, vapid, tingling, troublesome self- importance. His personal vanity is thus conti- nually flattered and perked up into ridiculous self- complacency, while his imagination is jaded and im- paired by daily misuse. Every thing is vulgarised in his mind. Nothing dwells long enough on it to pro- duce an intei'est; nothing is contemplated sufFiciently at a distance to excite curiosity or wonder. Your tr'ue Cockney is your only true leveller. Let him be as low as he will, he fancies he is as good as any body else. He has no respect for himself, and still less (if possible) for you. He cares little about his own ad- vantages, if he can only make a jest at your's. Every feeling comes to him though a medium of levity and impertinence ; nor docs he like to have this habit of BEAUTIES OF MODKRN LITERATURE. 409 mind disturbed by being brought into collision with any thing serious or respectable. He despairs (in such a crowd of competitors) of distinguishing himself, but laughs heartily at the idea of being able to trip up the heels of other people's pretensions. A Cockney feels no gratitude. This is a first principle with him. He regards any obligation you confer upon him as a spe- cies of imposition, a ludicrous assumption of fancied superiority. He talks about eveiy thing, for he., has heard something about it; and understanding no- thing of the matter, concludes he has as good a right as you. He is a politician ; for he has seen the Par- liament House : he is a critic ; because he knows the principal actors by sight^ — ^lias a taste for music, be- cause he belongs to a glee-club at the West End ; and is gallant, in virtue of sometimes frequenting the lob- bies at half-price. A mere Londoner, in fact, from the opportunities he has of knowing something of a number of objects (and those striking ones) fancies himself a sort of privileged person ; remains satisfied with the assumption of merits, so much the more un- questionable as they are not his own : and from being dazzled with noize, show, and appearances, is less capable of giving a r^al opinion, or entering into any subject than the meanest peasant. There are greater lawyers, orators, painters, philosophers, players, in London, than in any other part of the United Kingdom : he is a Londoner, and, therefore, it would be strange if he did not know more of law, eloquence, art, philo- sophy, acting, than any one without his local advan- tagcs_, and who is merely from the country. This is a 410 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. non sequitur ; and it constantly appears so when put to the test. A real Cockney is the poorest creature in the world, the most literal, the most mechanical, and yet he too lives in a world of romance — a fairy-land of his own. He is a citizen of London ; and this abstraction leads his imagination the finest dance in the world. London is the first city on the habitable globe ; and, therefore, he must be superior to every one who lives out of it. There are more people in London than any where else ; and though a dwarf in stature, his person swells out and expands into ideal importance and borrowed magnitude. He resides in a garret, or in a two pair of stairs' back room ; yet he talks of the magnificence of London, and gives himself airs of consequence upon it, as if all the houses in Portman or in Grosvenor Square were his by right or in reversion. *'He is owner of all he surveys." The Monument, the Tower of London, St. James's Palace, the Mansion House, Whitehall, are part and parcel of his being. Let us suppose him to be a lawyer's clerk at half-a-guinea a week : but he knows the Inns of Court, the Temple Gardens, and Gray's-Inn Passage, sees the lawyers in their wigs, walking up and down Chancery Lane, and has advancetl within half a dozen yards of the Chan- cellor's chair : — who can doubt that he understands (by implication) every point of law (however intricate) better than the most expert country practitioner ? He is a shopman, and nailed all day behind the counter: but he sees hundreds and thousands of gay, well- dressed people pass — an endless phantasmagoria — and enjoys their liberty and gaudy fluttering pride. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 411 He is a footman — but he rides behind beauty, through a crowd of carriages, and visits a thousand shops. Is he a tailor ? The stigma on his profession is lost in the elegance of the patterns he provides, and of the persons he adorns : and he is something very different from a mere country botcher. Nay, the very scavenger and nightman thinks the dirt in the street has some- thing precious in it, and his employment is solemn, silent, sacred, peculiar to London ! A barker in Mon- mouth Street, a slop-seller in RatclifTe-Highway, a tapster at a night cellar, a beggar in St. Giles's, a drab in Fleet-Ditch, live in the eyes of millions, and eke out a dreary, wretched, scanty, or loathsome existence from the gorgeous, busy, glowing scene around them. It is a common saying among such persons that " they had rather be hanged in London than die a natural death out of it any where else." — Such is the force of habit and imagination. Even the eye of childhood is dazzled and delighted Avith the polished splendour of the jewellers' shops, the neatness of the turneiy ware, the festoons of artificial flowers, the confectionaiy, the chemists' shops, the lamps, the horses, the carriages, the sedan- chairs : to this was formerly added a set of traditional associations — Whittington and his Cat, Guy Fawkes and the Gunpowder Treason, the Fire and the Plague of London, and the Heads of the Scotch Rebels that were stuck on Temple Bar in 1745. These have vanished, and in their stead the curious and romantic eye must be content to pore in Pennant for the site of old London-Wall, or to peruse the sentimental mile-stone that marks the distance to the place " where Jiicks's Hall formerly stood !" 412 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. The Cockney lives in a go-cart of local prejudices and positive illusions ; and when he is turned out of it, he hardly knows how to stand or move. He ven- tures through Hyde Park Corner, as a cat crosses a gutter. The trees pass by the coach very oddly. The country has a strange blank appearance. It is not lined with houses all the way, like London. He comes to places he never sav/ or heard of. He finds the Avorld is bigger than he thought it. He might have dropped from the moon, for any thing he knows of the matter. He is mightily disposed to laugh, but is half afraid of making some blunder. Between sheepishness and conceit, he is in a veiy ludicrous situation. He finds that the people walk on two legs, and wonders to hear them talk a dialect so different from his own. He perceives London fashions have got down into the country before him, and that some of the better sort are dressed as well as he is. A drove of pigs or cattle stopping the road is a very troublesome in- terruption. A crow in a field, a magpie in a hedge, are to him very odd animals — he can't tell what to make of them, or how they live. He does not altoge- ther like the accommodations at the inns — it is not what he has been used to in town. He begins to be communicative — says he was ^' born within the sound of Bow- bell," and attempts some jokes, at which no- body laughs. He asks the coachman a question, to which he receives no answer. All this is to him very unaccountable and unexpected. He arrives at his journey's end ; and instead of being the great man he anticipated among his friends and country relations, finds that they are barely civil to him, or make a butt BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITKRATURK. 413 of him ; have to})ics of their own whicli he is as com- pletely ignorant of as they are indifferent to what he says, so that he is glad to get back to London again, where he meets with his favourite indiilgencies and associates, and fancies the whole world is occupied with what he hears and sees. A Cockney loves a tea-garden in summer, as he loves the play or the Cider-cellar in winter — where he sweetens the air with the fumes of tobacco, and makes it echo to the sound of his own voice. This kind of suburban retreat is a most agreeable relief to the close and confined air of a city life. The imagination, long pent up behind a counter, or between brick walls, with noisome smells, and dingy objects, cannot bear at once to launch into the boundless exj)anse of the country, but " shorter excursions tries," coveting something between the two, and finding it at White- conduit House, or the Rosemary Branch, or Bagnigge Wells. The landlady is seen at a bow- window in near perspective, with punch-bowls and lemons disposed orderly around — the lime-trees or poplars wave oAcr- head to " catch the breezy air," through which, typical of the huge dense cloud that hangs over the metropolis, curls up the thin, blue, odoriferous vapour of Virginia orOronooko— the benches are ranged in rows, the fields and hedge-rows spread out their verdure ; Hampstead and Highgate are seen in the back-ground, and contain the imagination within gentle limits — here the holiday people are playing ball ; here they are playing bowls — here they arc quaffing ale, there sipping tea — here the loud wager is heard, there the political debate. In a sequestered nook a slender youth with purple face and 414 BEAUTIES Ob' MODERN LITERATURE. drooping head, nodding over a glass of gin toddy^ breathes in tender accents — " There's nought so sweet on earth as Love's young dream :" while "Rosy Anne" takes its turn, and "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled" is thundered forth in accents that might wake the dead. In another part sit carpers and critics, who dispute the score of the reckoning or the game, or cavil at the taste and execution of the would-be Brahams and Durusets. Of this latter class was Dr. Goodman, a man of other times — I mean of those of Smollet and Defoe — who was curious in opinion, obstinate in the wrong, great in little things, and inveterate in petty warfare. I vow he held me an argument once " an hour by St. Dun- stan's clock, while I held an umbrella over his head (the friendly protection of which he was unwilling to quit to walk in the rain to Camberwell) to prove to me that Richard Pinch was neither a fives-player nor a pleasing singer. " Sir," said he, " I deny that Mr. Pinch plays the game. He is a cunning player, but not a good one. I grant his tricks, his little mean dirty ways, but he is not a manly antagonist. He has no hit, and no left hand. How then can he set up for a superior player ? And then as to his always striking the ball against the side wings at Copenhagen-house, Cavanagh, sir, used to say, ' The wall was made to hit at !' I have no patience with such pitiful shifts and advantages. They are an insult upon so fine and athletic a game ! And as to his setting up for a singer, its quite ridiculous. You know, Mr. H , that to be a really excellent singer, a man must lay claim to one of two things ; in the first place, sir, he must have a na- turally fine ear for music, or secondly, an early edu- BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 415 tion, exclusively devoted to that study. But no one ever suspected Mr. Pinch of refined sensibility ; and his education, as we all know, has been a little at large. Then, again, why should he, of all other things, be al- ways singing "Rosy Ann," and 'Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled,' till one is sick of hearing them? It's pre- posterous, and I mean to tell him so. You know, I'm sure, without my hinting it, that in the first of these admired songs, the sentiment is voluptuous and tender, and in the last patriotic. Now Pinch's romance never wandered from behind his counter, and his patriotism lies in his breeches' pocket. Sir, the utmost he should aspire to, would be to play upon the Jews' harp !" Tliis story of the Jews' harp tickled some of Pinch's friends, who gave him various hints of it, which nearly drove him mad, till he discovered what it was ; for though no jest or sarcasm ever had the least effect upon him, yet he cannot bear to think that there should be any joke of this kind about him, and he not in the secret : it makes against that knoiuing character which he so much affects. Pinch is, in one respect, a complete spe- cimen of a Cockney. He never has any thing to say, and yet is never at a loss for an answer. That is, his pertness keeps exact pace with his dulness. His friend, the Doctor, used to complain of this in good set terms. — "You can never make any thing of Mr. Pinch," he would say. " Apply the most cutting remark to him, and his only answer is, * The same to you, sir' If Shakspeare were to rise from the dead to confute him, I firmly believe it would be to no purpose. I as- sure you, I have found it so. I once thought, indeed, I had him at a disadvantage, but I was mistaken. You 416 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. shall hear, sir. I had been reading the following sen- timent in a modern i)lay — ' The Road to Ruin/ by the late Mr. Holcroft — ' For how should the soul of So- crates inhabit the body of a stocking-weaver ?' This was pat to the point (you know our friend is a hosier and haberdasher). I came full with it to keep an ap- pointment I had with Pinch, began a game, quarrelled with him in the middle of it on purpose, went up stairs to dress, and as I was washing my hands in the slop- basin (watching my opportunity) turned coolly round and said, * It's impossible there should be any sym- pathy between you and me, Mr. Pinch : for as the poet says, how should the soul of Socrates inhabit the body of a stocking-weaver?' ^ Ay,' says he, * does the poet say so ? then the same to you, sir !' I was confounded, I gave up the attempt to conquer him in wit or argument. He would pose the Devil, sir, by his • The same to you, sir.' " We had another joke against Richard Pinch, to which the Doctor was not a party, which was, that being asked after the respectability of the Hole in the JVall, at the time that Randall took it, he answered quite unconsciously, "Oh! it's a very genteel place, I go there myself sometimes !" Dr Goodman was descended by the mother's side from the poet Jago, was a private gentleman in town, and a medical dilettanti in the country, dividing his time equally between business and pleasure; had an in- exhaustible floAV of words, and an imperturbable vanity, and held " stout notions on the metaphysical score." He maintained the free agency of man, with the spirit of a martyr and the gaiety of a man of wit and pleasure about town — told me he had a curious BEAUTIES OP MODERN LITERATURE. 417 tract on that subject by A. C. (Anthony Collins) which he carefully locked up in his box, lest any one should see it but himself, to the detriment of their character and morals, and put it to me whether it was not hard, on the principles oi philosophical necessity^ for a man to come to be hanged ? To which I replied, " I thought it hard on any terms !" A knavish marker, who had listened to the dispute, laughed at this retort, and seemed to assent to the truth of it, supposing it might one day be his own case. Mr. Smith and the Brangtons, in " Evelina," are the finest possible examples of the spirit of Cocknej/ism. I once knew a linen-draper in the City, who owned to me he did not quite like this part of Miss Barney's novel. He said, " I myself lodge in a first floor, where there are young ladies in the house : they sometimes have company, and if I am out, they ask me to lend them the use of my apartment, which I readily do out of politeness, or if it is an agreeable party, I perhaps join them. All this is so like what passes in the novel, that I fancy myself a sort of second Mr. Smith, and am not quite easy at it !" This was mentioned to the fair Authoress, and she was delighted to find that her cha- racters were so true, that an actual person fancied him- self to be one of them. The resemblance, however, was only in the externals ; and the real modesty of the individual stumbled on the likeness to a city cox- comb ! It is curious to what a degree persons, brought up in certain occupations in a great city, arc shut up from a knowledge of the world, and carry their simplicity ta a pitch of unheard-of extravagance. London is the 2 E 418 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. only place in which the child grows completely up into the man. I have known characters of this kind, which, in the way of childish ignorance and self- pleasing delusion, exceeded any thing to be met with in Shakspeare or Ben Jonson, or the old comedy. For instance, the following may be taken as a true sketch. Imagine a person with a florid, shining com- plexion like a plough-boy, large staring teeth, a merry eye, his hair stuck into the fashion with curling-irons and pomatum, a slender figure, and a decent suit of black — add to which the thoughtlessness of the school- boy, the forwardness of the thriving tradesman, and the plenary consciousness of the citizen of London — and you have Mr. Dunster before you, the fishmonger in the Poultry. You shall hear how he chirps over his cups, and exults in his private opinions. " I'll play no more with you," I said, " Mr. Dunster — ^j-ou arc five points in the game better than I am." I had just lost three half-crown rubbers at cribbage to him, which loss of mine he presently thrust into a canvas pouch (not a silk purse) out of which he had produced just before, first a few halfpence, then half a dozen pieces of silver, then a handful of guineas, and lastly, lying perdu at the bottom, a fifty pound bank-note. " I'll tell you what," I said, " I should like to play you a game at marbles" — this was at a sort of Christ- mas party or Twelfth Night merry-making. " Mar- bles 1" said Dunster, catching up the sound, and his eye l>rightening with childish glee, " What !" you mean ring-taw ?" " Yes." " I should beat you at it to a certainty. I was one of the best in our school (it was at Clapham, Sir, the Rev. Mr. Denman's at Clapham, BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 419 WiOs the place where I was brought up) — though there were two others there better than me. They were the best that ever were. I'll tell you, Sir, I'll give you an idea. There was a water-butt or cistern, Sir, at our school, that turned with a cock. Now suppose that brass ring that the window-curtain is fastened to, to be the cock, and that these boys were standing where we are, about twenty feet off — well, Sir, I'll tell you what I have seen them do. One of them had a favourite taw (or alley we used to call them) — he'd take aim at the cock of the cistern with this marble, as I may do now. Well, Sir, will you believe it ? such was his strength of knuckle and certainty of aim, he'd hit it, turn it, let the water out, and then. Sir, when the water had run out as much as it was wanted, the other boy (he'd just the same strength of knuckle, and the same certainty of eye) he'd aim at it too, be sure to hit it, turn it round, and stop the water from run- ning out. Ves, what I tell you is very remarkable, but it's true. One of these boys was named Cock, and t'other Butler." " They might have been named Spigot and Faucet, my dear Sir, from your account of them." " I should not mind playing you at fives neither, though I'm out of practice. I think I should beat you in a week : I was a real good one at that. A pretty game. Sir ! I had the finest ball, that I suppose ever was seen. Made it myself, — I'll tell you how. Sir. You see, I put a piece of cork at the bottom, then I wound some fine worsted yarn round it, tlicn 1 had to bind it round witli some jiatkthread, and then sew the case on. You'd hardly believe it, but I \Aas the envy of the whole school for that ball. They all 2 e2 420 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. wanted to get it from me, but lord, Sir, I would let none of them come near it. I kept it in my waistcoat pocket all day, and at night I used to take it to bed with me aiid put it under my pillow. I couldn't sleep easy without it." The same idle vein might, be found in the country, but I doubt whether it would find a tongue to give it utterance. Cockneyism is a ground of native shal- lowness mounted with pertness and conceit. Yet with all this simplicity and extravagance in dilating on his favourite topics, Dunster is a man of spirit, of atten- tion to business, knows how to make out and get in his bills, and is far from being henpecked. One thing is certain, that such a man must be a true Englishman and a loyal subject. He has a slight tinge of letters, with shame I confess it — has in his possession a vo- lume of the European Magazine for the year 1761, and is an humble admirer of Tristram Shandy (parti- ticularly the story of the King of Bohemia and his Seven Castles, which is something in his own endless manner) and of Gil Bias of Santillane. Over these (the last thing he goes to bed at night) he smokes a pipe, and meditates for an hour. After all, what is there in these harmless half-lies, these fantastic exag- gerations, but a literal, prosaic. Cockney translation of the admired lines in Gray's Ode to Eton College : — *' What idle progeny succeed To chase the rolling circle's speed Or urge the fljing hall ?" A man shut up all his life in his shop, without any thing to interest him from one year's end to another but the cares and details of business, with scarcely BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 421 any intercourse with books or opportunities for society, distracted with the buzz, and glare, and noise about him, turns for relief to the retrospect of his childish years ; and there, through the long vista, at one bright loop-hole, leading out of the thorny mazes of the world into the clear morning light, he sees the idle fancies and gay amusements of his boyhood dancing like motes in the sunshine. Shall we blame, or should we laugh at him, if his eye glistens, and his tongue grows wanton in their praise ? None but a Scotchman would — that pragmatical sort of personage, who thinks it a folly ever to have been young, and who, instead of dallying with the frail past, bends his brows upon the future, and looks only to the main chance. Forgive me, dear Dunster, if I have drawn a sketch of some of thy venial foibles, and delivered thee into the hands of these Cockneys of the North, who will fall upon thee and devour thee, like so many cannibals, without a grain of salt ! If familiarity in cities breeds contempt, igno- rance in the country breeds aversion and dislike. People come too much in contact in town ; in other places they live too much apart, to unite cordially and easily. Our feelings, in the former case, are dissipated and exhausted by being called into constant and vain activity j in the latter, they rust and grow dead for want of use. If there is an air of levity and indiflcr- cnce in London manners, there is a harshness, a mo- roseness, and disagreeable restraint, in those of the country. We have little disposition to sympathy, when we have few persons to sympathize with : we lose the relish and capacity for social enjoyment, the scldomer 422 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. we meet. A habit of sullenness, coldness, and misan- thropy, grows upon us. If we look for hospitality and a cheerful welcome in country places, it must be in those where the arrival of a stranger is an event, the recurrence of which need not be greatly appre- hended, or it must be on rare occasions, on " some high festival of once a year." Then indeed the stream of hospitality, so long dammed up, may flow without stint for a short season ; or a stranger may be expected with the same sort of eager impatience as a caravan of wild beasts, or any other natural curiosity, that ex- cites our wonder and fills up the craving of the mind after novelty. By degrees, however, even this last principle loses its effect : books, newspapers, whatever carries us out of ourselves into a world of which we see and know nothing, becomes distasteful, repulsive ; and we turn away with indifference or disgust from every thing that disturbs our lethargic animal exist- ence, or takes off our attention from our petty local interests and pursuits. Man, left long to himself, is no better than a mere clod ; or his activity, for want of some other vent, preys upon himself, or is directed to splenetic, peevish dislikes, or vexatious, harassing persecution of others. I once drew a picture of a country life : it was a portrait of a particular place, a caricature if you will, but, with certain allowances, I fear it was too like in the individual instance, and that it would hold too generally true. See Round Table, vol. ii. p. 116. Ifthese, then, are the faults and vices of the inhabi- tants of town or of the country, where should a man go to live, so as to escape from them? I answer, that in the BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 423 country we have the society of the groves, the ficUls, the brooks, and in London a man may keep to himself, or choose his company as he pleases. It appears to me that there is an amiable mixture of these two opposite characters in a person who chances to have passed his youth in London, and who has re- tired into the country for the rest of his life. We may find in such a one asocial polish, a pastoral simplicity. He rusticates agreeably, and vegetates with a degree of sentiment. He comes to the next post-town to see for letters, watches the coaches as they pass, and eyes the passengers with a look of familiar curiosity, think- ing that he too was a gay fellow in his time. He turns his horse's head down the narrow lane that leads homewards, puts on an old coat to save his wardrobe, and fills his glass nearer to the brim. As he lifts the purple juice to his lips and to his eye, and in the dim solitude that hems him round, thinks of the glowing line — *' This bottle's tlic sun of our table"— another sun rises upon his imagination ; the sun of his youth, the blaze of vanity, the glitter of the metropo- lis, " glares round his soul, and mocks his closing eye-lids." The distant roar of coaches is in his ears — the pit stare upon him with a thousand eyes — Mrs. Siddons, Bannister, King, are before him — he starts as from a dream, and swears he will to London ; but the expense, the length of way, deters him, and he rises the next morning to trace the footsteps of tho hare that has brushed the dew drops from the lawn, or to attend a meeting of Magistrates 1 Mr. Justice Shallow answered in some sort to this description of a retired 424 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. Cockney and indigenous country-gentleman. He " knew the Inns of Court, where they would talk of mad Shallow yet, and where the bona robas were, and had them at commandment : ay, and had heard the chimes at midnight !" It is a strange state of society (such as that in Lon- don) where a man does not know his next- door neigh- bour, and where the feelings (one would think) must recoil upon themselves, and either fester or become obtuse. Mr. Wordsworth, in the preface to his poem of the " Excursion," represents men in cities as so many wild beasts or evil spirits, shut up in cells of ig- norance, without natural affections, and barricadoed down in sensuality and selfishness. The nerve of huma- nity is bound up, according to him : the circulation of the blood stagnates. And it would be so, if men were merely cut off from intercourse with their immediate neighbours, and did not meet together generally and more at large. But man in London becomes, as Mr. Burke has it, a sort of ''public creature." He lives in the eye of the world, and the world in his. If he witnesses less of the details of private life, he has better oppor- tunities of observing its larger masses and varied movements. He sees the stream of human life pouring along the streets — its comforts and embellishments piled up in the shops, the houses are proofs of the industry, the public buildings of the art and magnifi- cence of man ; while the public amusements and places of resort are a centre and support for social feeling. A playhouse alone is a school of humanity, where all eyes are fixed on the same gay or solemn scene, where smiles or tears are spread from face to ^ace, and where a thousand hearts beat in unison ! BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 425 Look at the company in a country theatre (in com- parison), and see the coldness, the sullenncss, the want of sympathy, and the way in which they turn round to scan and scrutinize one another. In London there is di public ; and each man is part of it. We arc gregarious, and affect the kind. We have a sort of abstract existence ; and a community of ideas and knowledge (rather than local proximity) is the bond of society and good-fellowship. This is one great cause of the tone of political feeling in large and po- pulous cities. There is here a visible body-politic, a type and image of that huge Leviathan the State. We comprehend that vast denomination, the People, of which we see a tenth part daily moving before us ; and by having our imaginations emancipated from petty interests and personal dependence, we learn to vene- rate ourselves as men, and to respect the rights of human nature. Therefore it is that the citizens and freemen of London and Westminster are patriots by prescription, philosophers and politicians by the right of their birth-place. In the country, men are no better than a herd of cattle or scattered deer. They have no idea but of individuals, none of rights or principles — and a king, as the greatest individual, is the highest idea they can form. He is " a species alone," and as superior to any single peasant, as the latter is to the peasant's dog, or to a crow flying over his head. In London the king is but as one to a million (numeri- cally speaking), is seldom seen, and then distinguished only from others by the superior graces of his person. A country squire, or a lord of the manor, is a greater man in his village or hundred ! New Monthly Magazine. 4^6 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. EXAMINATION OF MR. BURKE AND MR. KNIGHt's THEORIES ON THE SOURCE OF THE PLEASURES DERIVED FROM TRAGIC REPRESENTATIONS. Burke, in his " Sublime and Beautiful," has many just and profound observations on the source of tragic pleasure ; but, like all other theories on the subject, the one which he has adopted applies not to the re- mote or original, but to the immediate, or proximate cause, or rather causes, of this pleasure. When I say they apply to the immediate or proximate causes, I do not mean that they unfold even these ; but that he seems to have confined himself to what he considered the immediate agency which produced the effect. In the first place, he very justly rejects the supposition which makes this pleasure arise from " the comfort which we receive in considering, that so melancholy a story is no more than a fiction ;" and he equally rejects that which makes it arise from " the contem- plation of our own freedom from the evils which we see represented." The reasons which he assigns for rejecting these theories are worth quoting. " I am afraid," he says, " it is a practice much too common, in inquiries of this nature, to attribute the cause of feelings which merely arise from the mechanical con- struction of our bodies, or from the natural frame and constitution of our minds, to certain conclusions of the reasoning faculty on the objects presented to us, for I should imagine, that the influence of reason, in BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURR. 42/ producing our passions, is nothing near so extensive as is commonly believed.'* It is curious to perceive so profound and metaphysical a ivriter venturing to acknowledge his suspicions, that " the influence of reason, in producing our passions, is nothing near so extensive as itis commonly believed." Had Burke ventured a step further, and said decided- ly, that reason had no influence whatever in produc- ing our passions, he would have asserted a fact whicii no weight of authority could disprove, however bold and sceptical it might appear to those who have not learned to distinguish between reason and feeling. In fact, the only influence which reason possesses over our feelings, is that of moderating, or suppressing them altogether. Accordingly, a man who, while he witnesses a scene of distress, begins to reflect on his own happiness in being free from it, is infinitely less moved, and less interested in the fate of the suffering victim, than he who, while he indulges in all those feelings which the scene before him is calculated to excite, makes no reflection whatever, but what un- consciously arises from his sympathy with the dis- tressed. Burke does not confine the pleasure derived from tragic sources to the stage. Real distress, he thinks, is a source of still greater pleasure than the mere imita- tion of it, and hence he infers, that the nearer the imitation approaches the reality, the more powerful is its effect. In no case, however, does he admit imita- tive distress to produce equal pleasure with that which it represents. " Choose," he says, " a day to repre- sent the most sublime and affecting tragedy wc have ; 428 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. and appoint the most favourite actors, spare no cost upon the scenes and decorations ; unite the greatest efforts of poetry, painting, and music ; and when you have collected your audience, just at the moment when their minds are erect with expectation, let it be reported that a state criminal of high rank is to be executed in the adjoining square ; in a moment the emptiness of the theatre would demonstrate the com- rative weakness of the imitative arts, and proclaim the triumph of real sympathy." Here, then, the sole pleasure we receive is attributed to sympathy ; but, as I have already shewn, so far as our pleasure is of a sympathetic character, this pleasure does not arise from sympathetic emotion, but is the sj^pathetic emotion itself. But are we certain that this aban- donment of the theatre is the effect of sympathy ? In- deed, there seems to be very strong reasons for think- ing otherwise j the strongest of which perhaps is, that people of the most tender and sympathetic nature are notthose who go most frequently to witness executions. I believe there are few people of exquisite feelings who can endure such spectacles, and yet, where are we to look for sympathy if not among them ? Besides, why is our propensity to behold executions so generally looked upon as a reproach to us, if it arise from sym- pathy ? Why are even those who delight in such spectacles unwilling to avow their propensity ? Why should we confide more in a person to whom such scenes are insupportable, than in him who goes to an execution with as keen an appetite as he does to his dinner ? These, certainly, seem to be intuitive proofs, that we look upon such men as persons of no sympa ■ B3EAUT1ES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 429 thy whatever. It is possible, however, as will here- after appear, to possess sympathy, and yet feel in- clined to witness executions ; but it is not possible to possess it in any very high degree. Mr. Knight as- cribes the abandonment of the theatre, in the case supposed by Burke, to curiosity, not to sympathy. " Would not the sudden appearance," he says, " of any veiy renowned foreign chief or potentate in the adjoining square, equally empty the benches of the theatre ? I apprehend that it would, and cannot but suspect, that even a bottle conjuror, a flying witch, or any other miraculous phenomenon of the kind, be- ing announced with sufficient confidence to obtain belief, would have the same effect." It is extremely difficult to meet with a writer who can avoid contra- dicting himself, the moment he enters into the arena of polemics, simply, because in all our controversies, we are, in general, more desirous of victory than of the elucidation of what is obscure, or the discovery of what is unknown. Mr. Knight takes every opportu- nity of opposing his own opinions to those of Burke, though it is difficult to conceive why he should have singled him out from all other writers on the subject of taste. He tells us himself, that his reason for exposing Burke's " philosophical absurdities" is, that they have " been since adopted by others, and made to contribute so largely to the propagation of bad taste." It would be difficult to point out any writer, whose philosophical principles are less calculated to promote " bad taste," than Burke's ; for, as Mr. Knight himself acknovA^ledges, " his feelings were generally right, even where his judgment was most 430 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. wrong." A man's judgment, however, can never be wrong, where his feelings are right, unless he depart from them, and suffer his judgment to be directed by that of others. This was not the case with Burke : he always thought for himself, and never submitted to the bondage of authority, except where authority and reason seemed to confirm each other. Burke, how- ever, is frequently in error ; but if I may now venture an opinion, which I shall prove in another place, Mr. Knight is more frequently so ; and, what is worse, his errors are of a much more dangerous character, and more calculated " to contribute to the propagation of bad taste." This truth I hope to make evident in my work on the " Sublime and Beautiful ;" not that I intend to advocate Burke's principles, nor yet, that I feel a desire to expose Mr. Knight's ; but that truth re- quires of me to point out the different influences which the adoption of their systems would have on the cul- tivation of taste. I admire Mr. Knight's intellectual powers and energy ; but he is always too rapid to be correct, and his feelings seem to be of too energetic a character to discriminate the lighter shades and more delicate affections of human nature, qualities which Burke possessed in a very eminent degree. In ascrib- ing the abandonment of the theatre, in the present in- stance, to curiosity, Mr. Knight abandons the very first principle on which he founds Tragic Pleasure. The fact is, that he sets out, like Burke, with ascrib- ing the pleasure to sympathy ; but the moment he came in contact with the latter, he forgot that he had ever made sympathy the cause of the pleasure. He seems to have been under an impression, that Burke BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 431 and he could never happen to think alike, or, rather, that whatever theory the former adopted, it nnist necessarily be erroneous, and that he, of necessity, was bound to adopt a different one. Accordingly, when he found Burke ascribing Tragic Pleasure to sym- pathy, he contradicts him, and ascribes it to cicriosity, forgetting that he had, in the very preceding page, ascribed it to sympathy himself. I shall quote his own words. " When we see others suffer we naturally suffer with them, though not in the same degree, nor even in the same modes : for those sufferings which we should most dread personally to endure, we delight to see exhibited, or represented, though not actually endured by others; and, nevertheless^ this delight certainly arises from sympathy." Who could think that, in the very next page, he should attribute as much of the effect to curiosity as to sympathy, simply because he wished to break a lance with Burke ? In- deed, from the instances he has given of the " bottle conjuror," and " flying witch," he appears to refer the entire of the effect to curiosity alone. But what is this curiosity, to which Mr. Knight and so many other writers, ascribe such wonderful effects ? In my opinion those who ascribe effects to curiosity ascribe them to nothing at all ; and if so, they must necessarily be wrong, for ex nihilo nihil Jit. Curiosity is either a feeling, an idea, or an act of volition with- in us, or it is something without us, which creates feelings, ideas, or volitions within us. It must be one or other of these, because these embrace every thing in nature, of which we have any knowledge. Let us sec, then, which of these it is, and we shall be better 432 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. able to perceive whether it be as prolific in its eflfects as it is generally supposed. Curiosity cannot be volition, because we may will to do a good or an evil act, which we have done fre- quently before. This cannot be the effect of curiosity, because it has novelty always for its object. And even when we will to do something, or to sec some- thing, which we have never done or seen before, the propensity which impels us to it, is different from that act of mind which indulges the propensity, as this act may be exercised in opposition to, as well as in ac- cordance with, the propensity. A man may will on the side of reason, as well as on the side of his pro- pensities, when they happen to be at variance; so that he may will to do what he has no propensity or inclination to do j and he may will not to do what he has a strong propensity for doing. If curiosity, then, be any thing within us, it must be a feeling, or an idea. Now, all our feelings and ideas are produced by something without us, for we cannot perceive, un- less there be something to be perceived; and it is this something, consequently, that creates the perception, or idea, in us. Neither can we feel, unless there be something to make an impression upon us, so that, whether curiosity be a feeling or an idea, it must, in either case, be an effect produced by something with- out us. The effects, therefore, that are said to result from curiosity, should be attributed, not to any prin- ciple or faculty of our nature, which we designate by that name, but to the external influence by which it is produced. All our feelings, like that of curiosity, are simple effects, or impressions made upon us ; and, i BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATUUE. 433 consequently, the causes by which they are produced, are the real causes of the influences which they pos- sess over us. Accordins^ to the degrees ol" energy with which these causes act upon us, we are, more or less, powerfully prompted to action, so that the feeling which we call curiosity, is strong or weak, according to the strength or weakness of the influence by which it is excited. This would not be the case, if curiosity were a principle or faculty in our nature which could act upon us, independent of any external influence. The fact is, that curiosity is the mere creature of chance : it is alive to-day and dead to-morrow. Its existence depends on circumstances, and when these circumstances do not occur, curiosity is totally extinct. Why, then, do we attribute to curiosity, what we ought to attribute to the circumstance by which it is imme- diately excited ? for, if this circumstance did not exist, neither Avould the curiosity be felt. The truth of these observations will appear obvious from the case before us. Mr. Knight says, that the report of "any very renowned foreign chief, or potentate, appearing in the neighbouringsquare, wouldequally empty thebcnches." Now, if it be mere curiosity that empties the benches, the report of any foreigner having just come over, and appearing in the square, would produce the same effect, because the one would be as novel an object as the other. Yet, no person would quit the theatre to go see a person of whom he never heard any thing before, though it is obvious, that such a person would be a more novel object than he of whom we had some knowledge by public report. The sight of a novel object has, therefore, little influence over us, so fur as 2F 434 BEAUTIES OV MODERN LITERATURE. regards its mere novelty : it is some circumstance con- nected with the object, and of which we have ah-eady some knowledge, that creates the interest, and it is to this circumstance, not to the mere curiosity which it excites, that we must attribute the effect, or, in other words, the impression made upon us. The fact is, as will hereafter appear, that whatever produces a strong sensation in us, gives us pleasure, and therefore Ave feel no desire whatever of seeing a strange object, un- less we antecedently know, that this object is calcu- lated to produce a strong sensation. The pleasure which we derive from Tragic repre- sentations cannot, therefore, be attributed to curiosity or sympathy, both of which are modifications of feel- ing, produced by external influences, but to a certain law in our nature, that strongly attaches us to all pow- erful sensations, where the pleasure is not impeded by three circumstances, which shall be hereafter men- tioned. One of the instances produced by Burke himself, clearly shews, that this pleasure does not arise from sympathy. " This noble capital," he says, " the pride of England and of Europe, T believe no man is so strangely wicked as to desire to see destroyed by a conflagration, or an earthquake, though he should be removed himself to the greatest distance from the danger. But suppose such a fatal accident happened, what numbers from all parts would crowd to see the ruins, and amongst them many who would have been content never to have seen London in its gloiy." Surely, we cannot suppose, that those who would not Avish to see London in its glory, would feel any sym- BEAUTIES OF AIODERN LITERATURE. 435 pathy on the occasion ; but supposing they did, an alteration in the circumstance will prove, that they would run equally to see the ruins of Loadon, where no sympathy could possibly excite them to it. Let us suppose then, that the legislature deemed it necessary to remove the seat of government to some other part of England ; that they built another city, equal to it in extent and accommodation, that they removed all the inhabitants of London to this new city, and gave them the same rights, privileges, and advantages which they enjoyed before ; that after having thus completed their views, they found it conducive to the national pros- perity of the country to destroy London, and, accord- ingly, committed it to the flames, having first removed from it every thing of value, either to the nation at large, or to the citizens in particular : I would ask, whether, after every thing having been thus arranged for the general good, the ruins of London would not still be a spectacle capable of attracting thousands of spectators, — whether those who came to see it, in the case supposed by Burke, would not now come to see it also, though there could be no motive for smypathy whatever, as in this case, there is not an individual with whom we could sympathize. Every citizen is as happy as before, and, therefore, ^vc have nothing tc sympathize with but mute walls, demolished iiouses, and public buildings in ruins, which, as they can nei- ther feel pain, nor respond Iq our sympathies, cannot, consequently, excite them. The pleasure, then, re- sulting from the view of these ruins could not be the effect of sympathy, nor, as I have already shewn, could it be the effect of curiosity, for those who spend their 2f2 436 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. life in London, and were perfectly acquainted with every street in it, would be more powerfully impelled to contemplate its ruins, than the ruins of some insig- nificant village which they never saw, or heard of be- fore, though the latter must necessarily be a matter of greater curiosity to them than the former. Neither curiosity nor sympathy, then, can be the cause or original source of Tragic pleasure. As Mr. Knight, however, forgetting that he had ever traced any part of this pleasure, either to sympathy or curi- osity, adopts a new theory on the subject, it is but proper to enquire, whether, in ascending to a higher source, he has discovered that mysterious fountain, of which we are in pursuit. After getting rid of sympathy and curiosity altoge- ther, having, no doubt, forgot that he had attributed to them any portion of the pleasure arising from Tra- gic scenes, Mr. Knight adopts a theory totally differ- ent from all his predecessors. His ideas on the sub- ject seem to be perfectly original, at least, I could dis- cover no trace of them in any former writer. Origi- nality has frequently some merit, even when it is un- supported by truth, for it requires not only considerable ingenuity, but a considerable exercise of mind to ar- rive at certain ideas, though they are ultimately found to be mere chimeras of the understanding. The ravings of a man of genius are but little allied to men- tal imbecility. Mr. Knight's theory is ingenious, but this is its highest merit ; for the feelings of which Tragic pleasure is composed, emanate from a much more general cause than that to which he traces them. The cause he assigns will certainly account for some BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 437 portion of this pleasure, and so will each particular cause assigned by each particular writer on the sub- ject ; but, until we discover a cause that embraces all the causes by which it is produced, we can never dis- cover the primary source of which we are in pursuit, and which alone will account for the aggregate of plea- sures derived from Tragic representations, in the same manner as the general law of attraction, accounts for all the particular laws of motion. Before this general law was discovered, the theories of all the ancient philosophers, however ingenious, were unavoidably erroneous, and so must all theories be, whose bases are not as extensive as the superstructures which they uphold. Mr. Knight derives the pleasure of which we are in search from " the energies and violent efforts dis- played in feats of strength, courage, and dexterity, or the calm energies of virtue, called forth by the exer- tions of passive fortitude." He tells us, this is the delight which the Romans took in the fights of gla- diators, that it is still the source of our delight in cock-fighting, bull-baiting, bull- feasts, and boxing- matches ; and even traces to it our propensity to wit- ness the execution of criminals. If particular instances of this kind could tend to confirm Mr. Knight's theory, he might adduce some hundreds more ; but thousands of instances would be quoted to no purpose, if it can be shewn, that a part, at least, of the pleasure which we enjoy, cannot, by any torture of argument or of expression, be traced cither to the active or passive energies of the mind. The fact, however, is, that if even this could not be shewn, than Avhich nothing is 438 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. easier, it will still be found, that we never sympathize, in any one instance, Avith energy alone, abstracted from the motives by which these energies are called into action ; and that our sympathies are influenced by these motives a hundred-fold more than by the ener- gies themselves. If a daring, active, and intrepid villain attack three men, and succeed by mere personal strength and dex- terity to rob them, after a short scuffle, do all our sym- pathies and feelings arise from, or OAve their existence to, the superior encgies exerted by this desperado, and do we feel more pleasure in seeing him successful, than we should in seeing him defeated ? I doubt whe- ther any one could enjoy such a triumph, except a chip of the same block. We sympathize, then, not with energies alone, but Avith motives also ; and the interest excited by the latter, is, beyond all compa- rison, greater than the former. This Avill appear still stronger, if we reverse the former case, and suppose three robbers to attack one honest man. If such an individual should prove successful against his adver- saries, how strongly are our sympathies excited in his favour : we seem, by the force of sympathetic affection, to assist him in every exertion of strength which he puts forth : our A'cry bodies are unconsciously put in motion ; we recede at every blow that is made at him, as if aimed at ourselves ; Ave incline forward Avhen his adversaries bend beneath his strokes, and seem to invigorate his arm by exerting all the energies of our OAvn. EAcry motion in his body produces a similar one in ours, without being in the least con- scious of the offensive and defensive attitudes which I BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 439 we involuntarily assume by the force of sympathetic affection. The apparent causes of these strong sympa- thies, are the energies which he displays, but the least change in the circumstance convinces us, that they are not the real cause ; for all our sympathy for him •would immediately vanish, if Ave knew him to be a murderer or highwayman. Every change, consequently, in the motives, produces a corresponding change in our feelings, so that our sympathies are but little influ- enced by energies or exertions, considered abstractedly by themselves. If we imagine, however, that we have now a clue to the cause of our pleasure, and that all arises from the motives that call our energies into action, v/e shall find ourselves mistaken, and that, as Lord Kaimes ex- presses it, on a different occasion, " the variety of nature is not so easily reached." The motives that engage men in action have not greater influence over us, than the circumstances in which they are placed ; a fact which will immediately appear, if we only change the latter, without making any change in the former. If all our pleasure arise from the motives, it is obvious, that while they remain unchanged, no alteration of circumstances can disturb it ; but, as every change of circumstance increases or diminishes the impressions which we feel, though the motives remain unchanged, our sympathies cannot be solely referred either to the motives or to the circumstances, but to the combined influence of both. If a robber attack three boys, how much stronger is the interest we take in their fate, than in that of three men, who should happen to be placed iu their situation, though the motive by which 440 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. the robber was actuated in attacking both, was iden- tically the same, namely, to strip them of whatever they possessed, and though the motives by which the boys would be actuated to defend themselves would be the same with the men, namely, the preservation of their lives and property. If, instead of boys, three aged men. or three helpless females, were attacked, the impressions would assume a new character in each ; and, in all these cases, the impressions made by the energies exerted, considered without regard to the cir- cumstances or motives, would be scarcely worth taking into consideration. I am also inclined to think, that Mr. Knight is mis- taken in some of the instances which he has quoted in support of his theory, though, if they had been all correct, they would have proved nothing, for the rea- sons I have just now assigned. He says, we delight in executions, only because we " all delight in behold- ing exertions of energy, and all feel curiosity to know in what modes or degrees those exertions can be dis- played under the awful circumstances of impending death." The only energy that can be displayed by him who is entering ujjon eternity, is mental energy, or, what Mr. Knight calls "passive fortitude;" for phy- sical energies are only exerted by him who hopes to derive some advantage from the exertion. But mere resignation has not the attraction of bringing thou- sands together ; and it might be impossible to distin- guish, in the human countenance, the fortitude or resignation of a man condemned to death, from that of a man Avho lost his entire property at law. If the resignation of both proceed from religious impressions. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATUIIE. 441 it would present the same calm and tranquil aspect in each ; yet no one would go a hundred paces to witness the passive fortitude of the one, Avhile thousands would go miles to Avitness the final exit of the other. It is not, then, a display of mental fortitude that induces us to visit an execution, but the awful and powerful sensations produced by the circumstances in which the criminal is placed, and the terrific associations with which it is eternally connected. If the fortitude to which Mr. Knight alludes be a hardened contempt of death, I trust there are few who would sympathize with such blasphemous heroism. The energies of active and passive fortitude are so far from being sufficiently general to support Mr. Knight's theory, that he is obliged to extend the ap- plication of the term to quite an opposite meaning, so that energ}' becomes, in his hands, something with which we arc quite unacquainted. " It matters not, indeed," he says, " whether these energies be dis- played in suffiering or acting :" accordingly, he makes tender love as energetic as the atrocious ambition of Lady Macbeth. I suspect Mr. Knight is mistaken in considering love to be an energy ; or energy and suf- fering to be at all allied with each other. There can be no energy in yielding to an impression made upon us ; for the impression is made, and the emotion which it produces felt, without our act or consent. The passion of love is excited in us, not by energies of our own, but by the presence of the object which produces the impression j and, so far is the passion from requiring any energy or effort on our part, that we are frequently unable to resist it. The only energy 442 BEAUTIES OF AfODERN LITERATURE. we can exert in a love affair, is that of resisting the passion ; for, in yielding to it, there can be none re- quired : on the contrary, it frequently baffles all our energies to resist it ; and if that be called an energy which we cannot avoid, and which forces itself upon us, whether we will or will not, it is certainly an energy not in us, but in that invisible power which not only triumphs over us, but enchains all the energies which we are capable of exerting against it. I agree, indeed, with Mr. Knight in calling fortitude, in suffering, an energy ; but I cannot agree with him in calling it " passive fortitude," for to call any thing passive an energy, is a contradiction in terms. He has been led into this mistake from not distinguishing between misfortune, and its influence on the mind. The man of fortitude yields to misfortune as well as the coward, when he can no longer resist it ; but then he does not yield to its influence. The coward yields to both, and is, therefore, perfectly passive. Bat he who supports the same equanimity of mind in adversity as in pros- perity, cannot be passive, because it requires the greatest energies of which human nature is capable, to resist the influence of adversity so completely as to preserve the soul calm and unruffled amidst the severe trials to which it is exposed. The adoption of an erroneous theory generally leads a writer into inconsistencies and arguments that de- stroy each other : while he has his eye attentively fixed on the theor)^ which he seeks to establish, all his ar- guments quadrate with each other, and though they are erroneous, they arc systematically so ; but in a treatise of any length, the mind cannot be so vigilant BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 143 as to attend always to the main proposition or propo- sitions, on which the whole theory rests ; and when this happens, it is apt to glide insensibly into truth and nature, not aware that this adoption of truth is either subversive of the doctrine which it seeks to establish, or at least, that it leads to conclusions which must necessarily expose the fallacy on which it rests. I\Ir. Knight, for whose correct taste and critical discrimi- nation I profess the highest respect, overturns the en- tire of his theory on the Source of Tragic Pleasures, by an admission which he unwarily made in comment- ing on a passage in Aristotle. " In tragedy," he says, " it is not the actual distress, but the motives for which it is endured, the exertions which it calls forth, and the sentiments of heroism, fortitude, constancy, or tenderness, which it, in consequence, displays, that produce the interest, and awaken all the exquisite and delightful thrills of sympathy." Here, then, we find many other sources of Tragic Pleasure, besides the exertion or energy which distress calls forth ; and, Avhat is completely sulwersive of all that he has Avrit- ten on the subject, these sources lead us to innumerable others, in which no trace of energy can be discovered. If, according to himself, sentiments of heroism, forti- tude, constancj"^, and tenderness, be sources of Tragic Pleasure, so must also sentiments of generosity, pity, resignation, mildness, sensibility, sympathy, sublimity, fear, hope, joy, sorrow, and all the })assioiis that c\'cr agitated the human breast. Instead, then, of confining Tragic Pleasures to the display of strong energies, innumerable other sources arc disclosed to us, from which this pleasure may proceed, in many of which, 444 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. the cliaractcristic feature is absence of energy, as fear, mildness, sorrow, resignation, and all the passive af- fections of the human breast. Besides, if it be not the actual distress that moves us, but the motives for which it is endured, what energy can there be in motives ? All motives have their existence independent of us. If I go and fight the enemies of my country, my motive for doing so is to defend its rights and liberties against foreign usurpation ; but this motive has its existence independent of me, and would continue to exist whe- ther I fought or staid at home. I was not accessary to the attempt made on the liberties of my country : it was not brought about by my contrivance ; and therefore I had no concern in it ; but still it is the mo- tive that leads me to action, and it would be a motive, even though I neglected to perform the duty which it required at my hands. There can be no energy, then, in motives, because there is nothing in them in which we can claim a share, and, consequently, the interest which they excite cannot be ascribed to energy. Mr. Knight himself admits this truth afterwards, not re- flecting, that it was in direct opposition to what he here asserts. His theory, as we have already seen, consists in deriving all our Tragic Pleasures from the display of strong energies or exertions ; and to do this more effectually, he tells us, that the interest excited in many of the scenes in Shylock, does not arise from his hatred or malignity, but the energies which resulted from them. Tlie pleasure, then, does not arise from the cause, but from the effect ; though we are told above, that it is not the effect, but the cause or motives that awaken our sympathies. A similar contradiction oc- BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 445 curs where Mr. Knight traces the pleasure we derive from witnessing" executions, not to the sufferings en- dured, in which, he says, " we take no delight, but to the heroism and gallantry of the person executed.' How can we reconcile this to the assertion, that " it is not the actual distress, but the motives for which it is endured, that produce the interest." At one time we are told it is the motive that affects us ; at another, that it is the heroism and energy elicited by the motive. Such are the inconsistencies that necessarily cling to all erroneous theories. I know of no theory that can account for the interest excited by Lear's madness. It is not, surely, the energy which it displays that produces this interest, for it was the result of weakness, not of energy. Had Lear more fortitude of mind to endure his misfortunes, he would not have yielded to lunacy, and, therefore the most strained reasoning cannot associate it with energy or heroism of mind. Yet, it is infinitely more interesting than the heroism of Macbeth, and even in the latter, it is not his courage or heroism that affects us at all, but the strong agitation of mind to which he was con- stantly a victim. Is there any thing in all INlacbeth that excites a deeper interest than the following cele- brated passage ? Is this a dagger which I sec before me, The handle towards iny hand ? Come let me clutch thee : I have thee not, ami yet I see lliee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight ? Or art thou but A dagger of the mind ; a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain ? I see thee yet in form as palpable 446 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE* As this wliich now I -Iraw. Thou marshallcst me the way that I was going; And such au insti ununt I was to use. I sec thee still, And on thy blade and dudgeon, gouts of blood. Which was not so before. Here the whole interest is excited by the fears and terrors of Macbeth; for how attribute energy to a man whose fears create images or instruments of de- struction^ that existed only in his own mind. Yet these fears are more interesting to us than the boldest display of personal courage and mental energy, or the noblest descriptions of the " dignity of human nature." Philosojihical Inquiry into the Source of Tragic Pleasure, Inj M. M^Dermott. THE PHYSICIAN. ON CORPULENCE. I HAVE somewhere met with the observation, that there are persons in imaginary health who are not so deserving of ridicule as the Malades imaginaires, at whose expense that satirist of physicians, Moliere, made himself so merry; but for which the vengeance of Hygsea overtook him, since he was seized, during the representation of this celebrated comedy, with an illness whicli afterwards carried him off. These healthy persons in their own imagination are the plethoric and corpulent, who take weight for the standard of health. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 447 and look with pity on the spare and meagre. It is to such great folks that I address this paper, and I claim no thanks from them if I should be so fortunate as to convince them of their error. I am Avell aware how gratifying it is to retain errors which persuade us that we are happy ; for this very notion confers happiness. I know what pleasure is felt by one who is congratu- lated on the portliness of his corporation, and the goodly rubicundity of his visage. It is this pleasure of the corpulent that I intend to spoil. I shall prove to them that they are diseased ; and, instead of con- firming them in the idea that they are pictures of health, I Avill strike a terror into them that shall pe- netrate to the veiy centre of their sub-pectoral protu- berances. I can easily foresee how they will reward me for my pains, and T shall, therefore, reply to them in the words of the culprit, who, when the judge had commented on the heinousness of his crime, and con- cluded with asking him, what he thought he had de- served by it — coolly answered, " Oh ! 'tis not worth mentioning — I desire nothing lor it !" When the blood contains too many nutricious and oily ijarticlcs, these transpire by innumerable, almost invisible pores, through the arteries and veins, and collect in the cellular substance, which covers nearly the whole body. Here they form vesicles, or small bags of fat, which become fuller and larger the more of this superabundant nutritious matter is conducted to them. In this manner the othcnvise empty inter- stices of the body are filled up, and it acquires rotundity and corpulence. The fat deposited in these interstices has all the properties of an oil, when it appears in a 448 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. fluid form. In this state fat exists in some fishes ; and Pocock relates of the ostrich, that when it is dead, the Arabs shake it till its fat dissolves and is changed into an oil, which they apply externally in contractions and pains of the limbs, and also administer internally. A person may grow fat from various causes, the principal of which consists in the use of soft, fluid, and nutritious food ; such as gravy-broth, juicy flesh, a milk and farinaceous diet, and strong beer. Upon the whole, all alimentary substances which convey many fatty particles into the blood, should be avoided by people in good health. Another cause of corpulence is want of exercise. " A man who lives well," says Hippocrates, " cannot be healthy unless he takes exercise, and attention should always be paid to keep the exercise and food in equilibrium." It is the violation of this rule that pro- duces corpulence, and hence corpulence has justly been described as a mark affixed by Nature upon those who transgress her precepts. In fact, we know from experience, that nothing fattens so rapidly as good eating and drinking, combined with bodily inactivity and love of ease. We sec how soon horses grow fat when they are well fed and not worked. The oxen which have been used for draught, when turned into a rich pasture, are soon covered with wholesome fat. By means of abundant food and confinement, geese, turkeys, and other poultry, may be rendered prodigi- ously fat ; and the same effect is produced by them upon man. When Demetrius Poliorcetes Avas kept in confinement, and yet provided for in a royal style, he BEAUrrES OF MODERN LITKllATURE. 449 acquired such corpulence that he died of it in a few months. Tranquillity of mind also tends to promote corpu- lence when super-added to the circumstances already mentioned. Hence Ave rarely fmd that persons subject to violent passions grow fat ; but in general that such as are disposed to corpulence are either volatile or not overburdened with sensibility. For the same reason much sleep encourages the increase of fat. If it be true, as some naturalists assert, that the bears, which sleep all the winter, are fat when they come forth again from their retreats, this is to be ascribed to no other cause but the torpid state in which they have passed their time. Why do carp grow so fat when enveloped in moss, unless because they are kept in a state of inactivity and stupor out of their natural ele- ment ? The absence of such passions as reduce the strength and consume the vital spirits contributes not a little to corpulence. Compare only a patient ox and a quiet gelding with an ungovernable bull and a fiery stallion, and you will find that a more weakly body and cooler blood render the former infinitely more disposed to feed than the latter. This calmer circulation of the blood is favourable to the secretion of fat in general ; and this is the reason why most persons increase very much in bulk between the ages of forty and fifty years. At that period the pulsations of the heart and the cir- culation are not so strong and so rapid as in the heyday of youth, and to this the cessation of the growth of the body must certainly contribute its share. A man after he has ceased to grow continues to live, as far us re- 2G 450 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. gards food and exercise, just as he did before ; the consequence is, that the juices which used to be ap- plied to the enlargement and completion of the mem- bers, are from this time produced in a superabundance, which turns to fat. The same is the case with people who have lost their arms or legs. As they eat and drink no less, though they have no longer those limbs to nourish, they become in general exceedingly pletho- ric and fat, since they daily retain a quantity of nutri- tious juices that is not distributed as formerly in the deficient members. From these observations any one who wishes for rotundity of form will know how to proceed in order to obtain that desirable quality. I am not so biassed, however, as to assert that no advantage whatever is attached to corpulence. A fat man may tumble into the water with less apprehension than a raw-boned figure ; because the fat being a substance of a lighter nature is better calculated to keep him afloat than the muscle of the latter, who needs the aid of a couple of blown bladders or of cork to give him the buoyancy which the former derives from his portly paunch. As fat saves from drowning, so also it may preserve for a time from the effects of intense frost, because it pro- tects the flesh from the inclemency of the weather. On other accounts it would not be well to have no fat : for it renders the joints supple and fitter for motion ; it prevents the friction of contiguous parts, keeping them always moist and slippery ; it conmiunicates a greasincss to the skin which renders it soft and smooth, and defends it from the sharpness of the air; it unites the fibres of the muscles into compact masses, and BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 451 secures them from becoming entangled with each other, and with the minute vessels and nerves which are eveiy where distributed among them ; it serves the purpose of a soft and compressible cushion on which we sit and lie more comfortably ; it prevents wrinkles, by imparting a pleasing plumpness to the contours of the body ; and it adds to the whiteness of the complexion, owing to the transparency of the skin, wherefore the sick and meagre people usually have a sallow look. All these are real benefits, but they are attached to a moderate degree of corpulence alone. Quesnay calculated that a grown person, when in his natural state, ought to have about eight pounds of fat. The average weight of a man is about one hundred and sixty pounds: but as therehavebecnvery fat people who have weighed four, five, nay even six hundred pounds, it may easily be imagined, that in these cases there must have been a prodigious deviation from the state of na- ture. There have been seen persons with fat six inches deep under the skin ; and similar instances have been known among brutes. Hogs have been made so fat that their skin Avas fifteen inches above the bone. An ox, which otherwise would weigh five or six hundred weight, maybe fatted to nearly a ton and a half, which is half the weight of an elephant. These astonishing deviations from nature cannot possibly be attended with beneficial results ; and of this physicians in all ages have been fully aware. It is an observation as ancient as Hippocrates, that health, when at the high- est, as in the fat at/tletcc, was precarious, because il 2g2 452 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. could not then experience any change, unless for the worse. Celsus considered a square-built figure, nei- ther too fat nor too lean, as the best. Sanctorius observed, that after the process of digestion is finished daily, a man ought to be as heavy as he was before it, if he is in perfect health. But how can this hold good respecting people, who, after every meal, add to their weight a considerable quantity of superfluous juices ? In enumerating the dangers to which very corpulent persons are exposed, I shall quote the words of other physicians, without taking any personal share in these sinister predictions. Apoplexies hold a prominent place in the list. Hippocrates knew from experience, that fat persons more commonly die a sudden death than lean ones ; and so he says in several places. Bocrhaave ascribes the disposition of corpulent per- sons to apoplexies, to the obstructed circulation of the blood through the vessels compressed by the fat. The blood gives way to this pressure, and accumulates in those places where there is no fat to prevent the expansion of the vessels. As then the brain never becomes fat, the blood accumulates in its vessels and expands them to such a degree that they burst, which is frequently the immediate cause of apoplexy. Haller mentions it as a fact universally known, that corpulent persons are disposed to apoplexy. The annals of me- dicine relate, that a man who, though weighing up- wards of six hundred pounds, nevertheless possessed extraordinary agility, and whose waistcoat would but- ton, without straining, round seven men of ordinaiy ( dimensions, died in his twenty-ninth or thirtieth year, leaving a pregnant wife and five children. Louis Coute, BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 453 who measured eight feet round the body, and whose fat, after the removal of the skin, was, from the outer surface to the abdominal muscles, between thirteen and fourteen inches thick, — in short, a man weighing eight hundred pounds, died in his forty-sixth year of apo- plexy. The intestines were neither larger nor fatter than in an ordinary subject. His liver, on the other hand, was triangular and indurated ; and it was at- tached for the space of five inches to the omentum. No person can hesitate to believe such evidence, which is moreover confirmed by the experience of all ages. Somnolency is another complaint to which corpu- lent persons are liable. Boerhaave once had an in- teiTicw Avith a doctor, who had grown fat with fre- quent unnecessary bleeding, and who was so lethargic that he fell asleep at least ten times during their con- versation. Athenseus relates of Dionysius, tyrant of Heraclea, that he was so sleepy, owing to his excessive corpulence, that it was impossible to keep him awake without thrusting pins through the fat into his fiesh. The insensibility and stupidity of corpulent persons go hand- in-hand with this disease ; for the fat covers and buries the nerves, which must be touched by sen- sible objects, in order to our having any perception of them. It moreover compresses and paralyses the muscles, the nerves of which also it incapacitates for moving them. Nichomachus, of Smyrna, was by corpulence rendered incapable of locomotion; and we have had instances in England of persons, who, from the same cause, could scarcely stir from the spot. The meagre animals, on the contrary, which might be supposed to be weak, such as greyhounds, racers, and 454 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. hunters among horses, stags, &c. are remarkable for their agility, and appear to fly through the air. As the exuberant fat compresses the lungs, it is obvious why corpulent persons experience a difficulty of respiration, and are sometimes suddenly suffocated. The same thing frequently happens to ortolans and other birds, which are apt to grow very fat. Similar instances are related of men. Aristotle makes men- tion of a man Avho was suffocated by his fat, which was six inches thick ; and Dionis observes, that infants at the breast are sometimes carried off in the same way, because the milk contains many butyraceous particles, which are easily transformed into fat. Hip- pocrates also was acquainted with this species of death. Corpulent pcrnsons, says he, are frequently suffocated by inflammatory fevers and shortness of breath, and in general die suddenly. The corpulent have also reason to apprehend a de- ficiency of blood. Their alimentary juices are depo- sited in too great quantity, and as it were in a crude state in the cellular substance, because their impaired powers are incapable of digesting them. The blood- vessels, moreover, are too much compressed by fat to be able to contain much blood. On this account, Boerhaave makes a fundamental distinction between fat and plethoric persons. " The corpulent," says he, " are considered as plethoric, because they are out of breath at the slightest motion ; because the most tri- fling circumstance impels the blood to the head ; and because they are so liable to apoplexy." But all this merely proves that the blood does not flow freely through the straitened vessels, and by no means that BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 455 those vessels contain too much of that fluid. This observation is of practical utility. Bleeding is service- able to the plethoric, and mustof coarse be pernicious to the fat, unless in cases like that related by Boer- haave, who, by bleeding, saved the life of a very cor- pulent person. The patient had overheated himself by too violent exercise in summer. The melted fat had discharged itself into the vessels, and distended them to such a degree as to produce apoplexy, which was removed by the bleeding. " Lastly," says Haller, " excessive corpulence in- duces dropsy, and this is the most common end of such persons, in whom those blood-vessels, which ought to receive the returning gaseous fluids, are pro- bably obstructed. Finally, there are observations proving that stones are liable to be formed in the kid- neys when overloaded with fat." What a terrific catalogue of ailments for you, mise- rable gorbellies ! But what is still worse, every word of this is true, and not a single point can be denied, or even doubted. I feel for you much too sincerely not to lay before you all the means that should be em- ployed by those who Avould either prevent or reduce corpulence. Here you will find lessons which will make your air stand on end. Abstinence is a really golden mean against the exu- berance of nutritive juices. By long continued absti- nence serpents become quite lean. In autumn the cellular substance of the cameleon, the lizard, and the frog, is full of fat ; and after the Avinter's fast, they are found in spring quite empty. But though it is certain that fasting cannot make a person fat, still it is not 456 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. a little of it that will make him lean. A young man Avho drank nothing but water, abstained from drinking at one time sixty days and at another forty- six. Dur- ing the first of these periods he took animal food, but in the second nothing but such aliments as the Catholic church authorizes in fasts. Being weighed both be- fore and after, he was found each time a few pounds lighter; but after the second abstinence, this reduction was greater than after the first. By drinking afterwards twice a day, he recovered his former weight in six days, and gained a few pounds in addition. Hence we very speedily recover, by means of the most tem- ])erate meals, what we have lost by rigid and long- continued abstinence, even though we were to confine ourselves to a fast-diet, which furnishes a smaller quantity of juices than animal food, but yet more than is requisite for the support of life. Vv'e must therefore seek more efficacious means. Galen commended the effect of mental cares and anxieties as a remedy for corpulence, and Ovid was Avell acquainted with their operation : — Atteniiant vigilcs corpus miscrahile curae ; A'Jcliicitqiio ciitim niacies et in ai'ia succiis Coi poiis omiiis abit : vox taiitiini attjiie ossa siipfrsunt. Haller mentions two cases in point, which I must introduce. " Cares and exertion of the mental pow- ers render the body \ery lean ; and those persons are invariably fatter in whom the passions are more mo- derate. Hence, Csesar was accustomed to say that he was not afraid of ' fat, sleek-headed men,' because such men are not in general very solicitous about the common weal or the preservation of liberty. The cele- BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 457 bratcd Dean Swift, while involved in cares and hosti- lities, was extremely meagre ; but became excessively corpulent after his mental faculties failed, and he had fallen into a state of idiocy." In this list may be classed all the violent passions. Strong exercise also reduces fat ; but this method should not be resorted to, till great part of the exube- rant fat has been absorbed in some other manner. This follows of course, for the shortness of breath and indolence of corpulent people, forbids much bodily exertion. Hence, other means must previously be tried for reducing the " huge hill of flesh," and to this end friction, which is a passive motion, may pro- bably conduce. Zacutus Lusitanus, Muys, and Ques- nay, relate, that by oft-repeated friction unwieldy corpulence has been completely removed. Fever diminishes fat in a wonderful manner. One person lost from this cause thirty pounds, another after sali- vation fifty pounds, and a third in the small-pox eighty pounds of his weight. But it should be observed, that after illness and a course of medicine, the fat usually accumulates again as fast as it before diminished. This increase and decrease are generally A'cry rapid. A hog that is fastened up may be made fat in three days, and a lark fatted in one night becomes much poorer in the course of the ensuing day. I wish corpulent people no diseases for their cure ; still less can I recommend medicines to them. Dr. Fothergill observes, that a strict adherence to vege- table diet reduces exuberant fat more certainly than any other means that he knows, and Dr. Cheyne fur- nished, in his own person, an extraordinary instance 458 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. of its efficacy. This physician, when between thirty and forty years of age, had, by indulgence in the plea- sures of the table, swelled to such a size as to exceed thirty-stone weight. He was obliged to have the whole side of his chariot made open to admit him ; and he grew short-breathed, lethargic, nervous, and scorbutic, so that his life became an intolerable burden. In this deplorable condition, after trying in vain all the power of medicine, he resolved to confine himself to a milk and vegetable diet, the good effect of which quickly ap- peared. His size was reduced almost to a third, and he recovered his strength, activity, and cheerfulness, with the perfect use of all his faculties. White Castile soap has been proposed as a remedy to melt down and facilitate the absorption of fat. A very corpulent man took every evening half an ounce dissolved in half a pint of water, and in two years be- came half a hundred weight lighter. He continued the use of it, and in six years was perfectly cured. The soap operated as a diuretic without any inconveni- ence. Boerhaave employed acids, crystals of tartar, cream of tartar, and such like purgatives j but Haller relates that vinegar taken for this purpose by a master- builder, occasioned incessant vomiting and death, after which the inner coat of the stomach was found indurated to the depth of an inch or more. Lieutaud recommends acetiim scilliticum taken in small doses, with frequent purging and brisk exercise : but it will seldom happen that the patients will be found sufficiently steady to persist in any of these courses ; the disorder, from its nature, rendering them irresolute and inattentive to their condition. The BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 459 principle use of rules, therefore, must be with a view to prevention ; and persons disposed to corpulence should be careful in time to prevent it from becoming an absolute disease, by taking a great deal of exercise, not indulging in sleep, and abridging their meals, es- pecially supper. Instead, however, of the tedious and partly danger- I' ous means enumerated above, I would recommend to [ my corpulent readers, nocturnal vigils and meditation. ' There is no remedy for reducing obesity Avith more honour than algebra, if the patient only studies it fun- damentally at night and cuts wood by day. Tliis re- medy is sympathetic : it operates through the spirits, and removes fat by a+b. New Montlily 3Iagazi?ie. LEFT OFF BUSINESS. " lu spite of nature's stubborn plan, lie treads (life's) stage by way of gentleman." The Roscind. Sir Caleb Caxon was an opulent ironmonger. He succeeded his honest father in the business, and car- ried it on for half a century. His stock in trade was valuable, and his customers numerous and substantial; yet the large capital of Avhich he found himself pos- sessed arose more from his father's j)crscvcrancc and temperate habits than from any enormous profits, ex- 460 BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. tensive commerce, or Incky hits in the way of Ijusiness. He never speculated, not even in the funds, but saved and put by, and put liy and saved again. He rejected many offers of putting out his money at high interest, and was contented Avitli the receipts from the shop, and the legal interest of his country. He held mono- polists and usurers in abhorrence ; and often observed, that it was a toss up with such men, whether they were to make a fortune or a bankruptcy. The same principles he taught his son, and the same success attended his exertions. Old Roger Caxon was florid and corpulent, good- natured and plain dealing, sober and industrious ; so that his neighbour, Mr. Cheshire, a rich cheesemonger and vendor of pork, thought him worthy of his only daughter, to whom he gave fifteen hundred pounds in marriage, which the ironmonger then considered a handsome portion. At Mr. Cheshire's demise Mr. Caxon found a new increase to his capital, arising from the stock sold off, money for the good will from the successor in the cheese, butter, and bacon line, houses in Newgate- street, and cellars and counting-houses, advantageously let, in Elbow- lane, Bride-lane, Petti- coat-lane, yea, and in Amen-corner, the whole forming a valuable property. Instead of living up to his income, leaving off trade, or changing his habits, he never changed a guinea idly, and kept to his stingo as his only treat, or a bowl of punch on high days and holi- days. When he paid the debt of nature he left no other debt unpaid, but was " removed from over the way" amidst the regrets and good words of all his neighbours. BEAUTIES OF MODERN LITERATURE. 461 Caleb, his only child, was no chicken when the ho- nest citizen took his leave of the shop and of the world together ; he had drudged for twenty-four years with the old man, and felt inclined to go on twenty more, being at this time turned of forty. He was single, but not without his sympathies. Dolly Do-allthings, who was housekeeper, cook, butler, and slut, had cast a wicked hazle eye upon him, and he felt that he was under the wand of the enchantress. At the same time she despised the shop — and there was only one little dirty boy, called boots, Iaps, Charts, and Plates are numerous and well executed ; and, when all the modern information re