THE MODERN BRITISH ESSAYISTS. VOL. VI. LORD JEFFREY. PHILADELPtllA: CAREY AND HART. 18 4 8. -V ^ ^ CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE EDINBURGH REYIEW. BY FKANCIS JEFFREY, *IUW ONE OF THE JUDGES OF THE COURT OF SESSION IN SCOTLAND fouTyolTmes. COMPLETE IN ONE. PHILADELPHIA: PUBLISHED BY CAREY AND HART. 1849. TO THE REVEREND SYDNEY SMITH, THE ORIGINAL PROJECTOR OF THE EDINBURGH REVIEW, LONG ITS BRIGHTEST ORNAMENT, AND ALWAYS MY TRUE AND INDULGENT FRIEND, 3 nov) JDcbicatc tl)is Hepnblication; FROM LOVE OF OLD RECOLLECTIONS, AND IN TOKEN OF UNCHANGED AFFECTION AND ESTEEM. F. JEFFREY. FROM THE ^lEW YORK EVENING MIRROR. " The true Jeffrey whom we meet with in these volumes, presentg a character somewhat of this sort :— " He was formed undoubtedly to be the first criiic of the age : and of poetry, he was probably the best judge that ever lived. An intellect of the highest capacity and of a very rare order of completeness,— educated by a perfect acquaintance with the best systems of metaphysical philosophy,— is, in him, pervaded and informed by those moral perceptions which indeed form so invariable an adjunct of the highest kind of great understandings, that they ought perhaps to.^e treated as merely the loftiest sort of mental qualities. His perception of truth is almost an instinct, and his love of it truly conscientious. His objects, in taking up any work or subject, are to appreciate and to judge; his searching and sensitive intelligence makes him sure of the former, and the sound- ness of his views fits him for the other. His temper is admirable. He seems to have no prepossessions— to be free from all vanity and jealousy— to possess a tone of impartiality and generous candour, almost cavalier in its loftiness. He has not a particle of cant, none of the formality or pretension of professional style; but on the con- trary, writes thoroughly like a gentleman, and with the air of perfect breeding. He inspires you with entire con- fidence and a cordial liking. All his own displays are in the truest good taste — simple, easy, natural, without ambition or effort. He has the powers, the morals, and the manners of the best style of writing. There are, however, hut two persons who stand so prommently before the world, that they deserve to be set for comparison with Jeffrey : they, of course are Carl vie and Macauley. We should distinguish them by saying that Macauley is a good reviewer, but a sorry critic; Carlyle an admirable critic, but a miserable reviewer ; while we look on Jeffrey as being at once the best critic and the best reviewer of the age. "We must content ourselves with this brief note tending to propitiate the regard of the reader, in advance, for the Lord Jeffrey ; for our limits forbid extracts. Else, we could show a specimen of the most exquisite beauty ID composition, and of the noblest eloquence, that the literature of any age can furnish. But the strength of Jef- frey does not lie in a paragraph, and sentences ; but in the vigour, soundness and candour of the whole criticism." PREFACE No reasonable man, I suppose, could contemplate without alarm; a project for reprint- ing, with his name, a long series of miscellaneous papers— written hastily, in the intervals of graver occupations, and published anonj-mously, during the long course of Forty preced- ing years ! — especially if, before such a suggestion was made, he had come to be placed in a Situation which made any recurrence to past indiscretions, or rash judgments, peculiarly unbecoming. I expect therefore to be very readily believed, when I say that the project of this publication did not originate, and never would have originated with me : And that I have been induced to consent to it, only after great hesitation ; and not without misgivings — which have not yet been entirely got over. The true account of the matter is this. The papers in question are the lawful property, and substantially at the disposal, of the publishers of the Edinburgh Review : And they, "having conceived an opinion that such a publication would be for their advantage, expressed a strong desire that I should allow it to go out with the sanction of my name, and the benefit of such suggestions as I might be dis- posed to offer for its improvement : and having, in the end, most liberally agreed that I should have the sole power both of determining to what extent it should be carried, and also of selecting the materials of which it should be composed, I was at last persuaded to agree to the proposition : and this the more readily, in consequence of intimation having been re- ceived of a similar publication being in contemplation in the United States of America;* — over which, of course, I could not, under any arrangements, expect to e.xercise the same efficient control. With all this, however. I still feel that I am exposed to the imputation, not only of great presumption, in supposing that any of these old things could be worth reprinting, but of a more serious Impropriety, in thus openly acknowledging, and giving a voluntary sanction to the republication (of some at least) of the following pieces : And I am far from being sure that there may not be just grounds for such an imputation. In palliation of the offence, however — if such offence shall be taken — I would beg leave humbly to state, First, that what I now venture to reprint, is but a small part — less 1 believe than a third, — of what I actually contributed to the Review ; and. Secondly, that I have honestly endeavoured to select from that great mass — not those articles which I might think most likely still to attract notice, by boldness of view, severity of remark, or vivacity of expression — but those, much rather, which, by enforcing what appeared to me just principles and useful opinions, I really thought had a tendency to make men happier and better. I am quite aware of the arrogance which ma}'- be ascribed to this statement — and even of the ridicule which may attach to it. Nevertheless, it is the only apology which I now wish to make — or could seriously think of making, for the present publication : And if it should be thought utterly to fail me. I shall certainly feel that I have been betrayed into an act; not of imprudence merely, but of great impropriety. I trust, however, that I shall not be driven back on so painful a conviction. The Edinburgh Review, it is well known, aimed high from the beginning : — And, refus- ing to confine itself to the humble task of pronouncing on the mere literary merits of the works that came before it, professed to go deeply into the Principles on which its judgments were to be rested ; as well as to take large and Original views of all the important questions to which those works might relate. And, on the whole, I think it is now pretty generally admitted that it attained the end it aimed at. Many errors there were, of course — and some considerable blunders: — abundance of indiscretions, especially in the earlier numbers; and far too many e.xcesses, both of party zeal, overweening confidence, and intemperate blame. But with all these drawbacks, I think it must be allowed to have substantially succeeded— in familiarising the public mind (that is. the minds of very many individuals) with highei * Carey & Halt. Pliiladclpliia, aiinoiino^»'l tliat a selection would be trade from ilie Edin- burgh Review, at tiie time tliey first publislied a selection of Mr. Macanley-s "Ciitical Miscel- lanies," and wrote to a friend of Lord Jeffrey, ."olicitins a list of that writer's articles. Tlie pnb- lishers of the Review afterwards concluded to |)riiir tliese " Contributions," and at ihc anther's request, forwarded a copy of the work to C. & H., from which tlie present edition is printed, ver- batim, without abridgment. — (Jlmeiican Publmhrts.) A 2 V vi PREFACE. speculations, and sounder and larger views of the great objects of human pursuit, than had ever before been brought as effectually home to their apprehensions ; and also, in perma- jienily raising the standard, and increasing the influence of all such Occasional writings ; not only in this country, but over the greater part of Europe, and the free States of America : While it proportionally enlarged the capacity, and improved the relish of the growing multi- tudes to whom such writings were addressed, for '■ the stronger meats" which were then first provided for their digestion. With these convictions and impressions, it will not I think be expected, or required of me, that I shouUl look back — from any station — upon the part I took in originating and con- dnctmg such a work, without some mixture of agreeable feelings: And, while I seek not to decline my full share of the faui'ts and follies to which I have alluded, I trust I may be al- lowed to take credit, at the same time, for some participation in the Merits by whicn these were, to a certain extent at least, redeemed or atoned for. If I might be permitted farther to state, in what particular department, and generally. ^on account of what. I should most wish to claim a share of those merits, I should certainly say, that it was by naving constantly endeavoured to combine Ethical precepts with Literary Criticism, and earnestly sought to impress my readers with a sense, both of the close con- nection between sound Intellectual attainments and the higher elements of Duty and Enjoy- ment: and of the just and ultimate subordination of the former to the latter. The praise in short to which I aspire, and to merit which I am conscious that my efforts were most con- stantly directed, is, that I have, more uniformly and earnestly than any preceding critic, made the Moral tendencies of the works under consideration a leading subject of discussion : and I neglected no opportunity, in reviews of Poems and Novels as well as of graver productions, V of elucidating the true constituents of human happiness and virtue : and combathig those besetting prejudices and errors of opinion which appear so often to withhold men from the path of their duty — or to array them in foolish and fatal hostility to each other. I cannot, of course, do more, in this place, than intimate this proud claim : But for the proof — or at least the explanation of it, — I think I may venture to refer to the greater part of the papers that follow. I wrote the first article in the first Number of the Review, in October 1802: — and sent my last contribution to it, in October 1840! It is a long period, to have persevered in well — or in ill doing! But I was by no means eciually alert in the service during all the inter- mediate time. I was sole Editor, from 1803 till late in 1829- and during that period was no doubt a large and regular contributor. In that last year, however, I received the great honour of being elected, by my brethren of the Bar, to the office of Dean of the Faculty of Advo- cates: — When it immediately occurred to me that it was not quite fitting that the official head of a great Law Corporation should continue to be the conductor of what might be fairly enough represented as, in many respects, a Party .Journal : and I consequently withdrew at once and altogether from the management :* — which has ever since been in such hands, as can have left those who take an interest in its success, no cause to regret my retirement. But I should not have acted up to the spirit of this resignation, nor felt that I had redeemed the pledge of neutrality I meant to give by it. if I had not at the same time substantially ceased to contribute to, or to concern myself, in any way, with the conduct or future fortunes of the Review. I wrote nothing for it. accordingly, for a considerable time subsequent to 1829: and during the whole fourteen years that have since elapsed, have sent in all but Four papers to that work — none of them on political subjects. I ceased, in reality to be a contributor, in 1829. In a professed Reprint of former publications I did not of course think myself entitled to make (and accordingly I have not made) any change in the substance of what was originally published — nor even in the expression, except where a slight verbal correction seemed neces- .sary, to clear the meaninir. or to remedy some mere slip of the pen. I have not however held myself etjually precluded from making occasional rctrcnchvients from the papers as they first appeared : though these are mostly confined to t)ic citations that had been given from the books reviewed — at least in the three first of these volumes: But notice, I believe, is given of all the considerable omissions — (with some intimation of the reasons) — in the places where they occur. It will be observed that, in the Arrangement of the pieces composing this collection, I have not followed, in any degree, the Chronological order of the oriijinal publications : though the actual date of its first appearance is prefixed to each paper. The great extent and very * For my own sake in part, but principally for t)ie honour of my Conservative Bietliren who ultimately conctirrpd in my appointment, 1 think it right to state, that this resignation was in no ilcgree a matter of compromise or arrangement, with a view to that appointment: — the fact be- ing, on tlie contrary, tliat I nave no liint of my purpose, in any quarter, till after the election was over — or at all events till afti'r the withdrawal of the learned and distinguished Person who had lippn put in nomination against me, had made it certain that my return would be unanimous. His perseverance. I doubt not. miaht have endangered that result : For. though considerably my junior, his eminence in the profession was, even then I believe, qui'e equal to mine. But he' generously deferred lo my Seniority. PREFACE. vii mipcellaneous nature of the subjects discussed, seemed to make such a course ineligible ; and rather to suggest the propriety of a distribution with reference to these subjects. I have now attempted therefore to class them under a few general Heads or titles, with a view to such a connection : And, though not very artificially digested, or strictly adhered to, I think the convenience of most readers will be found to have been consulted by this arrangement. The particular papers in each grouper division, have also been placed in the order, rather of their natural ilependence, or analogy to each other, than of the times when they were respectively written. I am now sensible that, by adopting this plan, I have brought more strikingly into view, the repetitions, as well as the discrepancies and small inconsistencies, which I take to be incident to this kind of writing. But this is a reproach, or disadvantage, to which I must be content to submit: and from which I do not apprehend that I shall have much to suffer, in the judgment of good-natured readers. There are many more important matters as to which I am conscious that I shall need all their indulgence : But to which I do not think it necessary, as I am sure it would not be prudent, now to direct their attention. Before closing this notice, there is a little matter as to which several of my friends have suggested that I ought to take this opportunity of giving an explanation. My own first impression was, that this was unnecessary; and, but for the illustrious name which is con- nected with the subject, I should still be of that opinion. As it is. I cannot now refuse to say a few words on it. In the second volume of Mr. Lockhart's Life of Sir Walter Scott, there are (at page 219) several extracts from a letter of Sir Walter to Mr. George Ellis, dated in December 1808, and referring among other things to the projected establishment of the Quarterly Review : in comiection with which topic, the following passage occurs — "Jeffrey has offered terms of pacification — engaging that no party politics should again appear in his Review. I told him I thought it was now too late; and reminded him that I had often pointed out to him the con- sequences of letting his work become a party tool. He said, he did not care for the conse- quences; They \rere but four men he feared as opponents, &c. All this was in great good humour. He has no suspicion of our Review whatever." Now though I have no particular recollection of the conversation here alluded to, and should never dream, at any rate, of setting up any recollection of so distant an occurrence in opposition to a contemporary record of it by such a man as Sir Walter Scott — I feel myself fully warranted in saying that the words I have put in italics are calculated to convey an inaccurate impression of any thing I could possibly have said on that occasion ; — and that I am morally certain that I never offered to come under any such engagement as these words, in their broad and unqualified sense, would seem to imply. Of course, I impute no intentional misrepresentation to Sir Walter Scott. Of that he was as incapable, as I trust I am of the baseness of making the im.putation. Neither can I think it possible that he should have misunderstood me at the time. But in hastily writing a familiar letter I am satisfied that he has expressed himself inaccurately — or at least imperfectly — and used words which convey a far larger and more peremptory meaning than truly belonged to any thing I could have uttered. My reasons for this conviction I diink maybe stated, to the satisfaction even of those to whom the circumstances of the parties may yet be unknown. My first reason is, that I most certainly had no power to come under any such engagement, without the consent of the original and leading Contributors, — from whom no such consent could then have been expected. I was not the Proprietor of the work — nor the representative, in any sense, of the proprietors — but merely the chosen (and renioveable) manager for the leading contributors; the greater part of whom certainly then looked upon the Political influence of the Review, as that which gave it its chief value and imi^ortance. This con- dition of things was matter of notoriety at Edinburgh at the time. But at all events nobody was more thoroughly aware of it than Sir Walter Scott. He has him.self mentioned, in the passage already quoted, that he had frequently before remonstrated with me on what he thought the intemperate tone of some our political articles: and though I generally made the best defence I could for them, I distinctly remember more than one occasion on which^ after admitting that the youthful ardour of some of our associates had carried them farther than I could approve of, I begged him to consider that it was quite impossible for me always to repress this — and to remember that I was but a Feuded monarch, who had but a slender control over his greater Barons — and really could not prevent them from occasionally waging a little private war, upon griefs or resentments of their own. I am as certain of having repeatedly expressed this sentiment, and used this illustration to Sir Walter Scott, as I am of my own existence. But in the next place it requires no precise recollection of words or occasions, to enable me now to say, that, neither in 1808, nor for long periods before and after, did my party principles (or prejudices or predilections) sit so loosely upon me, as that I should ever have agreed to lay them aside, or to desist from their assertion, merely to secure the assistance of a contributor (however distinguished), to what would then have been a mere literary undertaking. For the value I then set on those principles I may still venture to refer to tv,'enty-five years spent as their uncompromising advocate — at the hazard at least, if not to the injury, of my personal and professional interests. I have no wish at this moment io recall the particulars of that advocacy : But I think I may safely say that if, in December ^iii PREFACE. 1808. 1 could have bargained to desist from it. and to silence the Edinburgh Review as an organ of party. I miixht have stipulated for somewhat higher advantages than the occasional co- oi>?ratioii of Sir Walter Scott (for he never was a rcffu/ar contributor even to the Quarterly) in a work in which I had little interest beyond that of conunanding a ready vehicle for the dis- semiriation of mv own favoured opinions. All this rests, it will be observed, not upon the terms of any particular conversation, which might of course be imperfectly remembered — but upon my own certain knowledge of the principles by which I was actuated for a long course of years; and which I cannot but think were then indicated by a sufficient number of overt acts, to make it easy to establish the mastery they e.vercised over me, by extrinsic evidence, if necessary. If the prevalence of these principles, however, is plainly inconsistent whh the literal accuracy of the passage in question, or the fact of my having actually made such an offer as is there mentioned, I think myself entitled to conclude that the statement in that passage is inaccurate; and that a care- less expression has led to an incorrect representation of the fact. And here also I hope I may be permitted to refer to a very distinct recollection of the tenor, not of one but of many conversations with Sir Walter, in which he was directly apprised of the impossibility (even if I could have desired it) of excluding politics (which of cour.^e could mean nothing but party pohtics) from the Review. The undue preponderance of such articles in that journal was a frequent subject of remon.strance with him : and I perfectly remember that, when urging upon me the expediency of making Literature our great staple, and only indulging occasionally in those more exciting discussion.s, I have repeatedly told him that, with the political influence we had already acquired, this was not to be expecteil— and that by such a course the popularity and authority of the Review would be fatally im- paired, even for its literary judgments:— and upon one of these occasions, I am quite certaui that I made use of this expression to him — '-The Review, in short, has but two legs to stand on. Literature no doubt is one of them: But its Right leg is Politics." Of this I have the clearest recollection. I have dwelt too long, I fear, on this slight but somewhat painful incident of my early days. But I cannot finally take leave of it without stating my own strong conviction of what must have actually passed on the occasion so often referred to; and of the way in which 1 conceive my illustrious friend to have been led to the inaccuracy I have alreatly noticed, in his report of it. I have already said, that I do not pretend to have any recollection of this particular conversation: But combining the details which are given in Sir Walter's letter, with my certain knowledge of the tenor of many previous conversations on the same subject, I have now little doubt that, after deprecating his threatened secession from our ranks, 1 acknowledged my regret at the needless asperity of some of our recent diatribes on politics — expressed my own disapprobation of violence and personality in such discussions — and engaged to do what I could to repress or avoid such excesses for the future. It is easy, I think, to see how this engagement, — to discourage, so far as my influence went, all vioUnt and unfair party politics, — might be represented, in Sir Walter's brief and summary report, as an engagement to avoid party politics altogether: — the inaccuracy amounting only to the omission of a qualification. — to which he probably ascribed less importance than truly belonired to it. Other imputations, lam aware, have been publicly made against me, far heavier than this which has tempted me into so long an explanation. But with these I do not now concern myself: And, as they never gave me a moment's anxiety at the time, so I am now conteuteil to refer, for their refutation, to the tenor of all I have ever written, and the testimony of all to whom I have been personally known. With any thing bearing the name of Sir Walter Scott, however, the case is different: And when, from any statement of his, I feel that I may be accused, even of the venial offences of a.ssuming a power which did not truly belong to me — or of being too ready to compromise my political opinions, from general love to litera- ture or deference to individual genius, I think myself called upon to ofTer all the explanations in my power: — While I do not stoop to meet, even with a formal denial, the absurd and degrading charges with which I have been occasionally assailed, by persons of a diffprent description. F. JEFFREY. Craizcrook, lOth November, 1843. CONTENTS I Preface. ▼ \ GENERAL LITERATURE AND LITERARY BIOGRAPHY. ' Essays on the Nature and Principles of Taste. By Archibald Alison, LL. B., F. R. S., Prebendary of Sarum 13 De la Litterature consideree dans ses Rapports avec les Institutions Sociales, Par Mad. de Stael-Holstein. Avec un Precis de la Vie et les Ecrits de I'Auteur 40 The Complete Works, in Philosophy, Politics, and Morals, of the late Dr. Benjamin Franklin. Now first collected and arranged. With Memoirs of his Early Life, written by Himself 60 - The Works of Jonathan Swift, D. D., Dean of St. Patrick's, Dublin. Containing Additional Letters, Tracts, and Poems, not hitherto published. With Notes, and a Life of the Author, by Walter Scott, Esq 68 Correspondance inedite de Madame du Deffand, avec D'Alembert, Montesquieu, le Pre- sident Renault, La Duchesse du Maine, Mesdames de Choiseul, De Staal, &.c. &c. . 93 Lettres de Mademoiselle de Lespinasse, ecrites depuis PAnnee 1773 jusqu' a PAnnee 1776, &c ib. '■* Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship: a Novel. From the German of Goethe 104 The Correspondence of Samuel Richardson, Author of Pamela, Clarissa, and Sir Charles Grandison • selected from the original Manuscripts bequeathed to his Family. To which are prefLved, a Biographical Account of that Author, and Observations on his Writings. By Anna Letitia Barbauld 121 5 Correspondance, Liiteraire, Philosophique et Critique. Adressee a un Souverain d'Alle- magne, depuis 1770 jusqu'a 1782. Par le Baron de Grimm, et par Diderot 129 ^ Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Victor Alfieri. Written by Himself 143 The Life and Posthumous Writings of William Cowper, Esq. With an Introductory Letter to the Right Honourable Earl Cowper. By William Hayley, Esq 154, 163 HISTORY AND HISTORICAL MEMOIRS. Memoirs of the Life of Colonel Hutchinson. Governor of Nottingham Castle and Town, Representative of the County of Nottingham in the Long Parliament, and of the Town of Nottingham in the I^'irst Parliament of Charles 11. &c.; with Original Anec- dotes of many of the most distinguished of his Contemporaries, and a summary Review of Public Affairs : Written by his Widow, Lucy, daughter of Sir Allen Apsley, Lieutenant of the Tower, &c. Now first published from the Original Manuscript, by the Rev. Julius Hutchinson, &c. &c. To which is prefixed the Life of Mrs. Hutchinson, written by Herself, a Fragment 168 Memoirs of Lady Fanshawe, Wife of the Right Honourable Sir Richard Fanshawe, Baronet, Ambassador from Charles the Second to the Court of Madrid in 1665. Written by Herself. To which are added, Extracts from the Correspondence of Sir Richard Fanshawe 179 *" Memoirs of Samuel Pepys, Esq. F. R. S., Secretary to the Admiralty in the Reigns of Charles II. and James II., comprising his Diary from 1659 to 1669, deciphered by the Rev. John Smith, A . B., of St. John's College. Cambridge, from the original Short- hand MS. in the Pepysian Library, and a Selection from his Private Correspondence. Edited by Richard Lord Braybrooke 183 A History of the early Part of the Reign of James the Second ; with an Introductory Chapter. By the Right Honourable Charles James Fox. To which is added an Appendix 197 2 ix z CONTENTS. PAoe, Memoires d'un Temoin de la Revolution; ou Journal des fait9 qui se sent passe sous ses yeux. et qui out prejiare et fixe la Constitution Frangaise. Ouvrage Posthume de Jean Svi.vain Bailly, Premier President de lAsseniblee Nationale Constituant, Premier RIaire de Paris, et Membre des Trois Academies 210 Considerations sur les Priiicipaux Evenemens de la Revolution Frangaise. Ouvrage Posthume de Madame la Baronne de Stael. Public par M. le Due De Brogue et M. le Baron A. De Stael 216 Memoires de Madame la Marquise de Larochejaqcelein : avec deux Cartes du Theatre de la Guerre de La Vendee 234 Memoires de Frederique Sophie Wilhelmine de Prusse, Margrave de Bareilh, SoBur de Frederic le Grand. Eorits de sa Main 249 History of the Life and Voyages of Christopher Columbus. By Washington Irving. . . . 259 Memoirs of Zehir-ed-din IMuhammed Baber. Emperor of Hindustan, written by Himself, in the Jairhatai Turki, and translated partly by the late John Leyden. Esq. M. D., partly by William Erskine, Esq. With Notes and a Geographical and Historical Introduction : together with a Map of the Countries between the Oxus and Jaxartes, and a Memoir regarding its Construction, by Charles Waddington, Esq.. of the East India Company's Engineers ..." 272 POETRY. Specimens of the British Poels: with Biographical and Critical Notices, and an Essay on English Poetry. By Thomas Campbell ' 286 The Dramatic Works of John Ford; with an Introduction and Explanatory Notes. By Henry Weber, Esq 299 Characters of Shakespeares Plays. By William Hazlitt 309 Sardanapalus, a Tragedy. The Two Foscari, a Tragedy. Cain, a Mystery, By Lord Byron '. 7 316 Manfred ; a Dramatic Poem. By Lord Byron 330 Reliques of Robert Burns, consisting chiefly of Original Letters, Poems, and Critical Observations on Scottish Songs. Collected and published by R. H. Cromek 335 Gertrude of Wyoming, a Pennsylvania tale; and other Poems. By Tho.mas Campbell, author of '-The Piea,«;ures of Hope," &c 347 Theodric. a Domestic Tale: with other Poems. By Thomas Campbell 354 The Lay of the Last Minstrel : a Poem. By Walter Scott 359 The Lady of the Lake : a Poem. By Walter Scott 367 Poems. By the Reverend George Crabbe 380 The Borough: a Poem, in Twenty-four Letters. By the Rev. George Ckabbe, LL.B.. 387 Tales. By the Reverend George Crabbe 396 Tales of the Hall. By the Reverend George Crabbe 405 Endymion : a Poetic Romance. By John Keats 413 Lamia. Isabella. The Eve of St. Agnes, and other Poems. By John Keats, author of '' Endymion" ib. Human Life : a Poem. By S.\muel Rogers 4J9 Roderick : The Last of the Goths. By Robert Southey, Esq., Poet-Laureate, and Mem- ber of the Royal Spanish Academy 424 Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto the Third. By Lord Byron 434 ^ The Prisoner of Chillon, and other Poems. By Lord Byron ib. i Lalla Rookh ; an Oriental Romance. By Thomas Moore 446 | The Excursion : beinir a Portion of the Recluse, a Poem. By William Wordsworth.. 457 i The White Doe of Rylstone ; or the Fate of the Nortons: a Poem. By Willia.m Words- j WORTH . . . ■ 469 I Records of Women : with other Poems. By Felicia Hemans 473 j The Forest Sanctuary : with other Poems. By Felicia Hemans ib. ! PHILCSOPHY or TIIK MIND, METAPHYSICS, AND JURISPRUDENCE. ! Traites de Legislation Civile et Penale ; precedes de Principes Generau.x de Legislation, j| pt d'une Vue d'un Corps complet de Droit; termines par un Essai sur I'influence !; des Terns et des Licux relativement aux Lois. Par M. Jerkmie Bentham, Juriscon- ij suite An;rlois. Publics en Francois par M. Du.mont de Geneve, d-apres les JVlanu- '. Bcnls conlies par I'Auteur 479 I CONTENTS. xi PAGE. \ccount of the Life and Writings of Thomas Reid, D.D., F.R.S. Edinburgh, late Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Glasgow. By Dugald Stewart, F.R.S. . 486 Memoirs of Dr. .Toseph Priestley, to the Year 1795, written by himself: With a Continua- tion to the Time of his Decease, by his Sou Joseph Priestley ; and Observations on his Writings. By Thomas Cooper, President Judge of the Fourth District of Penn- sylvania, and the Reverend Willia.m Christie. . . T 492 Academical Questions. By the Right Honourable William Drummond, K.C, F.R.S., F.R.S.E. Author of a Translation of Persius .'496 An Account of the Life and Writings of James Beatlie, LL.D., late Professor of Moral Philosophy and Logic in the Marischal College and University of Aberdeen : includ- ing many of his original Letters. By Sir W. Forbes of Pitsligo, Baronet, one of the Executors of Dr. Beattie 501 Philo.sophical Essays. By Dugald Stewart, Esq., F.R.S.- Edinburgh, Emeritus Pro- fessor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgli, &c. &c 504 I ' NOVELS, TALES, AND PRO.'^E WORKS OF FICTION. Tales of Fashionable Life. By Miss Edgeworth, Author of "Practical Education,"' "Belinda," "'Castle Rackrent," &c 512. 517 Waverley, or 'Tis Sixty Years Since 523 Tales of My Landlord, collected and arranged by Jedediah Cleishbothani. Schoolmaster and Parish Clerk of the Parish of Gaudercleugh 528 Rob Roy. By the Author of "Waverley," "Guy Mannering," and '-'The Antiquary" 535 Ivanhoe. A Romance. By the Author of " Waverley," &c 537 The Novels and Tales of the Author of "Waverley;" comprising "Waverley," "Guy Mannering," "Antiquary," "Rob Roy," "Tales of My Landlord, First, Second., and Third Series ;" New Edition, with a copious Glossary ib. The Fortunes of Nigel. By the Author of " Waverley," " Kenilworth," &c 543 Annals of the Parish, or the Chronicles of Dalmailing, during the Ministry of the Rev. Micah Balwhidder. Written by Himself 548 The Ayrshire Legatees, or the Pringle Family. By the Author of "Annals of the Parish." &c ib. The Provost. By the Author of "Annals of the Parish," "'Ayrshire Legatees," &c. . . . ib. Sir Andrew Wyllie of that Ilk. By the Author of "'Annals of the Parish," &c ib. The Steam Boat. By the Author of " Annals of the Parish," &c ib. The Entail, or the Lairds of Grippy. By the Author of "'Annals of the Parish." "Sir Andrew Wyllie," &c ' ib. Ringan Gilhaize, or the Covenanters. By the Author of "Annals of the Parish,"' &c. . . ib. Valerius, a Roman Story ib. Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life ib. Some Passages in the Life of Mr. Adam Blair, Minister of the Gospel at Cross-Meikle . . ib. The Trials of Margaret Lyndsay. By the Author of "Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life" ib. Reginald Dalton. By the Author of " "Valerius," and " Adam Blair" ib. GENERAL POLITICS. Essay on the Practice of the British Government, distinguished from the abstract The- ory on which it is supposed to be founded. By Gould Francis Leckie 564 A Song of Triumph. By W. Sotheby, Esq 577 L'Acte Constitutionnel, en la Seance du 9 Avril, 1814 ib. Of Bonaparte, the Bourbons, and the Necessity of rallying round our legitimate Princes for the Happiness of France and of Europe. By F. Chate.ivubriand ib. Speech of the Rieht Hon. William Windham, in the House of Commons, May 26, 1809, on Mr. Curwen's Bill, "for better securing the Independence and Purity of Par- liament, by Preventing the procuring or obtaining of Seats by corrupt Practices" . . 594 Short Remarks on the State of Parties at the Close of the Year 1809 604 The History of Ireland. By John O'Driscol 610 Memoirs of the Life of the Right Honourable Richard Brinsley Sheridan. By Thomas MooRE 616 14 LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPHY. able, is the want of agreement as to the I time possess so much unity as to pas^^^^^^^^^ presence and existence of beauty in particular objects, amonjj men whose organization is perfect, and who are plainly possesfsed of the faculty, whatever it may be, by which beauty is discerned. Now, no such thing happens, we imagine, or can be conceived to happen, in the case of any other simple sensation, or the exercise of any other distinct faculty. Where one man sees light, all men who have eyes see light also. All men allow grass to be o-reen. and sugar to be sweet, and ice to be col3: and the unavoidable inference from any apparent disagreement in such matters neces- sarily is, that the party is insane, or entirely destitute of the sense or organ concerned in the perception. With regard to beauty, how- ever, it is obvious, at first sight, that the case is entirely different. One man sees it per- petually, where lo another it is quite invisible, or even where its reverse seems to be con- spicuous. Nor is this owing to the insen.si- bility of either of the parties ; for the same contrariety exists where both are keenly alive to the influences of the beauty they respect- ively discern. A Chinese or African lover would probably see nothing at all attractive in a belle of London or Paris ; and, undoubt- edly, an eh";ansformannn spectator from eitlier of those cities would discover nothing but de- formity in the Venus of the Hottentots. A little distance in time often produces the same effects as distance in place ;— the gar- dens, the furniture, the dress, which appeared beautiful in the eyes of our grandfathers, are odious and ridiculous in ours. Nay, the dif- ference of rank, education, or employments, gives rise to the same diversity of sensation. The little shop-keeper sees a beauty in his roadside box, and in the staring tile roof, wooden lions, and clipped boxwood, which strike horror into the soul of the student of the picturesque; while he is transported in surveying the fragments of ancient sculpture, which are nothing but ugly masses of mould- ering stone, in the judgment of the admirer of neatiii'ss. It is needless, however, to mul- tiply instances, since the fact admits of no contradiction. ' But how can we believe that beauty is the object of a peculiar sense or faculty, when persons undoubtedly possessed of the faculty, and even in an eminent degree, can discover nothing of it in objects where it is distinctly felt a\u\ perceived by others with the same use of the faculty'? This one consideration, we confess, appears to us conclu.sive a.g-.iinst the supposition of beauty being a real property of objects, aii- dressing itself to the power of taste as a sepa- rate 8en.se or faculty ; and it seems to point irresistibly to the conclusion, that our sense of it is the result of other more elementary feelings, into which it may be analysed or resolved. A second objection, however, if possible of still greater force, is susuested, by considering the prodigious and almost infinite variety of things to which this property of beauty is ascribed; and the impo.ssibility of imagining any one inherent ([uality which can belong to'them all, and yet at the same sally by the same name, and be recognised as the peculiar object of a separate sense or faculty. All simple qualhies that are perceived in any one object, are immediately recognised to be the same, when they are again perceived in another : and the objects in which they are thus perceived are at once felt so far to re- semble each other, and to partake of the same nature. Thus snow is seen to be white, and chalk is seen to be white; but tliis is no sooner seen, than the two substances, how- ever unlike in other respects, are felt at once to have this quality in common, and to re- semble each other completely in all that re- lates to the qualitv of colour, and the sense of seeing. But is this felt, or could it even be intelligibly asserted, with regard to the quality of beautyf Take even a limited and specific sort of beauty— for instance, the beauty of fonn. The form of a fine tree is beautiful, and the form of a fine woman, and the form of a column, and a vase, and a chandelier. Yet how can it be said that the form of a woman has anV thing in common with that of a tree or a temi- pie for to which of the senses by which iormk are distinguished can it be supposed to appeaj- that they have any resemblance or affinity'? The matter, however, becomes still more inextricable when we recollect that beauty does not belong merely to forms or colours, but to sounds, and perhaps to the objects of other senses; nay, that in all languages and in all nations, it is not supposed to reside ex clusively in material objects, but to belong also to sentiments and ideas, and intellectual; and moral existences. Not only is a treeH beautiful, as well as a palace or a waterfall ; but a poem is beautiful, and a theorem in; mathematics, and a contrivance in mechanics i But if thinas intellectual and totally segre- gated from matter may thus possess beauty how can it possibly be a (juality of materia objects'? or what sense or faculty can that be whose proper office it is to intimate to us th( existence of some property w hich is commoi to a flower and a demonstration, a valley am an eloquent discourse'? The only answer which occurs to this plainly enouah a had one ; but the statemen of it. and of its insufficiency, will serve bettei perhaps, than any thing else, to develope Ul m actual difficulties of the subject, and the tru *"« state of the (]ue8tioii with regard to them. 1 may be said, then, in answer to the question M we" have suggested above, that all these ol «« jects. however various and dissimilar, agrel at least in being agreeable, and that th' agrreeablencss, which is the only quality the; possess in common, may probably be th beauty which is ascribed to them all. Nov^ to those who are accustomed to such discu^ sions. it would be quite enough to reply, th:, though the agreeableness of such objects d<\ pend plainly enough upon their beauty, it I] no means follows, but quite the contrary, lh;l their beauty depends upon their agreeabl) ness; the latterbeingthe more comprehensiii or generic term, under which beauty mu' rank as one of the sp*«ies. Its nature, ther[_ ALISON ON TASTE. 15 fore, is no more explained, nor is less ab- surdity substantially committed, by saying that things are beautiful because they are agreeable, than if we were to give the same explanation of the sweetness of sugar; for no one, we suppose, will dispute, that though it be very true that sugar is agreeable because it is sweet, it would be manifestly prepos- terous to say that it was sweet because it was agreeable. For the benefit, however, of those who wish or require to be more regularly initiated in these mysteries, we beg leave to add a few observations. In the first place, then, it seems evident, that agreeableness, in general, cannot be the same with beauty, because there are very many things in the highest degree agreeable, that can in no sense be called beautiful. Moderate heat, and savoury food, and rest, and exercise, are agreeable to the body; but none of these can be called beautiful; and among objects of a higher class, the love and esteem of others, and fame, and a good con- science, and health, and riches, and wisdom, are all eminently agreeable; but none at all beautiful, according to any intelligible use of the word. It is plainly quite absurd, therefore, to say that beauty consists in agreeableness, without specifying in consequence of what it is agreeable — or to hold that any thing what- ever is taught as to its nature, by merely classing it among our pleasurable emotions. In the second place, however, we may re- mark, that among all the objects that are • i agreeable, whether they are also beautiful or li not, scarcely any two are agreeable on account Jj of the same qualities, or even suggest their el agreeableness to the same faculty or organ. |;i Most certainly there is no resemblance or m; affijiity whatever between the qualities which ;,j make a peach agreeable to the palate, and a e.| beautiful statue to the eye; which soothe us ^j in an easy chair by the fire, or delight us in a lajl philosophical discovery. The truth is, that If 1 agreeableness is not properly a quality of any jijl object whatsoever, but the effect or result of iDjj certain qualities, the nature of which, in every loi particular instance, we can generally define pretty exactly, or of which we know at least J iij with certainty that they manifest themselves |J respectively to some one particular sense or .J faculty, and to no other ;• and consequently it \u would be just as obviously ridiculous to sup- jj pose a faculty or organ, whose office it was to |, perceive agreeableness in general, as to sup- ,l J pose that ag-reeableness was a distinct quality ^A that could thus be perceived. ' 1 The class of agreeable objects, thanks to ' J the bounty of Providence, is exceedingly large. u| Certain things are agreeable to the palate, and ^ .a others to the smell and to the touch. Some ,„ again are agreeable to our faculty of imagina- ■ tion, or to our understanding, or to our moral ' ,i feelings: and none of all these we call beau- 'j|] tiful. But there are others which we do call ■j beautiful; and those we say are agreeable to ■', I our faculty of taste; — but when we come to ^u I ask what is the faculty of taste, and what are ''^'a the qualities which recommend the subjects '^° n to that faculty 1 — we have no such answer to give ; and find ourselves just where we were at the beginning of the discussion, and em- barrassed with all the difficulties arising from the prodigious diversity of objects which seem to possess these qualities. We know pretty well what is the faculty of seeing or hearing; or, at least, we know that what is agreeable to one of those facul- ties, has no effect whatever on the other. We know that bright colours afford no delight to the ear, nor sweet tones to the eye; and are therefore perfectly assured that the qualities which make the visible objects agreeable, cannot be the same with those which give pleasure to the ear. But it is by the eye and by the ear that all material beauty is per- ceived ; and yet the beauty which discloses itself to these two separate senses, and conse- quently must depend upon qualities which nave no sort of atlinity, is supposed to be one distinct quality, and to be perceived by a pe- culiar sense or faculty ! The perplexity be- comes still greater when we think of the beauty of poems or theorems, and endeavour to imagine what qualities they can possess ir. common with the agreeable modifications ol light or of sound. It is in these considerations undoubtedly that the difficulty of the subject consists. The faculty of taste, plainly, is not a faculty like any of the external senses, the range of whose objects is limited and precise, as well as the qualities by which they are gratified or of- fended ; and beauty, accordingly, is discovered in an mfinite variety of objects, among which it seeams, at first sight, impossible to discover any other bond of connexion. Yet boundless as their diversity may appear, it is plain that they must resemble each other in something, and in something more definite and definable than merely in being agreeable ; since they are all classed together, in every tongue and nation, under the common appellation of beau- tiful, and are felt indeed to produce emotions in the mind that have some sort of kindred or affinity. The words beauty and beautiful, in short, do and must mean something; and are universally felt to mean something much more defuiite than agreeableness or gratifica- tion hi general : and while it is confessedly by no means easy to describe or define what that something is, the force and clearness of our perception of it is demonstrated by the readiness with which we determine, m any particular instance, whether the object of a given pleasurable emotion is or is not prop- erly described as beauty. What we have already said, we confess, j appears to us conclusive against the idea of ; this beauty being any fixed or udierent prop- erty of the objects to which it is ascribed, or I itself the object of any separate and inde- pendent faculty ; and we will no longer con- ceal from the reader what we take to be the true solution of the difficulty. In our opinion, then, our sense of beauty depends entirely on , our previous experience of simpler pleasures or emotions, and consists in the suggestion of j agreeable or interesting sensations with which we had formerly been made famihar by the m 1« LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPHY. direct and intelligible agency of our common sensibilities ; and that vast variety of objects, to which we give the common name of beau- tiful, become entitled to that appellation, merely because they all possess the power oi recallincr or reflecting those sensations of which they have been the accompaniments, or with which they have been associated in our imagmation by any other more casual bond of connection. According to this view of the matter, therefore, beauty is not an in- herent property or quality of objects at all, Xnit the result of the accidental relations in which they may stand to our experience of pleasures or emotions ; and does not depend upon any particular configuration of parts, proportions, or colours, in external things, nor upon the unity, coherence, or simplicity of intellectual creations — but merely upon the associations which, in the case of every indi- vidual, may enable these inherent, and other- wise indifferent qualities, to suggest or recall to the mind emotions of a pleasurable or in- teresting description. It follows, therefore, that no object is beautiful in itself, or could appear so antecedent to our experience of di- rect pleasures or emotions; and that, as an infinite variety of objects may thus reflect in- teresting ideas, so all of them may acquire the title of beautitul, although utterly diverse and disparate in their nature, and possessing nothing in common but this accidental power of reminding us of other emotions. This theory, which, we believe, is now very generally adopted, though under many need- less qualifications, shall be farther developed and illustrated in the sequel. But at present we shall only remark, that it serves, at least, to solve the great problem involved in the discussion, by rendering it easily conceivable how objects which have no inherent resem- blance, nor, indeed, any one quality in com- mon, should 3-et be united in one common relation, and consequently acquire one com- mon name : just as all the things that belonged to a beloved individual may serve to remind us of him, and thus to awake a kindred class of emotions, though just as unlike each other as any of the objects that are classed under the general name of beautiful. His poetry, for instance, or his slippers — his acts of bounty or his saddle-horse — may lead to the same chain of interesting remembrances, and thus agree in possessing a power of excitement, for the sources of which we should look in vain through all the variety of their physical or .metaphysical qualities. By the help of the same consideration, we get rid of all the mystery of a peculiar sense' or faculty, imagined for the express purpose of perceiving beauty; and discover that the power of taste is nothing more than the habit of tracing those associations, by which almost all objects may be connected with interestin>j emotions. It is easy to uiuler.stand, that the recollection of any scene of delight or emotion must produce a certain agreeable sensation, and that the objects which introduce these recollections should not appear altogether in- different to us : nor is it, pernapSj very difficult I to imagine, that recollections thus strikmgly suggested by some real and present existence, \ should present themselves under a diff'erent aspect, and move the mind somewhat difier- j ently from those which arise spontaneously in ' the ordinary course of our reflections, and do \ not thus grow out of a direct, present, and peculiar impression. The whole of this doctrine, however, we shall endeavour by and bye to establish upon jmore direct evidence. But having now ex- plained, in a general way. both the difficulties j of the subject, and our suggestion as to their true solution, it is proper that we should take a short review of the more considerable theories that have been proposed for the elucidation of this curious question ; which is one of the most delicate as well as the most jwpular in the science of metaphysics — was one of the : earliest which exercised the speculative inge- nuity of philosophers — and nas at last, we think, been more successfully treated than any other of a similar description. I In most of these speculations we shall find rather imperfect trath than fundamental error; or, at all events, such errors only as arise natu- rally from that peculiar difficulty which we have already endeavoured to explain, as con- sisting in the prodigious multitude and di- versity of the objects in which the common quality of beauty was to be accounted for. i Those who have not been sufficiently aware lof the difficulty have generally dogmatised I from a small number of instances, and have i rather given examples of the occurrence of [beauty in some few classes of objects, than I afforded any light as to that upon which it essentially depended in all ; while those who felt its full force have very often found no 'Other resource, than to represent beauty as [consisting in properties so extremely vague jand general, (such, for example, as the power jof exciting ideas of relation,) as almost to elude our comprehension, and, at the same time, of so abstract and metaphysical a de- scription, as not to be very intelligibly stated, as the elements of a strong, familiar, and pleasurable emotion. j This last observation leads us to make one ' other remark upon the general character of these theories ; and this is, that some of them, though not openly j5rofessing that doctrine, I seem necessardy to imply the existence of a'i peculiar sense or faculty for the perception / of beauty ; as they resolve it into properties/ that are not in any way interesting or agree- able to any of our known faculties. Such , are all those \Vhich make it consist in propor- tion — or in variety, combined with rigular- ity — or in waving lines — or in unity — or in the perception of relations — without explain- ing, or attempting to explain, how any of these things should, in any circumstances, affect us with deliirht or emotion. Others, again, do not require the supposition of any such sepa- rate faculty; because in them the sense of beauty is considered as arising from other more simple and familiar emotions, which are in themselves and beyond all dispute , agreeable. Such are those which teach that I ALISON ON TASTE. J7 beauty depends on the perception of utility, or of design, or fitness, or in tracing associa- tions between its objects and the common joys or emotions of our nature. Which of these two classes of speculation, to one or other of which, we believe, all theories of beauty may be reduced, is the most philo- sophical in itself, we imagine can admit of no question; and we hope in the secjuel to leave it as little doubtful, which is to be con- sidered as most consistent with the fact. In the mean time, we must give a short account of some of the theories themselves. The most ancient of which it seems neces- sary to take any notice, is that which may be traced in the Dialogues of Plato — though we are very far from pretending that it is possible to give any intelligible or consistent account of its tenor. It should never be forgotten, however, that it is to this subtle and inge- nious spirit that we owe the suggestion, that it is mind alone that is beautiful ; and that, iu perceiving beauty, it only contemplates the shadow of its own affections: — a doctrine which; however mystically unfolded in his writings, or however combined with extrava- gant or absurd speculations, unquestionably carries in it the the germ of all the truth that has since been revealed on the subject. By far the largest dissertation, however, that this great philosopher has left upon the nature of beauty, is to be found in the dialogue entitled Tke Greater Hippias, which is entirely de- voted to that inquiry. We do not learn a great deal of the author's own opinion, in- deed, from this performance; for it is one of the dialogues which have been termed Ana- trepttc. or confuting — in which nothing is concluded in the affirmative, but a series of soph'stical suggestions or hypotheses are suc- cessively exposed. The plan of it is to lead on Hippias, a shallow and confident sophist, to make a variety of dogmatical assertions as to the nature of beauty, and then to make him retract and abandon them, upon the statement of some obvious objections. So- crates and he agree at first in the notable proposition, -'that beauty is that by which all beautiful things are beautiful :" and then, after a great number of suggestions, by far too chilclish and absurd to be worthy of any notice — such as, that the beautiful may per- adventure be gold, or a fine woman, or a handsome mare — they at last get to some suppositions, which show that almost all the theories that have since been propounded on this interesting subject had occurred thus early to the active and original mind of this keen and curious inquirer. Thus, Socrates first suggests that beauty may consist in the fitness or suitableness of any object to the place it occupies : and afterwards, more sen- erally and directly, that it may consist in utility — a notion which is ultimately reject- ed, however, upon the subtle consideration that the useful is that which produces good. and that the producer and the product being necessarily different, it would follow, upon that supposition, that beauty could not be good, nor good beautiful. Finally, he sug- gests that beauty may be the mere organic delight of the eye or the ear; to which, aftei stating very slightly the objection, that it would be impossible to account ujjou this ground for the beauty of poetry or elotjuence, he proceeds to rear up a more refined and elaborate refutation, upon such grounds as these : — If beauty be the proper name of that which is naturally agreeable to the sight and hearing; it is plain, that the objects to which it is ascribed must possess some common and distinguishable property, besides that of being agreeable, in consequence of which they are separated and set apart from objects that are agreeable to our other senses and faculties, and, at the same time, classed together under the common appellation of beautiful. Now, we are not only quite unable to discover what this property is. but it is manifest, that objects which make themselves known to the ear, can have no property as such, in common with objects that make themselves known to the eye ; it being impossible that an object which is beautiful by its colour, can be beau- tiful, from the same quality, with another which is beautiful by its sound. From all which it is inferred, that as beauty is admitted to be something real, it cannot be merely what is agreeable to the organs of sight or hearing. There is no practical wisdom, we admit, in those fine-drawn speculations; nor any of that spirit of patient observation by which alone any sound view of such objects can ever be attained. There are also many marks of that singular incapacity to distinguish between what is absolutely puerile and foolish, and -what is plausible, at least, and ingenious, which may be reckoned among the characteristics of "the divine philoso- pher." and in some degree of all the philoso- phers of antiquity: but they show clearly enough the sulatle and abstract character of Greek speculation, and prove at how early a period, and to how great an extent, the j inherent difficulties of the subject were felt, and produced their appropriate effects. 1 There are some hints on these subjects in ' the works of Xenophon ; and some scattered ' observations in those of Cicero ; who was the I first, we believe, to observe, that the sense j of beauty is peculiar to man ; but nothing else, we believe, in classical antiquity, which I requires to be analysed or explained. It ap- \ pears that St. Augustin composed a large ; treatise on beauty ; and it is to be lamented, ! that the speculations of that acute and ardent ' genius on such a subject have been lost. We ' discover, from incidental notices in other parts 1 of his writings, that he conceived the beauty of all objects to depend on their unity, or on the perception of that principle or design which fixed the relations of their various parts, and presented tliem to the intellect or imagination as one harmonious whole. It would not be fair to deal very strictly with a theory with which we are so imperfectly ' acquainted : but it may be observed, that, while the author is so far in the right as to : make beauty consist in a relation to mind, I and not in any physical quality, he has taken b2 i% LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPHY. far too narrow and circumscribed a view of the matter, and one which seems almost ex- clusively applicable to works of human art : it beinij plain enough, we think, that a beau- tiful lanilscape. or a beautiful lior«e, has no more unity, and no more IrMces of design, than one which is not beautiful. We do not pretend to know what the schoolmen taught ujwn this .subject during the dark ages; but the discussion does not seem lo have been resumed for long after the re- rival of letters. Tlie followers of Leibnitz were pleased to maintain that beauty con- sisted in perfection ; but what constituted perfection (in this respe^ct) they did not at- tempt to define. IM. Crouz.is wrote a long essay, to show that beauty depended on these five eii'menls. variety, unity, regularity, order, and proportion; and the Pere Andre, a still longer one to prove, that, admitting these to be the true foundations of beauty, it was still most important to consider, that the beauty which results from them is either es.sential, or natural, or artificial — and that it may be greater or less, according as the character- istics of each of the.se classes are combined or set in opposition. Among ourselves, we are not aware of any • considerable publication on the subject till the appearance of Lord Shaftesbury's Charac- teristics; in which a sort of rapturous Platonic doctrine is delivered as to the existence of a primitive and Supreme Good and Beauty, and of a certain internal sense, by which both beauty and moral merit are "distinguished. Addison published several ingenious papers in The Spectator, on the pleasures of the imagination, and was the first, Ave believe. who referred them to the specific sources of beauty, sublimity, and novelty. He did not enter much, however, into the metaphysical discus.sion of the nature of beauty itself; and the first philosophical treati.se of note that ap- peared on the subject, may be said to have been the Inquiry of Dr. Hucheson, first pub- lished, we believe, in 1735. In this work, the notion of a peculiar in- ternal sense, by which we are madi; sensible of the existence of beauty, is very boldly pro- mulgated, and maintained by many ingenious arguments: Yet nothing, we conceive, can be more extravagant than such a proposition ; and nothing but the nuiical faults of the other parts of his theory could possibly have driven the learned author to its adoi)tion. Even after the exi.stenco of the sixth sense \\as as- sumed, he felt that it was still necessary that lie should explain what were the qualities by Avhich it was gratified ; and these, ho was j)leased to allege, were nothing but the com- binations of variety with uniformity; all ob- jects, as he has himself expressed it, which are e(|ually unifonn, being beautiful in pro- portion to their variety — and all objects , equally various being beautiful in proportion to th«^ir uniformity. Now, not to insist upon the obvious and radical objection that this is not true in fact, as to flowers, landsrajies. or indeed of any thing but architecture, it it be true of tliat — it could uot fail to strike the 1 1 ingenious author that these qualities of uni- formity and variety were not of themsclvea agreeable to any of our known senses or facul- ties, except when .considered as symbols of utility or design, and thereiore could not in- telligibly account for the very lively emotions which we often experience from the percep- tion of beauty, where the notion of design or utility is not at all suggested. He was con- straineil. therefore, either to abandon this view of the nature of beauty altogether, or to ima- gine a new sense or faculty, whose only func- tion it should be to receive delight from the combinations of uniformity and variety, with- out any considemtion of their being significant of things agreeable to our other faculties: and this being accomplished by the mere force of the definition, there was no room for farther dispute or difficulty in the matter. Some of Hucheson's followers, such as Ge- rard and others, who were a little startled at the notion of a separate faculty, and yet I wished to retain the doctrine of beauty de- pending on variety and unifoiTnity, endea- voured, accorilingly, to show that these quali- 1 ties were naturally airreeable to the mind, and I were recommended by considerations arising from its most familiar properties. Uniformity or simplicity, they observed, renders our con- I ception of objects easy, and saves the mind from all fatigue and distraction in the con- ] sideration of them ; whilst variety, if circum- ; scribed and limited by an ultimate uniformity, gives it a pleasnig exercise and excitement, 'and keeps its energies in a state of pleasur- able activity. Now, this appears to us to be mere trifling. The varied and lively emotions which we receive from the perception of , beauty, obviously have no sort of resemblance to the pleasure of moderate intellectual exer- : tion : nor can any thing be conceived more utterly dissimilar" than the gratification we ^ have in gazing on the form of a lovely woman, iand the satisfaction we receive from working an easy problem in arithmetic or geometry. If a triangle is more beautiful than a regular ' polygon, as those authors maintain, merely be- cause its figure is more easily comprehended, the number four should be more beautiful than the number 327, and the form of a gibbet far more agreeable than that of a branchinii oak. The radical error, in short, consi^-t.^ in fixing upon properties that are not inleirstim; in themselves, and can never be conccivi'd. therefore, to excite any emotion, as the foun- tain-spring of all our emotions of beauty : and it is an absurdity that must infallibly lead to others — whether these take the shape of a violent attempt to disguise the truly ditlerent nature of the properties so selected, or of the bolder expedient of creating a peculiar faculty, who.se office it is to find them interesting. The next remarkable theory was that pro- posed by Edmund Hiirke. in his Treatise of the Sublime and Bcantifvl. But of this, in spite of the great name of the author, we can- not persuade ourselves that it is necessary to say much. His explanation is founded upon a species of materialism — not much to have been expected from the general character of ALISON ON TASTE. his genius, or the strain of his other specula- 1 tions — for it all resolves into tliis — that all objects appear beautiful, Avhich have the power of producing a peculiar relaxation of our nerves and libres, and thus inducing a certain decree oi' bodily languor and sinking. Of all the suppositions that have been at any time hazarded to explain the phenomena of beauty, this, we think, is the most unfortu- nately imagined, and the most weakly sup- ported. There is no philosophy in the iloctrine — and the fundamental assumption is hi every way contradicted by the most familiar expe- rience. There is no relaxation of the libres in the perception of beauty — and there is no pleasure in the relaxation of the fibres. If there were, it would follow, that a warm bath would be by far the most beautiful thing in the world — and that the brilliant lights, and bracing airs of a line autumn morning, would be the very reverse of beautiful. Accordingly, though the treatise alluded to will always be valuable on account of the many line and just remarks it contains, we are not aware that there is any accurate inquirer into the subject (wath the exception, perhaps, of Mr. Price, in whose hands, however, the doctrine assumes a new character) by whom the fundamental principle of the theory has not been expli- citly abandoned. A yet more extravagant doctrine was soon afterwards inculcated, and in a tone of great authority, in a long article from the brilliant pen of Diderot, in the French Encyclopedie ; and one which exemplifies, in a very striking manner, the nature of the difficulties with which the discussion is embarrassed. This ingenious person, perceiving at once, that the beauty which we ascribe to a particular class of objects, could not be referred to any pecu- liar and inherent quality in the objects them- selves, but depended upon their power of exciting certain sentiments in our minds : and being, at the same time, at a loss to discover what common power could belong to so vast a variety of objects as pass under the general appellation of beautiful, or by what tie all the various emotions which are excited by the perception of beauty could be united, was at last driven, by the necessity of keeping his deiuiition suiHciently wide and comprehen- sive, to hazard the strange assertion, that all objects were beautiful which excite in us the , idea of relation ; that our sense of beauty con- sisted in tracing out the relations which the object possessing it might have to other ob- jects ; and that its actual beauty was in pro- portion to the number and clearness of the relations thus suggested and perceived. It is scarcely necessary, we presume, to expose by any arguments the manifest fallacy, or rather the palpable absurdity, of such a theory as this. In the first place, we conceive it to be obvious, that all objects whatever have an infinite^ and consequently, an equal number of relations, and are equally likely to suggest them to those to whom they are presented ; — or, at all events, it is certain, that ugly and disagreeable objects have just as many rela- . tions as those that are agreeable, and ought. therefore, to be just as beautiful, if the sense of beauty consisted in the perception of rela- tions. In the next place, it seems to be suffi- ciently certain, from the experience and com- mon feelings of all men. that the perception of relations among objects is not hi itself accom- panied by any pleasure w hatever : and in par- ticular has no conceivable resemblance to the emotion we receive from the perception of beauty. When we perceive one ugly old woman sitting exactly opposite to two other ugly old women, and observe, at the same moment, that the tirst is as big as the other two taken together, we humbly conceive, that this clear perception of the relations in which these three Graces stand to each other, cannot well be mistaken for a sense of beauly. and that it does not in the least abate or interfere with our sense of their ugliness. Finally, we may ob- serve, that the sense of beauty results instanta- neously from the perception of the object; whereas the discovery of its relations to other objects must necessarily be a work of time and reflection, in the course of which the beauty of the object, so far from being created or brought into notice, must, in fact, be lost sight of and forgotten. Another more plausible and ingenious theory was suggested by the Pere Buffier, and after- wards adopted and illustrated with great talent in the Discourses of Sir Joshua Reynolds. Ac- cording to this doctrine, beauty consists, as / Aristotle held virtue to do, in mediocrit)-, or' conformity to that which is most usual. Thus a beautiful nose, to make use of Dr. Smith's very apt, though homely, illustration of this doctrine, is one that is neither very long nor very short — very straight nor very much bent — but of an ordinary fonn and proportion, compared with all the extremes. It is the form, in short, which nature seems to have aimed at in all cases, though she has more frequently deviated from it than hit itj but deviating from it in all directions, all her de- viations come nearer to it than they ever do to each other. Thus the most beautiful in every species of creatures bears the greatest resemblance to the whole species, while mon- sters are so denominated because they bear the least ; and thus the beautiful, though in one sense the rarest, as the exact medium is but seldom hit, is invariably the most common, because it is the central point from which all the deviations are the least remote. This view of the matter is adopted by Sir Joshua in its full extent, and is even carried so far by this great artist, that he does not scruple to conchide, " That if we w-ere more used to de- formity than beauty, deformity would then lose the idea that is now annexed to it, and take that of beauty; — just as we approve and admire fashions in dress, for no other reason than that we are used to them." Now, not to dwell upon the very startling conclusion to which these principles must lead, viz. that things are beautiful in propor- tion as they are ordinary, and that it is merely their familiarity which constitutes I their beauty, we would observe, in the first 1 place, that the whole theory seems to have 2D LITERATUKE AND BIOGRAPHY. _^ / been suggested by a consicltration of animal — J foims, or perhaps of the human rigure exclu- sively. In these forms, it is quite true that great and monstrous deviations from the usual proportions are extremely disairreeable. But this, we have no doubt, arises entirt-ly from some idea of pain or disaster attached to their existence ; or from their obviuu> unlitncss for the functions they have to perform. In vege- table forms, accoidmgly, tht.-ht or hearing; at other times, by a perception of a kind of re- gular variety : and in other instances by the association of interesting conceptions ; — thua abandouir.g altogether any attempt to answer the radical question — how the feeling of beauty shouhl be exciteil by such opposite causes— and confonndingtogether, without any attempt at discrimination, those theories whiei'. im})ly the existence of a separate sense — or faculty, and those which resolve our se.ise of beauty into other more simple or familiar emotions. Of late years, however, we have had t^r(>p publications on the subject of a far )i:gher character — we mean. INlr. Alison's Ea^aijs on the Nature and Principles of Taste — Mr. Payne Knight's Avahjtical h\quiry into the ssirue sub- jects — and Mr. Dugal Stewart's Dissertniiohs on the Beautiful and on Taste, in hit volume o{ Philosophical Kssoys. All these works po.s- sess an infinite deal of merit, and have among them disclosed almost all the tiuth that is to be known on the subject ; thoujih, as it seems to us, with some little admixture of error, from which it will not, however, be difficult to sepa- rate it. Mr. Alison maintains, that all beauty, or at ALISON ON TASTE. 21 least that all the beauty of material objects, depends on the associations that may have connected them with the ordinary allections or emotions of our nature; and in this, which is the fundamental point of his theory, we conceive him to be no less clearly right, than he is convincinji and judicious in the copious and beautiful illustrations by which he has sought to establish its truth. When he pro- ceeds, however, to assert, that our sense of beauty consists not merely in the suggestion of ideas of emotion, but in the contemplation of a connected series or train of such ideas, and indicates a state of mind in which the facul- ties, half active ami half passive, are given up to a sort of reverie or musing, in which they may wander, though among kindred impres- sions, far enough from the immediate object of perception, we will confess that he not only seems to us to advance a very questionable proposition, but very essentially to endanger the evidence, as well as the consistency, of his general doctrine. We are far from deny- ing, that, in minds of sensibility and of reflect- ing habits, the contemplation of beautiful ob- jects will be apt, especially in moments of leisure, and \yhen the mind is vacant, to give rise to such trains of thought, and to such pro- tracted meditations ; but we cannot possibly admit that their existence is necessary to the perception of beauty, or that it is in this state of mind exclusively that the sense of beauty exists. The perception of beauty, on the con- trary, we hold to be, in most cases, quite in- stantaneous, and altogether as immediate as I the perception of the external qualities of the 1 object to which it is ascribed. Indeed, it seems only necessary to recollect, that it is to a pre- sent material object that we actually ascribe and refer this beauty, and that the oiily tiling to be explained is, how this object comes to | appear beautiful. In the long train of inter- esting meditations, however, to which Mr. ■ i Alison refers — in the deligiitful reveries in ^ which he would make the sense of beauty * I consist — it is obvious that we must soon lose ! i sight of the external object which gave the '' ; first impulse to our thoughts ; and though we " ! may afterwards reflect upon it, with increased '' ' interest and gratitude, as the parent of so '" many charming images, it is impossible, we ^" : conceive, that the perception of its beauty can ■■ I ever depend upon a long series of various and ■i*' i shifting emotions. i It likewise occurs to us to observe, that if '«8| every thing was beautiful, which was the oc- to I casion of a train of ideas of emotion, it is not ""j.easy to see why objects that are called ugly fli8j should not be entitled to that appellation. If '111)' they are suflicientfy ugly not to be viewed i!iM with indifference, they too will give rise to cms ! ideas of emotion, and those ideas are just as fos- ^ likely to run into trains and series, as those of ion?, a more agreeable description. Nay, as con- let* [ trast itself is one of the principles of associa- 1 nsioj tion, it ig not at all unlikely, that, in the train iicl lot" impressive ideas which" the sight of ugly I ;ff»' i objects may excite, a transition may be ulti- I mately made to such as are connected with I 01 8l I pleasure j and, therefore, if the perception of I the beauty of the object which first suggest- ed them depended on its having produced a series of ideas of emotion, or even of agreea- ble emotions, there seems to be no good rea- son for doubting, that ugly objects may thus be as beautiful as any other, and that beauty and ugliness may be one and the same thing. Such is the danger, as it appears to us, of de- serting the object itself, or going beyond its immediate effect and impression, in order to discover the sources of its beauty. Our view of the matter is safer, we think, and far more simple. We conceive the objt'ct to be asso- ciated either in our past experience, or by some universal analogy, with pleasures, or emotions that upon the whole are pleasant ; and that these associated pleasures are instan- taneously suggested, as soon as the object is presented, and by the first glimpse of its phy- sical properties, with which, indeed, they are consubstantiated and confounded m our sen* sations. The work of Mr. Knight is more lively, va- rious, and discursive, than Mr. Alison's — but not so systematic or conclusive. It is the cleverer book of the two — but not the most philosophical discus.sion of the subject. He agrees with Mr. Alison in holding the most important, and, indeed, the only considerable part of beauty, to depend upon association; and has illustrated this opinion with a great variety of just and original observations. But he maintains, and maintains stoutly, that there is a beauty independent of association — prior to it, and more original and fundamental — the primitive and natural beauty of colours and sounds. Now, this we look upon to be a heresy ; and a heresy inconsistent with the very first principles of Catholic philosophy. We shall not stop at present to give our rea- sons for this opinion, which we shall illustrate at large before we bring this article to a close ; — but we beg leave merely to suggest at pre- sent, that if our sense of beauty be confess- edly, in most cases, the mere image or reflec- tion of pleasures or emotions that have been associated with objects in themselves indiffer- ent, it cannot fail to appear strange that it should also on some few occasions be a mere organic or sensual gratification of these par- ticular organs. Language, it is believed, affords no other example of so whimsical a combination of dift'erent objects under one ap- pellation; or of the confounding of a direct physical sensation \nth the suggestion of a social or s\-mpathetic moral feeling. We would observe also, that while Mr. Knight stickles so violently for this alloy of the senses in the constitution of beauty, he admits, un- equivocally, that sublimity is, in every in- stance, and in all cases, the effect of associa- tion alone. Yet sublimity and beauty, in any just or large sense, and with a view to the philosophy of either, are manifestly one and the same ; nor is it conceivable to us, that, if sublimity be always the result of an associa- tion with -ideas of power or danger, beauty can possibly be, in any case, the result of a mere pleasurable impulse on the nerves of the eye or the ear. We shall return, however, to LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPHY. this discussion hereafter. Of Mr. Knight we , just as much as a fine composition of mnsic. have only further to observe, tliat we think These things, however, are never called beau- he is not less heretical in maintaining, that tiful. and are felt, indeed, to afibrd a gi-atiiica- we have no pleasure in s}-mpathising with tion of quite a dillerent nature. It is noHoubt distress or suifering. but ouly with mental true, as Mr. Stewart has observed, that beauty energy ] and that, in coutfmpiating the sub- is not one thing, but many — and does not lime, we are moved oidy with a sense of produce one uniform emotion, but an infinite power and grandeur, and never with any feel- variety of emotions. But this, we conceive, mg of terror or awe. — These errors, however, is not merely because many pleasant things are less intimately coiniected with the subject maybe intimated to us by "the same sense, of our pre.sent discussion. but because the things that are called beauti- With Mr. Stewart we have less occasion for , ful may be associated with an infinite variety quarrel: chiefly, perhaps, because he has of agreeable emotions of the specitic character made fewer positive assertions, and entered i of which their beauty will con.sequently par- less into the matter of controversy. His jEs.vai/ take. Nor does it follow, from the fact of this on the Beautiful is rather philological thiin great variety, that there can be no olherprin- met^physical. The object of it is to show by ciple of union among these agreeable emo- what gradual and successive extensions of tions, but that of a name, extended to them all leaning the word, though at first appropri- , -upon the very slight ground of their coming ated to denote the pleasing effect of colours through the same organ ; since, upon our the- alone, might naturally come to signify all the , ory, and indeed upon JMr. Sti-warts. in a vast other pleasing things to which it is nOAv ap- majority of instances, there is the remarkable plied. In tliis investigation he makes many ', circumstance of their being all suii2cstcd by admirable remarks, and touches, with the , association with some prc^sent sensiition. and hand of a master, upon many of the disputa- all modified and confounded, to our feelings, ble parts of the question : but he evades the , by an actual and direct perception, particular point at issue between us and Mr. It is unnecessary, however, to pursue these Knight, by stating, that it is quite immaterial criticism.s, or. indeed, this hast\- review of the to his purpose, whether the beauty of colours speculation of other writers, any farther. The be supposed to depend on their orfranic eff'ect i few observations we have already made, will on the eye, or on some association between enable the intelligent reader, both to under- them and other agreeable emotions — it beins , stand in a general way wl\at has been already enough for his purpose that this was probably ', done on the subject. an Mr. Knight himself, ihouiih a firm belii'v.T in the intrinsic bi-auty of folour.s. is so much of '• this opinion, that he thinks it entirely owing ' to those associations that we prefer the tame \ Bmoothness, and comparatively poor colours i of a youthful face, to the richly fretted and variegated countenance of a pimpled drunk- ard ! " Such, we conceive, would be the inevita- ble efTect of dissolving the subsistingconnect- ion between the animating iileas of hope and enjoyment, and those visible appearai'.cea which are now significant of those emotions, and derive their whole beauty from that signification. But the effect would be still stronger, if we could suppose the mci-al ex- pression of those appearances to be reversed in the same manner. If the smile, wliich now enchants us, as the expression of inno- cence and affection, were the sign attached by nature to guilt and malignity — if the blush which expresses delicacy, and the glance that speaks intelligence, vivacity, and .softness, had always been found united with brutal passion or iiiiot moodiness; is it not certain, that the whole of their beauty would be e.vtingnished, and that our emotions from the sight of them would be exactly the reverse of what they now are? That the beauty of a living and sentient creature should depend, in a great degree, upon qualities peculiar to such a creature, rather than upon the mere physical attributta wliich it may possess in common with the inert matter around it, cannot indeed api)ear a very improbable supposition to any one. But it maybe more difficult for some persons to understand how the beauty of mere (lead matter should be deriveil from the feelniga and sympathies of sentient beings. It is ab- solutely necessary, therefore, that we should give an instance or two of this deiivaliou also. ~ It is easy enough to understand how the sight of a picture or statue should atiect us nearly in the same way as the sight of the original : nor is it much more difficult to con- ceive, how the sight of a cottage should giVe us .something of the same feelingas the sigfit of a peasant's family ; and the aspect of a town raise many of the same ideas as the appear- ance of a multitude of persons. We may begiu; therefore, with an example a little' more complicated. Take, for instance, the ■«ase of a common English landscape — green meadows with grazinir and ruminating cattle — canals or navigable rivers — well IVnced, well cultivated fields — neat, cli-an, scatterecl cottages — humble antique cliurcht s, with church-yard elms, and crossing hedgerows — all .seen under bright skies, and in good wea- ther: — There is much beaxity, as everyone will acknowledge, in such a scene. But in what does the beauty consist ? Not certaiidy in the mere mixture of colours and forms : for colours more pleasing, and lines more gr;:ce- ful, (according to any theory of grace that may be preferred,) might be spread upon a board, or a painter's pallet, vvithout e!igagir:g the eye to a .second glance, or raising the least emotion in the mind ; but in the picture of human happiness that is presented to our imaginations and affections — in the visible and unequivocal signs of comfort, and cheer- ful and peaceful enjoyment — and of that se- ALISON OX TASTE. 25 cure and successful industry that ensures its continuance — and of the piety by which it is exalted— and of the simplicity by which it is contrasted with the guilt and the fever of a city life : — in the images of health and tem- perance and plenty which it exhibits to every e\e — and in the glimpses which it affords to warmer imaginations, of those primitive or fabulous times, when man was uncorrupted by luxury and ambition, and of those humble retreats in which we still delight to imagine that love and philosophy may tind an unpol- luted asylum. At all events, however, it is human feeling that excites our sympathy, and forms the true object of our emotions. It isN man, and man alone, that we see in the beau- ties of the earth which he inhabits ] — or, if a more sensitive and extended spnpathy con- nect us with the lower families of animated nature, and make us rejoice with the lambs that bleat on the uplands, or the cattle that repose in the valley, or even with the living plants that drink the bright sun and the balmy air beside them, it is still the idea of enjoj-ment — of feelings that animate the ex- istence of sentient beings — that calls forth all our emotions, and is the parent of all the beauty with which we proceed to invest the inanimate creation around us. Instead of tliis quiet and tame English landscape, let us now take a Welch or a Highland scene ; and see whether its beau- ties will admit of being explained on the same principle. Here, we shall have lofty mountains, and rocky and lonely recesses — tufted woods hung over precipices — lakes intersected with castled promontories — am- ple solitudes of unploughed and untrodden valleys — nameless and gigantic ruins — and mountain echoes repeating the scream of the eagle and the roar of the cataract. This, too, is beautiful; — and, to those who can interpret the language it speaks, far more beautiful than the prosperous scene with which we have contrasted it. Yet, lonely as it is, it is to the recollection of man and the suggestion of human feelings that its beauty also is owing. The mere forms and colours that compose its visible appearance, are no more capable of exciting any emotion in the mind, than the forms and colours of a Turkey carpet. It is sympathy with the present or the past, or the imaginary inhabitants of such a region, that alone gives it either interest or beauty ; and the delight of those who behold it, will always be found to be in exact pro- portion to the force of their imaginations, and the warmth of their social aifections. The leading impressions, here, are those of ro- mantic seclusion, and primeval simplicity ; lovers sequestered in these blissful solitudes, "from towns and toils remote," — and rustic with the monuments of ancient magnificence and extinguished hostility — the feuds, and the combats, and the triumphs of its wild and primitive inl>abitants, contrasted with the stillness and desolation of the scenes where they lie interred ; — and the romantic ideas attached to their ancient traditions, and the peculiarities of the actual life of their des- cendants — their wild and enthusiastic poetry — their gloomy supei-stitions — their attach- ment to their chiefs — the dangers, and the hardships and enjoyments of their lonely huntings and fishings — their pastoral shielings bn the mountains in summer — and the tales and the sports that amuse the little groups that are frozen into their vast and trackless valleys in the winter. Add to all this, the traces of vast and obscure antiquity that are impressed on the language and the habits of the people, and on the cliffs, and caves, and gulfy torrents of the land ; and the solemn a,nd touching reflection, perpetually recurring, of the weakness and insignificance of perish- able man, whose generations thus pass away into oblivion, with all their toils and ambi- tion; while nature holds on her unvarying course, and pours out her streams, and re- news her forests, with undecaying activity, regardless of the fate of her proud and perish- able sovereign. We have said enough, we believe, to let our readers understand what we mean by external objects being the natural signs or concomitants of human sympathies or emo- tions. Yet we cannot refrain from adding one other illustration, and asking on what other principle we can account for the beauty of Spring 1 Winter has shades as deep, and colours as brilliant; and the great forms of nature are substantially the same through all the revolutions of the year. We shall seek in vain, therefore, in the accidents of mere organic matter, for the sources of that " ver- nal deligljt and joy," which subject all finer spirits to" an annual hitoxication, and strike home the sense of beauty even to hearts that- seem proof against it under all other aspects. And it is not among the Dead but among the Living, that this beauty originates. It is the renovation of life and of joy to all animated beings, that constitutes this great jubilee of nature; — the young of animals bursting into existence — the simple and universal pleasures which are diffused by the mere temperature of the air, and the profusion of sustenance — the pairing of birds — the cheerful resumption of rustic toils — the great alleviation of all the miseries of poverty and sickness — our sym- pathy with the young life, and the promise and the hazards of the vegetable creation — the solemn, yet cheering, impression of the constancy of nature to her great periods of poets and philosophers communing w^ithna- I renovation — and the hopes that dart sponta- i ture, and at a distance from the low pursuits i neously forward into the new circle of exer- and selfish malignity of ordinary mortals ; — | tions and enjoyments that is opened up by her I then there is the sublime impression of the | hand and her example. Such are some of i Mighty Power which piled the massive cliffs j the conceptions thai are forced upon us by upon each other, and rent the mountains j the appearances of returning spring; and that asunder, and scattered their giant fragments ; seem to account for the emotions of delight at their base : — and all the images conuected 1 with which these appearances are hailed, by 4 C 26 LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPHY. every mind endowed with any degree of sen- sibility, scnnewhat better than the brightness of the colours, or the agreeablencss of the smells that are then presented to our senses. They are kindred conceptions that consti- tute all the beauty of childhood. The forms and colours that are peculiar to that age, are not necessarily or absolutely beautiful in themselves ; for, in a grown person, the same forms and colours would be either ludicrous or disirusting. It is their indestructible con- nection with the engaging ideas of innocence — of earekss gaiety — of unsuspecting confi- dence ; — made still more tender and attract- ive by the recollection of helplessness, and blameless and happy iirnorance — of the anx- ious affection that watches over all their ways — and of the hopes and fears that seek to pierce futurity, for those who have neither fears nor cares nor anxieties for themselves. These few illustrations will probably be sufficient to give our readers a general con- ception of the character and the grounds of that theory of beauty which we think affords the only true or consistent account of its na- ture. They are all example.s, it will be ob- served, of the First and must important con- nection which we think may be shown to exist between external obji'Cts and the senti- ments or emotions of the mind ; or cases, in which the visible phenomena are the natural and universal accompaniments of the emo- tion, and are consecjuently Ctapable of reviving that emotion, in some degree, in the breast of every beholder. If the tenor of those illustrations has been such as to make any imjiression in favour of the general theory, we conceive that it must be very greatly con- firmed by the slightest consideration of the Second class of cases, or those in which the external object is not the natural and neces- sary, but only the occasional or accidental concomitant of the emotion which it recals. In the former instances, some conception of beauty seems to be inseparable fr^m the ap- pearance of the objects ; and being impressed, in some degree, upon all persons to whom thpy are presented, there is evidently room for insinuating that it is an independent and intrinsic quality of their nature, and does not arise from association with any thing else. / In the instances, however, to which we are now to allude, this perception of beauty is not universal, but entirely dependent upon the opportunities which each individual has had to associate ideas of emotion with the object to which it is ascribed : — the same thing appeariiiir beautiful to those who have been exiwsed to the inllnence of such as.so- ciation.s. and indifferent to those who have not. Such instances, therefore, really afford an exprrimcntnm cruci.i as to the truth of the thi'ory in question : nor is it easy to conceive any more complete evidence, both that there is no such thing as absolute or intrinsic beauty, and that it depends altoofether on those asso- ciations with which it is thus found to come and to disappear. The accidental or arbitrary relations that may thus be established between natural ■ sympathies or emotions, and external objects, may be either such as occur to whole classes of men, or are confined to particular indi- viduals. Among the former, those that ap- ply to different nations or races of men, are the most imjwrtant and remarkable : and con- stitute the basis of those pecuharities by which ludional tastes are distinguished. — Take again, for example, the iiir^Uuice of fe- male beauty — and think what dilierent and inconsistent standards would be fixed for it in the different regions of the world- — in Africa, in Asia, and in Europe; — in Tartary and in Greece ; in Lapland. Patagonia, and Circassia. If there was any thing absolutely or intrinsically beautiful, in any of the forms thus distinguished; it is inconceivable that men should differ so outrageously in their conceptions of it : if beauty were a real and independent quality, it seems impossible that it should be distinctly and clearly felt by one set of persons, where another set, altogether as sensitive, could see notliing but its oppo- site; and if it were actually and insej^arably attached to certain forms, colours, or propor- tions, it must appear utterly inexplicable that it should be felt and perceived in the most opposite forms and proportion, in objects of the same description. On the other hand, if all beauty consist in reminding us of certain natural sympathies and objects of emotion, with which they have been habitually con- nected, it is easy to perceive how the most I different forms should be felt to be equally 'beautiful. If female beauty, for instance, I consist in the visible signs and expressions j of youth and health, and of gentleness, vi- vacity, and kindness; then it will neces>arily happen, that the forms, and colours and pi o- portions which nature may have conn< rted with those qualities, in the different climates ■ or regions of the world, will all appear equally beautiful to those who have been accustomed to recognise them as the signs of such quali- 'ties; while they will be respectively indif- ! ferent to those who have not learned to inter- 'pretthem in this sense, and di.s])leasing to , those whom experience has led to consider j them as the signs of oppo.site qualities. The case is the same, though, perhaps to a smaller degree, as to the peculiarity of national taste in other particulars. The si} le of dress ' and architecture in every nation, if not adopted ifrom mere want of skill, or penury of mate- rials, always appears beautiful to the natives, and somewhat monstrous and absurd to foreigners: — and the general character and aspect of their landscape, hi like manner, if not associated with substantial evils and in- conveniences, always appears more beautiful and enchanting than the scenery of any othei 'region. The fact is still more .striking, per-' haps, in the case of music ; — in the effects of, those rational airs, with which evt n the most uncultivated imaginations have connected sc many interestinir recollections; and in the de- liirht with which all persons of sensibility catch the strains of their native melodies ir ' strange or in distant lands. It is owing chiefly to the same sort of arbitrary and national as- ALISON ON TASTE. 27 soclation, that white is thought a gay colour i ill Europe, where it is used at weddings — I ami a dismal colour in China, where it is used | for mouniing; — that we think, yew-trees gloomy, because they are planted in clmrch- yards— anil large masses of powdered horse- 1 hair majestic, because we see them on the heads of judges and bishops. Next to those curious histances of arbitrary ! or limited associations that are exemplified in ] the diversities of national taste, are those that are produced by the difierences of instruction or education. If external objects were sublime anil beautiful in themselves, it is plain, that they would appear equally so to those who were acquainted with their origin, and to those to whom it was unknown. Yet it is not easy, perhaps, to calculate the degree to which our nt)tions of beauty and sublimity are now influ- enced, over all Europe, by the study of clas- sical literature ; or the number of impressions of this sort which the well-educated conse- quently receive, from objects that are utterly indifferent to uninstructed persons of the same natural sensibility. We gladly avail ourselves, upon this subject, of the beautiful expressions of Mr. Alison. '■ The delight which most men of education receive from the consideration of antiquity, and the beauty that they discover in every object which is connected with ancient times, is. in a great measure, to be ascribed to the same cause. The antiquarian, in his cabinet, surrounded by the relics of former ages, seems to himself to be removed to periods that are long since past, and indulges in the imagina- tion of living in a world, which, by a very natural kind of prejudice, we are always wil- ling to believe was both wiser and better than the present. All that is venerable or laudable in the history of these times, present them- selves to his memory. The g-allantry, the heroism, the patriotism of antiquity, rise again before his view, softened by the obscurity in which they are involved, and rendered more seducing to the imagination by that obscurity itself, which, while it mingles a sentiment of regret amid his pursuits, serves at the same time to stimulate his fancy to fill up, by its own creation, those long intervals of time of which history has preserved no record. '•And what is it that constitutes lliat cmolioii of sublime delight, which every uiini of cnm- mon sensibility feels upon the lirst pios^'ccl ot' Kome 1 It is not the scene of destruction which is before him. It is not the Tiber, diminished in liis imagination to a paltry stream, flowing amid the ruins of that magnificence which it once adorned. It is not the ti-iumph of super- stition over the wreck oi human greatness, and its monuments erected u])on the very spot where the first honours of humanity have been gained. It is ancient Rome which fills his imagination. It is the country of Ca?sar, and Cicero, and Virgil, which is before him. It is the Mistress of the world which he sees, and who seems to him to rise again from her tomb; to give laws to the universe. All that the labours of his youth, or the studies of his maturer age have acquired, with regard to the history of this great people, open at once be- fore his imagination, and present him with a field of high and solemn imagery, which can never be exhausted. Take from him these associations — conceal from him that it is Home that he sees, and how different would be his emotion!" The influences of the same studies may be traced, indeed, through alnio.'^t all our impres- sions of beauty — and especially in the feelings which we receive from the contemplation of ruial scenery; where the images and recol- lections which have been associated with such objects, in the enchanting strains of the poets, are perpetually recalled by their appearance, and give an interest and a beauty to the pros- pect, of which the uninstnictcd ciuinot have the slightest perception. Upon this subject, also, Mr. Alison has expiessed himself with his usual warmth and elegance. After ob- serving, that, in childhood, the beauties of nature have scarcely any existence for those who have as yet but little general sympathy with mankind," he proceeds to state, that they are usually first recommended to notice by the poets, to whom we are introduced in the course of education ; and who, in a manner, create them for us, by the associations which they enable us to form with their visible ap- pearance. '•How different, from this period, become the sentiments with which the scenery of nature is contemplated, by those Avho have any imagination ! The beautiful forms of an- cient mythology, with Avhich the fancy of poets peopled 'every element, are now ready to appear to their minds, upon the prospect of every scene. The descriptions of ancient authors, so long admired, and so deserving of admiration, occur to them at every rnoment, and with them, all those enthusiastic ideas of ancient genius and glory, which the study of so many years of youth .so naturally leads them to form. Or, if the study of modern poetry has succeeded to that of the ancient, a thousand other beautiful associations are ac- quired, which; instead of destroying, serve easily to unite with the former, and to afford a new source of delight. The awful forms of Gothic superstition, the wild and romantic imagery, which the turbulence of the middle ;igrs. the Crusades, and the institution of rh v;ih y have spread over every country of liurope, arise to the imagination in every scene ; accompanied Viith all thu.se pleasing recollections of prowess, and adventure, and courteous manners, w hich disting-uished those memorable times. With such images in their minds, it is not common nature that appears to .surround them. It is nature embellished and made sacred by the memory of Theocritus and Virgil, and M'ilton and Tiisso: their ge- nius seems still to linger among the scenes which inspired it, and to iiradiale every (dijeot where it dwells; and the creation of their fancy seem the fit inhabitants of that nature, which their descriptions have clothed with beauty." It is needless, for the pui-pose of mere illus- tration, to pursue this subject of arbitrary or LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPIH'. accidental association through all the divisions of which it is susceptible ; and, indeed, the task would be endle«s ; since there is scarcely any class in society which may not be shown to have peculiar assoi'iatioiis of interest and emotion with objects which are not so con- nected in the mbids of any other class. The young and the old — the rich and the poor — the artist and the man of science — the in- habitant of the city and the inhabitant of the country — the man of business and the man of pleasure — the domestic and the dissipated, — nay, even the followers of almost every i different study or profession, have perceptions of beauty, because they have associations , with external objects, which are peculiar to themselves, and have no existence for any other persons. But, though the detail of such instances could not fail to show, in the clear- est and most convincing manner, how directly the notion of beauty is derived from some more radical and familiar emotion, and how many and various are the chainiels by which such emotions are transmitted, enough, per- haps, has been already said, to put our readers in possession of the principles and general bearings of an argument which we must not think of exhausting. Before entirely leaving this branch of the subject, however, let us pause for a moment on the familiar but very striking and decisive instance of our varying and contradictory iudirments. as to the beauty of the successive fashions of dress that have existed within our own remembrance. All persons who still continue to find amusement in society, and are not old enough to enjoy only the recollec- tions of their youth, think the prevailing fashions becoming and graceful, and the fashions of twenty or twenty-live yi ars old intolerably ugly and ridiculous. The younger they are, and the more they mix in socifty, this impression is the stronger; and the fact is worth noticing; because there is really no one thing as to which persons judging merely from their feelings, and therefore less likely to be misled by any systems or theories, are BO very positive and decided, as that estab- lished fashions are beautiful in themselves; and that exploded fashions are intrinsically and beyond all question preposterous anil ugly. We have never yet met a \onng lady or gentleman, who spoke from their hearts and without reserve, who had the lea.st doubt on the subject ; or co\ild conceive how any person could be so stupid as not to see the intrinsic elegance of the reigning mode, or not to be .struck with the ludicrous awkward- ness of the habits in which their mothers were disguised. Yel ihere can Ix" no doubt, that if these ingenuous critics had been born, with the same natural sensibility to beauty, but twenty years earlier, they would have joined in admiring what they nnw lausjh at ; as certa nly as those w ho succeed them twenty years hereafter will lauijh at lliciv. It is plain, then, and we think scarcely disputed, out of the circles to which we have alluded, that there is, in the general case, no intrinsic beauty or deformity in any of those fashions ; and thftt the fomis. and colours, and materials, that are. we may say. universally and very strongly felt to be beautiful while they are in fashion, are sure to lose all their beauty as soon as the fashion has i3assed away. Now the forms, and colours, and combinations re- maui exactly as they were ; and, therefore, it seems indisputable, that the source of their successive beauty and ugliness must be sought in something extrinsic, and can only be found in the associations which once exalted, and ultimately degraded them in our estimation. While they were in fa.shion, they were the forms and colours which distinguished the rich and the noble — the eminent, the envied, the observed in society. They were the forms and the colours in which all that was beauti- ful, and admired, and exalted, were habitually arrayed. They were associated, therefore, with ideas of opulence, and elegance, and gaiety, and all that is captivating and bewitch- ing, in manners, fortune, and situation — and derived the whole of their beauty from those associations. By and bye, however, they were deserted by the beautiful, the rich, and the elegant; and descended to the -snilgar and de- pendent, or were only seen in combination with the antiquated airs of faded beauties or obsolete beaux. They thus came to be asso- ciated with ideas of yiilgarity and derision, and with the images of old and decayed per- sons, whom it is difficult for their juniors to believe ever to have been young or attractive ; — and the associations being thus reversed, in which all their beauty consisted, the beauty itself naturally disappeared. The operation of the same causes is dis- tinctly visible in all the other apparent irrei:- ularities of our judgments as to this descri] - tion of beauty. Old people have in frr^i-i;;] but little toleration for the obsolete i: -h - • ^ of their later or middle years : but v, _ rally stickle for the intrinsic elegance ci 'ii. -.> which were prevalent in the bright days t f their early youth — ;!S being still associati d in their recollections, with the beauty ^^ilh 'which they were first enchanted, and tfie g:iy spirits with Avhich they Mere then inspinii. In the same way, while we laugh at the fash- ions of vhich tine ladies and gentlemen wrif proud in the da\sof our childhood, because ihey are now as.-socialed only with images of decrepitude aid decay, we look with some feelings of veneration on the habits of more remote irenerations, the individuals of whicli are only known to us as historical penson- ; and with nr mingled respect and admiratu -i on those still more ancient habiliments wlncli remind us either of the heroism of the feu(i;il chivalry, or the viifue and nobleness of clas- sical anti(juity. The iron mail of the Gothic knight, or the clumsy shield and naked ain;^ of the Koman warrior, strike us as majestic and graceful, merely becnuse they are asso- 1 " ciated with nothing but tales of romantic ('ar ing or patriotic prowess — while the full-1 oi tomcd periwigs that were added to the sel- dier's e(]uipnient in the days of Lewis XIV. and King William — and no doubt had a no- ble effect in the eyes of that generation— ALISON ON TASTE. 29 now appear to us equally ridiculous and un- becoming ; merely because such appendages are no longer lo be seen, but upon the heads of sober and sedentary lawyers, or in the pic- tuies of antiquated esquires. We cannot atFord, however, to enlarge any farther upon these considerations, and are in- clined indeed to think, that what has been already said on the subject of associations, which, though not universal, are common to whole classes of persons, will make it unne- cessary to enlarge on those that are peculiar to each individual. It is almost enough, in- deed, to transcribe the following short pas- sage from Mr. Alison. '■There is no man, who has not spme inter- esting associations with particular scenes, or airs, or books; and who does not feel their beauty or sublimity enhanced to him by such connections. The view of the house where one was born, of the school where one was educated, and where the gay years of infancy were passed, is indiilerent to no man. There are songs also, which we have heard in our infancy, which, when brought to cur remem- brance in after years, raise emotions for which we cannot well account ; and which, though perhaps very indifferent in themselves, still continue from this association, and from the variety of conceptions which they kindle in our minds, to be our favourites through life. The scenes which have been distinguished by the residence of any person, whose mem- ory we admire, produce a similar effect. Movemur cnim, ncscio quo pacto, locis ipsis, in quibus corurrij quos diligi7nus, aid admiramur adsunt vestigia. The scenes themselves may be little beautiful ; but the delight with which we recollect the traces of their lives, blends itself insensibly with the emotions which the scenery excites; and the admiration which these recollections afford, seems to give a kind of sanctity to the place where they dwelt, and converts every thing into beauty which ap- pears to have been connected with them.'' There are similar impressions — as to the sort of scenery to which we have been long accustomed — as to the style of personal beau- ty by which we were first enchanted — and even as lo the dialect, or the fonn of versifi- cation which we first began to admire, that bestow a secret and adventitious charm upon all these objects, and enable us to discover in them a beauty which is invisible, because it is non-existent to every other eye. In all the cases we have hitherto consid- ered, the external object is supposed to have acquired its beauty by being actually connec- ted with the causes of our natural emotions, either as a constant sign of their existence, or as being casually present on the ordinary occasions of their excitement. There is a re- lation, however, of another kind, to which also it is necessary to attend, both to eluci- date the general grounds of the theory, and lo explain several appearances that might otherwise expose it to objections. This is the lelation which external objects may bear to our internal feelings, and the power they may consequently acquire of suggesting themj in consequence of a sort of resemblance or an- alogy which they seem to have to their natu- ral and appropriate objects. The language of Poetry is founded, in a great degree, upon this analogy; and all language, indeed, is full of it; and "attests, by its .structure., both the extent to which it is sjwutaneously pursued, and the effects that are proiluced by its sug- gestion. We take a familiar instance from the elegant writer to whom we have already referred . " What, for instance, is the leading impres- sion we receive from the scenery of spring? The soft and gentle green with which the earth is spread, the feeble texture of the plants and flowers, and the remains of winter yet lingering among the woods and hills — all conspire to infuse into our minds some- what of that fearful tenderness with which infancy is usually beheld. With such a sen- timent, how innumerable are the ideas which present themselves to our imagination ! ideas, it is apparent, by no means confined to the scene before our eyes, or to the possible deso- lation which may yet await its infant beauty, but which almost involuntarily extend them- selves to analogies with the life of man ! and bring before us all those images of hope or fear, which, according to our peculiar situa- tions, have the dominion of our hearts! The beauty of autumn is accompanied with, a similar exercise of thought : the leaves begin then to drop from the trees; the flowers and shrubs, with which the fields were adorned in the summer months, decay; the woods and groves are silent ; the sun himself seems gradually to withdraw his light, or to become enfeebled in his power. Who is there, who, at this season, does not feel his mind impres- sed with a sentiment of melancholy? or who is able to resist that current of thought, which, from such appearances of decay, so naturally leads him to the solemn imagina- tion of that inevitable fate, which is to bring on alike the decay of life, of empire, and of na- ture it self V A thousand such analogies, indeed, are sug- gested to us by the most familiar aspects of nature. The morning and the evening pre- sent the same ready picture of youth and of closing life, as the various vicissitudes of the year. The withering of fiowers images out to us the langour of beauty, or the sickness of childhood. The loud roar of troubled waters seems to bear some resemblance to the voice of lamentation or violence ; and the softer murmur of brighter streams, to be expressive of cheerfulness and innocence. The purity anil transparency of v/ater or of air. indeed, is universally itself felt to be expressive of mental purity and gaiety; and their darkness or turbulence, of mental irloom and dejection. The genial warmth of autumn suggests to us the feeling of mild benevolence: — the sunny gleams and fitful ?howcis of early spring, re- mind us of the waywardness of infancy;— flowers waving on their slender stem.'', im- press us with the notion of flexibility and lightness of temper. All i\w, and delicate forms are typical of delicacy and gentleness c 2 30 LITERATlTxE AND BIOGRAPHY. of character- and almost all forms, bounded the poet has connected with human emotions, by waving or flowing lines, puggest ideas of i a variet)- of objects, to which common minda easy movement, social pliability, and ele- ; could not discover such a relation. What the gance. Rapid and inii)etuous motion seems ' poet does for his readers, however, by his to be emblematical of violence and passion; ! original similes and metaphors, in these high- — slow and steady motion, of deliberation, ; er cases, even the dullest of those readers ilo, dignity, and resolution; — fluttering motion, of : in some degree, every day, for themselves; iiicoustuncy or terror; — and waving motion, ' and the beauty which is perceived, when acx'ordiiig as it is slow or swift, of sadness or natural objects are unexpectedly vivified by playfulness. A lofty lower, or a massive ' the glowing fancy of the former, is precisely' buildiiiif, gives us at" once the idea of firm- | of the same kind that is felt when the close- ness and elevation of character ; — a rock bat- j ness of the analogy enables them to force hu- tered by the waves, of fortitude in adversity, man feelings upon the recollection of all rnan- Slillnes.s and calmness, in the water or the air, seem to shadow out tenderness, indolence, and placidity: — mooidight we call pensive and gentle: — and the unclouded sun gives us an impression of exulting vigour, and domi- neering anibilion and iriory. It is not (litiicult; willi the assistance which langiKu^e aiiords us, to trace the origin of all these,, and a thousand other associations. In many insUance-s. the qualities which thus sug- gest mental emotions, do actually resemble their constant concomitants in human nature: as is obviously the case with the forms and motions which are sublime and beautiful : and, in some, their effects and relations bear so obvious an analogy to those of human con- duct or feeling, as to force itself upon the no- tice of the most careless beholder. But. what- ever may have been their original, the very structure of language attests the vast extent to which they have been carried, and the na- ture of the sucfgestions to which they are in- debted for their interest or beauty. Since we all speak familiarly of the sparkling of wit — and the darkness of melancholy — can it be any way dilncnlt to conceive that bright light may be agreeable, because it reminds us of gaiety — ant! darkness oppressive, because it is felt to be emblematical of .sorrow 1 It is very remarkable, indeed, that, while almost all the words by which the afTections of the mind are expressed, seem lo have been bor- rowed originally from the qualities of matter, the epithets by which we learn afterwards to distinguish such material objects as are felt to be sublime or beautiful, are all of them epithets that liad been previou.sly appropri- ated to express some (juality or emotion of raind. Colours are thus familiarly said to be g;xy or grave — motions to be lively, or delib- erate, or capricious — forms to be delicate or modest — sounds to be animated or mournful — prospects to be cheerful or melancholy — rocks to be bold — waters to be tranquil — and a tlionsaiiil other jjlirasesof the same import : all indicating, most unequivocally, the sources from which our interest in matter is derived, and proving, that it is necessary, in all case.<5. to confer mind and feeling upon it, before it can be conceived as either sublime or beauti- ful. The great charm, indeed, and the great secret of poetical diction, consists in thus lending life antl emotion lo all the objt>cts it embraces; and the enchanting beauty which we som-'times recognise in descriptions of Ver)' ordinary phenomena, will be found to arise from the force of imagination, by which , kind. As the poet .sees more of beauty in nature than ordinary mortals, just because he perceives more of these analogies and relations to social emotion, in which all beauty coi;sisls; so other men see more or less of this beauty, e.xactly as they hap- pen to possess that fancy, or those hiibits, which enable them readily to trace out these rt-lations. < / From all these sources of evidence, then, we think it is pretty well made out, that the beauty or sublimity of external objects is no- thing but the reflection of emotions excited by the feelings or condition of sentient be- ings: and is produced altogether by certain little portions, as it were, of love. joy. pity, veneration, or terror, that adhere to the ob- jects that were present on the occasions of such emotions. — Nor, after what we have al- ready said, does it seem necessary to reply to more than one of the objections to whicn we are aware that this theory is liable. — [f beauty be nothing more than a reflection of love. pity, or veneration, how comes it, it may be asked, to be distinguished from these sen- timents "? They are never confounded with each other, either in our feelings or our lan- guage: — Why, then, should they all be con- founded under the common name of beauty 1 and why should beauty, in all cases, afl'ect us in a way so difl^erent irom the love or com- passion of which it is said to be merely the reflection'? Now, to these questions, we are somewhat tempted to answer, after the manner of our couutiy, by asking, in our turn, whether it be really true, that beauty always affects us in one and the same manner, and always in a diflerent manner from the simple and ele- mentary affections which it is its office to recal to us"? In very many ca=:e.s, it appeal to us, that the sens;itions which we receive from objects that are felt lo be beautiful, and that in the highest degiec, do not differ at all from the direct movements of tenderness or pity towards sentient beings. If the epithet of beauty be correctly (as it is universally) np- plied to many of the most admired and vn- chanting passages in poetry, which consist entirely in the expression of affecting senti- ments, the question would be speedily de- cided : and it is a fact, at all events, too remarkable to be omitted, that some of the most powerful and delightful emotions that are uniformly classed under this name, arise altogether from the direct influence of such i^Stfji! pathetic emotions, without the intervention ALISON ON TASTE. of any material imagery. We do not wish, however, to dwell upon an argument, which certainly is not applicable to al! parts of the question; and, admitting that, on many oc- casions, the feelings ^\•hich we experience from beauty, are sensibly difTerent from the primary emotions hi which we think they originate, we shall endeavour in a very few words, to give an explanation of this difler- ence, which seems to be perfectly consist- ent with the theory we have undertaken to illustrate. - ; In the first place, it should make some dif- ference on the primary afTections to which we have alluded, that, in the cases alluded to, they are rejitctcd from material objects, and not directly excited by their natural causes. [ The light of the moon has a very different I complexion from that of the sun; — though it 1 is in substance the sun's light : and glimpses of interesting, or even of familiar objects, caught unexpectedly from a mirror placed at a distance from these objects, will affect us, like sudden allusions in poetry, very differ- ently from the natural perception of those ob- jects in their ordinary relations. In the ne.xt place, the emotion, when suggested in the shape of beauty, comes upon us, for the most part, disencumbered of all those accompani- ments which frequently give it a peculiar and less satisfactory character, when it arises from direct intercouise with its living objects. The compassion, for example, that is suggested by beauty of a gentle and winning description, is not attended with any of that disgust and un- easiness which frequently accompany the sp H'tacle of real distress; nor with that im- p^iiiiinate suggestion of the duty of relieving It. !iom which it is almost inseparable. Nor d'ii'- the temporary delight which we receive fro;!! beauty of a gay and animating charac- ter, call upon us for any such expenditure of = ' \'^. or active demonstrations of sympathy, ■ sometimes demanded by the turbu- ' of real joy. In the third place, the ion of beauty, being partly founded upon ■i;i, IS far more transitory in its own na- . and is both more apt to fluctuate and ill its character, and more capable of _ dismissed at pleasure, than any of the ry affections, whose shadow and repre- rive it is. In the fourth place, the per- lu of beauty implies a certain exercise ■ imairination that is not required in the of direct emotion, and is sufficient, of it- i'Oth to give a new character to every ii)n that is susfgested by the intervention 'h an exercise, and to account for our ig all the various emotions that are .so __ ^;ted under the same denomination of ty. When we are injured, we feel in- _ at ion — when we are wounded, we feel — when we see suffering, we feel com- -iori — and when we witness any splendid i" heroism or generosity, we feel admira- — without any effort of the imagination, ;•" intervention of any picture or vision in .-• mind. But wht-n we feel indignation or iiy. or admiration, in consequence of seeing >iue piece of inanimate matter that merely I suggests or recals to us the ordinary causes ] or proper objects of these emotions, it is evi- 1 dent that our fancy is kindled by a sudden I Hash of recollection ; and that the eftect is produced by means of a certain poetical crea- tion that is instantly conjured up in the mind. : It is this active and" heated state of the ima- i gination, and this divided and bu.sy occupa- tion of the mind, that constitute the great peculiarity of the emotions we experience from the perception of beauty. . I Finally, and this is perhaps the most im- A portant consideration of the whole, it should 1 be recollected, that, along with the shadow or suggestion of associated emotions, there is ahvays present a real and direct perception, which not only gives a force and liveliness to all the images which it suggests, but seems to impart to them some share of its own reality. That there is an illusion of this kind in the case, is sufficiently demonstrated by the fact, that we invariably ascribe the inter- est, which we think has been proved to arise wholly from these associatiotis, to the object itself, as one of its actual and inherent quali- ties; and consider its beauty as no less a prop- erty belonging to it, than any of its physical attributes. The associated interest, there- fore, is beyond all doubt confounded with the present perception of the object itself; and a livelier and more instant impression is accord- ingly made upon the mind, than if the inter- esting conceptions had been merely excited in the memory by the u.sual operation of re- flection or voluntary meditation. Something analogous to this is familiarly known to occur in other cases. When we merely think of an absent friend, our emotions are incomparably less lively than when the recollection of him is suddenly suggested by the unexpected sight of his picture, of the house where he dwelt, or the spot on which we last parted from him— ^d all these objects seem for the moment t^^^ear the colours of our own asso- ciated affections. When Captain Cook's com- panions found, in the remotest corner of the habitable globe, a broken spoon with the word London stamped upon it — and burst into tears at the sight ! — they proved how differently we may be moved by emotions thus connected with the real presence of an actual percep- tion, than by the mere recollection of the ob- jects on which those emotions depend. Every one of them had probably thought of London every day since he left it ; and many of them might have been talking of it with tranquilli- ty, but a moment before this more effectual appeal was made to their sensibility. If we add to all this, that there is necessa- rily something of vagueness and variableness in the emotions most generally excited by the perception of beauty, and that the mind wan- ders with the eye, over the different objects which may supply these emotions, with a depree of unsteadiness, and half voluntary half involuntary fluctuation, we may come to understand how the effect not only should be essentially different from thnt of the simple presentment of any one interesthig concep- tion, but should acquire a peculiarity which 32 LITEPxATURE AND BIOGRAPm', entitle;? it to a difTerent denomination. Most of the associations of which we have been last speaking, as being founded on the analogies or fanciful resemblances that are felt to exist between physical objects and qualities, and the interesting affections of mind, are intrin- sically of thi.s vague and wavering descrip- tion — and when we loOk at a tine landscape, or any other scene of complicated beauty, a great variety of such images are suddenly presented to the fancy, ami as suddenly suc- ceeded by others, as the eye ranges over the different features of which it is comjwsed. and feeds upon the charms which it discloses. Now. the direct perception, in all such cases, not only perpetually acc^mjanies the asso- ciated emotion.", but is inextricably con- founded with them in our feelings, and is even recognised uj^n reflection as the cau.se, not merely of then- unusual strength, but of the several peculiarities by which we have shown that they are distinguished. It is not wonderful, therefore, either that emotions go circumstanced should not be classed along with similar affections, e.vcited under different circumstances, or that the perception of pre- sent e.vistence, thus mi.ved up, and indis.solu- bly confounded with interesting conceptions, should between them produce a sensation of so distinct a nature as natural!}- to be di.stin- guished by a peculiar name — or that the beauty which results from this combination should, in ordinary language, be ascribed to the objects them.selves — the presence and perception of which is a neces.Siiry condition of its existence. What we have now said is enough, we be- lieve, to give an attentive reader that general conception of the theory before us. which is all that we can hope to give in the narrow limits to which we are confined. It may be observed, however, that we have spoken onl}- of thcie .>iorts of beauty which we think capa- ble of being resolved into some passion, or emotion, or pretty lively sentiment of our na- ture; and tliough these are undoubtedly the highest and most decided kinds of beauty, it is certain that there are many thinirs called beautiful which cannot claim so lofty a con- nection. It is necessary, therefore, to observe, that, thouirh every thing that excites any feel- ing worthy to be calJeil an emotion, by its beauty or sublimity, will be found to be re- lated to the natural objects of human passions or affections, there are many things which are Eleasina or agreeable enouirh to be called eautiful, in consequence of their relation merely to human convenience and comfort ; — many others that please by suirgestiiis ideas of human skill and ingenuity: — and many I that obtain the name of beautiful, by being a.ssociateility; wiili a view to the nature of the materials: 3d. Of the skill and power re(|uisile to mould such materials into ibrms so commodious: -llh. Qf magnificence, and .t^plendour. and exptMise: 5lh. Of antiquity; and. 6lhly, Of Roman and Grecian greatness. Hisob.servations are sum- med up in the following short sentence. •The proportions,"' he observes, 'of these orders, it is to be remembered, are distinct subjects of beauty, from {ho ornaments with which they are embellished, from the magni- ficence with which they are executed, from, the purposes of elegance they are intended to sei-ve, or the scenes of grandeur they are deed tined to atlorn. It is in such scenes, however, and with such additions, that we are accus* tomed to observe them; aud. vhile we feeS the effect of all iht se accitU r.tal a^scciation we are seldom willing to examine \\ hat are the causes of the complex f motion we feel and readily attribute to the nature of the ar chitecture itself, the whole pleasure which vrt enjoy. But, besides these, there are olhe associations we have with these ibnns, tha ALISON ON TASTE. 33 Ptill more powerfully serve to command our ftdmiration: for they are the Grecian orders; they derive their origin from those times, aiul were the ornament of those countries which are most hallowed in our imaginations; and it is dithcult for us to see them, even in their modern copieS; without feeling them operate upon our minds as relics of those polislied nations wheje they first arose, and of that greater people by whom they were afterwart* borroweiL"' This analysis is to us perfectly satisfactory. But, indeed, we cannot conceive any more complete refutation of the notion of an in- trinsic and inherent beauty in the proportions of the Grecian architecture, than the fact of the admitted beauty of such very opposite proportions in the Gothic. Opposite as they are, however, the great elements of beauty are the same in this style as in the other — the impressions of religious awe and of chi- valrous recollections, coming here in place of the classical associations which constitute so great a share of the interest of the former. It is well observed too by Mr. Alison, that the eat duiability and costliness of the produc- art. have had the effect, in almost great duiabi rtions of this ; all regions of the world, of rendering their Fashion permanent, after it had once attained such a degree of perfection as to fulfil its substantial purposes. "Buildings." he observes, "may last, and are intended to last for centuries. The life of man is very inadequate to the duration of suoh productions ; and the present period of the world, though old with respect to those arts which are employed upon perishable sub- jects, is yet young in relation to an art, which IS employed upon so durable materials as those of architecture. Instead of a few years, therefore, centuries must pi-obably pass before such productions demand to be renewed; and, long before that period is elapsed, the sacredness of antiquity is acquired by the subject itself, and a new motive given for the preservation of similar forms. lu every coun- try, accordingly, the same effect has taken place : and the same causes which have thus siMved to produce among us, for so many yi-ars, an uniformity of taste with regurd to tliH style of Grecian architecture, have pro- duced also among the nations of the East, for a much longer course of time, a similar uni- formity of taste with regard to their orna- nienlai style of architecture: and have per- petuated among them the same forms which were in use among their forefathers, before the Grecian orders were mvented." It is not necessary, we think, to carry these illustrations any farther : as the theory they are intended to explain, is now, we believe, universally adopted, though with some limita- tions, which we see no reason to retain. Those suggested by Mr. Alison, we have already en- deavoured to dispose of in the few remarks we have made upon his publication; and it i only remains to say a word or two more upon Mr. Knight's doctrine as to the primitive and independent beauty of colours, upon which ue have already hazarded some remarks. 5 Agreeing as he does with Mr. Alison, and all modern inquirers, that the whole beauty of objects consists, in the far greater number of instances, in the associations to which we have alluded, he still maintains, that some few visible objects affect us with a sense of beauty in consequence of the pleasurable im- pression they make upon the sense — and that our perception of beauty is, in these instances, a mere organic sensation. Now, we have ahead)- stated, that it would be sometliing quite unexampled in the history either of mind or of language, if certain physical and bodily sensations should thus be confounded with moral and social feelings with which the}- had no coiniection, and pass familiarly under one and the same name. Beauty con- sists confessedly, in almost all cases, in the suggestion of moral or social emotions, mixed up and modified by a present sensation or perception ; and it is this suggestion, and this identification with a present object, that con- stitutes its essence, and gives a common character to the whole class of feelings it produces, sufficient to justify their being de- signated by a common appellation. If the word beauty, in short, must mean something, and if this be very clearly what it means, in all the remarkable instances of its occurrence, it is difficult to conceive, that it should occa- sionally mean something quite different, and denote a mere sensual or physical gratifica- tion, unaccompanied by the suggestion of any moral emotion whatever. According to Mr. Knight, however, and, indeed, to many other writers, this is the case with regard to the beauty of colours; which depends altogether, they say, upon the delight which the eye naturally takes in their contemplation — this delight being just as primitive and sensual as that which the palate receives from the con- tact of agreeable flavours. It must be admitted, we think, in the first place, that such an alleg-ation is in itself ex- tremely improbable, and contrary to all anal- ogy, and all experience of the structure of lang-uage, or of the laws of thought. It is farther to be .considered, too. that if the plea- sures of the senses are ever to be considered as beautiful, those pleasures which are the most lively and important would be the most likely to usurp this denomination, and to take rank with the higher gratifications that result fiom the perception of beauty. Now, it ad- mits of no dispute, that the mere organic pleasures of the eye (if indeed they have any existence) are far inferior to those of the palate, the touch, and indeed almost all the other senses — none of which, however, are in any case confounded with the sense of beauty. In the next place, it should follow, that if what affords organic pleasure to the eye be properly called beautiful, what offends or gives pain to it, should be called ugly. Now, excessive or dazzling light is offensive to the eye — but, considered by itself, it is never called ugly, but only painful or disagreeable. The moderate excitement of light, on the other hand, or the soothing of certain bright but temperate colours, when considered in 34 LITERATl^RE AND BIOGRAPHY. this primar)- aspect, are not called beautiful, but only agreeable or' refreshing. So far as the direct otience or comfort of the organ, in short, is referred to, the language which we use relates strictly to physical or bodily sensa- tion, and is not confounded with that which relates to mental emotion ; and we really see no ground for supposing that there is any ex- ception to this rule. It iH very remarkable, indeed, that the, sense whose organic gratification is here sup- posed to constitute the primary feeling of beautv. should be one. in the first place, whose direct organic gratifications are of very little force or intensity: — and, in the ne.\t place, one whose oHice it is, almost e.xclu- eivelv. to make us acquainted with the e.xist- enceand properties of those external objects which are naturally interesting to our inward feelings and affections. This peculiarity makes it (at the very least) extremely proba- ble, that ideas of emotion should be associnfcd with the perceptions of this sense ; but ex- tremely improbable, that its naked and unas- sociated sensations should in any case be classed with such emotions. If the name of beauty were given to what directly gratifies any sense, such as that of tasting or smelling, which does i^ot make us acquainted with the nature or relations of outward objects, there would be less room for such an explanation. But when it is the business of a particular sense or organ to introduce to our knowledge those objects which are naturally connected ■with ideas of emotion, it is easy to understand how its perceptions should be associated with these emotions, and an interest and impor- tance thus e.xtended to them, that belong to the intimations of no other bodily organ. But, for those very reasons, we should be prepared to suspect, that all tfie interest they possess is derived from this association; and to dis- trust the accuracy of any observations that might lead us to conclude that its mere or- ganic impulses ever produced any thing akin to those associated emotions, or entitled to pass under their name. This caution Avill i appear still more reasonable, when it is con- sidered, that all the other qualities of visible I objects, except only their colours, are now | admitted to be perfectly indifferent in them- 1 pelves, and to possess no other beauty than i they may derive from their associations with our ordinary affections. There are \io forms, for example, even in Mr. Knight's opinion, that have any intrinsic beauty, or any power of pleasing or affecting us, except through their associations, or affinities to mental affec- tions, either as e.xpressive of fitness and utility, or as types and symbols of certain moral or intellectual qualities, in which the sources of our interest are obvious. Yet the form of an object is as conspicuous an ingredient of its beauty as its colour; and a property, too, which seems at first view to be as intrinsic- ally and independently pleasing. Why, then, should we persist in liolding that colours, or combinations of colours, please from being naf'iralhi aijrceable to the organ of sight, when it is admitted that other visible qualities; which seem to possess the same power of pleasing, are fomid, upon examination, to owe it entirely to the principle of association'? The only reason that can be assigned, or that actually exists for this distinction, is, that it has been supposed more difficult to account for the beauty of colours, upon the principles which have accounted for other beauties, or tfi specify the particular associations by virtue OT which they could acquire this quality. Now, it appears to us that there is no such difficully : and that there is no reason what- ever for holding that one colour, or combina- tion of colours, is more pleasing than another, except upon the same grounds of association which recommend particular forms, motions, or proportions. It appears to us. that the or- ganic pleasures of the eye are extremely few and insignificant. It is hurt, no donbt, by an excessive glare of light; and it is in some de- gree gratified, perhaps, by a moderate degree of it. But it is only by the quantity or in- tensity of the light, we think, that it is so affected. The colour of it. we take it, is. iu all cases, absolutely indifferent. But it is the colour only that is called beautiful or other- wise ; ancl these qualities we think it very' plainly derives from the common fountain of association. In the first place, we would ask, whether there is any colour that is beautiful in all situations'? and, in the next place, whether there is any colour that is not beautiful in some situation ? With regard to the first, take the colours that are most commonly referred to as intrinsically beautiful — bright and soft green — clear blue — bright pink, or vermilion. The first is unquestionably beautiful in vernal woods and summer meadows: — and, we humbly conceive, is beautiful, because it is the natural sign and concomitant of those scenes and seasons of enjoyment. Blue, again, is beautiful in the vernal sky; — and, as we be- lieve, for the sake of the pleasures of which such skies are prolific ; and pink is beautiful on the cheeks of a young woman or the leaves of a rose, for reasons too obvious to be stated. We have associations enough, therefore, to recommend all those colours, in the situations in which they are beautiful : But, strong as these associations are. they are unable to make them universally beautiful — or beauti- ful, indeed, in any other situations. Green would not be beautiful in the sky — nor blue on the cheek — nor vermilion on the grass. It may be said, indeed, that, though they are always recognised as beautiful in themselves, their obvious unfitness in such situations coun- teracts the effect of their beauty, and make an opposite impression, as of something mon- strous and unnatural ; and that, accordingly, they are all beautiful in indifferent situations, where there is no such antagonist principle — in furniture, dre!?.>*, and ornaments. Now the fact, in the first place, is not so ; — these bright colours being but seldom and sparingly ad- mitted in ornaments or works of art; and no man, for example, choosinir to have a blue house, or a green ceiling, or a pink coat. But, in the second place, if the fiacts were admitted, ALISON ON TASTE. we think it obvious, thai the general beauty of those colours would be pufRciently accounted for by the very interesting and jiowerful asso- ciations under Mhich all of them are so fre- quently presented bj' the hand of Nature. The interest we take in female beauty, — in vernal delights, — in unclouded skies, — is far too lively and too constantly recurring, not to stamp a kindred interest upon the colours that are naturally associated wnth such ob- jects ; and to make us regard with some afl'ec- tion and delight those hues that remind us of them, although we should only meet them upon a fan, or a dressing-box, the lining of a curtain, or the back of a screen. Finally, we beg leave to observe, that all bright and clear colours are naturally typical of cheerfulness and purity of mind, and are hailed as em- blems of moral qualities, to which no one can be indifferent. With re.gard to ugly colours again, we reallj- are not aw^re of any to which that epithet can be safely applied. Dull and dingy hues are usually mentioned as in themselves the least pleasing. Yet these are the prevailing tints in many beautiful landscapes, and many admired pictures. They are also the most common colours that are chosen for dress (male dress at lea.'^t), — for building, — for fur- niture, — where the consideration of beauty is the only motive for the choice. In fact, the shaded parts of all coloured objects pass into tints of this description : — nor can we at pre- sent recollect any one colour, which we could specify as in itself disagreeable, without run- ning counter to the feelings and the practice of the great mass of mankind. If the fact, how- ever, were otherwise, and if certain muddy and dull colours were universally allowed to be disagreeable, we should think there could be no difficulty m referring these, too, to na- tural associations. Darkness, and all that ap- proaches it, is naturally associated with ideas of melancholy. — of helplessness, and danger; — and the gloomy hues that remind us of it. or seem to draw upon it, must .share in the same associations. Lurid, ^skies, too, it should be observed, and turbid waters, and unfruitful swamps, and drear}' morasses, are the natural and most common wearers of these dismal liveries. It is from these that we first become acquainted with them; and it is needless, therefore, to say, that such objects are neces- sarily associated with ideas of discomfort, and sadness, and danger ; and that the colours that remind us of them, can scarcely fail to recal some of the same disagreeable sensations. Enough, however, and more than enough, has been said about the supposed primitive I and independant beauty of separate colours. I It is chiedy upon the intrinsic beauty of their I mixture or combinations that Mr. Knight and ! his adherents have insisted; — and it is no '■ doubt quite true, that, among painters and connoisseurs, we hear a great deal about the harmony and composition of tints, and the charms and difficulties of a judicious colour- ing. In all this, however, we cannot help sus- pecting that there is no little pedantry, and no little jargon; and that these phrases, when used without referenc#lo the practical diffi- culties of the art, which must go for nothing in the present question, really mean little mof e than the true and natural appearance of co- loured objects, seen through the same tinted or partially obscure medium that commonly constitutes the atmo-^phere : and for the actual optical effects of which but few artists know how to make the projier allowance. In na- ture, we know of no discordant or offensive colouring, except what may be referred to ■ some accident or disaster that spoils the moral , / or sentimental expression of the scene, and disturbs the associations upon which all its beauty, whether of forms or of hues, seems to us very plainly dependent. We are per- fectly aware, that ingenious persons have been disposed to dogm.atize and to speculate very confidently upon these subjects ; and have had the benefit of seeing various learned trea- tises upon the natural gamut of colours, and the inherent congruity of those that are called complementary, with reference to the pris- matic spectrum. But we confess v:e have no faith in any of those fancies; and believe, that, if all these colours were fairly arranged on a plain board, according to the most rigid rules of this supposed haimony, nobody, but the author of the theory, would perceive the smallest beauty in the exhibition, or be the least ofiended by reversing their collocation. We do not mean, however, to dispute, that the laws of colouring, insisted on by learned artists, will produce a more pleasing effect tipon trained judges of the art, than a neglect of these laws; because we have little doubt that these combinations of colour are recom- mended by certain associations, which render them generally pleasing to persons so trained and educated; — all that we maintain is, that there are no combinations that are originally and universally pleasing or displeasing to the eye, independent of such associations; and it seems to us an irresistible proof of this, that these laws of harmonious colouring are per- petually and deliberately violated by great multitudes of persons, who not only have the perfect use of their sight, but are actually be- stowing great pains and expense in providing for its gratification, in the very act of this vio- lation. The Dutch trader, who paints over the outside of his country-house with as many bright colours as are to be found in his tuhp'- bed, and garnishes his green shutters with blue facings, and his purple roof with lilac ridges, not only sejes as well as the studied co- lourist, who shudders at the exhibition, but actually receives as much pleasure, and as strong an impression of beauty, from the fin- ished lustkaus, as the artist does from one of his best pictures. It is impossible, then, that these combinations of colours can be naturally or intrinsicaliy offensive to the organ of sight ; and their beauty or ugliness must depend upon the associations which different individuals may have happened to form with regard to them. We contend, however, for nothing more ; and are quite willing to allow that the associations which recommend his staring tawdriness to the burgomaster, are such as LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPHY. could not easily have l|p?n formed in the mind of a diligent and extensive observer of nature, and that they would probably be reversed by habits of reflection and ttudy. But the same I thing, it is obvious, may be said of the notions / of beauty of any other description that pre- vail among the rude, the inexperienced, and uninstrueted ; — though, in all oiher instances, we take it for granted, that the beauty which is perceived depends altogctlier upon associa- tion, and in no degree on its power of giving a pleasurable impulse to the organ to which it addresses itseli. If any considerable num- ber of persons, with the perfect use of sight, actually take pleasure in certain combinations of colours — that is complete proof that such combinations are not naturally offensive to the organ of sight, and that the pleasure of such persons, t'xactly like tlmt of those mIio disa- gree \vith them, is derived not from the sense, but from associations with its perceptions. With reg;ird, again, to the effect of broken masses of light and shadow, it is proper, in the first place, to remember, that by the eye we see colour only: and that lights and sha- dows, as tar as the mere organ is concerned, mean nothing but variations of tint. It is very true, no doubtj that we soon learn to refer many of those variations to light and shade, and that they thus become .•.igns to us of depth, and distance, and relief. But, is not this, of itself, sufficient to refute the idea of their affording any primitive or organic plea- sure ■? In so far as they are mere variations of tints, they may be imitated by unmeaning daubs of paint on a pallet ; — in so far as they are si^ns^ it is to the mind that they address themselves, and not to the oigan. They are signs, too, it should be recollected, and the oidy signs we have, by which we can receive any correct knowledge of the existence and condition of all external objects at a distance from us, whether interesting or not interest- ing. Without the assistance of variety of tint, and of lights and shadows, we could never distinguish one object from another, e.xccpt by the touch. These appearances, therefore, are the perpetual vehicles of almost all our inter- esting perceptions ; and are consequently as- sociated witn all the emotions we receive from visible objects. It is pleasant to see many things in one prospect, because some of them are probably agreeable ; and it is pleasant to know the relations of those things, because the ijualities or associatioiis, by means of which they interest us, geue;-ally depend upon that knowledge. The mixture of colours and shades, howi;ver, is necessary to this enjoy- ment, and consequently is a sign of it, and a source of associated interest or beauty. Mr. Knight, however, goes much farther than this; and maintains, that the beauty which is so distinctly felt in many pictures of objects in themselves disagreeable, is to be ascribed entirely to the effect of the brilliant and harmonious tints, and the masses of light and skidow that may be employed in the re- presentation. The filtliyand tattered rags of a beggar, In." observes, and the putrifying con- tents of a dunghill, may form beautiful objects in a picture; because, considered as mere objects of sight, they may often present beau- tiful effects of colouring and shadow; and these are preserved or heightened iu the imi- tation, disjointed from all their offensive ac- companiments. Now, if the tints and shades were tlie exclusive sources of our gratilication, and if this gratification was dhninished, in- stead of being heightened, by the suggestion which, however transiently, vmst still iiitiude itself, that they appeared iu an imitation of disgusting objects, it must certainly follow, tliat the pleasure and the beauty A\s and novelty, and by the great extent of their ap- plication. They prove also in how remark- able a degree she possesses the rare talent of embodying in one luminous proposition those sentiments and impressions which float unquestioned and undefined over many an understanding, and give a colour to the cha- racter, and a bias to the conduct, of multitudes, who are not so much as aware of their exist- ence. Besides all this, her novels bear testimony to the extraordinary accuracy ;ii,d minuteness of her observation of human cha- racter, and to her thorough knowledge lif those dark and secret workings of the htait, by which misery is so often elaborated fji in the pure element of the affections, ll.r knowledge, however, Ave must say, seen;- to be more of evil than of good: For the j i^- dominating sentiment in her fictions is, dt -j ;> i of human happiness and human virtue : ;r I their interest is founded almost entire!} u the inherent and almost inevitable hcarll' —- ness of polished man. The impression v l.r'a they leave upon the mind, therefore, llic ilU powerfully pathetic, is both painful and iiii- miliatingj at the same time that it procet ds, we are inclined to believe, upon the doiiMe error of supposing that the bulk of intellJL;' i.t people are as selfish as those splendid viei,ii:s of fashion and philo.sophy from whom her ( ;ia- racters are selected; and that a srn.s;bilii\ ;o unkindness can long sunive the extiia :n of all kindly emotions. The work b( i ;' us, however, exhibits the fairest speein. i which we have yet seen of the systemat!/ _; spirit of the author, as well as of the inn il enthusiasm by which she seems to be i ^ s- sessed . The professed object of this work is to .-In w that all the peculiarities in the literature if different ages and countries, may be expiai:. .1 by a reference to the condition of society. imI the political and religious institutions of < ai h : — and at the same time, to point out in a\ hat way the jirogress of letters has in its turn modified and affected the government and religion of those nations among whom tliijy have flourished. All this, however, is bot- tomed upon the more fiuiJamentEil and la^; I\IADA.AIE DE STAEL HOLSTEIN. 41 v^ourite proposition, that there is a progress, to aro Juce these eiFects — that letters and intelU- svnce are in a state of constant, universiil, and ; rf~;6tible advancement — in other words, that iiiuuan nature is tending, by a slow and inter- ninable progression, to a state of perfection. This fascinating idea seems to have been kept ;oii^t.ititly in view by INIadarae de Stael. from lu' lifgmning to the end of the work before IS : — and though we conceive it to have been aursued with far too sanguine and assured a jpirit, and to have led in this way to most of rt'hat is rash and questionable in her conclu- sions, it is impossible to doubt that it has also aelped her to many explanations that are equally solid and ingenious, and thrown a light upon many phenomena that would other- wise have appeared very dark and unac- :»untable. In the range which she here takes, mdeed, she has need of all the lights and all the aids diat can present themselves ; — for her work contains a critique and a theory of all the literature and philosophy in the world, from the days of Homer to the tenth year of the French revolution. She begins with the early learning and philosophy of Greece ; and after characterizing the national taste and genius of that illustrious people, in all its depart- ments, and in the different stages of their progress, she proceeds to a similar investi- gation of the literature and science of the Romans ; and then, after a hasty sketch of the declme of arts and letters in the later days of the empire, and of the actual progress of the human mind during the dark ages, when it is supposed to have slumbered in complete inactivity, she enters upon a more detaded examination of the peculiarities, and the causes of the peculiarities, of all the dif- ferent aspects of national taste and genius that : characterize the literature of Italy, Spain, England, Germany, and France — enteruig, as I to each, into a pretty minute exposition of its 1 general merits and defects — and not only of • the circumstances in the situation of the coun- , try that have produced those characteristics, ' but even of the authors and productions, in 1 which they are chiefly exemplified. To go s through all this with "tolerable success, and • -without committing any very gross or ridicu- ''lous blunders, evidently required, in the first 1 place, a greater allowance of learning than '■ has often fallen to the lot of persons of the I learned gender, who lay a pretty bold claim ; to distinction upon the ground of their learn- • ing alojie ; and, in the next place, an extent ■ of general knowledge, and a power and com- prehensiveness of thinking, that has still more J rarely been the ornament of great scholars. t Madame de Stael may be surpassed, perhaps, i in scholar.^hip (so far as relates to accuracy at > least, if not extent,) by some — and ui sound : philosophy by others. But there are few in- i' deed who can boast of having so much of i both; and no one, so far as we know, who ' has applied the one to the elucidation of the 1; other with so much boldness and success. : But it is time to give a little more particular i' account of her lucubrations. There is a very eloquent and high-toned Introduction, illustrating, in a general way, the nifluence of literature on the morals, the glory, the freedom, and the enjoyments of the people among whom it flourishes. It is full of brilliant thoughts and profound observa- tions; but we are most struck with those sentiments of mingled triumph and mortifi- cation by which she connects these magnifi- cent speculations with the tumultuous aspect of the times in which they were nourished. " Que ne puis-je rappeler tons les esprits eclaircs a la jouissance des nieditaiions philosopliiques '. Les , coniemporains d'une Revohitioii perdent souvent tout iiiieret a la recherrlie de la vi'rite. Tant d'eve- nemens decides par la force, taut de crimes absous pur le succes, tant de venus tletries par le blame, tant d'infortunes insultees par le puuvoir, tant de seniimeris genereux deveims I'objet de la moquerie, tant de vils calculi philosopliiquenicnt conimentesj tout lasse de resperance les honimes les plusfideles au culte de la raison. Ncaiimoins ils doivent se ranimer en observant, dans Tlusioire de I'esprit humain, qu'il n'a existe ni une pensee utile, ni une verite profonde qui n'ait trouvc son siecle et sea admirateurs. C'est sans doute un triste effort que de transporter son interet, de reposer son attente, a travers I'avenir, sur nos successeurs, sur les etran- gers bien loin de nous, sur les inconnus, sur tous les hommes enfin dont le souvenir et I'image ne peuvent se retracer a notre esprit. Mais, helas ! si Ton en excepte quelques amis inalterables, la plu- part de ceux qu'on se rappelle apres dix annees de revolution, contristenf votre cceur, etouffent vos mouvemens, en imposeni a voire talent rneme, non par leur superiorite, mais'par celte malveillance qui ne cause de la douleur qu'aux anies douces, et ne fait souffrir que ceux qui nela meritent pas." — Tom. i. p. 27, 28. The connection between good morals and that improved state of intelligence which Madame de Stael considers as synonymous with the cultivation of literature, is too obvi- ous to require any great exertion of her talents for its elucidation. She observes, with great truth, that much of the guilt and the misery which are vulgarly imputed to great talents, really arise from not having talent enough — and that the only certain cure for the errors which are produced by superficial thinking, is to be found in thinking more deeply: — At the same time it ought not to be forgotten, that all men have not the capacity of think- ing deeply — and that the most general culti- vation of literature will not invest every one with talents of the first order. If there be a degree of intelligence, therefore, that is more unfavourable to the interests of morality and just opinion, than an utter want of intelli- gence, it may be presumed, that, in very en- I Ughtened tmies, this will be the portion of , the greater multitude — or at least that nations 1 and individuals will have to pass through this ! troubled and dangerous sphere, in their way to the loftier and purer regions of perfect un- derstanding. The better answer therefore probably is, that it is not intelligence that does the mischief in any case whatsoever, but the presumption that sometimes accorn- panies the lower degrees of it ; and which is best disjoined from them, by making the higher degrees more attainable. It is quite true, as Madame de Stael obseiTes, that the d2 42 LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPHY. power of public opinion, which is the only sure and ultiimUe ji;uardian either of freedom or of virtue, is greater or less exactly as the public is more or less enliirhtened ; and that this public can never be trained to the habit of just and commanding sentiments, except under the iuHuence of a sound and progressive literature. The abuse . of power, and the abuse of the means of enjoyment, are the great .sources of misery and d.'pravity in an advanced stage of society. Both originate with those who stand on the highest stages of human fortune ; and the cure is to be found, in both cases, only in the enlightened opinion of those who stand a little lower. Liberty, it will not be disputed, is still more clearly dependent on intelligence than morality itself. When the governors are ig- norant, they are naturally tyrannical. Force is the obvious resource of iho^e who are inca- pable of convincing; and the more unworthy any one is of the power with which he is iii- vested. the more rigorously will he exercise that power. But it is in the intelligence of the people themselves that the chief bulwark of their freedom will be found to consist, anil all the principles of political amelioration to originate. This is true, however, as Madame de Stael observes, only of what she terms '• la haute litterature :'" or the general cultiva- tion of philosophy, eloquence, history, and those other dejiartments of learning which refer chiefly to the heAit and the undersfand- ijig, and depend upon a knowledge of human nature, and an attentive study of all that contributes to its actual enjoyments. What is merely for delight, again, and addresses itself exclusively to the imagination, has neither so noble a genealogy, nor half so illustrious a progeny. Poetry and works of gaiety and amusement, together with music and the sister arts of painting and sculpture, have a inuch slighter connection either with virtue or with freedom. Though among Men- most graceful ornaments, th'^y may yet flour- i,sh uniler tyrants, and be relished in the midst of the greatest and most debasing corruption of manners. It is a fine and a just remark too, of Madame de Stael. that the pursuits which minister to mere delight, and give to life its charm and vohiptuousness. generally produce a great indifference about dying. They supersede; and displace all the stronger passions and affections, by which alone we are bound very closely to existence; and, while th<'y habituate the mind to transitory ajid passive impressions, seem naturally con- nected with those images of indolence and intoxication and slumber, to which the idea of death is so readily assimilated, in charac- ters of this description. When life, in short, is considered as nothing more than an amuse- m'^nt, its termination is contemplated with far less emotion, and its conrse, upon the whole, is overshadowed with deeper clouds of eimni, than when it is presented as a scene of hii;h duties and honourable labours, and holds out to us at every turn — not the perish- able |)astirnes of the 'passin«r hour, but the fixed and distant objects of those serious and lofty aims which connect us with a long futurity. The introduction ends with an eloquent profession of the author's unshaken faith in the philosophical creed of Perfectibility : — upon which, as it does not happen to be our creed, and is very irecjuently brought into notice in the course of the work, we must here be indulged with a few preliminary observations. This splendid illusion, which s"ems to have succeeded that of Optimism in the favour of philosophical enthusiasts, and rests, like it, upon the notion that the whole scheme of a beneficent Providence is to be developed iji this world, is supported by Madame de Stael upon a variety of grounds: and as. like most other illusions, it has a considerable admix- ture of truth, it is supported, in many points, upon grounds that are both solid and nigeni- ous. She relies chiefly, of course, u])on the experience of the past: and, in particular. i njx)!! the marked and decided superiority of the moderns in respect of thought and re"tiec-| tion — their more profound kiiowledse of hu-j man hn'lings. and more comprehensive viewsJ of human affairs. She ascribes less iin|ort-i ance than is usually done to our attainments in mere science, and the arts that relale to matter; and augurs less confidently as to the future fortune of the species, from the exiiioits, of Newton, Watt, and Davy, than from those of Bacon, Bossuet, Locke, Hume, and Voltaire, 111 eloquence, too, and in taste and fancy, she admits that there has been a less conspicuous advancement; because, in these things, there is a natural limit or point of perfection, which has been already attained : But there are nc boundaries to the increase of human know- i ledge, or to the discovery of the means of hu- man happiness; and every step that is g-ainec in those hi-jfher walks, is gained, she conceives for po.sterity. and for ever. The great objection derived fiom the signa check which the arts and civility of life re ceived from the inroads of the iiorlhern bar barians on the decline of the Roman power and the long period of darkness and degiada tion which ensued, she endeavours to obviate by a very bold and ingenious s];ecn!ati(»n. I is her object here to show that tht> invasioi of the northern tribes not only promoted thei own civilization more effeciually than anjluji thing else could have done, but actually im parted to the genius of the vanquished, ; character of energy, solidity, and seriousness which could never have sprung up of itsell in the volatile regions of the South. Thi amalgamation of the two races, she think* has produced a mighty improvement on both and the vivacity, the elegance and versatility, of the warmer latitudes, been mingled, in| finitely to their mutual advantage, with tm majestic melancholy, the profound thoughtj and the sterner morality of the North. Thi hi combination, again, she conceives, could haV'| i^ij, been effected in no way so happily as by th ! 1 1[;. successful invasion of the ruder people ; aii' the concilintin£r infiuence of that commo faith, which at once repressed the frivolous MADAME DE STAEL HOLSTEIN. 43 mJ mollified the ferocions tendencies of our lature. The temporary disappearance there- "ore of literature and politeness, upon the first -hock of this mighty collision, was but the mbsidence of the sacred flame under the leaps of fuel which were thus profusely Hoviiled for its increase; and the seeminji; vaste' and sterility that ensued, was but the irsi aspect of the fertilizing flood and accu- nulatetl manure under which vegetation was juried for a wliile, that it might break out it last with a richer and more indestructible UAiuiance. The human intellect was neither lead nor inactive, she contends, during that onu' slumber, in which it was collecting vig- lur for unprecedented exertions; and the >ec'upations to which it was devoted, though lot uf the most brilliant or attractive descrip- iuii. were perhaps the best fitted for its ul- iinate and substantial improvement. The ubtle distinctions, the refined casuistry, and iigeuious logic of the school divines, were ill favourable to habits of careful and accu- ate thinking: and led insensibly to a far IP ill' thorough and profound knowleda-e of m;ii 111 nature — the limits of its faculties and he uiounds of its duties — than had been .ttLiiii-'d by the more careless inquirers of iitiijuity. When men, therefore, beg-an aguin reason upon human affairs, they were found o iuivo made an immense progress during the leii I'l wlien all appeared to be either retro- :rddo or stationary; and Shakspeare, Bacon, idachiavpl, JMontaigne. and Galileo, who ap- peared almost at the same time, in the most Ihstant countries of Europe, each displayed a ieach of thought and a power of reasoning vhich we should look for in vain in the elo- uent dissertaions of the classical ages. To hem succeeded such men as Jeremy Taylor, doHere, Pascal, Locke, and La Bruyere — all f thiMTx observers of a character, to which ill i- is nothing at all parallel in antiquity; ml yet only preparing the way, in the sue- ^'^■ lino- a^'o. for Montesquieu. Hume. Voltaire, milh, Burke, Bentham. Malthus.and so many thcrs; who have made the world familiar itli truths, which, however important and I'Strable at all time.s, certainly never 1 into the conception of the earlier in- iiits of the world. Those truths, and :li :s still more important, of which they I'L- destined to be the parent.s, have already, cinidiiip- to Madame de Slael. produced a i'u r^rious alteration, and an incalculable im- rovement On the condition of human nature. "hiodoh their influence, assisted no doubt by iiat of th'^ Gospel, slavery has been abolished, rade and industry set free from restriction. : nd war di.sarrned of half its horrors; while, i: h private life, women have been restored to : iheir just rank in society; sentiments of jus- ; Itce and humanity have been univer.sally cul- ! Ivated, and public opinion been armed with i » power which renders every other both safe !i jud salutary. '; * Many of these truths, which were once the 1 loubtful or derided discovpries of men of j iriginal genius, are now admitted as elemen- I. iiy principles in the reasonings of ordinary people ; and are every day extending their empire, and multiplying their progeny. Ma- dame (le Stacl sees no reason to doubt, there- fore, that they will one day inherit the whole earth; and, under their reign, slie takes it to be clear, that war, and poverty, and all the misery that arises from vice and ignorance, will disappear from the face of society ; and that men, universally convinced that justice and benevolence are the true sources of en- joyment, will seek their own happiness in a constant endeavour to promote that of their neighbours. It would be very agreeable to believe all this — in spite of the grudging which would necessarily arise, from the reflection that we ourselves were born so much too soon for vir- tue and enjoyment in this world. But it is really impossible to overlook the manifold imperfections of the reasoning on which this splendid anticipation is founded ; — though it may be worth while to ascertain, if possible, in what degree it is founded in truth. The first thing that occurs to a sober-mind- ed listener to this dream of perfectibility, is the e.xtreme narrowness of the induction from which these sweeping conclusions are so con- fidently deduced. A progress that is in its own nature infinite and irresistible, must necessarily have been both universal and unremitting ; and yet the evidence of its ex- istence is founded, if we do not deceive our- selves, upon the history of a very small por- tion of the human race, for a very small num- ber of generations. The proposition is, that the human species is advanciiig, and has al- ways been advancing, to a state of perfection, by a law of their nature", of the existence of which their past history and present state leave no room to doubt. But when we cast a glance upon this high destined species, we find this necessary and eternal progress scarcely begiin, even now, in the old inhabi- ted continent of Africa — stationary, as far back as our information reaches, in China — and retrograde, for a period of at least twelve centuries, and up to this duy, in Egypt, India, Peisia, and Greece. Even in our own Europe, which contains probably less than one tenth part of our kind, it is admitted, that, for up- wards of a thousand years, this gi'e<.r work of moral nature not only stood still, but went visibly backwards, over its fairest regions; and though there has been a prodigious pro- gress in England and France and Germanj' during the last two hundred years, it may be doubted whether any thing of this sort can be- said of Spain or Italy; or various other portions, even of this favoured quarter of the world. It maybe very natural for IMadame de Stael, or for us. look.'ig only to what has happened in our own world, and in our own times, to indulge in those dazzling A'iews of the nnbouiided and universal improv(?rnenl of the whole human race ; but such specu- lations would appear rather wild, we suspect, to those whose lot it is to philosophize among the unchanging nations of Asia; and would probably carry even something of ridicule with them, if propounded upon the ruins of 44 LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPHY. Thebes or Babylon, or even among the pro- laned relics of Athens or Rome. We are not inclined, however, to push this very tar. The world is certainly something ihe wiser for its past experience : — and there is an accumulation of useful knowledge, which we think likely to increase. The mvention of printing and fire-arms, and the perfect communication that is established over all Europe, insures us, we think, against any considerable failing back in respect of the sciences; or the arts and attainments that minister to the conveniences of ordinary life. We have no idea that any of the important discoveries of modern times will ever again be lost or forgotten ; or that any future gene- ration will be put to the trouble of inventing, for a second time, the art of making gunpow- der or telescopes — the astronomy of Newton, or the mechanics of Watt. All knowledge which admits of demonstration will advance, we have no doubt, and extend itself: and all processes will be improved, that do not inter- fere with the pa.ssions of human nature, or the apparent interests of its ruling classes. But with regard to every thing depending on probable reasoning, or susceptible of debate, and especially with regard to every thins touching morality and enjoj-ment, we really are not sanguine enough to reckon on any considerable improvement ; and suspect that men will go on blundering in speculation, and transgresshig in practice, pretty nearly as they do at present, to the latest period of their history. In the nature of things, uideed, there can be no end to disputes upon probable, or what is called moral evide'nce ; nor to the contra- dictory conduct and consequent hostility and oppression, which must result from the oj^po- site views that are taken of such subjects ; — and this, partly, because the elements that enter into the calculation are so vast and nu- i merous, that many of the most material must I always be overlooked by persons of ordinary ' talent and information ; and partly because there not only is no standard by which the , value of those elements can be ascertained : and made manifest, but that they actuallv ! liave a different ralue for almo.st every dif- ferent indiviilual. With regard to all "nice, and indeed all debateable questions of happi- | ness or morals, therefore, there never can be ! any agreement among men ; because, in re- ! ality, there is no truth in which they can ' agree. All questions of this kind turn upon [ a comparison of the opposite advantages and | di.sadvantaires of any particuliar course of con- ! duct or habit of mind : but the.se are really ] of very ditferent magnitude and imjwrtance to different persons; and thrir decision, there- ' fore, even if they all .•^aw the whole con- se(]uence.i, or even the same set of conse- Siences, must be irreconcileably diverse. If i e matter in deliberation, for example, be. whether it is better to live without toil or ex- ertion, but, at the same time, without wealth or glory, or to venture for both upon a scene of labour and hazard — it is easy to see, that , the duteniiinatiou which would be wise and , expedient for one individual, might be just the reverse for another. Ease and obscurity are the summum boimin of one description of men : while others have an irresistible voca- tion to strenuous enterprise, and a positive delight m contention and danger. Nor is the magnitude of our virtues and vices referable to a more invariable standard. Intemperance is less a vice in the robust, and dishonesty less foolish in those who care but little for the scorn of society. Some men find their chief happiness in relieving sorrow — some in sj-mpathizing with mirth. Some, agaiji, de- rive most of their enjoyment from the exer- cise of their reasoning faculties — others from that of their imagination ; — while a third sort attend to little but the gratification of their senses, and a fourth to that of their vanity. One delights in crowd.s, and another in .soli- tude ; — one thinks of nothing but glory, and another of comfort ; — and so on, through all the infinite variety, and infinite combinations, of human tastes, temperaments, and habits. Now, it is plain, that each of those persons not only will, but plainly ought to pursue a different road to the common object of hap- piness; and that they must clash and conse- quently often jostle with each other, even if each were fully aware of the peculiarity of his own notions, and of the consequences of all that he did m obedience to their impulses. It is altogether impossible, therefore, we humbly conceive, that men should ever set- tle the point as to what is, on the whole, the wisest course of conduct, or the best dispo- sition of mind ; or consequently take even the first step towards that perfection of moral science, or that cordial concert and co-opera- tion in their common pnr.'iuit of happiness, which is the only alternative to their fatal opposition. This impossibility will become more appa- rent when it is considered, that the only in- strument by which it is pretended that this moral perfection is to be attained, is such a general illumination of the intellect as to make all men fully aware of the consequences of their actions : while the fact is, that it is not, in general, through ignorance of their conse- quences, that actions producing misery arei actually perfomied. When the misery is in- flicted upon others, the actors most frequently disreirard it. upon a fair enough comparison of its amount v.ith the pain they should in- flict on themselves by forbearance ; and even when it falls on their own heads, they will generally be found rather to have been un- lucky in the var must necessarily cease among all the rations of the earth. There can be no better llustration indeed, than thi.S; of the utter fu- ility of all those dreams of perfectibility: >vhich are founded on a radical ignorance of : what it is that constitutes the real enjoyTnent )f human nature, and upon the play of how iraiiy principles and opposite stimuli that hap- piness depends, which, it is absurdly ima- gined, would be found in the mere negation ' )f suffering, or in a state of Quakerish pla- : "idity, dulness, and uniformity. Men delight 1 'n war, in spite of the pains and miseries ; i.vhich they know it entails upon them and : heir fellows, because it exercises all the I '.alents, and calls out all the energies of their ; nature — because it holds them out conspicu- : busly as obiects of public sentiment and gene- 1 l-al sympathy — because it gratifies their pride t [)f art, and gives them a lofty sentiment of V thsir own ])Ower, worth and courage — but t |)rincipally because it sets the game of exist- 3 "Jice upon a higher stake, and dispels, by its powerful interest, those feelings of erniui which steal upon every condition from which hazard and anxiety are excluded, and drive us inlo danger and sidfering as a relief. While human nature continues to be distinguished by those attributes, we do not see any chance of war being superseded by fhe increase of wis- dom and morality. We should be pretty well advanced in the career of perfectibility, if all the inhabitants of Eurojie were as intelligent, and upright, and considerate, as Sir John JVIoore, or Lord Nelson, or Lord Colliiigwood, or Lord Wel- lington — but we should not have the less war, we take it, with all its attendant mise- ries. The more wealth and intelligence, and liberty, there is in a country indeed, the greater love we fear there will always be for war; — for a gentleman is uniformly a more pugnacious animal than a plebeian, and a free man than a slave. The case is the same, with the minor contentions that agitate civil life, and shed abroad the bitter waters of po- litical animosit}-, and grow up into the ran- cours and atrocities of faction and cabal. The leading actors in those scenes are not the lowest or most debased characters in the country — but, almost without exception, of the very opposite description. It woulcl be too romantic to suppose, that the whole popu- lation of any country should ever be raised to the level of our Fox and Pitt, Burke, Wind- ham, or Grattan ; and yet if that miraculous improvement were to take place, we know that they would be at least as far from agree- ing, as they are at present ; and may fairly conclude, that they would contend with far greater warmth and animosity. For that great class of evils, therefore, which arise from contention, emulation, and diversity of opinion upon points which admit of no demonstrative solution, it is evident that the general increase of intelligence would afford no remedy; and there even seems to be reason for thinking that it would increase their amount. If we turn to the other great source of human sufTering, the abuse of power and wealth, and the other means of enjoy- I ment, we suspect we shall not find any ground for indulging in more sanguine expectations. Take the common case of youthful excess and j imprudence, for example, in which the evil commonly rests on the head of the trans- j gressor — the injury done to fortune, by i thoughtless expense — to health and character, by sensual indulgence, and to the whole feli- city of after life, by rash and unsorted mar- riages. The whole mischief and hazard of i .such practices, we are persuaded, is just as I thoroughly known and understood at present, as it will be when the world is five thousand j years older; and as much pains are now ] taken to impress the ardent spirits of youth ; with the belief of those hazards, as can well I be taken by the monitors who may discharge I that office in the most remote futurity. But I the truth is, that the offenders do not ofl"end ' so much in ignorance, as in presumj.tion. ^ They know very well, that men are oftener I ruined than enriched at the gaming table ; 46 LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPHY and that love marriages, clapt up under age, are fretiuently followed by divorces: But they know too, that this is not always the case ; and they flatter themselves that their good luck, and goorl judgment, will class.them among the exi'cptioiis, and not among the ordniHiy examples 8i' the rule. Thi^y are told well enough, tor the most part, of the e.xcess- ive. folly ol acting upon such a presumption, in matters of such importance : — But it is the nature of vouth. to despise much of the wis- dom th;it is thus pressed upon them; and to think well of their fortune and siigacity, till thev have actually had experience of their slipperiness. We really have no idea that their future teachers will be able to change this nature : or to destroy the eternal distinc- tion between the character of early and mature life: and therefore it is. that we despair of the cure of the manifold evils that spring from th's source; and remain persuaded, that young men will be nearly as foolish, and as incapa- bk^ of profiting by the experience of their seniors, ten thousand years hence, as they are at th's moment. With regard to the othet glittering curses of life — fh:? heartless dissipations — the cruel seductions — the selfish extravagance — the re- jection of all interesting occupation or serious affection, which blast the splendid summit of human fortune with perpetual barrenness and discomfort — we can only say, that as they are miseries which now exist almost exclusively among the most polished and in- telligent of the species, we do not think it very probable, at least, that they will be eradi- cated bv rendering the species in general more polished and intelligent. They are not occasioned, we think, by ignorance or im- proper education; but by that engerness for strong emotion and engrossing occupation, which still proclaim it to be the irreversible destiny of man to earn his bread by the sweat of his brows. It is a fact indeed rather per- plexing and humiliating to the advocates of perfectibility, that as soon as a man is de- livred from the necessity of subsisting him- self, and providing for his family, he gene- rally falls into a state of considerable unhap- piness; and if some fortunate anxiety, or necessity for exertion, does not come to his relief, is commonly obliged to seek for a sliurht and precarious distraction in vicious and unsatisfactory pursuits. It is not for want of knowing that they are unsatisfactory thiit he persists in them, nor for want of h<'\u'j: told of their folly and criminality; — for mor.'ilists and divines have been occupied with little else for th<' best part of a century ; anrl writers of all descriptions, indeed, have charitably expended a good part of their own ennui in copious directions for the innocent and effectual reduction of that common ene- my. In spite of all this, however, the malady has increa.sed with our wealth and refini'- ment; and has brouirht alons with it the increase of all those vices and follies in which its victims still (ind themselves constrained to seek a temporary relief. The truth is, that military and senatorial glory is neither within the reach, nor suited to the taste, of any very great proportion of the sufi'erers; and that the cultivation of waste lands, and the superintendence of tippling-houses and charity schools, have not always been found such effectual and delightful remedies as the inditers of godly romances have sometimes • represented. So that those whom fortune has cruelly exempted from the necessity of doing any thing, have been led very generally I to do evil of their own accord : and have fancietl that they rather diminished than j added to the sum of human misery, by en- gaging in intrigues and gaming-clubs, arKl establishing coteries for detraction or sen- suality. The real and radical difficulty is to find some laudable pursuit that will peiTnanently interest — some worthy object that will con- tinue to captivate and engross the faculties : I and this, instead of becoming easier in pro- portion as our intelligence increases, obvious- ly becom<\s more difficult. It is knowledge that destroys enthusiasm, and dispels all those prejudices of admiration which people sim- pler minds with so many idols of enchant- ment. It is knowledge tKat distracts by its variety, and satiates by its abun.dance. and generates, b}' its communication, that dark and cold spirit of fastidiousness and derision which revenges on those whom it possesses, the pangs which it hiflicts on those on whom it is exerted. Vet it is to the increase of knowledge and talents alone, that the prophets of perfectibility look forward for the cure of all our vices and all our unhappiness! Even as to intellect, and the pleasures that are to be derived from the exercise of a vigor- ous understandinij, we doubt greatly whether we ought to look forward to posterity with any very lively feelings of envy or humil' tion. More knowledge they probably will have — as we have undoubtedly more know-, ledge than our ancestors had" two hundred ^^ years ago; but for vigour of understanding, or pleasure in the exercise of it, we must beff leave to demur. The more there is already known, the less there remains to be discover- ed ; and the more time a man is obliged to spend in ascertaininjr what his predecessors have already established, the less he wi have to bestow in adding to its amount. — Tlie time, however, is of less consequence; but the habits of mind that are formed by walkiiiir patiently, humbly, and passively in the paths that have been traced by others, are the very habits that discpialify us for vigorous nn.d independent excursions of our own. Th(^re is a certain degre(> of knowledge to be sure, that is but wholesome aliment to| the understanding — materials for it to work' upon — or instruments to facilitate its labours:. — but a larger quantity is apt to oppress and^ encumber it; and as industry, which is ex- cited by the importation of the raw mnterial. may be superseded and extinguished by th( introduction of the fiinshed manufacture, s<^ the minds which are stimulated to activitj by a certain measure of instraction may unquestionably, be reduced to a state of pas- 4 MADAME DE STAEL HOLSTEIN. 47 sive and languid acquiescence, by a more profuse and redundant supply. JMadarne de Stael, and the other advocates of her system, talk a great deal of the pro- digious advantage of having the results of the laborious discoveries of one generation made matters of familiar and elementary know- ledge in another; and for practical utility, it may be so ; but nothing, we conceive, can be so completely destructive of all intellec- tual enterprise, and all force and originality of thinking, as this very process, of the re- duction of knowledge to its results, or the multiplication of those summary and accessi- ble jueces of infonnation in which the stu- dent IS saved the whole trouble of investig-a- tion, and put in possession of the prize, with- 3Ut either the toils or the excitement of the x»utest. This, in the first place, necessarily nakes the prize much less a subject of ex- iltation or delight to him ; for the chief plea- sure is in the chase itself, and not in the ob- ect which it pursues ; and he who sits at iprae, and has the dead game brought to the iide of his chair, will be very apt, we be- ieve, to reg-ard it as nothing better than an mfragrant vermin. But, in the next place, it loes him no good ; for he misses altogether he invigorating exercise, and the invaluable raining- to habits of emulation and sagucity .nd courage, for the sake of which alone the tursuit is deserving of applause. And, in he last place,. he not only fails in this way 3 acquire the qualities that may enable him } run dovvn knowledge for himself, but nec- ssarily tinds himself without taste or induce- lent for such exertions. He thinks, and in ne sense he thinks justly, that if the proper bject of study be to acquire knowledge, he m employ his time much more profitably 1 implicitly listening to the discoveries of ihers, than in a laborious attempt to discover )methiug for himself. It is infinitely more Ltiguing to think, than to remember: and icomparably shorter to be led to an object, ian to explore our own way to it. It is in- mceivable what an obstruction this fur- 'shes to the original exercise of the under- auding in a certain state of information ; and )w effectually the general diffusion of easily !cessible knowledge operates as a bounty Don indolence and mental imbecility. — Tiere the quantity of approved and collected lowledge is already very great in any coun- y, it is naturally required of all well edu- .ted persons to possess a considerable share it ; and where it has also been made very icessible. by being reduced to its summary d ultimate results, an astonishing variety those abstracts may be stowed away in ! memory, with scarcely any fatigue or fircise to the. other faculties. The whole iss of attainable intelligence, however, must U be beyond the reach of any individual; d he may go on, therefore, to the end of a ig and industrious life, constantly acquir- '" J knowledge in this ch^ap and expeditious •"'Unner. But if, in the course of these pas- '<'e and humble researches, he should be '""inpted to iixcjuire a little for himself; he cannot fail to be struck with the prodigious waste of time, and of labour, that is neces- sary for the attainment of a very inconsider- able portion of original knowledge. His pro- gress is as slow as that of a man who is making a road, compared with that of those who afterwards travel over it ; and he feels, that in order to make a very small advance in one dejiartment of study, he must consent to sacrifice very great attahunents in others. He is disheartened, too, by the extreme in- sigiuficance of any thing that he can expect to contribute, when compared with the great store that is already in possession of the pub- lic ; and is extremely apt to conclude, that it is not only safer, but more profitable to fol- low, than to lead ; and that it is fortunate for the lovers of wisdom, that our ancestors have accumulated enough of it for our use, as well as for their own. But while the general diffusion of know- ledge tends thus powerfully to repress all original and independent speculation in indi- viduals, it operates still more powerfully in rendering the public indifferent and unjust to their exertions. The treasures they have in- herited from their predecessors are so ample, as not only to take away all disposition to labour for their farther increase, but to lead them to undei-value and overlook any little addition that may be made to them by the voluntary offerings of individuals. The works of the be,st models are perpetually before their eyes, and their accumulated glory in their re- membrance ; the very variety of the sorts of excellence which are constantly obtruded on their notice, renders excellence itself cheap and vulg-ar in their estimation. As the mere possessors or judges of such things, they are apt to ascribe to themselves a character of superiority, which renders any moderate per- fomiance unworthy of their reg-ard ; and their cold and languid famiharity with what is best, ultimately produces no other effect than to render them insensible to its beauties, and at the same time intolerant of all that appears to fall short of it. In such a condition of society, it is ob-vious that men must be peculiarly dismcluied from indulging in those bold and original specula- tions, for which their whole training had pre- viously disqualified them : and we appeal to our readers, whether there are not, at thi.s day, apparent sjinptoms of such a condition of so- ciety. A childish love of novelty may indeed give a transient popularity to works of mere amusement: but the age of original genius, and of comprehensive and independent rea- soning, seems to be over. Instead of such works as those of Bacon, and Shakspeare, and Taylor, and Hooker, we have Encyclopaedias, and geographical compilations, and county histories, and new editions of black letter au- thors — and trashy biographies and posthumous letters — and disputations upon prosody — and ravings about orthodoxy and methodism. Men of general information and curiosity seldom thijik of adding to the knowledge that is already in the world ; and tlit- :i;!'enor persons upon -vi-hom that task is consequently devolved, 48 LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPHY. cany it on. for the most part, bj- means of that minute subdivision of labour which is the great secret of the mechanical arts, but can never be introduced into literature without depriving its higher branches of all force, dig- nity, or iin}x)rtance. One man spends his life in improving a method of dyeing cotton red • — another in adding a few insects to a cata- logue which nobody reads j — a third in settling the metres of a few Greek Choruses ; — a fourth in decyphering illegible romances, or old grants of farms: — a fifth in picking rotten bones out of the earth; — a si.xth in describing all the old walls and hillocks in his parish ; — and five hundred others hi occupations equal- ly liberal and important : each of them being, for the most part, profoundly ignorant of eveiy thing out of his own narrow department, and very generally and deservedly despised, by his competitors for the favour of that public — which despises and supports them all. Such, however, it appears to us, is the state of mind that is naturally produced by the great accumulation and general diffusion of various sorts of knowledge. Men learn, in- stead of reasoning. Instead of meditating, they remember: and, in place of the glow of inventive genius, or the warmth of a generous admiration, nothing is to be met with, in so- ciety, but timidity on the one hand, and fas- tidiousness on the other — a paltry accuracy, and a more paltry derision — a sensibility to small faults, and an incapacity of great merits — a disposition to exaggerate the value of knowledge that is not to be used, and to un- derrate the importance of powers which have ceased to exist. If these, however, are the consequences of accumulated and diffused knowledge, it may well be questioned whether the human intellect wnll gain in point of dig- nity and energy by the only certain acquisi- tions to which we are entitled to look forward. For our own part, we will confess we have no such expectations. There will be improve- ments, we make no doubt, in all the mechani- cal and domestic arts; — better methods of working metal, and preparing cloth; — more commodious vehicles, and more efficient im- plements of war. Geography will be made more complete, and astronomy more precise ; — natural history will be enlarged and di- gested; — and perhaps some little improve- ment suggested in tlie forms of administering law. But as to any general enlargement of the luiderstanding, or more prevailing vigour of judimient, we will own, that the tendency seems to be all the other way ; and that we think strong sense, and extended views of human affairs, are more likely to be found, and to be listened to at this moment, than two or three hundred years hereafter. The truth is, we suspect, that the vast and endur- ing products of the virgin soil can no longer be reared in that factitious mould to which cultivation has since given existence ; nnd that its forced and deciduous progeny will go on degenerating, till some new deluge shall re- store the vigour of the glebe by a temporary destruction of all its generations. Hitherto we have spoken only of the higher and more instructed classes of society, — to whom it is reasonable to suppose that the per- fection of wisdom and happiness will come first, in their progress through the whole race of men: and we have seen what reason there is to doubt of their near approadi. The lower orders, however, we tliink, have still less good fortune to reckon on. In the ^^ hole history of the specie.'^, there has been nothing at all comparable to the improvement of Eng- land within the last century; never any\\here was there such an increase of wealth and lux- ury — so many admirable inventions in the arts — so many works of learning and inge- nuity — such a progress in cultivation — such an enlargement of commerce: — and yet. in that century, the number of paupers in Eng- ; land has increa.sed fourfold, and is now rated at one tenth of her whole population ; and, j notwithstanding the enormous sums that are | levied and given privately for their relief, and i the m.ultitudes that are drahied oil by the j waste of war, the peace of the country is per- petually threatened by the outrages of tarn- ishing multitudes. This fact of ilstjf is deci- sive, we think, as to the effect of general refinement and intelligence on the condition of the lower orders; but it is not difficult to trace the steps of its operation. Increasing refinement and ingei uity lead naturally to the establishment of n;annfac- tures; and not only enable society to spare a great proportion of its agricultuial labourers for this pinpo.'se, but actually encourage the breeding of an additional population, to be maintained out of the profits of this new oc- cupation. For a time, too, this answers : anc the artisan shares in the conveniences to w hie? his labours have contributed to give 1-iirh but it is in the very nature of the mai.iifac turhig system, to be liable to great fluetn;iti(in occasional check, and possible destnictjii and at all events, it has a tendency to j reiliici a greater population than it can pein.ami.il; support in comfort or pro.sperity. The ;ivi in-ji rate of wages, for the last forty \iin<. Im been insufficient to maintain a labuurei wit] a tolerably large family : — and yet such liav' been the occa.«ional fluctuations, and such ;h sanm-iine calculations of persons uicapaMe o taknig a comprehensive view of the w ho]£ that the manufacturing population hr.s bee prodigiously hicreased in the same period. 1 is the interest of the manufacturer to kee this pojndation in excess, as the only sur means of keeping wages low; and A\herev( the means of subsistence are uncertain, an liable to variation, it seems to be the genen law of our nature, that the population slieul be adapted to the highest, and not to th average rate of supply. In India, where a dr season used to produce a failure of the cro] once in eVery ten or twelve yea is, the ] opi lation was always up to the mias-ure of th greatest abundance: and in manufacturir countries, the miscalculation is still more sai guine and erroneous. Such countries, then fore, are always overpeopled; and it seems ' be the necessary effect of hicreasing talent ar refinement, to convert all countries ijato [h i MADAME DE STAEL HOLSTEIN. denomination. China, the oldest manufacturing nation in the world, and by far the greatest that ever existed with the use of little machinery, has always suffered from a reduntlant popula- tion, and has always kept the largest part of its inhabitants in a state of the greatest poverty. The effect then which is produced on the lower orders of society, by that increase of industry and refinement, and that multiplica- tion of conveniences which are commonly looked upon as the surest tests of increasing prosperity, is to convert the peasants into manufacturers, and the manufacturers into paupers; while the chance of their ever emerging from this condition becomes con- stantly less, the more complete and mature [he system is which had originally produced it. When manufactures are long established, md thoroughly understood, it will always be found, that persons possessed of a large capi- :al. can carry them on upon lower profits than Dersons of any other description ; and the latural tendency of this system, therefore, is throw the whole business into the hands )f great capitalists : and thus not only to render t nt>\t to impossible for a common workman aitvance himself into the condition of a naster. but to drive from the competition the :realer part of those moderate dealers, by vhixi' prosperity alone the general happiness t" the nation can be promoted. The state of lie operative manufacturers, therefore, seems very day more hopelessly stationary: and !i;it great body of the people, it appears to s, is likely to grow into a fixed and degraded •fi!i\ out of which no person can hope to es- t[>^ who has once been enrolled among its lembers. They cannot look up to the rank :f master manufacturers: because, without onsiderable capital, it will every day be more npnssible to eng"age in that occupation — and ick they cannot go to the labours of agricul- •jc. because there is no demand for their ■ivjcps. The improved system of farming, iiiiishes an increased produce with many ■wcr hands than were formerly employed in "ocuringa much smaller return : and besides I this, the lower population has actually in- eased to a far greater amount th^n ever was 'iiiy time employed in the cultivation of the •ouml. To remedy all these evils, which are likel)-, • wc conceive, to be aggravated, rather than liHved, by the general progress of refinement ul intelligence, we have little to look to but '• I'iMieficial effects of this increasing intelli- upon the lower orders themselves; — .:■ are far from undervaluing this iiillu- By the universal adoption of a good -it-ni of education, habits of foresight and 'i'-eontrol, and rigid economy, may in time lonbt be pretty generally introduced, in- I I of the improvidence and profligacy 1 lb too commonly characterize the larger ■ si'mblages of our manufacturing population : : d if these lead; as they are likely to do, to e general institution of Friendly Societies i d banks for savings among the workmen, a ieat palliative will have been provided for 1 3 disadvantages of a situation, which must 7 always be considered as one of the least for- tunate which Providence has assigned to any of the human race. There is no end, however, we find, to these speculations; and we must here close our re- marks on perfectibility, without touching upon the PoUiicol changes which are likely to be produced by a long course of progressive re- finements and scientific improvement — though we are afraid that an enlightened anticipation woultl not be much more cheering in this view, than in any of those we have hitherto considered. Luxury and refinement have a tendency, we fear, to make men sensual and selfish; and, in that state, increased talent and intelligence is apt only to render them more mercenary and servile. • Among the prejudices which this kind of philosophy roots out, that of patriotism, we fear, is generally among the first to be surmounted ; — and then, a dangerous opposition to power, and a sacri- fice of interest to afiection, speedily come to be considered as romantic. Arts are discov- ered to palliate the encroachments of arbitrary power: and a luxurious, patronizing, and vicious monarchy is firmly established amidst the adulations of a corrupt nation. But we must proceed at last to Madame de Stael's History of Literature. Not knowing any thing of the Egyptians and Phoenicians, she takes the Greeks for the first inventors of literature — and explains many of their peculiarities by that supposition. The first development of talent, she says, is in Poetry; and the first poetry consists in the rapturous description of striking objects in na- ture, or of the actions and exploits that are then thought of the greatest importance. There is little reflection — nO nice development of feeling or character — and no sustained strain, of tenderness or moral emotion in this primitive poetry ; which charms almost en- tirely by the freshness and brilliancy of its colourhig — the spirit and naturalness of its representations — and the air of freedom and facility with which every thing is executed. This, was the age of Homer. After that, though at a long interval, came the age of Pericles : — When human nature was a little more studied and regarded, and poetry re- ceived accordingly a certain cast of thought- fulness, and an air of labour — eloquence began to be artful, and the rights and duties of men to be subjects of meditation and uiquiry. This, therefore, was the era of the tragedians, the orators, and the first ethical philosophers. Last came the age of Alexander, when science had superseded fancy, and all the talent of the country was turned to the pursuits of philosophy. This, Madame de Stael thinks, is the natural progress of literature in all countries ; and that of the Greeks is only dis- tinguished by their having been the first that pursued it, and by the peculiarities of their mythology, and their political relations. It is not quite clear indeed that they were the first ; but Madame de Stael is very eloquent upon that supposition. The state of society, however, in those early times, was certainly such as to impress very flO LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPHY. strongly on the mind those objects and occur- rences which fonned the first materials of poetry. The uitercourse with distant coun- tries being difficult and dangerous, the legends of the traveller were naturally invested with more than the modern allowance of the mar- vellous. The smallness of the civilized states connected every individual in them with, its leaders, and made him personally a debtor for the protection which thi'ir prowess afforded from the robbers and wild beasts which then infested the unsubdued earth. Gratitude and terror, thercsfore, combined to excite the spirit of enthusiasm ; and the same ignorance which imputed to the direct agency of the gods, the more rare and dreadful phenomena of nature, gave a charaofcer of supernatural greatness to the reported exploits of their heroes. Philoso- phy, which has led to the exact investigation of causes, has robbed the world of much of its sublimity; and by preventing us from be- lieving much, and from wondering at any thing, has taken away half our enthusiasm, and more than half our admiration. The purity of taste which characterizes the very earlie.st poetry of the Greeks, seems to us more difficult to be accounted for. Madame de Stael ascribes it chiefly to the influence of their copious mythology ; and the eternal presence of those Gods — which, though al- ways about men, were always above them, and gave a tone of dignity or elegance to the whole scheme of their existence. Their tra- gedies were acted in temples — in the sup- posed presence of the Gods, the fate of whose descendants they commemorated, and as a part of the religious solemnities instituted in their honour. Their legends, in like manner. related to the progeny of the immortals : and their feasts — their dwellings — their farming — their battles — and every incident and occupa- tion of their daily life being under the imme- diate sanction of some presiding deity, it was scarcely possible to speak of them in a vulgar or inelegant manner; and the nobleness of their style therefore appeared to result natu- rally from the elegance of their mythology. Now, even if we conld pass over the ob- vious objection, that this mythology was itself a creature of the same poetical imagination which it is here supposed to have modified, it is impossible not to observe, that thougli the circumstances now alluded to may ac- count for the raised and lofty tonf; of the Gre- cian poetry, and for the exclusion of low or familiar life from their dramatic representa- tions, it will not explain the far more substan- tial ijidications of pure taste afforded by the absence of all that gross exaggeration, violent incongruity, and tedious ami childish extrava- gance which are found to deform the primi- tive poetry of most other nations. The Hin- doos, for example, have a mythology at least as copious, and still more closely interwoven with every action of their Hves: But their le- gends are the very models of bad taste; and unite all the detestable attributes of obscurity, puerility, insufferable tediousness. and the most revolting anti al)()minabl(; absurdity. The poetry of the northern bards is not much more commendable : But the Greeks are won- derfully rational and moderate in all their works of imagination ; and speak, for the most }>art, with a degree of justness and brevity, which is only the more marvellous, when it is considered how much religion had to do in the business. A better explanation, perhaps, of their superiority, may be derived from recol- lecting that the sins of affectation, and inju- dicious effort, really cannot be committed where there are no models to be at once co- pied and avoided. The first writers naturally took possession of what was most striking, and most capable of producing eflect, in na- ture and in incident. Their successors con- sequently found these occupied ; and were obliged, for the credit of their originality, to produce something which should be different, at least, if not better, than their originals. They had not only to adhere to nature, there- fore, but to avoid representing her exactly as she had been represented by their predeces- sors; and when they could not accomplish both these objects, they contrived, at least, to make sure of the last. The early Greeks had but one task to perfoim: they were in na danger of comparisons, or imputations of pla- giarism ; and wrote down whatever struck them as just and impressive, without fear of finding that they had been stealing from a predecessor. The wide world, in short, was before them, unappropriated and unmarked by any preceding footstep; and they took their way. without hesitation, by the most airy heights and sunny valleys ; while those who came after, found it so seamed and crossed with tracks in which they were forbidden to tread, that they were frequently driven to make the most fantastic circuits and abrupt descents to avoid them. The cliaracteristic defects of the early Greek poetry are all to be traced to the same general causes, — the peculiar state of society, and that newness to which they were indebt- ed for its principal beauties. They describe every thing, because nothing had been ])re- viou.«ly described; and incumber their whole diction with epithets that convey no inlbrma- tion. There is no reach of thought, or fine- ness of sensibility, because reflection had not yet awakened the deeper sympathies of tlieir| nature ; and we are perpetually shocked with the imperfections of their morality, and tha indelicacy of their affections, because society had not subsisted long enough in peace ;uid security to develop those finer vsuurces of emotion. These defects are most conspicuous, in every thing that relates to women. They, had absolutely no idea of that mixture of friendship, veneration, and desire, which indicated by the word Love, in the modern languages of Europe. The love of the Greek tragedians, is a species of insanity or frenzy.— a blind and ungovernable impulse inflicted b} the Gods in their vengeance, and leading iti| humiliated victim to the commission of al| sorts of enormities. Racine, in his Phadrtj I has ventured to exhibit a love of this descripi I tion on a mo(lf>ru stage ; but the soitrnings o, I deUcate feeling — the tenderness and prolbun'j hi MADAME DE STAEL HOLSTEIN. affliction which he has been forced to add to the fatal impulse of the original character, sho%v, more strongly than any thing else, the radical difference between the ancient and the modem conception of the piiso^ion. The Political institutions of Greece hadalso a remarkable effect on their literature; and nothing can show this so strongly as the strik- ing contrast bet\\een Athens and Sparta — E laced under the same sky — with the same inguage and religion — and yet so opposite in their govermrient and in their literary pur- suits. The ruling passion of the Athenians was that of amusement; for. though the emulation of glory was more lively among them than among any other people, it was still subortlinate to their rapturous admiration of successful talent. Their law of ostracism is a proof, how much thej- were afraid of their own propensity to idolize. They could not -trust themselves in the presence of one who had become too popular. This propensity ilso has had a sensible effect upon their poetry ; and it should never be forgotten, that t was not composed to be read and studied md criticized in the solitude of the closet, ike the works that have been produced since he invention of printing ; but to be recited to Tiusic, before multitudes assembled at feasts md high solemnities, where every thing fa- •oured the kindling and diffusion of that en- hu^^iasm, of which the history now seems to IS ^o incredible. There is a separate chapter on the Greek Irama — wliich is full of brilliant and original bservations; — though we have already antic- jated the substance of many of them. The •reat basis of its peculiarity, was the constant iterposition of the Gods. Almost all the iolenl passions are represented as the irre- istible inspirations of a superior power; — Iniost all their extraordinary actions as the ilfilment of an oracle — the accomplishment f an unrelenting destiny. This probably ' dded to the awfulness and terror of the rep- ^sentation, in an audience which believed nplicitly in the reality of those dispensations. ut it has impaired their dramatic excellence, \' dispensing them too much from the ne- 'ssity of preparing their catastrophes by a adation of natural events, — the exact de- lieation of character, — and the touching rep- - 'sentation of those preparatory struggles hich precede a resolution of horror. Orestes lis his mother, and Electra encourages him the deed, — without the least indication, in 'ther, of that poig-nant remorse which after- ' 'ards avenges the parricide. No modern ■amatist could possibly have omitted so im- : Ttant and natural a part of the exhibition ; — it the explanation of it is found at once in :- 'e ruling superstition of the age. Apollo had !' ■mmanded the murder — and Orestes could ' It hesitate to obey. When it is committed, . ' ^ Furies are commissioned to pursue him ; i d the audience shudders with reverential i e at the torments they inflict on their victim. • I'lman sentiments, and human motives, have !. It little to do in bringing about these catas- t phes. They are sometimes suggested by the Chorus;— but the heroes themselves act always by the order of the Gods. Accord- ingly, the authors of the most atrocious actions are "seldom represented in the Greek trag-edies as properly gijihy, but only aspiacular; — and their general moral is rather, that the Gods are omnipotent, than that crimes should give rise to punishment and detestation. A great part of the effect of these represen- tations must have depemled on the exclusive national ity_of their subjects, and the extreme nationality of their auditors; though it is a striking remark of JNladame de Stael, that the Greeks, after all. were more national than re- publican, — and were never actuated with that profound hatred and scorn of tyranny wliich afterwards exalted the Roman character. Al- most all their tragic subjects, accordingly, are taken from the misfortunes of kings ; — of kings descended from the Gods, and upon whose genealogy the nation still continued to pride itself. The fate of the Tarquins could never have been regarded at Rome as a worthy oc- casion either of pity or horror. Republican sentiments are occasionally introduced into the Greek Choruses ; — though we cannot agree with Madame de Stael in considering these mu- sical bodies as intended to represent the people. It is in their comedy, that the defects of the Greek literature are most conspicuous. The world was then too young to supply its mate- rials. Society had not existed long enough, either to develop the finer shades of character in real life, or to generate the talent of ob- serving, generalizing, and representing them. The national genius, and the form of govern- ment, led them to delight ui detraction and popular abuse ; for though they admired and applauded their great men, they had not in their liearts any great respect lor them ; and the degradation or seclusion in which they kept their -women, took away almost all inte- rest or elegance from the intercourse of private life, and reduced its scenes of gaiety to those of coarse debauch, or broad and humourous de- rision. The extreme coarseness and vulgarity of Aristophanes, is apt to excite our wonder, when we first consider him as the contempo- rary of Euripides, and Socrates, and Plato ; — but the truth is. that the Athenians, after all, were but an ordinary populace as to moral delicacy and social refinement. Enthusiasm, and especially the enthusiasm of superstition and nationality, is as much a passion of the vulgar, as a delight in ribaldry and low buf- foonery. The one was gratified by their tragedy; — and the comedy of Aristophanes was exactly calculated to give delight to the other. In the end, however, their love of buffoonery and detraction unfortunately proved too strong for their nationality. When Philip was at their gates, all the eloquence of Demos- thenes could not rouse them from their the- atrical dissipations. The great danger whicn they always apprehended to their hberties, was from the excessive power and popularity of one of their own great men ; and, by a singular fatality, they perished, from a profli- gate indifference and insensibility to the charms of patriotism and greatness. LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPHY. In philosophy, ^Madame de Stael does not rank the Greeks very high. The greater part of them, indeed, were orators and poets, rather than piofound thinkers, or exact in- quirers. They discoursed rhetorically upon vague and abstract ideas : and. up to the time of Aristotle, proceeded upon the radical error of substituting hypothesis for observation. That eminent person first showed the use and the necessity of analysis; and did infinitely more for posterity than all tlie mystics thai went before him. As their stales were small, and their domestic life inelegant, men seem to have been considered almost e.xclusivcly in their relations to the public. There is, accordingly, a noble air of patriotism and de- voted ness to the common weal in all the mo- rality of the ancients ; and though Socrates .set the example of fixing the principles of virtue for private life, the ethics of Plato, and Xenophon, and Zeno, and most of the other philosophers, are little else than treatises of political duties. In modern times, from the prevalence of monarchical government, and the great extent of societies, men are very generally loosened from their relations with the pubhc, and are but too much ejigrossed with their private interests and aflections. This may be venial, when they merely forget the state. — by which they are forgotten ; but it is base and fatal, when they are guided by those interests in the few public functions they have still to perform. After all, the morality of the Greeks was very clumsy and imperfect. In political science, the variety of their govern- ments, and the perpetual play of war and nego- tiation, had made tiiem more expert. Their historians narrate with spirit and simplicity; and this is their merit. They make scarcely any re/lections: and are marvellously indiffer- ent as to vice or virtue. They reeortl the most atrocious and most heroic actions — the most disirnsting crimes and most exem])lary gener- osity — with the same Irancjuil accuracy with which they would ch\scribe the succession of storms and .sunshine. Thucydides is some- what of a higher pitch; but the imir.ense dif- ference between him and Tacitus proves, better perhaps than any general reasoning, tlie j)n)gress which hail been made in the interim m the powers of reflection and observation : and how near the Greeks, with all their boasted attainments, should be placed to the intellectual infancy of the species. In all their productions, indeed, the fewness of their ideas is remarkable; antl their most impres- sive writings may be compared to the niusie of certain rude nations, which produces the most astonishing efl'ects by the combination of not more than four or five simple notes. Madame de Stncl now proceeds to the Ro- mans — who will not detain us by any means so long. Their literature was confessedly borrowed from that of Greece ; for little is ever invented, where borrowini:- will serve the purposi! : Hut it was marked with several dis- tinctions, to which alone it is now necessary to atti'iid. In the first place — and this is very remarkable — the Romans, contrary to the custom of all other nations, began their career of letters with pliilosophy ; and the cause of this peculiarity is very characteristic of the nation. They had subsisted longer, and ef- fected more, without literature, than any other people on record. They had become a great state, wisely constituted and skilfully admin- istered, long before any one of their citizens | had ever appeared as an author. The love i of their country was the passion of each indi- vidual — the greatness of the Roman name the object of their pride and enthusiasm. Studies which had no reference to political objects, theri^fore, could find no favour in their eyes; and it was from their subserviency to po])ular ; and senatorial oratory, and the aid which they promised to afford in the management of fac- ■ lions and national concerns, that they were first led to li.sten to the lessons of the Greek philoso))hers. Nothing else could have in- duced Cato to enter upon such a study at such an advanced perioil ol life. Though tlie Ro- mans borrowed their pliilosophy from the Greek.s, however, they made much more use of it than their masters. They carried into tlieir practice much of what the others con- tented themselves with setting down in their books ; and thus came to attain much more precise notions of practical duty, than could ever be invented by mere di.scoursers. The philosophical writings of Cicero, though iu- . r cumbered with the subtleties of his Athen- ' ian preceptors, contain a much more complete code of morality than is to be found in all the volumes of the Greeks — though it may be doubted, whether his political information and acuteness can be compared with that of Aris- totle. It was the philosophy of the Stoics, however, that g-ained the hearts of the Ro- mans ; for it was that which fell in with their national habits and dispositions. The same character and the same national institutions that led them to adopt the Greek philosophy instead of their poetry, restrained them from the imitation of their theatrical excesses. As their free government was strictly aristocratical, it could never permit its legitimate chiefs to be held up to mockery on the sta<>e, as the democratical licence of the Athenians held up the pretendeis to theii favour. But. independently of this, the .«eveie dignity of the Roman chaiacter, and the deepe: respect and premier afl'ection they entertaineijjij for all that exalted the glory of their country-llr, woulil at all events have interdicted such in' decorous and humiliating exhibitions. 'J"h( comedy of Aristophanes never could havi been tolerated at Rome : and though Plautu and Terence were allowed to imitate, or rathe to translate, the more inotfensive dramas of; later age, it is remarkable, that they seldor ventured to subject even to that mitigatd. and more general ridicule any one invests witli the dignity of a Roman citizen. The man ners represente origin, that it was enriched by all that lowledge of the human heart, and those ibits of reflection, which had been generated . y the previous study of philosophy. There is liformly more thought, therefore, and more ivelopment, both of reason and of moral eling, in the poets of the Augustan age, than I :n- of their Greek predecessors ; and though repressed in a good degree by the remains of their national austerity, there is also a great deal more tenderness of affection. In spite of the pathos of some scenes in Euripides, and the melancholy passion of some frag- ments of Simonides and Sapjiho, there is no- thhig at all like the fourth book of Virgil, the Alcrnene, and Baucis and Philemon of Ovid, and some of the elegies of Tibullus. in the \\hole range of Greekliterature. The memory of their d'eparted freedom, too, conspired to give an air of sadness to much of the Roman poetry, and their feeling of the lateness of the age in which they were born. The Greeks thought only of the present and the future ; but the Romans had begun already to live in the past, and to make pensive reflections on the faded glory of mankind. The historians of this classic age, though they have more of a moral character than those of Greece, are still but superlicial teachers of wisdom. Their narration is more animated, and more pleas- ingly dramatised, by the orations with which it is interspersed ; — but they have neither the profound reflection of Tacitus, nor the power of explaining great events by general causes, which distinguishes the writers of modem times. The atrocious tyranny that darkened the earlier ages of the empire, gave rise to the third school of Roman Hterature. The suffer- ings to which men were subjected, turned their thoughts inward on their own hearts; and that philosophy which had first been courted as the handmaid of a generous ambi- tion, was now sought as a shelter and con- solation in misery. The maxims of the Stoics were ag-ain revived, — not, indeed, to stimulate to noble exertion, but to harden ag-ainst mis- fortune. Their lofty lessons of virtue were again repeated — but with a bitter accent of despair and reproach; and that indulgence, or indifference towards vice, which had charac- terised the first philosophers, was now con- verted, by the terrible experience of its evils, into vehement and gloomy invective. Seneca, Tacitus, Epictetus, all fall under this descrip- tion ; and the same spirit is discernible in Juvenal and Lucan. Much more profound views of human nature, and a far greater mo- ral sensibility characterise thisage, — and show that even the unspeakable degradation to \\hich the abuse of power had then sunk the mistress of the world, could not arrest alto- gether that intellectual progress which gathers its treasures from all the varieties of human fortune. Quintilian and the two Phnys afford further evidence of this progress; — for they are, in point of thought and accuracy, and profound sense, conspicuously superior to any writers upon similar subjects in the days of Augustus. Poetry and the fme arts languish- ed, indeed, under the rigours of this blasting despotism : — and it is honourable, on the whole, to the memory of their former great- ness, that so few Roman poets should have sullied their pens by any traces of adulation towards the monsters who then sat in the place of power. We pass over Madame de Stael's view of £2 54 LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPHY. the middle ages, and of the manner in which the mixture of the northern and southern races amehorated the intellect and the morality of both. One great c therf that the mannscrijit.s — the monnmeni — the works of art of the imperial natioi were lost ; — and it was there, of course, thi i MADAME DE STAEL HOLSTEIN. 55 they were ultimately recovered. The re- searches necessary for this, required authority and money; and they were begun, accord- ingly, under the patronage of princes and academies: — circumstances favourable to the accumulation of knowledge, and the forma- tion of mere scholars— but adverse to the development of original genius. The Italians, according-ly, have been scholars, and have furnished the rest of Europe with the im- plements of liberal study; but they have achieved little for themselves in the high philosophy of politics and morals — though they have to boast of Galileo, Cassini, and a long list of celebrated names in the physical sciences. In treating of subjects of a large and commanding interest, they are almost always bombastic and shallow. Nothing, in- deetl, can be more just or acute than the following delineation of this part of their character. " Les Italiens, accoutumcs souvent a ne rien croire et a tout proiesser, se sent bieii plus e.xerces dans la plaisaiiterie que dans le raisonnenient. lis se moquent de leiir propre nianiere d'etre. Qiiand lis veulent renoncer a leur talent naturel, a I'esprit comiqiie, pour essayer de I'eloquence oratoire, lis ont presque toujours de lafl'ectaiion. Les souvenirs d'une grandeur passce, sans aucun sentiment de grandeur presente, produisent le gigantesque. I,es Italiens aurnieiii de la dignite, si la plus sombre :ristesse forinoit leur caractere ; mats quaiid les juccesseurs des Remains, prives de tout eclat na- ioiial, do toute liberie politique, sont encore un des Deuples les plus gais de la terre, ils ne peuvent ivoir aucun elevation naturelle. ■' Les Italiens se moquent dans leur contes, et iouvent meme sur le theatre, des prctres, auxquels Is sont d'ailleurs eniierenient a.^servis. M;iis ce I'est point sous un point de vue philosophique qu'ils itiaquent les abus de la religion. lis n'ont pas, ;onmie quelques-uns de nosecrivains, le but de re- "ornier les defauis dont ils plaisanient ; cc qu'ils /eulent seulement, c'est s'amuser d'autant plus lue le sujet est plus serieu.x. Leurs opinions sont, laiis le fond, assez opposees a tous les genres ,l'aaioriie au.xquels ils sont soumis; mais cet esprit I'opposiiion n'a de force que ce qu'il faut pour )ouvoir mepriscr ceu.x qui les commandeiit. C'est ■a ruse des enfans envers leurs pedagogues ; ils leur !»beissent, a condition qu'il leur soit permis de s'en fnoquer." — p. 248. In poetry, however, the brilliant imag-ina- ion of the South was sure to re-assert its launs to admiration ; and the first great ■)oets of modern Italy had the advantage of opening up a new career for their talents, 'uftical fiction, as it is now known in Europe, - to have had two distinct sources. 2 the fierce and illiterate nations of .' North, nothing had any chance of being- si ciied to, that did not relate to the feats of >ar ill which it was their sole ambition to \l' ■! ; and poetical invention was forced to i-'.)l:iy itself in those legends of chivaiiy, .!i.' h contain merely an e.xaggerated picture ■ m^s that were familiar to all their audi- Iii Asia, again, the terrors of a san- M y despotism had driven men to express t-motions, and to insinuate their moral . niitioiiR, in the form of apologues and iuies: and as these necessarily took a very '"ild and improbable course, their fictions issumed a much more extravagant and va- ried form than those of the northern roman- cers. The two styles however were brought together, partly by the ellect of the crusades, and partly by the INIoorish settlement in Spain ; and Ariosto had the merit of first combining them into one, in that miraculous poem, which contains more painting, more variety, and more imagination, than any other poem in existence. The fictions of Boyardo are more purely in the taste of the Orientals; and Tasso is imbued far more deeply with the spirit and manner of the Augustan classics. The false refinements, the concetti, the in- genious turns and misplaced subtlety, which have so long been the reproach of the Italian literature, Madame de Slael ascribes to their early study of the Greek Theologians, and later Platonists, who were so much in I'avour at the first revival of learning. The nice distinctions and sparkling sophistries which these gentlemen applied, with considerable success, in argument, were unluckily trans- ferred, by Petiaich, to subjects of love and gallantry ;. and the fashion was set of a most unnatural alliance between wit and passion — ingenuity and profound emotion, — which has turned out, as might have been expected, to the discredit of both the contracting parties. AVe admit the fact, and its consequences : but we do not agree as to the causes which are here supposed to have produced it. VVe really do not think that the polemics of Constanti- nople are answerable for this extravagance ; and have little doubt that it originated in that desire to impress upon their productions the visible marks of labour and art. which is felt by almost all artists in the infancy of the study. As all men can speak, and set words together in a natural order, it was likely to occur to those A\ho first made an art of com- position, and challenged general admiration for an arrangement of words, that it was necessary to make a very strong and con- spicuous distinction between their composi- tions and ordinary and casual discourse ;. and to proclaim to the most careless reader or hearer, that a great difficulty had been sur- mounted, and something eiTected which every one was not in a condition to accomplish. This feeling, we have no doubt, first gave occasion to versification in all languages ; and will serve to account, in a good degree, for the priority of metrical to prose compositions: but where versification was remarkably easy, or already familiar, some visible badge of artifice would also be required in the thought j and, accordingly, there seems to have been a certain stage in the progress of almost all literature, in which this excess has been com- mitted. In Italy, it occurred so early as the time of Petrarch. In France, it became con- spicuous ill the writings of Voiture, Balsac, and all that coterie ; ami in England, in Cow- ley, Donne, and the whole tribe of nieta- phy.sical poets. Simplicity, in short, is the last attainment of progressive literature ; and men are very long afraid of being natural, from 'the dread of being taken for ordinary. There is a simplicity, indeetl, that is antece- dent to the existence of anything like litei-ary LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPHY. ambition or critical taste in a nation. — the sim- plicity of the primitive ballads and legends of all rude nations ; but after a certain degree of taste has been created, and composition has become an object of pretty general atten- tion, simplicity is sure to be despised for a considerable period ; and indeed, to be pretty uniformly violated in practice, even after it is restored to nominal hoaoui- and veneration. We do not, however, agree the less cordial- ly with Madame de Stael in her remarks upon tae irreparable injury which affectation does .to taste and to chaiacter. The following is marked with all her spirit and sagacity. " L'aflectaiion est de lous les dcfauts dcs carac- teres et dcs ecrits, celui qui tarit de la inanii^re la plus irreparable la source de tout bien ; car elle blase sur la veriie meine, dont elle imite I'accent. Dans quelque eenre que ce soit, tous les mots qui ont servi a desldees fausses, ii do froides exagcra- tions, sont pendant long-temps frappes d'aridite ; et telle langue meme peut perdre eniierement la puissance d'emouvoir sur lel siijei, si elle a t-tt' imp Bouvent prodiguee a ce sujet meme. Ainsi peut-eire I'ltalien est-il de toutes les langues de I'Europe la moins propre a Teloquence passionnee de i'amour, comme la noire est maintenant usee pour {'elo- quence de la libertc." — pp. 241, 242. Their superstition and tyrannj- — their in- quisition and arbitrary governments have ar- rested the progress of the Italians — as they have in a great degree prevented that of the Spaniards in the career of letters and philoso- phy. But for this, the Spanish genius would probably have gone far. Their early roman- ces show a grandeur of conception, and a gen- uine enthusiasm ; and their dramas, though irregular, are full of spirit and invention. Though bombastic and uiniatural in most of their serious compositions, their extravagance is not so cold and artificial as that of the Ital- ians; but seems rather to proceed from a natural exaggeration of the fancy, and an in- considerate straining after a magnificence which they had not skill or patience to attain. We come now to the literature of the North, — by which name Madame de Stael desig- nates the literature of England and Germany, and on which she passes an encomium which •we scarcely expected from a native of the South. She startles us a little, indeed, when she sets off with a dashing parallel between Homer and Ossian ; and proceeds to say, that the peculiar character of the northern litera- ture has all been derived from that Patriarch of the Celts, in the same way as that of the south of Europe may he ultimately traced back to the genius of Homer. It is certainly rather against this hypothesis, that the said Ossian has only been known to the readers and writers of the North for about forty years from the present day. and has not been' held in especial reverence by those who have most distinguished themselves in that short period. However, we shall suppose that Madame de Stael means only, that the style of Ossian re- unites the peculiarities that distinguish the northern school of letter.", and may be sup- posed to exhibit them such as they were before the introduction of the cla.sisical and southern models. We rather think she is right in saying, that there is a radical differ- ence in the taste and genius of the two re- gions; and that there is more melancholy, more tenderness, more deep feeling and tixed and lofty passion, engendered among the clouds and mountains of the North, than upon the summer seas or beneath the perfumed groves of the South. The causes of the dif- ference are not perhaps so satisfactorily sta- ted. Madame de Stael gives the thst place to the climate. Another characteristic is the hereditary independence of the northern tribes — arising partly from their scattered population and in- accessible retreats, and partly from the physi- cal force and hardihood which their way of life, and the exertions requisite to procure subsistence in those regions, necessarily pro- duced. Their religious creed, too, even be- fore their conversion to Christianity, was less fantastic, and more capable of leading to heroic emotions than that of the southern nations. The respect and tenderness with which they always regarded their women, is another cause (or effect) of the peculiarity of their national character : and. in later times, their general adoption of the Protestant faith has tended to confirm that chaiacter. For our own part, we are inclined to ascribe more weight to the last circumstance, than to all the others that have been mentioned ; and that not merely from the better education which it is the genius of Protestantism to bestow on the lower orders, but from the nec- essary effect of the universal study of the Scriptures which it enjoins. A very great proportion of the Protestant population of Europe is familiarly acijuainted with the Bi- ble ; and there are many who are acquainted with scarcely any other book. Now, the Bible is not only full of lessons of patience and humility and compassion, but abounds with a gloom}' and awful poetry, which can- not fail to make a powerful impression on minds that are not exposed to any other, and receive this under the persuasion of its divine origin. The peculiar character, therefore, which Madame de Stael has ascribed to the people of the North in geneml. will now be found, we believe, to belong only to such of them as profess the reformed religion : and to be discernible in all the communities that maintain that profession, Mithout much re- I crard to the degree of latitude which they in- I habit — thongh at the same time it is umle- ) niable, that its general adoption in the North ! must be ex])]aine(l by some of the more gene- I ral causes which we have shortly indicated above. I The ijreat fault which the French imiaite I to the writers of the North, is want of la.^te I and politt^iiess. They generally admit that I they have irenius : but contend that the\ (1( not know how to use it ; while thtir p:irl!-;!ii> maintain, that what is called want of t;i>t<' ij ] merelv excess of genius, and independi-nce ' of pedantic rules and authorities. Madamf de Stael, though admitting the transceiuien' merits of some of the English writers, take? part, upon the whole, against them in this MADAME DE STAEL HOLSTEIN. 57 controversy; and, after professing her unquali- fied preference of a piece compounded of great blemishes and great beauties, compared with one free of faults, but distinguished by little excellence, proceeds very wisely to remark, that it would be still better if the great faults were corrected — and that it is but a bad spe- cies of independence which manifests itself by being occasionally otlensive : ami then she attacks Shakespeai'e, as usual, for interspers- ing so many puerilities and absurdities and grossierctes with his sublime and pathetic passages. Now, there is no denying, that a poem vrould be better without faults ; and that ju- dicious painters use shades only to set off their pictures, and not blots. But there are two little remarks to be made. In the first place, if it be true that an extreme horror at faults is usually found to exclude a variety of beauties, and that a poet can .scarcely ever attain the higher excellencies of his art, with- out some degree of that rash and headlong confidence which naturally gives rise to blem- ishes and excesses, it may not be quite so absurd to hold, that this temperament and disposition, with all its hazards, deserves en- couragement, and to speak with indulgence of faults that are symptomatic of great beau- ties. There is a primitive fertility of soil that naturally throws out weed? along with the matchless crops which it alone can bear; and we might reasonably grudge to reduce its vigour for the sake of purifying its produce. There are certain savage virtues that can ! scarcely exist in perfection in a state of com- plete civilization; and, as specimens at least, we may wish to preserve, and be allowed to admire them, with all their e.vceptionable accompaniments. It is easy to say, that there is no necessary connection between the faults and the beauties of our great dramat- ist ; but the fact is, that since men have be- come afraid of falling into his faults, no one has approached to his beauties ; and we have already endeavoured, on more than one oc- casion, to explain the grounds of this con- ; nection. But our second remark is. hat it is not quite fair to represent the controversy as arising altogether from the excessive and undue in- dulgence of the English for the admitted faults of their favourite authors, and their per- sisting to idolize Shakespeare in spite of his biitlooneries. extravagancies, and bombast. We admit that he has those faults ; and, as they are faults, that he would be better with- out them : but there are many more things which the French call faults, but which Me deliberately consider as beauties. And here, wp suspect, the dispute does not admit of any settlement: Because both parties, if they are really sincere in their opinion, and understand the subject of discussion, may very well be riiiht. and for that very reason incapable of coming to any agreement. We consider taste to mean merely the faculty of receiving plea- sure from beauty ; and, so" far as relates to the person receiving that pleasure, we apprehend : it to admit of little doubt, that the best taste 8 is that which enables him to receive the greatest quantity of pleasure from the greatest number of things. With regard to the author again, or artist of any other description, who pretends to bestow the pleasure, his object of course should be, to give as much, and to as many persons as possible ; and especially to those who, from their rank and education, are likely to regulate the judgment of the re- mainder. It is his business therefore to as- certain what does please the greater part of such persons; and to fashion his productions according to the rules of taste which may be deduced from that discovery. Now, we hum- bly conceive it to be a complete and final jus- tification for the whole body of the English nation, who understand French as well as English and yet prefer Shakespeare to Racine, just to state, modestly and firmly, the fact of that preference; and to declare, that their habits and tempers, and studies and occupa- tions, have been such as to make them receive far greater pleasure from the more varied imagery — the more flexible tone — the closer imitation of nature — the more rapid succes- sion of incident; and vehement bursts of pas- sion of the English author, than from the unvarying majesty — the elaborate argument — and epigrammatic poetry of the French dra- matist. For the taste of the nation at large, we really cannot conceive that any other apol- ogy can be necessary; and though it might be very desirable that they should agree with their neighbours upon this point, as well as upon many others, we can scarcely imagine any upon which their disagreement could be attended with less inconvenience. For the authors, again, that have the misfortune not to be so much admired by the adjoining na- tions as by their own countrymen, we can only suggest, that this is a very common mis- fortune^ and that, as they wrote in the lan- guage of their country, and will probably be always most read within its limits, it was not perhaps altogether unwise or unpardonable in them to accommodate themselves to the taste which was there established. Madame de Stael has a separate chapter upon Shakespeare ; in which she gives him full credit for originality, and for having been the first, and perhaps the only considerable author, who did not copy from preceding models, but drew all his greater conceptions directly from his own feelings and observa- tions. His representations of human passions, therefore, are incomparably more true and touching, than those of any other writer ; and are presented, moreover, in a far more elemen- tary and simple state, and without any of those circumstances of dignity or contrast with which feebler artists seem to have held it indispensable that they should be set off. She considers him as the first writer who has ventured upon the picture of overwhelming sorrow and hopeless wretchedness; — that de- solation of the heart, which arises from the long contemplation of ruined hopes and irre- parable privation ; — that inward anguish and bitterness of soul which the public life of the ancients prevented them from feeling, and 58 LITEKATURE A.\D BIOGRAPHY. their stoical precepts interdicted ihem from disclosing. The German poets, and some succeeding English authors, have produced a prodigious effect by the use of this powerful instrumL'iit; but nothing can e.vceed the orig- inal sketches of it e.vhibited in Lear, in Ham- let, in Timon of Athens, and in some parts of Richard and of Othello. He has likewise drawn, with the hind of a master, the strug- gles of nature under the immediate contem- plation of approaching death; and that with- out those supports of conscious dignity or exertion with which all other writers have thought it necessary to blend or to contrast their pictures of this emotion. But it is in the excitement of the two proper tragic passions of pity and terror, that the force and origin- ality of his genius are most conspicuous ; pity not only for youth and iiniocence. and noble- ness and virtue, as in Imogen and Desdemona, Brutus and Cariolanus — but for insignificant persons like the Duke of Clarence, or profli- gate and worthless ones like Cardinal Wolsey ; — terror, in all its forms, from the madness of Lear, and the ghost of Hamlet, up to the dreams of Richard and Lady Macbeth. In comparing the effects of such delineations with the superstitious horror excited by the mythological persons of the Greek drama, the vast superiority of the English author cannot fail to be apparent. Instead of supernatural beings interfering with their cold and impas- sive natures, in the agitations and sufferings of men, Shakespeare employs only the magic of powerful passion, and of the illusions to which it gives birth. The phantoms and ap- paritions which he occasionally conjures up to add to the terror of the scene, are in truth but a bolder personification of those troubled dreams, and thick coming fancies, which har- row up the souls of guilt and agony : and even his sorcery and incantation are but traits of the credulity and superstition which so frequently accompany the exaltation of the greater passions. But perhaps the most mi- raculous of all his representations, are those in which ho has pourtrayed the wanderings of a disordered intellect, and especially of that species of distraction which arises from excess of sorrow. Instead of being purely terrible, those scenes are, in his hands, in the highest degree touching and pathetic ; and the wild.iess of fancy, and richness of imagery which they display, are even less admirable than the constant, though incoherent expres- sion of that one sentiment of agonizing grief Avhich had overborne all the faculties of the soul. Such are the chief beauties which Madame de Stael discovers in Shakespearii ; and thouyh they are not perhaps exactly what an English reader would think of brmging most into no- tice, it is interesting to know what strikes an inteilig-^nt foreigner, in pieces with which we ourselves have always been familiar. The chief fault she im]>utes to him, besides the mixtnr'^ of low buffoonery with tragic jmssion, are occasional tediousness and rep-tition — t )0 much visible horror and bloodshed — and the perso.ial deformity of Caliban and Richard III.; for all which we shall leave it to our readers to make the best apology they can. Madame de Stael thinks very poorly of our talent for pleasantry ; and is not very success- ful in her delineation of what we call humour. The greater part of the nation, she sa)s, lives either in the serious occupations of business and politics, or in the tranquil circle of family affection. What is called society, therefore, has scarcely any existence among them ; and yet it is in that sphere of idleness and frivolity, that taste is matured, and gaiety made ele- gant. They are not at all trained, therefore, to observe the finer shades of character and of ridicule in real life; and consequently nei- ther think of delineating them in their com- positions, nor are aware of their merit when delineated by others. We are unwilling to think this perfectly just; and are encouraged to suspect, that the judgment of the ingenious author may not be altogether without appeal on such a subject, by observing, that she rep- resents the paltry flippancy and disgusting affectation of Sterne, as the purest specimen of true English humour; and classes the char- acter of Falstaft along with that of Pistol, as parallel instances of that vulgar caricature from which the English still condescend to receive amusement. It is more just, how- ever, to observe, that the humour, and in general the pleasantry, of our nation, has very frequently a sarcastic and even misanthropic character, which distinguishes it from the mere playfulness and constitutional gaiety of our French neighbours ; and that we have not", for the most part, succeeded in our attempts to imitate the graceful pleasantry and agree- able trifling of that ingenious people. We develope every thing, she maintains, a great deal too laboriously ; and give a harsh and painful colouring to those parts which the very nature of their style requires to be but lightly touched and delicately shaded. We never think we are heard, unless we cry out; — nor understood, if we leave any thing un- told : — an excess of diffuseness and labour which could never be endured out of our own island. It is curious enough, indeed, to ob- serve, that men who have nothing to do with their time but to get rid of it in amusement, are always much more impatient of any kind of tediousness in their entertainers, than those who have but little leisure for entertainment. The reason is, we suppose, that familiarity with business makes the latter habitually tolerant of tediousness; while the less en-, grossing pursuits of the former, in order tO; retain any degree of interest, rey thing of her expo- sition of (lerman or of French literature — and still less of her anticipations of the change which the establishment of a Republican gov- ernment in the last of those countries is likely to produce, — or of the hints and cautions with which, in contempkition of that event, she thinks it necessary to provide her countrymen.. These are perhaps the most curious parts of the work : — but we cannot enter upon them LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPH\'. at present; — and indeed, in what we have already said, we have so far exceeded the limits to which we always wish to confine ourselves, that we do not very well know what apology to make to our readers — except merely, that we are not without hope, that the miscellaneous nature of the subject, by which we have been insensibly drawn into this great prolixity, may have carried them also along, with as moderate a share of fatigue as we have ourselves experienced. If it be otherwise — we must have the candour and the gallantry to say, that we are persuaded the fault is to be imputed to us, and not to the nigenious author upon whose work we have been employed; and that, if we had confined ourselves to a mere abstract of her lucubrations, or interspersed fewer of our own remarks with the account we have attempted to give of their substance, we might have extended this article to a still greater length, : without provoking the impatience even of the I more fastidious of our readers. As it is, we I feel that we have done but scanty justice, { either to our author or her subject — though we can now make no other amends, than by I earnestly entreating our readers to study both I of them for themselves. • (iuln, 1S06.) The Complete Works, in Philosophy, Politics, and Morals, of the late Dr. Benjamin Franklin. Now first collected and arranged. With Memoirs of his Early Life, written by himself. — 3 vols. 8vo. pp. 1450. Johnson, London; 1806. Nothing, we think, can show more clearly , able and unworthy service. It is ludicrous the singular want of literary enterprise or ] to talk of the danger of disclosing in 1795, activity, in the United States of America, i any secrets of state, with regard to the war than that no one has yet been found in that of American independence ; and as to any flourishing republic, to collect and publish I anecdotes or observations that might give the works of their only philosopher. It is not ; ofience to individuals, we think it should even very creditable to the liberal curiosity j always be remembered, that public func- of the English public, that there should have ; tionaries are the property of the public ; that been no complete edition of the writings of i their character belongs to history and to pos- Dr. Franklin, till the year 1806: and we terity; and that it is equally absurd and dis- should have been altogether unable to ac- creditable to think of suppressing any part of count for the imperfect and unsatisfactory the evidence by which their merits must be manner in which the task has now been per- J ultimately determined. But the whole of the fonned, if it had not been for a statement in works that have been suppressed, certainly the prefatory advertisement, which removes did not relate to republican politics. The all blame from the editor, to attach it to a histqry of the author's life, down to 1757, higher quarter. It is there stated, that re- could not well contain any matter of ofTeiice ; cently after the death of the author, his and a variety of general remarks and specu- grandson, to whom the whole of his' papers lations which he is understood to have lell. had been bequeathed, made a voyag:e to behind him, might have been permitted to London, for the purpose of preparing and dis- see the light, though his diplomatic revelations posing of a comi)lete collection of all his had been forbidden. The emissary of Gov- published and unpublished writing.*, with ernment, however, probably took no care ul memoirs of his life, brought down by himself those things. He was resolved, we suppose, to the year 1757, and continued to his death •'•to leave no rubs nor botches in his work : " by his descendant. It was settled, that the and, to stifle the dreaded revelation, he thouglii work should be published in three quarto i the best way was to strangle all the innocents volumes, in England, Germany, and France; j in the vicinage. and a negotiation was commenced with the ] Imperfect as the work now before us nec- booksellers. as to the terms of the purchase essarily is, we think the public is very much and publication. At this stage; of the busi- j indebted to its editor. It is presented in a ne.ss, however, the proposals were suddenly ! cheap and unostentatious form ; and thoiuh withdrawn ; and nothing more has been heard of the work, in this its fair and natural mar- ket. '-The proprietor, it seems, had found a bidder of a different description, in some emis- sary of Government, whose object was to withhold the manuscripts from the world, — not to benefit it by their publication ; and they thus either pa.ssed into other hands, or the persijii to whom they were be(]ueathed, re- ceived a remuneration iov suppresstiiii them." If this statement be correct, we have no hesitation in sjiying, that no emissary of Gov- ermnent was ever employed on a more miser- it contains little that has not been already printed as the composition of the author, ainl does not often settle any point of di.sputec! authenticity in a sirtisfactory manner, it seems, on the wKole, to have been compiled with sufiicieiit diligence, and arranged with con- siderable judgment. Few writings, indeed, require the aid of a commentator less than those of Dr. Franklin ; and though tliis editor is rather too sj)ariiig of his presence, we are infinitely better satisfied to be left now and then to our conjectures, than to be incumber- ed with the explanations, and overpowered DR. BENJAIVnN FRANKLIN. 61 'I with the loquacit}', of a more officious at- tendant. We do not propose to give any thing like a regular account of the papers contained in these volumes. The best of them have long been familiar to the pubhc; and there are many which it was proper to preserve, that caruiot now be made interesting to the general reader. Dr. Franklin, however, is too great a man to be allowed to walk past, without some observation ; and our readers, we are persuaded, wnll easily forgive us, if we yield to the temptation of making a few remarks on his character. This self-taught American is the most ra- tional, perhaps, of all philosophers. He never loses sight of common sense in any of his speculations ; and when his philosopliy does not consist entirely in its fair and vigorous application, it is always regulated and con- trolled by it in its application and result. No individual, perhaps, ever possessed a juster understanding ; or was so seldom obstructed in the use of it, by indolence, enthusiasm, or authority. Dr. Franklin received no regular education ; and he spent the greater part of his life in a society where there was no relish and no en- couragement for literature. On an ordinary mind, these circumstances would have pro- duced their usual effects, of repressing all sorts of intellectual ambition or activity, and perpetuating a generation of incurious me- chanics : but to an understanding like Frank- lin's, we cannot help considering them as peculiarl}'- propitious; and imagine that we can trace back to them, distinctly, almost all the peculiarities of his intellectual charac- ter. Regular education, we think, is unfavour- able to vigour or originality of understanding. Like civilization, it makes society more in- telligent and agreeable ; but it levels the dis- tinctions of nature. It strengthens and assists the feeble ; but it deprives the strong of his triumph, and casts down the hopes of the aspiring. It accomplishes this, not only by training up the mind in an habitual veneration for authorities, but, by leading us to bestow a disproportionate degree of attention upon studies that are only valuable as keys or in- struments for the understanding, they come at last to be regarded as ultimate objects of pursuit ; and the means of education are ab- surdly mistaken for its end. How many powerful understandings have been lost in the Dialectics of Aristotle ! And of how m\ich good philosophy are we daily defraud- ed, by the preposterous error of taking a knowledge of prosody for useful learning! The mind of a man, who has escaped this training, will at least have fair play. What- ever other errors he may fall into, he Avill be safe at least from these infatuations: And if he thinks proper, after he grows up, to study Greek, it will probably be for some better purpose than to become critically acquainted with its dialects. His prejudices will be those of a man, and not of a schoolboy ; and ais speculations and conclusions will be inde- pendent of the ma\ims of tutors, and the oriicles of literary patrons. The consequences of living in a refined and literary community, are nearly of the same kind with those of a regular education. There are so many critics to be satisfied — so many qualifications to be established — so many ri- vals to encounter, and so much derision to be hazarded, that a young man is apt to be de- terred from so perjious an enterprise, and led to seek for distinction in some safer line of exertion. He is discouraged by the fame and the perfection of certain models and favourites, who are always in the mouths of his judges, and, " under them, his genius is rebuked,-' and his originality repressed, till he sinks into a paltry copyist, or aims at distinction, by ex- travagance and affectation. In such a state of society, he feels that mediocrity has no chance of distinction : and what beginner can expect to rise at once into excellence? He imagines that mere good sense will attract no I attention; and that the manner is of much more importance than the matter, in a candi- date for public admiration. In his attention to the manner, the matter is apt to be ne- glected; and, in his solicitude to please those who require elegance of diction, briUiancy of wit, or harmony of periods, he is in some dan- ger of, forgetting that strength of reason, and accuracy of observation, by which he first pro- posed to recommend himself. His attention, when extended to so many collateral objects, is no longer vigorous or collected : — the stream, divided into so many channels, ceases to flow either deep or strong; — he becomes an unsuc- cessful pretender to fine writing, or is satis- fied with the frivolous praise of elegance or vivacity. We are disposed to ascribe so much power to these obstructions to intellectual originality, that we cannot help fancying, that if Franklin had been bred in a college, he would have contented himself with expounding the me- tres of Pindar, and mixing argument with his port in the common room; and that if Boston had abounded with men of letters, he would never have ventured to come forth from his printing-house; or been driven back to it, at any rate, by the sneers of the critics, after the first publication of his Essays in the Busy Body. This vi-ill probably be thought exaggerated ; but it cannot be cienied, we think, that the contrary circumstances in his history had a powerful effect in determining the character of his understanding, and in producing those peculiar habits of reasoning and investigation by which his writings are distinguished. He was encouraged to publish, because there was scarcely any one around him whom he could not easily excel. He wrote with great brevi- ty, because he had not leisure for more volu- minious compositions, and because he knew that the readers to whom he addressed him- self were, for the most part, as bu.sy as him- self. For the same reason, he studied great perspicuity and simplicity of statement. His countrymen had then no relish for fine writ- ing, and could not easily be made to under- 62 LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPHY. stand a deduction depending on a long or elaborate process of reasoning. He was forced, therefore, to coiicenti-ate what he had to say: and since he had no chance of being admired for the beauty of his composition, it •was natural for him to aim at making an im- pression by the force and the clearness of his statements. His conclusions were often rash and inaccu- rate, from the same circumstances which ren- dered his productions concise. l'hilo.sophy and speculation did not form the bu.siness of his life; nor did he dedicate himself to any particular study, with a view to exhaust and complete the investigation of it in all its parts, and under all its relations. He engaged in every interesting incjuiry that suggested itself to him, rather as the necessary exercise of a powerful and active mind, than as a task "which he had bound himself to perform. He cast a quick and penetrating glance over the facts and the data that were presented to him ; and drew his conclusions with a rapidity and precision that have not often been equalled. But he did not generally stop to examine the completeness of the data upon which he pro- ceeded, nor to consider the ultimate effect or application of the principles to which he had been conducted. In all question.s, therefore, where the facts upon which he was to deter- mine, and the materials from which his judg- ment was to be formed, were either few in number, or of such a nature as not to be over- looked, his reasonings are, for the most part, perfectly just and conclusive, and his decisions unexceptionably sound; but where the ele- ments of the calculation were more numerous and widely scattered, it appears to us that he has often been precipitate, and that he has either been misled by a partial apprehension of the conditions of the problem, or has discovered only a portion of the truth which lay before him. In all physical inquiries; in almost all questions of particular and immediate policy; and in much of what relates to the practical wisdom and happiness of private life, his views will be found to be admirable, and the reasoning by which they are supj)orted most masterly and convincing. But upon subjc^cts of general politics, of abstract morality, and politi- cal economy, his notions appear to be more un- satisfactory and incomplete. He secsms to have wanted leisure, and perhaps inclination also, to spread out before him the whole vast pre- mises of those extensive sciences, and scarcely to have had patience to hunt for his con- clusions through so wide and intricate a region as that upon which they invited him to enter. He has been satisfied, therefore, on many occa- sions, with reasoning from a very limit(xl view of the facts, and often from a particular in- stance; and he has done all that sagacity and sound sense could do with such materials : but it cannot e.xcite wonder, if he has some- times overlooked an essential jmrt of the argu- ment, and often advanced a particular truth into the place of a general principle. He sel- dom reasoned U])()u lliose subjects at all, we believe, without having some practical appli- cation of them immediately in view ; and as te began the investig-ation rather to determine a particular case, than to establish a general ma.vim, so he probably desisted as soon as he had relieved himself of the present difBculty. There are not many among the thorough- bred scholars and pliilosophers of Europe, who can lay claim to distinction in more than one or two dej)artments of science or literature. The uneducated tradesman of America has left writings that call for our respectful atten- tion, in natural plulosophy, — in jjolitics, — in political economy, — and in general literature and morality. Of his labours in the department of Physics. we do not propose to say much. They were almost all suggested by views of utility in the beginning, and were, without exception, ap- plied, we believe, to promote such views in the end. His letters upon Ehctrkily have been more extensively circulated than any of his other writings of this kind; and are en- titled to more praise and popularity than they seem ever to have met with in this country. iXothing can be more admirable than the lu- minous and graphical precision with which the experiments are narrated; the ingenuity with which they are projected ; and the suga.- city with which the conclusion is inferred, limited, and confirmed. The most remarkable thing, however, in these, and indeed in the whole of his physical speculations, is the unparalleled simplicity and facility with which the reader is con- ducted from one stage of the inquiry to an- other. The author never appears for a mo- ment to labour or to be at a loss. The most ingenious and profound explanations are sug- gested, as if they were the most natural and obvious way of accounting for the }>li^"- nomena; and the author seems to value him- self so little on his most important discoveries, that it is necessary to compare him with others, before we can form a just notion of his merits. As he seems to be conscious of no exertion, he feels no partiaUty for any part of his speculations, and never seeks to raise the reader's idea of their importance, by any arts of declamation or eloquence. Indeed, the ha- bitual pr(H"ision of his conceptions, and his invariable practice of referring to specific lad- and observations, secured him, in a great mea- sure, both from those extravagant conjectuivs in which so many naturalists have induli^eil, and from the zeal and enthusiasm whieli seems so naturally to be engendered in Ihi'ir defence. He was by no means averse to give scope to his imagination, in suggesting a va- riety of explanations of obscure and unman- ageable phenomena; but he never allowed liimself to confound these vague and conjec- tural theories with the solid results of experi- ence and observation. In his Meteorological papers, and in his Observations upon Heat and Light, there is a great deal of such bold and original suggestions: but he evidently sets but little value upon them; and has no sooner disburd(>ned his mind of the impressions from which they proceeded, than he seems to dis- miss them entirely from his consideration, and turns to the legitimate philosophy of ex- DR. BENJAmN FRANKLIN. 63 periment with unabated diligence and hu- mility. As an instance of this disposition, we may quote part of a letter to the Abbe Sou- laive. upon a new Theory of the Earth, which he proposes and dismisses, without concern or anxiety, in the course of a few .sentences; though, if the idea had fallen upon the brain of an Europea 1 philosopher, it might have ger- minated into a volume of eloquence, like ButToirs, or an infinite array of paragraphs and observations, like those of Parkinson and Dr. Hut ton. After remarking, that there are manifold indications of some of the highest parts of the land having been formerly covered by sea, , Dr. Frankliir observes — j "Such changes in the superficial parts of the ! globe, seemed to me unlikely to happen, if the earth were solid in the centre. I therefore imagined, that the iiuernal parts might be a fluid more dense, and of greater specific sravity than any of the solids we are acquaiiiied with, which therefore might swim in or upon that fluid. Thus the surface of the globe would be a shell, capable of being broken and disordered by the violent movements of the fluid on which it rested. And as air has been com- pressed by art so as to be twice as dense as water, and as we know not yet the degree of density to which air may be compressed, and M. Amontons calculated that its density increasing as it approached the centre in the same proportion as above the sur- face, it would, at the depth of leagues, be heavier than gold, and possibly the dense fluid occupying the internal parts of the globe might therefore be air compressed. And as the force of expansion in dense air, when heated, is in proportion to its density, this central air might afford another agent to move the surface, as well as be of use in keeping alive the subterraneous fires; though, as you observe, the sudden rarefaction of water coming into contact with those fires, may also be an agent sufliciently strong for that purpose, when acting betsveen the incuiiibent earth and the fluid on which it rests. " If one might indulge imagination in supposing how such a globe was formed. I should conceive, that all the elements in separate particles being originally mixed in confusion, and occupying a great space, they would (as soon as the Almighty fiat or- dained gravity, or the mutual attraction of certain pans, and the mutual repulsion of others to e.xist) all move to their coinmon centre : that the air being 'a fluid whose parts repel each other, though drawn to the common centre by their gravity, would be densest towards the centre, and rarer as more re- • mote; consequently, all matters lighter than the i central parts of that air, and immersed in it, would , recede from the centre, and rise till they arrived at , that region of the air which was of the same specific gravity with themselves, where they would rest; while' other matter, mixed with the lighter air, - would descend, and the two, meeting, would form i the shell of the first earth, leaving the upper atmos- \: phere nearly clear. The original movement of the pans towards- their common centre, would natu- ' rally form a whirl there ; which would continue, upim the turning of the new-formed globe upon its axis: and the greatest diameter of the shell would i be in its oqtiuior. If, by any accident afterwards, : the axis should be changed, the dense mternal fluid, by altering its form, must burst the shell, and throw til i's substance into the confusion in which we find ". I will not trouble you at present with my fan- cies concerning the manner of forming the rest of it' Dur system. Superior beings smile at our theorie.s, rf :ind at our presumption in making them." — vol. ii. ^I l?p. 117-119. :fe [ He afterwards makes his theory much finer t'* Mid more extravagant, by combining with it a very wild speculation upon magnetism ; and, notwhhstanding the additional temptation of this new piece of ingenuity, he abandons it in the end with as much unconcern, as if he had had no share in the making of it. We shall add the whole passage. " It has lonu' been a supposition of mine, that the iron contained m the surface of the globe has made it capable of becoming, as it is, a great magnet ; that the fluid of magnetism perhaps exists in all space; so that there is a magiieiical north and south of the Universe, as well as of this globe, so that if it were possible for a man to fly from star lo star, he might govern his course by the compass ; that it was by the power of this general magnetism this globe became a particular magnet. In soft or hot iron the fluid of magnetism is naturally diffused equally: But when within the influence of the magnet, it is drawn to one end of the iron ; made denser there, and rarer at the other. While the iron continues soft and hot, it is only a temporary magnet : if it cools or grows hard in that situation, it becomes a permanent one, the magnetic fluid not easily resuming its equilibrium. Perhaps it may be owing to the permanent magnetism of this globe, which it'had not at first, that its axis is at present kept parallel to itself and not hable to the changes it formerly suffered, which occasioned the rupture of its shell, the submersions and emersions of its lands, and the confusion of its seasons. The present polar and equatorial diameters differing from each other near ten leasues, it is easy to conceive, in case some power should shift the axis gradually, and place it in the present equator, and make the new equator pass through the present poles, what a sinking of the waters would happen in the present equatorial regions, and what a rising in the present polar regions ; so that vast tracts would be dis- covered, that now are under water, and others covered, that are now dry, the water rising and sinking in the different extremes near five leagues. Such an operation as this possibly occasioned much of Europe, and among the rest this Mountain of Passy on which I live, and which is composed of limestone rock and sea-shells, to be abandoned bv the sea, and to change its ancient climate, which seems to have been a hot one. The globe being now become a perfect magnet, we are, perhaps, safe from any change of its axis. But we are still subject to the accidents on the surface, which are j occasioned by a wave in the internal ponderous fluid ; and such a wave is producible by the sudden violent explosion you mention, happening from the junction of water and fire under the earth, which not only lifts the incumbent earth that is over the explosion, but impressing with the same force the fluid under it, creates a wave, that may run a thousand leagues, lifting, and thereby shaking, suc- cessively, all the countries under which it passes. I know not whether I have expressed myself so clearly, as not to get out of your sight in these reveries. If they occasion any new inquiries, and produce a better hypothesis, they will not be quite useless. You see I have given a loose to imagination; but I approve much more your method of philoso- phizing, which proceeds upon actual observation, makes a collection of facts, and concludes no furlher than those facts will warrant. In my present cir- cumstances, that mode of studying the nature of the globe is out of my power, and therefore I have permitted myself to wander a httle in the wilds of fancy."— vol. ii. p. 119—121. Our limits will not permit us to make any analysis of the other physical papers contained in this collection. They are all admirable for the clearness of the description, the felicity and familiarity of the illustrations, and the singular sagacity of the reintnks with which they are interspersed. The theory of whirl- LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPHY. winds and -vraterppouts, as well as the obser- vations on the course of the winds and on cold. seem to be excellent. The paper called Mari- time Observations is full of ingenuity and practical good sense; and the remarks on Evaporation, and on the Tides,, most of which are contained in a series of letters to a young lady, are admirable, not merely for their per- ?piouity, but for the interest and amusement they are calculated to communicate to every description of readers. The remarks on Fire- places and Smoky chimnies are infinitely more original, concise, and scientific, than those of Count Rumford : and the observations on the Gulph-stream afford, we beHeve, the first example of just theory, and accurate investi- gation, applied to that phenomenon. Dr. Franklin, we think, has never made use of the mathematics, in his investigation of the phenomena of nature: and though this may render it surprising that he has fallen into so few errors of importance, we conceive that it helps in some measure to explain the un- equalled perspicuit}- and vivacity of his expo- sitions. An algebraist, who can work wonders with letters, seldom condescends to be much indebted to words : and thinks himself enti- tled to make his sentences obscure, provided his calculations be distinct. A writer who has nothing but words to make use of, must make all the use he can of them : he cannot afford to neglect the only chance he has of being understood. We should liow say something of the politi- cal writings of Dr. Franklin. — the productions which first raised him into public office and eminence, and which will be least read or attended to by posterity. They may be di- vided into two parts; those which relate to the internal affairs and provincial differences of the American colonies, before their quarrel with the mother country, and those which relate to that quarrel and its consequences. The former are no longer in any degree in- teresting : and the editor has done wisely, we think, in presenting his readers \vith an ab- stract oidy of the longest of them. This was published in 1759, under the title of an His- torical Review of the Constitution of Pennsyl- vania, and consisted of upwards of r)00 pages, composed for the purpose of showing that the political privileges reserved to the founder of the colony had been illegally and oppressively used. The Canada pamphlet, written in 1760, for the purpose of pointing out the importance of retaining that colony at the peace, is given entire ; and appears to be composed with great force of reason, and in a style of extraordinary perspicuity. The same may be said of what are called the Albany Papers, or the plan for a general political union of the colonies in 1754 ; and a variety of other tracts on the provincial politics of that day. All these are worth pveservaiic. both as monuments of Dr. Franklin"? talents and activity, and as afford- ing, in many places, very excellent models of strong reasoning and popular eloquence : but the interest of the subjects is now completely gone by; an.l the few specimens of general reasoning which we meet with, serve only to increase our regret, that the talents of the author should have been wasted on such perishable materials. There is not much written on the subject of the dispute with the colonies; and most of Dr. Franklin's papers on that subject are already well known to the public. His examination be- fore the House of Commons in 1766 affords a striking proof of the extent of his information, the clearness and force of his extempore com- position, and the .steadiness and self-possession which enabled him to display these qualities with so much effect upon such an occasion. His letters before the commencement of hos- tilities are full of grief and anxiety; but. no sooner did matters come to extremities, than he appears to have assumed a certain keen and confident cheerfulness, not unmixed with a seasoning of asperity, and more vindictive- ness of spirit than perhaps became a philoso- pher. In a letter written in October 1775. he expresses him-^elf in this manner: — " Tell our dear good friend * * *, who sometimes has his doubts and despondencies about our firm- ness, tliat .'\merica is deierinined and unanimous; a very few Tories and placemen excepted, who will probably soon export themselves. Britain, at the expense of three millions, has killed one hun- dred and fifty Yankica this campaiyii, which is •20,000/. a head ; and. at Bunker's HiFl, she gained a mile of ground, half of which she lost again by our taking post on PlouL'hed Hill. Dunns: the same time, si.Tiv thousand cliildieii have been born in America. Prom these data, his mathematical head will easily calculate the time and expense nec- essary to kill us all. and conquer our whole terri- tory.'''— vol. iii, p. 357, 358. The following letters, which passed between Dr. Franklin and Lord Howe, when his Lord- ship arrived off the American coast v. ilh \\ iiat were called the pacificatory proposals in 177 6, show not only the consiileration in which ihe former was held by the Noble Commissio:)( r, but contain a very striking and prophetic stau - ment of the consequences to be appii he;;ik J from the perseverance of Great Britain in In. r schemes of compulsion. His Lordship wr^tt^s, in June 1776, — " I cannot, my worthy friend, permit the letters and parcels, which I have sent (in the stale 1 re- ceived ihcm,) to be landed, without adding a vsord upon the subject of the injurious extrcmitifs in wliicli our unhappy disputes have engaged us. " You will learn the nature of my mission. I'rom the official despatches which I have recommended to be forwarded by the same conveyance. Retain- ing all the earnestness I ever expressed, to ste our ditTerenccs accommodated ; I shall conceive, if I meet with the disposition in the colonics which I was once taught to expect, ihe most flattering hopes of proving serviceable in the objects of the King's i paternal solicitude, by promoting the esialilishment li of lasting peace and union with the Colonies. But, if the deep-rooted prejudices of America, and the necessity of preventing her trade Irom passing into foreign channels, must keep us still a divided people, I shall, from every private as well a.« public motive, most heartily lament, that this i.^ not ihe moment, wherein those great objects of my ambition are to be attained, and that I am to be lonser deprived of ( an opportunity to assure you, per-'cnally. of the re- J gard with which I am, 6i.c." — vol. iii. p. 3C5— 367. "' Dr. Franklin answered, — "I received safe the letters your Lordship so DR. BENJAMIN FRANKLIN. 65 kindly forwarded to me, and beg you to accept my thanks. " The official despatches to which you refer me, contain nothing more than what we had seen in the act of Parliament, viz. ' Offers of pardon upon sub- mission ;' which I was sorry to find ; as it must give your Lordship pain to be sent so far on so nopeles.s a business. " Directing pardons to be offered to the colonies, who are the very parties injured, expresses indeed that opinion of our isjnoratioe, baseness, and insen- sibility, wliich your uninformed and proud nation has long been pleased to entertain of us •■, but it can have no other etTect than that of increasing our re- sentments. It is impossible we should think of submission to a government that has, with the most wanton barbarity and cruelty, burned our defence- less towns in the midst of winter; e.xcited the savages to massacre our (peaceful) farmers, and our slaves to murder their inasters ; and is even now* bringing foreign mercenaries to deluge our settle- metits with blood. These atrocious injuries have eccthnxuisked every spark of affection for that parent country we once held so dear: but, were it possible for us to forget and forgive them, it is not possible for yvu, (1 mean the British nation) to forgive the people you have so heavily injured. You can never confide again in those as fellow-subjects, and permit them to enjoy equal freedom, to whom yoti know you have given such just causes of lasting enmity: and this must impel you, were we again under your government, to endeavour the breaking our spirit by the severest tyranny, and obstructing, by every means in your power, our growing strength and prosperity. "But yoltr Lordship mentions 'the King's pa- ternal solicitude for promoting the establishment of lasting peace and union with the Colonies.' If by peace is liere meant, a peace to be entered into by distinct states, now at war; and his Majesty has given your Lordship powers to treat with us of such a peace ; I may venture to say. though without au- thority, that I think a treaty for that purpose not quite impracticable, before we enter m(o foreign alliances. But T am persuaded you have no such powers. Your nation, though, by punishing those American governors who have fomented the discord, rebuilding our burnt towns, and repairing as far as possible the mischiefs done us. she might recover a great share of our regard, and the greatest share of our growing commerce, with ail the advantages of that additional strength, to be derived from a , friendsihip with us ; yet I know loo well her abotmd- ing priile and deficient wisdom, to believe she will ever take such salutary measures. Her fondness for iConquest as a warlike nation; her lust of dominion as an ambitious one; and her thirst for a gainful monopoly as a commercial one, (none of them legit- imate causes of war,) will join to hide from her eyes every view of lier true interest, and con- tinuaHy goad Iter on iti those ruinous distant expe- I ditions, so destructive both of lives and of treasure, j that they must prove as pernicious to her in the end, ' fts the Croisades formerly were to most of the na- I tions of Europe. j "I have not the vanity, my Lord, to think of in- timidating, by thus predicting the effects of this ! war; for I know it will in England have the fate I jf all my former predictions — not to be believed ! ill the event shall verify it. " Long did I endeavour, with unfeigned and uti- A-earied zeal, lo preserve from breaking that fine tnd iioMe porcelain vase — the British empire ; for I ;iiith was nearly the first who made deeper I 'asonings and more exact knov/ledge popu- lar among us; and Junius and Johnson the Iirst who again familiarized us with more [,ii ,e!owing and sonorous diction — and made us tiii ifeel the lameness and poorness of the serious ;r(! Istyle of Addison and Swift. 1 ' This brings us down almost to the present times — in v.hich the revolution in our litera- ture has been accelerated and confirmed by J : the concurrence of many causes. The agita- „.ji tions of the French revolution, and the discus- ions as well as the hopes and terrors to which it gave occasion — the genius of Ed- mund Burke, and some others of his land of genius — the impression of the new literature of Germany, eviilently the original of our lake-school of poetry, and many innovations in our drama — the rise or revival of a more evangelical spirit, in the body of the people — and the vast extension of our political and commercial relations, which have not only familiarized all ranks of people with distant coinilries. and great undertakings, but have brought knowledge and enterprise home, not merely to the imagination, but to the actual experience of almost every individual. — All these, and several other circumstances, have so far improved or excited the character of our nation, as to have created an effectual demand for more profound speculation, and more serious emotion than was dealt in by the writers of the former century, and which, if it has not yet produced a corresponding supply in all branches, has at least had the effect of decrying the commodities that were previously in vogue, as unsuited to the altered condition of the times. Of those ingenious writers, whose charac- teristic certainly was not vigour, any more than tenderness or fancy. Swift was indis- putably the most vigorous — and perhaps the least tender or fanciful. The greater part of his works being occupied with politics and personalities that have long since lost all in- terest, can now attract but little attention, except as memorials of the manner in which politics and personalities were then conduct- ed. In other parts, however, there is a vein of peculiar humour and strong satire, which will always be agreeable — and a sort of heartiness of abuse and contempt of mankind, which produces a greater sympathy and ani- mation in the reader than the more elaborate sarcasms that have since come into fashion. Altogether his merits appear to be more unique and inimitable than those of any of his con- temporaries ; and as his works are connected in many parts with historical events which it must always be of importance to understand, we conceive that there are none, of which a new and careful edition is so likely to be ac- ceptable to the public, or so worthy to engage the attention of a person qualified for the undertaking. In this respect, the projectors of the present publication must be considered as eminently fortunate — the celebrated per- son who has here condescended to the func- tions of an editor, being almost as much distinguished for the skill and learning re- j (juired for that humbler office, as for the I creative genius which has given such unex- I ampled popularity to his original compositions ' — and uniting to the minute knowledge and patient research of the Malones and Chal- j merses, a vigour of judgment and a vivacity of style to which they had no pretensions. I In the exercise of these comparatively humble j functions, he has acquitted himself, we think, j on the present occasion, with great judgment I and ability. The ediiion, upon the'whole, is I much better than that of Drydtni. It is less j loaded with long notes and illustrative quota- LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPITi'. tions; while it furnishes all the information | fax : and. under that ministry; the members that can reasonably be desired, in a simple ^ of which he courted in private and defended and compendious form. It contains upwards in public, he received church preferment to of a hundred letters, and other original pieces [ the value of near 400?. a year (equal at least of Swift's never before published — and, among to 1200/. at present), with the promise of still the rest, all that has been preserved of his farther favours. He was dissatistied, how- correspondence with the celebrated Vanessa. Explanatory notes and remarks are supplied with great diligence to all the passages over which time may have thrown any obscurity ; and the critical observations that are prefixed to the more considerable productions, are, .with a reasonable allowance for an editor's partiality to his author, very candid and in- genious. The Life is not every where extremely well ever, because his livings were not in England ; and having been sent over on the afiairs of the Irish clergj- in 1710. when he found the Whig ministry in a tottering condition, he temporized for a few months, till he saw that their downfal was inevitable; and then, with- out even the pretext of any public motive, but on the avowed ground of not having been sufficiently rewarded for his former services, he went over in the most violent and decided written, in a literary point of view : but is ^ manner to the prevailing party ; lor w hose drawn up, in substance, with great iniell gence, liberality, and good feeling. It is quite fair and moderate in politics; and perhaps rather too indulgent and tender towards indi- viduals of all descriptions — more full, at least, of kindness and veneration for genius and social virtue, than of indignation at baseness and profligacy. Altogether, it is not much like the production of a mere man of letters, or a fastidious speculator in sentiment and morality; but exhibits throughout, and in a very pleasing form, the good sense and large toleration of a man of the world — with much of that generous allowance for the " Fears of the brave, and follies of the wise," which genius too often requires, and should therefore always be most forward to show. It is impossible, however, to avoid noticing. that Mr. Scott is by far too favourable to the personal character of his author ; whom we gratification he abused his former friends and benefactors, with a degree of virulence and rancour, to which it would not be too much to apply the term of brutality ; and. in the end, when the approaching death of the Queen, and their internal dissensions made his services of more importance to his new friends, openly threatent-d to destrt them also, and retire altogether from the scene, unless they made a suitable provision for him ; and having, in this way, extorted the deanery of St. Patrick's, which he always complamed of as quite inadequate to his merits, he coun- selled measures that must have involved the country in a civil war, for the mere chance of keeping his party in power; and. finally, on the Queen's death, retired in a state o/ despicable desjxjudency and bitterness to his living, where he continued, to the end of his hfe, to libel liberty and mankind with unre- lenting and pitiable rancour — to correspond think, it would really be injurious to the cause \ with convicted traitors to the constitution they of morality to allow to pass, either as a very j had sworn to maintain — and to lament as the dignified or a very amiable person. The truth worst of calamities, the dissolution of a minis- is, we think, that he was extremely ambi- i try which had no merit but that of having tious, arrogant, and selfish ; of a morose, vin- j promised him advancement, and of vine' dictive, and haughty temper; and, though capable of a sort of patronizing generosity towards his dependants, and of some attach- ment towards those who had long known and flattered him, his general demeanour, both in public and private life, appears to have been far from exemplary. Destitute of temper and magnanimity — and, we will add, of principle, in the former; and, in the latter, of tender- ness, fidelity, or compassion. The transformation of a young Whig into an old Tory — the gradual falling off of pru- dent men from unprofitable virtues, is. per- haps, too common an occurrence, to deserve much notice, or justify much reprobation. I But Swift's desertion of his first principles was neither gradual nor early — and was ac- complished under such circ-umstancesas really require to be exposed a little, and cannot well be passed over in a fair account of his life and character. He was bred a Whig under Sir William Temple— he took the title pub- licly in various productions; and, during all the reign of King William, was a strenuous, and indeed an intolerant advocate of Revolu- tion principles and Whig pretensions. His veral of the leading members immed alely indemnified themselves by taking oflice m the court of the Pretender. As this part of his conduct is passed over a great deal too slightly by his biographer; and as nothing can be more pernicious than the notion, that the political sins of eminent per- sons should be forcotten in the estimate of their merits, we must beg leave to verify the comprehensive sketch we have now given, liy a few references to the documents that air to be found in the volumes before us. Of his original Whig professions, no proof will ] lo- bably be required ; the fact being notorieus, and admitted by all his biographers. Abundant evidence, however, is furnished by his first successful pamphlet in defence of Lord So- mers, and the other Whig lords impeaclieil in 1701; — by his own exj)ress declaration in another work (vol. iii. p. 240). that "having been long conversant with the Greek and Latin authors, and therefore a lover of liberty, he was naturally inclined to be what they call a Whig in politics;" — by the copy of verses in which he deliberately designates himself a Whig, and one who wears a gown;'" — by first patrons were SomerSj Hortland, and Hali- \ his exulting statement to Tisdal, whom he WORICS OF JONATHAN SWIFT. 73 reproaches with being a Torj-, and says — '• To :ool your insolence a little, know that the 3ueen, and Court, and House of Lords, and :iall' the Commons almost, aie Whigs, and the lumber daily increases:" — And, among in- lumerable other proofs, by the memorable rerses on Whitehall, in which, alluding to the execution of King Charles in front of that building, he is pleased to say, with more zeal .han good prosody, " That theatre produced an action truly great, Oil whicli eiernal acclamations wait," &,c. Such being the principle-s, by the zealous )rofession of which he had tirst obtained dis- inction and preferment, and been admitted the iVieinlship of such men as Somers, Ad- iison, and Steele, it only remains to be seen )n what occasion, and on what considerations, le afterwards renounced them. It is, of itself. 1 tolerably decisive fact, that this change ook place just when the Whig ministry went lut of power, and their adversaries came into ull possession of all the patronage and inter- •st of the government. The whole matter, lowever, is fairly spoken out in various parts if his own writings : — and we do not believe here is anywhere on record a more barefaced .vowal of political apostasy, undisguised and mpalliated by the slightest colour or pretence if public or conscientious motives. It is quite . singular fact, we believe, in the history of his sort of conversion, that he nowhere pre- ends to say that he had become aware of any langer to the country from the continuance if the Whig ministry — nor ever presumes to all in question the patriotism or penetration 'f Addison and the rest of his former asso- iates, who remained faithful to their first irofessions. His oidy apology, in short, for his sudden dereliction of the principles v'hich he had maintained for near forty years -for it was at this ripe age that he got the irst glimpse of his youthful folly — is a pre- tence of ill usage from the party with whom le had held them , a pretence — to say nothing f its inherent baseness — which appears to be itterly without foundation, and of which it is inough to say, that no mention is made, till hat same party is overthrown. While they emain in office, they have full credit for the incerity of their good wishes (see vol. xv. p. 50, kc. ) :— and it is not till it becomes both afe and profitable to abuse them, that we ear of iheir ingratitude. Nay, so critically nd judiciously timed is this discovery of !iPH un worthiness, that, even after the worthy uthor's arrival in London in 1710, when the ;iovements had begun which terminated in Iheir ruin, he continues, for some month.s, to jeep on fair terms with them, and does not live way to his well considered resentment, [11 it is quite apparent that his interest must jain by the indulgence. He says, in the iounial to Stella, a few days after his arrival, jThe Whigs would gladly lay hold on me, as I twig, while they are drowning — and their ireat men are making me their clumsy apolo- ;ies. But my Lord Treasurer (Godolphin) 3ceived me with a great deal of coldness, hich lias enraged me so, that I am almost 10 vowing revenge.'' In a few weeks after — the change being by that time complete — he takes his part definitively, and makes his ap- proaches to Harley, in a manner which we shoukl really imagine no rat of the present day would have confidence enough to imitate. In mentioning his first interview with that eminent person, he says, " I had prepared him before by another haml, where he was very intimate, and got myself represented (which I might justly do) as 07ic extremely ill used by the last ministry, after some (.bligation, because I refn.sed to go certain lengths they would have me." (Vol. xv. p. 350.) About the same period, he gives us farther lights into the conduct of this memorable conver- sion, in the following passages of the Journal. " Oct. 7. He (Harley) told me he must bring Mr. St. John and me acquainted ; and spoke so many things of personal kindness and esiecni, that I am inclined to believe what some Jricnds iiad told me, that he would do every thing to hrivf; me over. He desired me to dine with him on Tuesday; and, after four hours being with him, set me down at St. James's coffee-house in a Hackney-coach. " I must tell you a great piece of refinement in Harley. He charged me to come and see hirei often ; I told him I w as loath to trouble him, in so much business as he had, and desired I might have leave to come at his levee ; which he immediately refused, and said, ' That was no place for friends.' " I believe never was any thing compassed so soon : and purely done by my personal credit with I\Ir. Harley ; who is so excessively obliging, that 1 know not what to make of it, unless to s/tew the ras- cals of the other party, that they used a man unwor- thily viho had deserved better. He speaks all the kind things of me in the world. — Oct. 14. I stand with the new people ten times better than ever I did with the old, and forty times more caressed." Lfe, vol. i. p. 126. " Nov. 8. Why should the Whigs think I came to England to leave them ? But who the devil cares what they think ? Am 1 under obligations in the least to any of them all? Rot them, ungrateful dogs. I will make ihem repent their usr.ye of me, before I leave this place. They say the same thing here of my leaving the Whigs ; but they own they ca7inot blame me, C07isidering the treatment I have had," &,c. &c. If he really ever scrupled about going lengths with his Whig friends (which we do believe), he seems to have resolved, that his fortune should not be hurt by any delicacy of this sort in his new connection ; — for he took up the cudgels this time with the i'erocity of a hireling, and the rancour of a renegade. In taking upon himself the conduct of the paper called '-'The Examiner," he g-ave a new char- acter of acrimony and bitterness to the con- tention in which he mingled — and not only made the most furious and unnn^asured at- tacks upon the body of the party to w Inch it had formerly been his boast that ho belonged, but singled out, wath a sort of savage discourtesy, a variety of his former friends and benefac- tors, and made them, by name and descrip- tion, the objects of the most malignant abuse. Lord Somers, Godolpliin, Steele, and many others with whom he had formerly lived in intimacy, and from whom he had received obligations, were successively attacked in pub- lic with the most rancorous personalities, and often with the falsest insinuations : In short, 74 LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPHY. as he has himself emphatically expressed it in the Jouma!, he '•' Ubelled them all round." While he was thus abusing men hi; could not have ceassxl to esteem, it is quite natural, and in course, to find him professiii:^ the greatest affection for those he hated and despised. A thorou^rh partisan is a thorough despiser of sincerity ; and no man seems to have got over that weakness more completely than the rev- erend person before us. In every page of th" Journal to Stella, we find a triumphant statement of things he was writing or saying to the people about him, in direct contradic- tion to his real sentiments. We may quote a line or two from the first passage that pre- sents itself. " I desired my Lord Radnor's brother to let my lord know I would call on him at -:\. which I did; and was arguing with him three hours to bring him over to us; and I spoke so closely, that I believe he wili be tractable. But he is a scoundrel ; and thon^h I said I only talked from my love to him. I told a lie : for I did not care if he were hang- ed : but crcr>j one gained over is of coitse- q'lencc.''' — Vol. iii. p. 2. We think there are not many even of those who have served a regular apprenticeship to corraption and job- bing, who could go through their base task wi h more coolness and hardihood than this pioLis neophyte. These fe V references are, of themselves, suf- ficient to show the spirit and the true motives of this dereliction of his first principles; and seem entirely to exclude the only apology which the partiality of his biographer has been able to suggest, viz. that thoni:h. from first to last, a Whig in politics, he was all along still more zealously a H'gh-Church- man as to religion ; and left the Whigs merely because the Tories seemed more favourable to ecclesiastical pretensions. It is obvious, how- ever, that this is quite inadmissible. The Whigs were as notoriously connected with the Low-Church party when he joined and de- fended tli"in, as when he deserted and re- viled them ; — nor is th's anywhere made the specific ground '^*" his revilings. It would not have been very easy, indeed, to have asserted such a principle as the motive of his libels on the Earl of Nottingham, who, though a Whig, was a zealous H'gh-Churchman, or his eulo- gies ofi Bolin^fbroke, who was pretty well known to 1'- no churchman at all. It is plain, indeed, that Swift's High-Church principles were all along but a part of his selfishness and ambition ; and meant nothing else than a de- sire to raise the consequence" of the order to which he happened to belong. If he had been a layman, we have no doubt he would have treated the pretensions of the priesthood, as he treated the persons of all priests who were opposed to him, with the most bitter and irreverent disdain. Accord inijly. he is so far from ever recommendinir Whig principles of government to his High-Church friends, or from confining h's abuse of the Whigs to their tenets in matters ecclesiastical, that he goes the whole l ' 1688 to succeed to that patronage wliich I ^id previously been exercised by its virtual lemies ! Such were the public calamities hich he had to lament as a patriot ; — and ie violence done to his political attachments ' ,!ems to have been of the same character. ' lis two friends were Bolingbroke and Ox- '• 'fd: and both these had been abusing each * her^ and endeavouring to supplant each '*' her, with all their might, for a long period f f time ;— and, at last, one of them "did this good office for the other, in the most insult- ing and malignant manner he could devise : and yet the worthy Dean had charily enough to love them both just as dearly as ever. He? was always a zealous advocate, too, for the Act of Settlement; and lias in twenty places expressed his abomination of all who ci-u!d allow themselves to think of the guilt of call- ir.g in the Pretender. If, therefore, he could love and honour ami flatter Bolingbiokc, who not only turned out his beloved Oxi'ord, but actually went over to the Pretender, it is not easy to see why lie should have been so im- placable towards those old(>r friends of his, who only turned out Bolingbroke in order to prevent the Pretender from being brought in. On public grounds, in short, there is nothing to be said for him ; — nor can his conduct or feelings ever receive any e.xplanation upon such principles. But every thing becomes plain and consistent when we look to another quarter — when we consider, that by the ex- tinction of the Tory piirty, his hopes of pre- ferment were also extinguished ; and that he was no longer to enjoy the dearer delight of bustling in the front of a triumphant party — of inhaling the incense of adulation from its servile dependants — and of insulting with im- punity the principles and the benefactors he had himself deserted. That this was the true key to his feeling,s, on this and on every other occasion, may be concluded indeed with safety, not only from his former, but from his after life. His Irish politics may all be referred to one principle — a desire to insult and embarrass the govern- ment by which he was neglected, and with which he despaired of being reconciled : — A single fact is decisive upon this point. While his friends were in power, we hear nothing of the grievances of Ireland ; and to the last we hear nothing of its radical grievance, the oppression of its Cathohc population. His object was, not to do good to Ireland, but to ve.\ and annoy the English ministry. To do this however with effect, it was necessary that he should speak to the interests and the feelings of some party who possessed a cer- tain degree of power and influence. This unfortunately was not the case in that day with the Catholics ; and though this gave them only a stronger title to the services of a truly brave or generous advocate, it was suflicient to silence Swift. They are not so much as named above two or three times in his writ- ings — and then only with .scorn and reproba- tion. In the topics which he does take up. it is no doubt true, that he frequently inveighs aeainst real oppression and acts of indisput- able impolicy; yet it is no want of charity to say, that it is quite manifest that these were not his reasons for bringing them forward, and that he liad just as little scruple to make an outcry, \\here no public interest was concern- ed, as where it was apparent. It ^^as suffi- cient for him, that the subject was likely to ej.cite popular prejudice and clamour, — or that he had some personal pique or aninsosity to gratify. The Drapier's letters are a suffi- cient proof of the influence of the fonner g2 LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPHY. principle; and the Legion Club and the num- berless brutalities against Tighc and Bettes- worth. of the latter. Every body is novv satisfied of the perfect harmlessuess, and ui- deed of the great utility of W ood s scheme for a new copper coinage ; and the only pre- texts for the other scurrilities to vhich we have alluded were, that the Parhanrent had shown a disposition, to interfere tor the alle- viation, in some inconsiderable particulars, of the intolerable oppression of the t'the system —to the detriment, as Swift imagined, of he even the inconsistencies of honest minds, we ■ hope we shall always be sufhciently indulgent ; and especially to such errors in practical life as are incident to literary and ingenious men. For Swift, however, there is no such apology. His profession, through life, was much more • that of a politician than of a clergyman or an author. He was not led away in any degree by heated fancv, or partial affection— by de- ludiiiir visions o'f impossible improvements, or excessive indignation at incurable viceSi, He' followed, from lirst to last, the eager, but eel, 01 me loiiuweu, iium m-^v .^ --— , - o , orci;nowhichhe himself p.,|la,.tl.j^^^ Mr. Tighe ^^^^ ob|ain^^^^^^^^ . own, a l'^'''S;.^' V^.;:^^^^^^^^^ spared the character or the feelings ot a single cure for one ol his ct. P'-"^\^".^s- , lindividual who appeared to stand in his wayA His main object in. all th. > e make no ml v dua Pl^^^^^^^_ ^^^^ ^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^^ c\ouhU^J'v^rsou^\w^ne^nd\engeru.cej-- I.^ no respect vet it 'is probable, that there was occasionally, -1-^ or throughout, an expectation of being again broil "ht into the paths of power and preler- menl" by the notoriety which these publica- tions enabled him to maintain, and by the motives which they held out to each succes- sive ministry, to secure so efficient a pen m their favour. Tliat he was willing to have made his peace with Walpole, even during the rei-n of George L, is admitted by Mr Scott —though he discredits the details which Lord'chesterfield and others have given, ap- parently from very direct authority, of the humiliating terms upon which he was wi Img to accede to the alliance ;-and it is certain, that he paid his court most assiduously to the successor of that Prince, both while he was Prince of Wales, and after his accession to the throne. The manner in which he paid his conrt, too, was truly debasing, and espe- cially unworthy of a High-Churchman and a public satirist. It was chiefly by flatteries and assiduity to his mistress, Mrs. Howard ! with whom he maintained a close correspond- ence, and upon whom he always professed mainly to rely for advancement. When George I. died. Swift was among the first to kiss tie hands of the new sovereign and in- dul<'ed anew in the golden dreams ot preler- ment. Walpole's recal to power, however, soon overcast those visions ; and he then wrote to the mistress, humbly and earnestly entreat- ing her, to tell him sincerely what were his cl^nces of success. She flattered him for a while with hopes; but at last he discovered that the prejudice against him was too strong to be overcome; and ran back m terrible hu- mour to Ireland, where he railed ever atter with his usual vehemence against the King, the Queen, and the concubine. The truth, it seems, was, that the latter was disposed to fa- vour him ; but that her Inliuence with the Kwj. was subordinate to that of the Queen, who made it a principle to thwart all applications which were made through that channel. Such, we think, is a faithful sketch of the political career of this celebrated person ;— and if it be correct in the main, or even in any material particulars, we humbly conceive that a more unprinc-lpled and base course ot proceeding never was held up to the scorn and ridicule of maiikuid. To the errors and claim to leiuty;— and noAv, when his fau ts are of importance only as they may sen-e the purpose of warnii^ or misleading to oth^&, we consider it as" our mdispensable dutv to point them out in their true colours: and to show that, even when united to talents as distiim-uished as his, political profligacy and political rancour must lead to universal dis- trust and avoidance during the hie ot the in- dividual, and to contempt and mfamy there- ^w'Swift's personal character, his ingenious biographer has given almost as partial a rrp- resentation, as of his political conduct;— a ereat part of it indeed has been anticipated, in tracing the principles of that conduct ;- the sitme'" arrocance and disdaui of mankind, leadiiiL' to profligate ambition and scurrility m public life, and to domineermg and sdhsh habits in private. His character seems to have been radically overbearing and tyrannical ;- for thou-h, like other tyrants, he could stoop low enough where his interests required it, it was his delight to exact an implicit compli- ance with his humours and fancies and to impose upon all around him the task ot ub- seivins. V When he first came to his curate^s u/ust>, he amiounced himself as "his mas- ( r :'■ — look possession of the fireside, and or- liM'd his wife to take charge of his shirts and lockings. When a young clergyman was in- rodiiced to him, he offered him the dregs of ! little of wine, and said, he always kept a parson about him to drink up his dregs. : in hiring servants, he always chose to :i^ii!t them, by inquiring into their qualifica- ioiis for some filthy and degrading office. liui though it may be true, that his after oiuluct was not exactly of a piece with those reliminaries. it is obvious, that as no man of roper feelings could submit to such imperti- eiiee, .so no man could have a right to indulge 1 it. Even considered merely as a manner : ssumed to try the character of those with •horn he lived, it was a test which no one lit a tyrant could imagine himself entitled to pply ; — and Swift- s practical conclusion from was just the reverse of what might be ex- ected. He attached himself to those only ho were mean enough to bear this usage, id broke with all who resented it. While 3 had something to gain or to hope from the orld, he seems to have been occasionally ■ss imperious ; but, after he retired to Ireland. - s gave w-ay without restraint to the native I rogance of his character ; and, accordingly, - )[ifined himself almost entirely to the society a few easy-tempered persons, who had no lents or pretensions to come in competition ith his: and who, for the honour of his ac- laintance. were willing to submit to the do- , - i: 11' 111 hi' usurped. A singular contrast to the rudeness and ar- aance of this behaviour to his friends and 'jipudants. is afforded by the instances of ;;iavagant adulation and base humility, liicli occur in his addresses to those upon h'jm his fortune depended. After he gets ■ I the society of Bolingbroke and Oxford, 1 up to the age of forty, these are composed something of a better taste; but the true II lels are to be found in his addresses to Sir illiara Temple, the first and mo.st honoured a's patrons, upon whose sickness and re- :y he has indited a heroic epistle and a i.iiic ode, more fulsome and extravagant i ;iny thing that had then proceeded from [ifu even of a poet-laureate : and to whom, : ■! he had left his family in bad humour, 'lids a miserable epistle, entreating a cer- tf! of character, in terms which are scarce- insistent with the consciousness of de- :ig it; and are, at all events, infinitely isistent with the proud and peremptory which he assumed to those who would with it. A few lines may be worth ' iiig. He was then full twenty-seven years .. < :i2^p, and a candidate for ordination. After 'plaining this, he adds — ■ I entreat that your honour will consider tliis, ;il will fjlpase to send me some certificate of my I liaviour during almost three years in your family; . J. [11,'^jerein I shall stand in need of all your goodness to excuse my many weaknessea and oversights, much more to say any thing to my advani:\i,'o. The par- ticulars e.Kpecied of me arc what rclaie to morals and learning, atid the reasons of (luitiing your honour's family, that is, whether the last was oc- casioned by any ill actions. They are all left entirely to your honour's mercy, though in the first I think I cannot reproach myself any fan her than for iw- firmitle^. " This is all I dare bes at present from your honour, under circumstances of life not worth your regard. What is left me to wish (next to the health and pros- perity of your honour and family), is, that Heaven would one day allow me the opporiuniiy of leaving my acknowledgments at your feet for so many fa- vours I have received ; which, whatever effect they have had upon my fortune, shall i;pver fail to have the greatest upon' my mind, in approving myself, upon all occasions, your honour'.-i most obedient and most dutiful servant." — Vol. xv. pp. 230, 231. By far the most characteristic, and at the same tune most discreditable and most inter- estinir part of Swift's history, however, is that which relates to his connection with the three unfortunate women, whose happiness he ru- ined, and whose reputation he did what was in him to destroy. We say, the three women — for though Varina was cast oti before he had fame or practice enough in composition to celebrate her in song, like Stella or Vanessa^ her injuries seem to have been nearly as great, and altogether as unpardonable as those of the other two. Soon after leaving college, he appears to have formed, or at best proiessed, an attachment to a Miss Jane ^Varyng, the sister of a fellow-student, to whom his assidu- ities seemed to have rendered him acceptable, and with whom he corresponded for a series of years, under the preposterous name of Va- rina. There appear to be but two letters of this correspondence preserved, both written by Swift, one in the height of his passion, and the other in its decline — and both extremely characteristic and curious. The first is dated in 1696, and is chiefly remarkable for its ex- treme badness and stupidity; though it is full enough of love and lamentation. The lady, it seems, had long before confessed a mutual flame : but prudential considerations made her averse to an immediate union, — upon which the lover raves and complains in the following deplorable sentences, — written, it w-ill be observed, when he was on the borders of thirty, and proving, along with his early poems, how very late he came to the use of his faculties. " Madam — Impatience is the most inseparable quality of a lover, and indeed of every person who is in pursuit of a design whereon he conceives his greatest happiness or misery to depend. It is the same thing in war, in courts, and in common busi- ness. Every one who hunts after pleaiune, or fame, or fortune, is still restless and uneasy till he has hunted down his game ; and all this is not only very natural, but something reasonable too : for a violent desire is little better than a distemper, and therefore men are not to blame in looking after a cure. I find mijf:e]f hugely infecltd with this malady, and am easily vain enough to believe it has some very good reasons to excuse it. For in- deed, in my case, there are some circumstances whiih will admit pardon for more than ordinary disquiets. That dearest object upon v.hich all my prospect of happiness entirely depiaula, is in perpetual danger to be removed for ever from uiy «0 LITERATURE Ax\D BIOGRAPHY sight. Varina's life is daily wastin°; ; and though one just and honourable action would furnish health to her, and unspeakable happiness lo us both, yet some power that repines at human felicity has that influence to hold her continually doating upon her crueltv, and me on the cause of it. '■ Would to Heaven you were but a while sensi- ble of the thoughts into which my present distrac- tions plunge me ; they hale me a thousand ways, ariti I not ahle to hear them. It is so, by Heaveji: The love of Varina is of more tragical consequence than her cruelty. Would to God you had treated and scorned me from the beginning. It was your pity opened the first way to my misfortune ; and now your love is finishing my ruin : and is it so then ? In one fortnight I must take eternal farewell of Varina : and (I wonder) will she weep at part- ing, a little to justify her poor pretences of some affection to me ? " Surely, Varina, you have but a very mean opinion of the joys that accompany a true, honour- able, unlimited love ; yet either nature and our an- cestors have highly deceived us, or else all other sublunary things are dross in comparison. Is it possible you can be yet insensible to the prospect of a rapture and dehght so innocent and so e.xalted ? By If (liven, Varijia. you are more experienced and have less vir^iyi innocence than I. Would not your conduct make one think you were hugely skilled in all the little politic methods of intrigue ? Love, with the gall of too much discretion, is a thousand titnes worse than with none at all. It is a peculiar part of nature which art debauches, but cannot improve. " Farewell, madam ; and may love make you a while forget your temper to do me justice. Only remember, that if you, still refuse to be mine, you will quickli/ lose, for ever lose, him that has resolved to die as he has lived, all yours, Jo.v. SwiFT." — Vol. XV. pp. eS^— 237. Notwithstanding these tragic denunciations, he neither died — nor married — nor broke ofT the coimection, for four years thereafter: in the latter part of which, having been at last presented to two livings in Ireland, worth near 4001. a yean the lady seems to have been reduced to remind him of his former impatience, and fairly to ask him, whether his affections had suffered any alteration. His answer to this appeal is contained in the second letter; — and is, we think, one of the most complete patterns of meanness, selfish- ness, and brutality, we have ever met W'ith. The truth undoubtedly was. that his affections were estranged, and nad probably settled by this time on the unfortunate Stella: but in- stead of cither fairly avowing this inconstancy, or honourably fulfilling engagements, from which inconstancy perhaps could not release him, he thinks fit to write, in the most frigid, in.solent; and hypocritical terms, undervaluing her fortune and person, and finding fault with her humour ; — and yet pretending, that if she would only comply with certain conditions which he specifies, he might still be persuaded to venture himself with her into the perils of matrimony. It will be recollected, that when he urged immediate marriage so passionately in 1G9(), In; had no provision in the world, and must have nitended to live on her fortune, which yi'dded about 100?. a year, and that he thought her health as well as happiness would be suvfid by the match. In 1700, when he had got two livings, he addresses her as fol- lows — "I desire, therefore, you will let me know if your health be otherwise than it was when you told me the doctors advised you against marriage, as what would certainly hazard your life. Are they or you grown of another opinion in this partic- ular? are you in a condition to manage domestic affairs, with an income of less (perhaps) than 300/. a-year ? (it must have been near 500/.) have you such an inclination to my person and humour, as to comply with my desires and way of living, and endeavour to make us both as happy as you can ? can you bend your love and esteem and indifference to others the same way as I do mine ? shall I have so much power in your heart, or you so much gov- ernment of your passions, as to grow in good : humour upon my approach, ihotigh provoked by ai ? have you so much good nature as to r endeavour by soft words to smooth any rugged ij humour occasioned by the cross accidents of lifet | shall the place wherever your husband is thrown; be more welcome than courts or cities without him ? In short, these are some of the necessary me- thods to phase men, who. like me. are deep read in the world ; and to a person thus made, I should Ite proud in givins. all due retur7is towards making her happy." — Vol. xv. pp. 247, 248. He then tells her, that if every thing else were suitable, he should not care \\iit'ther her person were beautiful, or her fortune large " Cleanliness in the first, and compeiency in the; other, is all I look for. I desire, indted, a plentiful' revenue, but would ratlier it should he of my own; though I should bear from a wife to be reproached for the greatest." — Vol. xv. pp. 248. To complete the picture of his indifference, or rather his ill-disguised disinclination, he adds — '* The dijimal account you say I have given you of my livings I can assure you to be a true one; and, since it is a dismal one even in your own opinion, you ca7i best draw consequeiices from it. The place where Dr. Bolton lived is upon a living which he keeps with the deanery; but the place of residence for that they have given me is wiihir a mile of a town called Trim, twenty miles from; hence; and there is no other way but to hire 8 house at Trim, or build one on the spot ; the /r»i' IS hardly to be done, and the other I am too poor U perform at present.'^ — Vol. xv. p. 246. The ladv: as was to be e.\pected. broke off all correspondence after this letter — and s( ended Swift's first matrimonial eng-ai>i'nient and first eternal passion ! — What biH'nnie ol the unhappy person, whom he thus heartlcssk abandoned, with impaired health, and morti, fied affections, after a seven-years' courtship is nowhere explained. The fate of his ne.\ victim is at least more notorious. Esther .lohnson, better known to the reade of Swift's works by the name of Stella, wa, the child of a London merchant, who died her infancy ; when she went with her mothei who was a friend of Sir \V. Temple's sistei to reside at Moorpark, where Swift was th domesticated. Some part of the charge of he> education devolved upon him ; — and thong; he was twenty years tier senior, the interef with which he regarded her. apjiears to hav' ripened into something as much like afiectio as could find a place in his .selfish bosorr. Soon after Sir William's death, he got hi Irish livings, besides a considerable legticy :- and as she had a small independeiirc of h own, it is obvious that there was nothing l prevent their honourable and immediate uiiioi Some cold-blooded vanity or ambition, hov WORKS OF JONATHAN SWIFT. 81 ever, or some politic anticipation of his own possible inconstancy, deterred him from this onward and open course ; and led him to an arrangement which was dishonourable and absurd in the beginning, and in the end pro- ductive of the most accumulated misery. He prevailed upon her to remove her residence from the bosom of her own family in Eng- land, to his immediate neighbourhood in Ire- land, where she took lodgings with an elderly cunipanion. of the name of Mrs. Dingley — avowedly for the sake of his society and pro- tection, and on a footing of intimacy so very strange and unprecedented, that whenever he left his parsonage house for England or Dub- lin, these ladies immediately took possession, and occupi(^d it till he came back. — A situa- tion so extraordinary and undefined, was liable of course to a thousand misconstructions ; and must have been felt as degrading by any v,-oman of spirit and delicacy: and accord- in:;ly, though the master of this Platonic se- raiilio seems to have used all manner of paltry \ui[ insulting practices, to protect a reputation rtlnch he had no right to bring into question, —by never seeing her except in the presence it Airs. Dingley, and never sleeping under h- same ixjof with her, — it is certain both '; ■ the connection was regarded as indeco- ~ by persons of her own sex, and that she -. If felt it to be humiliating and improper. \;'.<;xlingly, within two years after her set- lenu'nt in Ireland, it appears that she encou- ;ii:ed the addresses of a clergyman of the aine of Tisdall, between whom and Swift ii-ie was a considerable intimacy; and that he would have married him, and thus sacri- eeil her earliest attachment to her freedom nd her honour, had she not been prevented y the private dissuasions of that false friend. ho did not choose to give up his own claims 1 h'M-. although he had not the heart or the 'iir to make her lawfully his own. She - then a blooming beauty, of little more twenty, with fine black hair, delicate ..'nres, and a playful and affectionate char- ts. It seems doubtful to us. whether she Liinally felt for Swift any thing that could "pcrly be called love — and her willingness marry another in the first days of tliPir ':inection. seems almost decisive on the ibject: but the ascendancy he had acquired tT her mhid; and her long habit of submit- j' her own judgment and inclinations to ~ uave him at least an equal power over an.d moulded her pliant affections into deep and exclusive a devotion. Even i.e his appointment to the Deanery of St. /ilck's, it is utterly impossible to devise \- apology for his not marrying her, or allow- s her to marry another ; the ordy one that ■ ever appears to have stated himself, viz. " want of a sufficient fortune to sustain the ' penses of matrimony, being palpably absurd ' the mouth of a man bom to nothing, and ;-eady more wealthy than nine-tenths of his n more sacred than those of actual marr: and was no more at liberty, under such Cj cumslances, to disguise that connection tJ the other: — or if he had himself uiiconscioiuj imbibed an irresistible passion for his young! admirer, it would have been far less guilty dishonourable to have avowed this to Stel' and foJiowcd the impnlsi^ of such a fatal taclunent. lu either of these ways, he woi' WORKS OF JONATHAN SWIFT. 83 have spared at least one of his victims. But he h;id not the apology of anj- such passion; and, desirous apparently of saving himself the shock of any unpleasant disclosure, or wishuig to secure to himself the gratiiication ot both their attachments, he endeavoured h;ist'ly to conceal from each the share which th'' other had in his alfections. and sacrificed the peace of both to the indulgence of this mean and cflkl-blooded duplicity. The same ; disgusting seltishness is, if possible, still more 1 apparent, in the mortifying and degrading conditions he .annexed to his nominal marriage with Stella, for the concealment of which no reason can bo assigned, to winch it is possible / to listen whh patience, — at least after the death of Vanessa hail removetl all fear of its afflicting or irritating that unhappy rival. This tragical event, of which Swift was as directly : iiid as guiltily the cause, as if he had plunged 1 dagger into her heart, is described with nruch feeling by Mr. Scott, who has added a •idler account of her previous retirement than my former editor. " About the year 1717, siie retired from Dublin, her house and property near Celbridge, to nurse ler hopeless passion in seclusion from t lie world, ^wift seems to have foreseen and warned her iffainst the consequences of this step. His letters ; , iiiiformly exhort her to seek genera! society, to ake e.tercise, and to divert, as much as possible, he current of her thoughts from the unfortunate tibject which was preying upon her spirits. He veil c.vhorts her to leave Ireland. Until the year 7-20. he never appears to have visited her at Cel- iridijre ; ihey only met when she was occasionally n Dublin. But iii that year, and down to the time f her death, Swift came repeatedly to Celbridge ; > nd, trom the informaiion of a most obliging cor- espondent, I am enabled to give account of some ninuie particulars attending them. " Marley .Abbey, near Celbridge, where Miss anhomrigh resided, is built much in the form of a :a! cloister, especially in its e.xternal appearance. in aged man (upwards of ninety by his own ac- ouiHi showed ihe grounds to my correspondent. !e was the son of Mrs. Vanhomrigh's gardener, nd used to work with his father in the garden when boy. He remembered the unforiunate Vanessa ell, and his account other corresponded wiih the ?ual description other person, especially as to her nhonpoinl. He said she went seldom abroad, and iw little company : her constant amusement was riding, or walking in the garden. Yet, according ' ihis authority, her society was courted by several inilies in the neighbourhood, who visited h<;r. )i withstanding her seldom returning that atten- III, — and he added, that her manners interested ery one who knew^ her. But she avoided com- iny, and was always melancholy save when Dean ^vift was there, and then she seemed happy. — lie garden was to an uncommon degree crowded I'h laurels. The old man said, that when Miss anhomrigh expected the Dean, she always plani- . witii her own hand, a laurel or two against his rival. He showed her favourite seat, still called niessa's Bower. Three or four trees, and some irels, indicate the spot. They had formerly, ■ording to the old man's information, been traiii- into a close arbour. There were two seats and d a rude table within the bower, the opening of rich commanded a view of the Lifl'y, which had ■ iomaniic effect ; and there was a small cascade V murmured at some distance. In this seques- . ' ' ed spot, according to the old gardener's account, 2 Dean and Vanessa used often to sit, with books .[^j5([ *i writing-materials onihe table before them. "Vanessa, besides musing over her unhnpiiy attachment, had, during her residence in this soli- tude, the care of nursing the declining health of her yijiiiiger sister, who at length died about 1720. This (.vent, as it left her alone in the world, seems 10 have increased the energy of her fatal passion for ."-^witt, while he, on the contrary, saw room for still greater reserve, when her situation became that of a solitary female, without the society or counte- nance ot a female relation. But Miss Vanhomrigh, irriiaicd at the situaiion in which she found herself, deierinincd on briii<;ing to a crisis those e.vpecta- lions of an union with the object of her affections, 10 the hope ol which she had clung amid every vicissitude of his conduct towards her. The most probable liar was his undefined connection with Mrs. Johnson, which, as it must have been per- tecily known to her, had, doubtless, long e.xcitcd her secret jealousy : although only a single hint to that purpose is lo be found in their correspondence, and thai so early as 1713, when she writes to him, then in Ireland, "' If you are very happy, it is ill- natured of you not to tell me so, except 'lis what is i neons ixt.t fit irith mine.' Her silence and pa- tience under this state of uncertainty, tor no less than eight years, must have been partly owing to her awe for Swift, and partly jierhaps to the weak state of her rival's health, which from year to year, seemed to announce speedy dissolution. At length, however. Vanessa's impatience prevailed ; and she ventured on the decisive step of writing to Mrs. Johnson herself, requesting to know the nature of that connection. Siella, in reply, informed her of her marriage with the Dean ; and, full of the high- est resentment against Swift for having given an- other female such a right in him as Miss Vanhom- righ's inquiries implied, she sent to him her rival's letter of interrogation, and, without seeing him, or awaiting his reply, retired to the house of Mr. Ford, near Dublin. Every reader knows the con- sequence. Swift, in one of those paroxysms of fury to which he was liable, both from temper and disease, rode instantly to Marley Abbey. As he entered the apartment, the sternness of his counte- nance, which was peculiarly formed to express the fiercer passions, struck the unfortunate Vanessa with such terror, that she could scarce ask whether he would not sit down. He answered by flinging a letier on the table: and, instantly leaving the house, mounted his horse, and returned to Dublin. When Vanessa opened the packet, she only found her own letter to Stella. It was her death warrant. She sunk at once under the disappointment of the delayed, yet cherished hopes, wlrch had so long sickened her heart, and beneath the unrestrained "rath of him for whose sake she had indulged them. How long she survived this last interview, is uncertain, but the time does not seem to have exceeded a few weeks." — Life, vol. i. pp. 248 — 2.')3. Among the novelties of the present edition, is what is called a complete copy of the cor- respondence betwij;t Swift and this unfortu- nate lady. To us it is manifest, that it is by no means a complete copy: — and. on the whole, the parts that are now published for the first time, are of less moment than those that had been formerly printed. But it is altogether a very interesting and painful col- lection; and there is something to us inex- pressibly touching in the innocent fondnes.'j. and ahriost childish gaiety, of Vanessa at its commencement, contrasted with the deep gloom into which she sinks in its later stages; while the ardour of affection which breathes through the whole, and the tone of devoted innocence and simplicity of character which are every where preserved, make us both hate and wonder at the man who could de- 84 LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPHY. liberately break a heart so made to be cher- ished. We cannot resist the temptation of extracting a little of the only part of this whole publication in which any thing like heart or tentlerness is to be discovered. His first letter is written immediately after their first separation, and while she yet believed that his slowness in returning her passion aro.-se, as he had given her ample warrant to suppose, (see the whole of the poem of Cad- enusand Vanessa, vol.xiv.J from nothing but a sense of the unsuitableness of their years and habits, which would give way to the con- tinued proofs of its constancy and ardour. He had written her a cold note on his journey, to which she thus rapturously answers: — " Now you ore good beyond expression, in send- ing nie that denr voluntary from Si. Alban's. It fives me more happiness tlian you can imagine, or describe, to Hnd that your head is so nnjch belter already. I do assure you all my wishes are em- ployed for the continuanre of it. I hope the next will tell me they have been of force. Pray, wiiy did not you remember me at Dimstable, as well as Moll ? Lord ! what a monster is Moll grown since. But nothinw of poor Hess; except that the mark will be in the same place of Davilla when; you left it. Indeed, it is nor much advanced yet, tor I have been studying of Rochefoncault to see if he de- scribed as much of love as 1 found in myself a Sun- day, and I find he falls very short of it. I am very impaiient to hear from you at Chester. It is im- possible to tell you how often I have wished you a cup of coffee and an orange at your inn." — Vol. xix, pp. 40ri, 404. Upon hearing of his arrival in Ireland, she writes again in the same spirit. " Here is now three long weeks passed since you wrote to me. Oh ! happy Dublin, that can employ all your thoughts, and happy Mrs. Emer- son, that could hear from you the moment you landed. Had it not been for her, I should be yet more uneasy than I cm. 1 really believe, before you leave Ireland, I shall give you just reason to wish I did not know my letters, or at least that I could not write: and I had rather you should wish 80, than entirely forget me. .Mr. Lewis has given nie ' Lex Dialogues Di-s JMorlts,^ and I am so charmed with them, that 1 am resolved to (juit my hody, let the consequence he what it will, except you will talk to me, for I find no conversation on earth comparable to yours ; so, if you core 1 should stav, do but talk, and you will keep me with plea- ! sure."— Vol. xix, pp. 407—409. ] Th'^re is a great deal more of this trifling of a heart at ease, and supported hv enchant- ing hopes. It is miserable to think how sadly the style is changed, when she comes to know better the object on whom she had thus irre- trievably lavished her affections. The follow- ing is the first letter that appears after she fol- lowed him to Irclami in 1714 : and it appears to us infinitely more touching and pathetic, in the truth and simplicity of the wretched- ness it expresst !<, than all the eloquent despair of all the heroines of romance. No man, with a heart, we think, could receive such letters and live. " You bid me be easy, and you'd see me as often as you could -. you had better have said as often as you could gel the belter of your inclinations so niuc:h ; or as often as you remembered there was such a person in the world. If you continue to treat me as you do, you will not be made uneasy by me long. 'Tis impossible to describe what I have suffered since I saw you last ; I am sure I could have borne (he rack much better than those killing, killing words of yours. Sometimes 1 have resolved to die without seeing you more, but those resolves, to your misfortune, did not last huig: for there is something in human nature that prompts one so to find relief in this world : I must giye way to ii, and beg you'd see me, and speak kniuly to me ! for I am sure you would not condemn any one to suffer what I have done, could you but know it. Tlie reason I write lo you is, because 1 cannot tell it you, should I see you; for when 1 begin to complain, then you are angry, and there is some- thing in your look so awful, that it striKes me dumb. Oh I that you may bui have so much regiird tor nie left, that this complaint may touch your soul with pity. I say as liiile as ever I can. Did \ou but know what I thought, I am sure it would move you. Forgive me, and believe I cannot help tell- ing you this, and live." — Vol. xix. p. 4-21. And a little after, " I am, and cannot avoid being in tlie spleen to the last degree. Every thing combines to make me so. Yet this and all other disappoininienis in life I can bear with ease, but that of being neglected by .... Spleen I cannot help, so you must ex- cuse it. I do all I can to get the better ot it ; but it is too strong for me. I have read more since I saw Cnd, than I did in a great while passed, and chose those books that required most attention, on purpose to engage my thoughts, but I find ihe more I think the more unhappy 1 am. " I had once a mind not to have wrote to you, for fear of making you uneasy to find me so dull ; but I could not keep lo ihat resolution, for the pleasure of writing to you. The satisfaction I have in your remembering me, when you read my letters, and the delight I have in expecting one from Cad, makes me rather choose to give you some uneasi- ness, than add to my own." — Vol. xix. pp. 431,432. As the correspondence draws to a close, hei despair becomes more eloquent and agonizing. The following two letters are dated in 1720. " Believe me, it is with the utmost regret that ' now complain to you ; — yet what can I do ? I mus either unload my heart, and tell you all its griefs or sink under the inexpressible distress I now suffc by your prodigious neglect of me. 'Tis now tei long weeks since I saw you. and in all ihat time have never recfivcd but one letter from you, anj'-' a little note with an excuse. Oh, how have yolN* forgot ine! You endeavour by severities to forcfPB.'! me from you : Nor can I blame you ; for with th uimost distress and confusion, I behold myself th, cause of uneasy refieciions to you. yet I cann( comfort you, but here declare, that 'lis not in \} power of time or accident to lessen the inexprc-^sib passion which I have for " Put my passion under the utmost restraint, - send me as distant from you as the earth will ailo^j — yet you cannot banish i hose charming ideas whitj will ever slick by me whilst I liave ihe use u liver, the Polite Conversation, and about ha^ a volume of poetry, this description will aj ply to almost all that is now before us ; — ar it is no small proof of the vigour and vivaci; of his genius, that posterity should have bei so anxious to preserve these caielt-s ai ha.sty productions, upon which their ;iiith appears to have set no other value liKin means for tlie attainment of an end. T' truth is. accordingly, that they are very ( .\ti ordinar} performances: And. considertd wi a view to the purposes for which they wf intended, have probably never been ecjuall in any period of the world. They are wi ten with gr«"at plainness, force, and intrepid ' — advance at once to the matter in dispute give battle to the strength of the enemy, a never seek any kind of advantage from da ness or obscurity. Their distinguishing f ture, however, is the force and the ve/ mence of the invective in which they aboui, — the copiousness, the steatiiuess. th^' ]iei' verance, and the dexterity with which iibM and ridicule are shout red upon tiie ach • WORKS OF JONATHAN SWIFT. 87 sary. This, we think, was, be3-ond all doubt, Swift's great talent, and the weapon by which he made himself formidable. He was, with- out exception, the greatest and most efficient ■ihciler that ever exercised the trade; and ].05sessed, in an eminent degree, all the quali- ilcations which it retjuires: — a clear head — a iold heart — a vintiictive temper — no admira- ;ion of noble qualities — no sympathy with suf- h-v'mg — not much conscience — not much con- -islency — a ready wit — a sarcastic humour — I thoiough knowledge of the baser parts of aman nature — and a complete familiarity vith every thing that is low, homely, and fa- niliar in language: These were his gifts; — ■ nd he soon felt for what ends they were _iven. Almost all his works are libels; gene- rally upon individuals, sometimes upon sects and parties, sometimes upon human nature. W^'hatever be his end, however, personal abuse, direct, vehement, unsparing invective, is his means. It is his sword and his shield. „ , his panoply and his chariot of war. In all his writings, accordingly, there is nothing to raise , i or exalt our notions of human nature, — but , , every thing to vilify and degrade. We may , learn from them, perhaps, to dread the con- sequences of ba.se actions, but never to love the feelings that lead to generous ones. There , is no spirit, indeed, of love orof honour in any part of them ; but an unvaried and harassing display of insolence and animosity in the writer, and villany and folly in those of whom he is writing. Though a great polemic, he, makes no use of general principles, nor ever enlarges his views to a wide or comprehen- sive conclusion. Every thing is particular with him. and, for the most part, strictly per- sonal. To make amends, however, we do . think him quite without a competitor in , personalities. With a quick and sagacious . I^i^j ppirit. and a bold and popular manner, he "jjlljoins an exact knowledge of all the strong and „ jj^jthe weak parts of every cause he has to man- ' 'ige : and, without the lea.st restraint from liilicaey, ehher of taste or of feeling, he -eems always to think the most efl'ectnal jiows the most advisable, and no advantage iiilawful that is likely to be successful foi' he moment. Disregarding all the laws of dished hostility, he u.ses, at one and the •ame moment, his sword and his po'soned lugger — his hands and his teeth, and his en- .'enomed breath. — and does not even scruple. liion occasion, to imitate his own yahoos, by lischnrginji: on his unhappy victims a shower !" filth, from which neither courage nor dex- I'lity can afford any protection. — Against ' '^■jjtuch an antagonist, it was, of course, at no ^f" ^ Aime very easy to make head; and accord- 'J' Migly his invective sfems. for the most part, 1 hnve been as much dreaded, and as tre- lendous as the personal ridicule of Voltaire. Joth were inexhaustible, well-directed, and nisparins-: buteven when Voltaire drew blood, -, |ie did not mangle the victim, and was only I '''' . taischievous when Swift was brutal. Any one iiliif)." . [vho will compare the epigrams on M. Fianc ■<'^K\ p Pompignan with those on Tighe or Bettes- :M'"''"H'orLli, will easily understand the distinction. Of the few works which he wrote in the capacity of an author, and not of a party zealot or personal enemy. The Tale of a Tub was by far the earliest in point of time, and has, by many, been considered as the lirst in point of merit. We confess we are not of that opin- ion. It is by far too long and elaborate for a piece of pleasantry; — the humour sinks, in many places, into mere buffoonery and non- sense ; — and there is a real and extreme te- diousness arising from the too successful mim- iciy of t("diousness and pedantry. All these defects are apparent enough even in the main story, in which the incidents are without the shadow of verisimilitude or interest and by far too thhdy scattered ; but they become in- sufferable in the interludes or digressions, the greater part of which are to us utterly illegible, and seem to consist almost entirely of cold and forced conceits, and exaggerated representations of long exploded whims and absurdities. The style of this work, which appears to us greatly inferior to the History of John Bull or even of Martinus Scriblerus, is evidently more elaborate than that of Swift's other writings, — but has all its substantial characteristics. Its great merit seems to con- sist in the author's perfect familiarity with all sorts of common and idiomatical expres- sions, his unlimited command of established phrases, both solemn and familiar, and the unrivalled profusion and propriety with which he heaps them up and applies them to the exposition of the most fantastic conceptions. To deliver absurd notions or incredible tales in the most authentic, honest, and direct terms, that have been used for the commu- nication of truth and reason, and to luxuriate in 'all the variations of that grave, plain, and- perspicuous phraseology, which dull men use to express their homely opinions, seems to be the great art of this extraordinary humorist, and that which gives their character and their edge to his sly strokes of satire, his keen sarcasms and bitter personalities. The voyar. love of money, and love of pleasure; they ride him sometimes by turns, sometimes all together. Since he went into Ireland, he seems most disposed ti> the second, and has met with great success; hav- ing gained by his goverrnent. of under two years, five-and-forty thousand pounds by the most favour- able com[)ntation, half in the regular way, and half in the prudential, " He was never yet known to refuse, or keep a promise, as I remember he told a lady, but with an exception to the promise he then made (which was to gel her a pension) ; yet he broke even that, and, I confess, deceived us both. But here I desire to distinguish between a promise and a bargain ; for he will be sure to keep the latter, when he has the fairest offer." — Vol. iv. pp. 149—152. We have not left ourselves room now to say much of Swift's style, or of the general character of his literary genius : — But our opinion may be collected from the remarks we have made on particular passages, and from our introductory observations on the school or class of authors, with whom he mui^ undoubtedly be rated. On the subjects to which he confines himself, he is unques- tionably a strong, masculine, and perspicuous writer. He is never finical, fantastic, or absurd — takes advantage of no equivocations in argument — and puts on no tawdriness for ornament. Dealing always with particulars, he is safe from all great and systematic mis- takes; and, in fact, reasons mostly in a series of small and minute propositions, in the hand- ling of which, dexterity is more requisite than genius; and practical good sense, with an exact knowledge of transactions, of far more importance than profound and high-reaching judgment. He did not write history or phi- losophy, but party pamphlets and journals; — ■ not satire, but particular lampoons; — not pleasantries for all mankind, but jokes for a particular circle. Even in his pamphlets, the broader questions of party are always waved, to make way for discussions of personal or im- mediate interest. His object is not to show that the Tories have better principles of gov- ernment than the Whigs, — but to prove Lord Oxford an angel, and Lord Somers a fiend, to convict the Duke of Marlborough of avarice or Sir Richard Steele of insolvency ; — not to point out the wrongs of Ireland, in the depres- sion of her Catholic population, her want of education, or the discouragement of her in- dustry; but to raise an outcry against an amendment of the copper or the gold coin, or against a parliamentary proposition for remit- ting the tithe of aQ:istmcnt. For those ends, it cannot be denied, that he chose his means judiciousl)', and used them with incomparable skill and spirit. But to choose such ends, we humbly conceive, was not the part either of a high intellect or a high character; and his genius must share in the disparage- ment which ought perhaps to be confined to the impetuosity and vindictiveness of his temper. Of his style, it has been usual to speak with gretit, and, we think, exaggerated praise. It is less mellow than Dryden'.s — less elegant than Pdpe's or Addison's — less free and noble than Lord Bolingbroke's — and utterly without the glow and loftiness which belonged to our earlier masters. It is radically a low and homelv style — without grace and without af- fectation; and chiefly remarkable for a great choice and profusion of common words and expressions. Other writers, who have used a plain and direct st3le. have been for the most part jejune and limited in their diction, and generally give us an impression of the poverty as well as the tameness of their language; but Swift, without ever trespassing into figured or poetical expressions, or ever employing a 92 LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPHY. word that can be called fine, or pedantic, has a prodigious variety of good set phrases al- ways at his command, and displays a sort of homely richness, like the plenty of an old English dinner, or the wardrobe of a wealthy burgess. This taste for the plain and sub- stantial was fatal to his poetry, which subsists not on such elements ; but was in the highest degree favourable to the effect of his humour, very much of which depends on the imposing gravity with which it is delivered, and orkthe various turns and heightenings it may receive from a rapidly shifting and always appropriate expression. Almost all his works, after The Tale of a Tub, seem to have been written very fast, and with very little minute care of the diction. For his own ease, therefore, it is probable they were all pitched on a low key. and set about on the ordinary tone of a familiar letter or conversation; as that from which there was a little hazard of falling, even in moments of negligence, and from which any rise that could be effected, must always be easy and conspicuous. A man fully possessed of his subject, indeed, and confident of his cause, may almost always write with vigour and effect, if he can get over the temptation of writing finely, and really confine himself to the strong and clear exposition of the matter he has to bring for- ward. Half of the affectation and offensive pretension we meet with in authors, ari,ses from a want of matter, — and the other half, from a paltry ambition of being eloquent and ingenious out of place. Swift had complete confidence in himself; and had too much real business on his hands, to be at leisure to in- trigue for the fame of a fine writer; — in con- sequence of which, his writings are more ad- mired by the judicious than if he had bestowed all his attention on their style. He was so much a man of business, indeed, and so much accustomed to consider his writings merely as means for the attainment of a practical end — whether that end was the strengthening of a party, or the wounding a foe — that he not only disdained the reputation of a composer of pretty sentences, but seems to have been thoroughly nidifferent to ail sorts of literary fame. He enjoyed the notoriety and influence which he had procured by his writings; but it was the glory of having carried his point, and not of having written well, that he valued'.' As soon as his publications had served their turn, they seem to have been entirely forgot- ten by their author; — and, desirous as he was of being richer, he appears to have thought as little of making money as immortality by means of them. He mentions somewhere, that except 300/. which he got for Gulliver, ho never made a farthing by any of his writings. Pope understood his trade better, — and not only made knowing bargains for his own works, but occasionally borrowed his friends' pieces, and pocketed the price of the whole. This was notoriously the case with three volumes of IMiscellanies, of which the greater part were from the pen of Swift. In humour and in irony, and in the talent of debasing and defiling what he hated, we join with all the world in thinking the Dean of St. Patrick's without a rival. His humour, though sufficiently marked and peculiar, is not to be easily defined. The nearest description we can give of it, would make it consist in ex- pressing .sentiments the most absurd and ridiculous — the most shocking and atrocious — or sometimes the most energetic and origi- nal — in a sort of composed, calm, and uncon- scious way, as if they were plain, undeniable, commonplace truths, which no person could dispute, or expect to gain credit by announcing — and in mamtaining them, always in the gravest and most familiar language, with a consistency which somewhat palliates their extravagJince, and a kind of perverted inge- nuity, which seems to give pledge for their sincerity. The secret, in short, seems to con- sist in employing the language of humble good sense, and simple undoubting conviction, to express, in their honest nakedness, senti- ments which it is usually thought necessary to disguise under a thousand pretences — or truths which are usually introduced with a thousand apologies. The basis of the art is the personating a character of great simplicity and opennes.s, for whom the conventional or artificial distinctions of society are supposed to have no existence ; and making use of this character as an instrument to strip vice and folly of their disguises, and expose guilt in all its deformity, and trutli in all its terrors. In- dependent of the moral or satire, of which they may thus be the vehicle, a great part of the entertainment to be derived from works of humour, arises from the contrast between the grave, unsuspecting indifference of the character personated, and the ordinary feel- ings of the world on the subjects which he discusses. This contrast it is easy to heighten, by all sorts of imputed absurdities: in which case, the humour degenerates into mere farce and buffoonery. Swift has yielded a little to this temptation in The Tale of a Tub : but scarcely at all in Gulliver, or any of his later writings in the same style. Of his talent for reviling, we have already said at least enough, in some of the preceduig pages. MAD. DU DEFFAND AND MLLE. DE LESPINASSE. 93 Jaiiuari), 1810. Correspondance inedite de IMada.mk dc Deffaxd. avec D'Alembert, Montesquieu, Ic President Renault, La Duchesse du Matne. Mesdamcs de Choiseul, De Staal, Ifc. ifc. 3 tomes. 12ino. Paris: 1809. Lettres de Mademoiselle de Lespinass-e. ecrifes depuis V Annie 1112 jusqit'dVAnnee 1776, &c. 3 tomes. 12mo. Paris: 1809. The popular works of La Harpe and Mar- moiitel have made the names at least of these ladies pretty well known in this country; and we have been induced to place their corres- pondence under one article, both because their history is in some measure connected, and because, though extremely unlike each other, they both form a decided contrast to our own national character, and, taken together, go far to exhaust what was peculiar in that of France. Most of our readers probably remember what La Harpe and Marmontel have said of these two distinguished women; and, at all events, it is not necessary for our purpose to give more than a very superficial account of them. Madame du Deffand was left a widow with a moderate fortune, and a great reputa- tion for wit, about 1750; and soon after gave up her hotel, and retired to apartments in the convent de St. Joseph, where she continued to receive, almost every evening, whatever was most distinguished in Paris for rank, talent, or accomplishment. Having become almost blind in a few years thereafter, she found she required the attendance of some intelligent young woman, who might read and write for tier, and assist in doing the honours of her conversazioni. For this purpose she cast her eyes on Mademoiselle Lespinasse, the illegiti- mate dauafhter of a man of rank, who had been boarded in the same convent, and was for some time delighted with her election. By and bye, however, she found that her young companion began to engross more of the notice of her visitors than she thought suitable; and parted from her with violent, ungenerous, and implacable displeasure. Mademoiselle de Lespinasse, however, carried with her the admiration of the greater part of her patroness' circle ; and having obtained a small pension from government, opened her own doors to a society not less brilliant than that into which she had been initiated under Madame du Deffand. The fatigue, however, which she had undergone in reading the old marchioness asleep, had irreparably injured her health, which was still more impaired by the agitations of her own inllammable and ambitious spirit ; and she died, before she had obtained middle age, about 1776, — leaving on the minds of almost all the eminent men in France, an impression of talent, and of ardour of imagination, which seems to have been considered as without example. Madame du Deffand continued to preside in her circle till a period of extreme old aire ; and died in 1780, in full possession of her faculties. Where the letters that are now given to the world have been secreted for the last thirty years, or by whom they are at last pubhsh- ed, we are not informed in either of the works before us. That they are authentic, we con- ceive, is demonstrated by internal evidence ; though, if more of them are extant, the selec- tion that has been made appears to us to be a little capricious. The correspondence of Madame du Deffand reaches from the year 1738 to 1764; — that of Mademoiselle de Les- pinasse extends only from 1773 to 1776. The two works, therefore, relate to different pe- riods ; and, being entirely of different charac- ters, seem naturally to call for a separate consideration. We begin with the correspon- dence of Madame du Deffand, both out of respect to her seniority, and because the va- riety which it exhibits seems to afford room for more observation. j As this lady's house was for fifty years the I resort of every thing brilliant in Paris, it is ' natural to suppose, that she herself must have possessed no ordinary attraction — and to feel an eager curiosity to be introduced even to that shadow of her conversation which we may expect to meet with in her correspond- ence. Though the greater part of the letters are addressed to her by vaiious correspond- ents, yet the few which she does write are strongly marked with the traces of her pecu- liar character and talent; and the whole taken together give a very lively idea of the struc- ture and occupations of the best French so- ciety, in the days of its greatest splendour. Laying out of view the greater constitutional gaiety of our neighbours, it appears to us, thai this society was distinguished from any that j has ever existed in England, by three circum- stances chiefly: — in the first place, by the exclusion of all low-bred persons; secondly, • by the superior intelligence and cultivation of j the women ; and, finally, by the want of politi- cal avocations, and the ab.sence of political antipathies. j By the first of these circumstances, the old Parisian society was rendered considerably , more refined, and infinitely more easy and natural. The general and peremptory pro- scription of the bourgeois, excluded, no doubt, a irood deal of vulgarity and coarseness ; but it had a still better effect in excludiiiir ihose ' feelings of mutual jealousy and contempt, and that conflict of family pride and conse(j\iential ! opulence, which can only be prevented from disturbing a more promiscuous assi nibly. by , means oi' universal and systematic reserve. 94 LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPHY. Where all are noble, all are equal ; — there is no room for ostentation or pretension of any sort; — every one is in his place everywhere; and the same manners being familiar to the whole society from their childhood, manners cease in a great measure to he an object of attention. Nobody apprehends any imputa- tion of vulgarity ; and nobody values himself on being free from it. The little peculiarities by which individuals are distinguished, are ascribed, not to ignorance or awkwardness, but to caprice merely, or to peculiarity of dis- position ] and not being checked by contempt or derision, are indulged, for the most part, as caprice or disposition may dictate ; and thus the very highest society is brought back, and by the same causes, to much of the freedom aud simplicity of the lowest. In England, we have never had this ar- rangement. The great wealth of the mercan- tile classes, and the privilege which every man here possesses of aspiring to every situa- tio;x, has always prevented any such complete separation of the high and the low-born, even in ordinary- .society, and made all large assem- blages of people to a certain degree promis- cuous.' Great wealth, or great talents, being sufficient to raise a man to power and emi- nence, are necessarily received as a sufficient passport into private company ; and fill it, on the large scale, with such motley and dis- cordant characters, as visibly to endanger either its ease or its tranquillity. The pride of purse, and of rank, and of manners, mutu- ally provoke each other ; and vanities which were undiscovered while they were univer- sal, soon become visible in the light of oppo- site vanities. With us, therefore, society, when it passes beyond select clubs and asso- ciations, is apt either to be distracted with little jealousies and divisions, or finally to settle into constraint, insipidity, and reserve. People meeting from all the extremes of life, are afraid of being misconstrued, and despair of being understood. Conversation is left to a few professed talkers ; and all the rest are satisfied to hold their tongues, and despise each other in their hearts. The superior cultivation of French Women, however, was productive of still more sub- stantial advantages. Ever since Europe be- came civilised, the females of that country have stood more on an intellectual level with the men than in any other, — and have taken their share in the politics and literature, and public controversies of the day, far more largely than in any other nation with which we are acquainted. For more than two cen- turies, they have been the umpires of polite letters, and the depositaries and the aijentsof tho.se intrigues by which the functions of gov- ernment are usually forwarded or impeded. They could talk, therefore, of every thing that men could wi.sh to talk about ; and general conversation, conseciuentl}-, assumed a tone, both less frivolous and less uniform, than it has ever attained in our country. The grand source, however, of the differ- ence between the good society of France and of England, is, that, in the former counry, men had nothing but society to attend to ; whereas, in the latter, almost all who are considerable for ranks or for talents, are continually en- grossed with politics. They have no leisure, therefore, for society, in the first place : in the second place, if they do enter it at all, they are apt to regard it as a scene rather of relaxation than exertion ; and, finally, they naturally acquire those habits of thinking and of talk- ing, which are better adapted to carry on business ami debate, than to enliven people assembled for amusement. In England, men of condition have still to perform the high duties of citizens and statesmen, and can only rise to eminence by dedicating their days and nights to the study of business and atiairs — to the arts of inlluencing those, Avith whom, and by whom, they are to act — and to the actual management of those strenuous con- tentions by which the government of a free state is perpetually embarrassed and pre- served. In France, on the contrary, under the old monarchy, men of the first rank had no political functions to discharge — no control to exercise over the government — and no rights to assert, either for themselves or their fellow- subjects. They werd either left, therefore, to solace their idleness with the frivolous en- chantments of polished society, or, if they had any object of public ambition, were driven to pursue it by the mediation of those favourites or mistresses who were most likely to be won by the charms of an elegant address, or the assiduities of a skilful flatterer. It is to this lamentable inferiority in the government and constitution of their country, that the French are indebted for the superi- ority of their polite assemblies. Their saloons are better filled than ours, because they have no senate to fill out of their population ; and their conversation is more sprightly, and their so- ciety more animated than ours, because there is no other outlet for the talent and ingenuity of the nation hut society and conversation. Our parties of pleasure, on the other hand, are mostly left to beardless youths aud superan- nuated idlers — not because our men want talents or taste to adorn them, but because their ambition, and their sense of public duty, have dedicated them to a higher service. When we lose our constitution — when the houses of parliament are shut up, our assem- blies, we have no doubt, will be far more ani- mated and rational. It would be easy to have splendid gardens and parterres, if we would only give up our corn fields and our pa.stures: nor should we want for magnificent fountains and ornamental canals, if we were contented to drain the whole surrounding country of the rills that maintain its fertility and beauty. But. while it is impossible to deny lliat the French enjoyed, in the agreeable constitution of their higher society, no slight compensation for the want of a free government, it is curious, and not unsatisfactory, to be able to trace the operation of this same compensating principle through all the departments we have alluded to. It is obviously to our free goverinnent, and to nothing else, that we owe that mixture of ranks and of characters, wliich certainly III MAD. DU DEFFAND AND MLLE. DE LESPINASSE. 95 reiiJers our large society less amiable, and less uncoustrained, than that of the old French i:iibi]ity. INIen, possessed of wealth and po- litical power, must be associated with by all \'.ith whom they choose to associate, and to whom their friendship or support is material. A t.ader who has boujiht his borough but yes- t Tiiay. will not give his influence to any set n: loblemeu or ministers, who will not receive ii ni and his family into their society, and auree to treat them as their equals. The same priuciple extends downwards by impercepti- ble gradations : — and the whole coirmiunity is i;i:ii:zled in private life, it must be owned with s in" little discomfort, by the ultimate action o: the same principles which combine them, t>i thnr incalculable benefit, in public. Even the backwardness or the ignorance of mu women may be referred to the same no- b!f' origin. Women have no legal or direct political functions in any country in the uni- vTse. In the arbitrary governments of Eu- r'i;>\ however, they exert a personal influence uvrT those in power and authority, which raises them into consequence, familiarizes ■ :: 'ui in some degree with business and affairs, ;ujI leads them to studythe character and the dispositions of the most eminent persons of tlieir day. In free states, again, where the personal inclination of any individual can go but a little way, and where every thing must be canvassed and sanctioned by its legitimate cpiisors, this influence is very inconsiderable; a. J women are excluded almost entirely from a:iy concern in those affairs, with which the leading spirits of the country are necessarily occupied. They come, therefore, almost un- avoidably, to be considered as of a lower order of intellect, and to act, and to be treated, upon that apprehension. The chief cause of their i ,;" riority, however, arises from the circum- -' Mces that have been already stated. Most ■ ■ i^ men of talent in upper life are engaged 'suits from which women are necessarily : led. and have no leisure to join in those - iits which might occupy them in com- . Being thus abandoned in a good degree :: ' society of the frivolous of our sex, it is ;:n]ios.s!ble that they should not be frivolous in their turn. In old France, on the contrary. h" 'nen of talents in upper life had little to 'i!t to please and be pleased with the avo- ; and they naturally came to acquire that | 'ledge and those accomplishments which : ! them for such society. 1 I !i ^ last distinction between good French I :_v)od English society, arises from the dif- ' ' position which was occupied in each: .1^ men of letters. In France, certainly, I ■ '.ninaled much more extensively with the ' : • world. — incalculably to the benefit both itat world, and of themselves. In England, j L'eat scholars and authors have commonly i i in their studies, or in the societv of a a'arned friends or dependants; and their ! iias been so generally gloomy, laborious ; liieleirant; that literature and intellectual : . .'or.ce have lost some of their honours, and nuch of their attraction. With us, when a ] looked upon as having renounced both the ";ay and busy world ; and the consequence is, tliat the gay are e\trt>mely frivolous, and the ac- tive rash and superficial ; while the man of genius is admired by posterity, and linishes his days rather dismally, without knowing or caring for any other denomination of men, than authors, booksellers and critics. This distinction too. we think, arises out of the difference of government, or out of some of its more immediate consequences. Our politicians are too busy to mix with men of study : and our iiilers are too weak and too frivolous. The studious, therefore, are driven in a great measure to herd with each other, and to form a little world of their own, in which all their peculiarities are aggravated, their vanity encouraged, and their awkward- ness confirmed. In Paris, where talent and idleness met together, a society grew up, both more inviting and more accessible to men of thought and emdition. What they commu- nicated to this society rendered it more nitel- ligent and respectable ; and what they learned from it, made them much more reasonable, amiable, and happy. They learned, in short, the true value of knowledge and of wisdom, by seeing exactly how much they could con- tribute to the government or the embellish- ment of life ; and discovered, that there were sources both of pride and of happiness, far more important and abundant than thinking, writmg, or reading. It is curious, accordinglj', to trace in the volumes before us, the more intimate and private life of some of those distmguivshed men, whom v-e find it difficult to represent to ourselves under any other aspect, than that of the authors of their learned publications. D'Alembert, Montesquieu. Henault, and sev- eral others, all appear in those letters in their true and habitual character, of cheerful and careless men of the world — whose thoughts ran mostly on the little exertions and amuse- ments of their daily .^society ; who valued even their greatest works chiefly as the means of amusing their leisure, or of entitling them to the admiration of their acquaintances : and occupied themselves about posterity far less than po,*terity will be occupied about them. It will probably scandalize a good part of our men of learning and science (though we think it will be consolatory to some) to be told, that there is great reason for suspecting that the most profound of those authors looked upon learnuig chiefly as a sort of tranquil and in- nocent amusement ; to which it was very well to have recourse when more lively occupa- tions were not at hand, but which it was wise and meritorious, at all times, to postpone to pleasant parties, and the natural play, either of the imagination or of the aftVctions. It ap- pears, accoidingly. not onlv that they talked easily and familiarly of all their works to their female friends, but that they gave themselves very little anxiety either about their sale, or their notoriety out of the sphere of their own acquaintances, and made and invited all sorts of jokes upon them with uT;f< igind g-aiety and indifference. The lives of our learned men 96 LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPHY. would be much happier, and their learning much more useful and amiable, if they could be persuaded to see things in the same hght. It is more than time, however, to introduce the reader to the characters in the volumes before us. Madame du DefTand's correspondence con- sists of letters from Montesquieu, D'Alem- bert, HenauU. D'Argens, Formont. Bernstorff, Scheffer. &c. among the men, — antl Mesdames de Staal, de Choiseul. &c. among the women. Her own letters, as we have already intimat- ed, form but a very inconsiderable part of the collection ; — anci, as these distinguished names naturally excite, in persons out of Paris, more interest than that of any witty mar- chioness whats^oever. we shall begin with some specimens of the intimate and private style of those eminent individuals, who are already so well known for the value and the beauty of their public instructions. Of these, the oldest and the most popularly known, was Montesquieu, — an author who frequently appears profound when he is only paradoxical, and seems to have studied with great success the art of hiding a desultory and fantastical style of reasoning in imposing aphorisms, and epigrams of considerable ef- fect. It is impossible to read the Esprit des Loix, without feeling that it is the work of an indolent and very ingenious person, who had fits of thoughtfulness and ambition ; and had meditated the different points which it com- prehends at long intervals, and then connect- ed them as he best could, by insinuations, metaphors, and vague verbal distinctions. There is but little of him in this collection ; but what there is. is e.vtremely characteristic. D'Alembert had proposed that he should write the articles Democracy and Despotism, for the Encyclopedie ; to which proposal he answers with much naivete, as follows : " Quant a mon introduniion dans I'Encyclope- die, c'est un beau palais ou je serais Men glorieu.x de mettre les pieds ; tnais pour Ips deux ariicles Democratie et Dei>po(isine, je ne voudrais pas pren- dre ceux-!a; j'ai tire, sur ces articles, de mon cer- veau tout ce qui y etait. Li^sprit que fni eat nn moule; on n^en tire jamais que les memes portraits: aiuai je ne vous dirais que ce que j'ai dit, et peut- etre plus mal que je ne I'ai dit. Ainsi, si vous voulez de moi, laisscz a mon esprit le choix de quel- ques articles ; et si vous voulez ce choix, ce fera chez madame du Dcffand avec du marasquin. Le pcre Castel dit qu'il ne pent pas se corriger, parce qu'en corrigeant son ouvratrc, il en fait un autre ; et moi je ne puis pas me corriger, parce que je chanie toujours ia meme chose. li me vient dans Tcsprit que je pourrais prendre pcut-eire I'nrticle Goi/t, ct je prouvcrai bien que difficile est proprit communia dicerer—Vo\. i. pp. 30, 31. There is likewise another very pleasing let- ter to M. de Henault. and a gay copy of verses to Madame de Mirepoix; — but we hasten on to a personage still more engaging. Of all the men of genius that ever existed, D'Alem- bert perhaps is the most amiable and truly respectable. The great extent and variety of his learning, his vast attainments and dis- coveries in the mathematical sciences, and the beautv and eloquence of his literary composi- tions, "are known to all the world: But the simplicity and openness of his character — his perpetual gentleness and gaiety in society — the unostentatious independence of his senti- ments and conduct — his natural and cheerful superiority to all feelings of worldly ambition, jealousy, or envy — and that air of perpetual youth and unassuming kindness, which made him so delightful and so happy in the society of women, — are traits which we scarcely ex- pect to find in combination with those splendid qualifications; and compose altogether a char- acter of which we should have been tempted to question the reality, were we not fortunate enough to be familiar with its counterpart in one living individual.* It is not possible, perhaps, to give a better idea of the character of D'Alembert, than merely to state the fact, and the reason of his having refused to go to JBerlin, to preside over the academy founded there by Frederic. In answer to a most flattering and urgent appli- cation from that sovereign, he writes thus to M. D'Argens.t " La siiualion ou je suis seroii ppiii-eire, mon- sieur, un motif suffisant pour bien d'auire.'s. de re- noncer a leur pays. Ma fortune e.«t au-dessous du mediocre ; 1700 liv. de rente font tout mon revenu: entierement independant et niaiire de nie.« volontes, je n'ai point de famille qui s'y oppose; oublie du gouvernement coninie tant de gens le sont de la Providence, persecute meme autiini qn'on peul I'etre qiiand on cviie de dnnner trop d'avaiuages sur soi a la nu'chanct'te dcs hommes ; je n'ai aucune part aux recompenses qui plcuvent ici sur les gens de lettres, avec plus de profusion que de lumicres. Malgre tout cela. monsieur, la iranquilliie dont je jouis est,si parfaite et si douce, que je ne puis me resoudre a kii faire coiirir le nioindre risque."— " Superieur a la manvaise fortune, les epreuves de loute espece que j'ai essuyees dans ce genre, m'ont endurci a I'iiidigence et au malheur. et ne m'ont laisso de seiisibilite que pour ceiix qui me ressein- blenf. A force de privations, je me suis accomunie sans effort i\ nie contentcrdu plus etroii iiecessaire, et je serois mcnie en ctat de partager mon pen de for- tune avec (J'hoiinelesgenspius pauvre? que uioi. J'ai commence, conimc les autres hornnips, par desircr les places el les ridiesses. j'ai fini |)ar y renoiic<-r ab- solument ; et de jour en jour je m'en irouve niieux. La vie retin'e et assez obscure que je nune est parfaitement conforme a mon caractere, a mon amour extreme pour I'iridcpendance, et pcui-etre meme a un pen d'eloignement que les eveneniens de ma vie m'ont inspire pour les hommes. La re- traite ou le regime que me prescrivent mon eiat et mon got'it m'ont prociire la same la phis parfaiie et la plus egale — c'esi-a-dire, le premier I'ien d'un philosophe ; enfinj'ai le bonheur de joiiird'im petit nombre d'amis. dont le commerce et la contiance font la consolation et le cliarme de ma vie. Jiigei maintenant vous-mcme, monsieur, s'il ni'est possi- ble de renoncer a ces avaniatres, e! de changer un bonheur sur pour une situation toujours inceriaiiie, quelque brillante qu'elfe puisse eire. Je ne doine nullemcnt des bontes du roi, et de tout ce qu'il pent * It cannot 7ioir offend the modesty of any living reader, if I explain that the person lure alluded to was my excellent and amiable friend. tl:e late Pro- fessor Plavfair. t This learned person writes in a very affected and pri'ciciisr style. He ends one of his letters to D'Alembert with the fallowing eloquent expres- sion : — " Ma santo s'effoiblit tons les jing to revenge herself for her own unhappiness. by making every body near her uncomfortable. " Je lus avaiit-hicr vofre lettre, ma reine, a S. A. Elle etait dans un acces de frayeurdu tonnerre, qui ne fit pas valoir vos gaianteries. J'aurai soin une autre fois de ne vous pas exposcr a I'orase. Nous nagcons ces jours passes dans la joie ; nous nagcons a pre.sent dans la pluie. Nos idccs, devenues deuces «t agreables, vont reprendre loute leur noirceur. Pardessus cela est arrive, depuis deux jours, a notre princesse un rhuinc, avec de la fiijvre : ce nonob- ftant et malgre le temps diaboliq\ie, la promenade va toujours son train. II semble que la Providence prenne soin de construire pour Ics princes des corps a I'usage de leurs fantaisies, sans quoi ils ne pour- raient aitraperage d'homme." — Vol. i. pp. 161, 162. " En depit d'un troisieme orage plus violent que les deux prccedens. nous nrrivons d'une chasse : nous avons essuye la bordee au beau milieu de la foret. J'esperais eviter comme a I'ordinaire cette belle parlie ; mais on a adroitemenl tire parti des rai- 6ons que j'avais alb'guces pour m'en aispetiser; ce qui m'a mis hors d'etat de rcculer. C'est doinmage <)u'un art si ingriiicux suit employe a desoler les gens " — Vol. i. p. 164. " Je suifi (res iachee que vous manquiez d'amuse- mens: c'est un medicament necessaire a la sant^; notre princesse le pense bien ; car eiant veritable- ment malade, elle va sans fin. sans cesse, quelque temps qu'il fasse." — Vol. i. p. 168. " Nous faisons, nous disons toujours les memes choses : les promenades, les observations sur le vent, le cavagnole, les remarques sur la perie et le gain, les mesures pour tenir les portes fermees quel- que chaud qu'il fasse, la desolation de ce qu'on ap- pelle les etouffes, au nombre desquels je suis, et dont vous n'etes pas, qualite qui redouble le desir de voire societe." — Vol. i. p. 197. " Rien n'est egal a la surprise et au chagrin on Ton est, ma reine, d'avoir appris que vous avez et^ chez Madame la Duchesse de Mode;ie. Un amant bien passionne et bien jaloux supporte plus tran- qnillement les demarches les plus suspecies, qu'on n'endure celle-ci de votre part. ' Vous allez vous devouer la, abandonner lout le reste ; voila a quoi on etoit reserve : c'est une destince bien cruelle !* &,c. J'ai dit ce qu'il y avait a dire pour ramener le calme ; on n'a voulu rien entendre. Quoique je ne doive plus m'etonner, cette scene a encore trouve moyen de me surprendre. Venez, je vous conjure, ma reine. nous rassurer contre cette alarnie : ne louez point la personne dont il s'agit, et surtout ne parlez pas de son affliction ; car cela serait pris pour un reproche." — Vol. ii. pp. 22, 23. All this is miserable : but such are the i necessary consequences of being bred up among flatterers and dependants. A prince ' has more chance to escape this heartlessness and insignificance; because he has high and active duties to discharge, which necessarily occupy his time, and exercise his understand- ing: but the education of a princess is a work of as great difficulty as it may come to be oi importance. We must make another extract, or two from Madame de Staal, before taking leave of her. " Madame du Chaielet et Voltaire, qui s'etaieni annonces pour aujourd'hui et qu'on avait perdusd€ vue, parureni hier, sur le miiiuit, coinine deuj spectres, avec une odeur de corps embaunies qu'ilj semblaient avoir apportee de leurs tombeaux. Oi sortait de table. C'etaient pourtant des spectret afllarnes: il leur fallut un souper, et qui plus est, da liis, qiii n'etaient pas prepares. La concierge, dejj couchee, se leva a grande hate. Gaya, qui avai offert son logenient pour les cas pressans, tut turci de le ceder dans celui-ci. demcnagea avec auian de precipitation et de deplaisir qn'une annoe sur prise dans son camp, laissant une panic de soi bagage au pouvoir de I'ennemi. Voltaire s'es, bien trouve du giie: cela n'a point du tout consol Gaya. Pour la dame, son lit ne s'est pas trouv bien fait : il a f'allu la deloger aujourd'hui. Note que ce lit elle I'avait fait elie-meme, faute dc ge^f et avait trouve un defaut de . . . . dans les niatelas ce qui, je crois, a plus blessc son esprit exact qu son corps peu dclicat." — "Nos revenans iie » montrent point dc jour, ils apparurent hier a di heures du soir : je ne pense pas q^u'on les voie ^uer plus lot aujourd'hui; I'un est a dccrire de nau; fairs, I'autre a commenter Newton ; ils ne veulei ni jourr ni se proinener: ce sont bien des non-v! leurs dans une societe, ou leurs doctes ccrits ne sor d'aucun rapport." — " Madame du Chatelet e d'hier a son troisirme locement : elle nc pouvs' plus supporter celui qu'elle avait choisi ; il y av8 du bruit, de la fumee sans feu (il me semble qt c'est son emblOine). Le bruit, ce n'est pas la ni; qu'il I'incommode, a ce qu'elle m'a dit, mais^ jour, au flirt de son travail : cela derange ses idee Elle fait actuellement la revue de ses principer c'est un exercice qu'elle reitere chaque annec, soi quoi ils pourraicnt s'echapper, et pcut-eire s't n all si loin quelle n'en retrouveraii pas un seul. . crois bien que sa tete est pour eux une maieon < MAD. DU DEFFAND AND MLLE. DE LESPINASSE. 99 force, et non pas le lieu de leur naissance : c'est le cas de voiller soi<;neuseiTient a leur garde. EUe prefere le bon air de ceite occupation a lout amuse- ment, el persisie a ne se moiiirerqu'a la nnit close. Voltaire a fait ous a les supporter, 1°, parce que je ne suis pas ■n etat de vous en dire d'autres ; 2°, parce qu'en norale elies sont toujours les plus vraies, parce lu'elles tiennent a la nature. Aprus avoir bien ixerce son esprit, le philosoplie le plus eclaire sera iblige d'en revenir, a ci^t e^ard, a I'axiome du plus ;raud sot, de mcme qu'il partage avec !ui I'air qu'il espire." — "Les prcjuges se muitiplient, les arts 'accroissent, les sciences s'approfondissent : mais la morale est toujours la meme, parce que la nature !ie change pas; elle est toujours rcduitea ces deux ' (loints: eire jusre pour eire bon, esre sage pour ' Hre heureux Sadi, poete Persan. dit que la m- ' ;-e*se esl dejouir, la bonte defaire jouir: j'y ajoute '' 'a justice." — ' ' •' II y a trois choses dont vous dites que les fem- ' nes ne conviennent jamais: I'lme d'entre elles est ■ 'e s'enniiyer. Je n'en conviens pas non plus ici : ' 'nalgre vos soup^ons, je vols mes ouvriers, je crois ' 'onduire leurs ouvrages. A ma toilette, j'ai cettc elite Corbie qui est laide, mais fraiche coinme une eche, folle comme un jeiine chien ; qui chante, ui rit, qui joue du clavecin, qui danse, qui saute ■ u lieu de marcher, qui ne salt ce qu'eile fait, et lit tout avec grace, qui nesait ce qu'eile dit, et dit '[ |)ut avec esprit, et surtout une na'ivete charmante. 1! U nuit je dors, le jour je reve, et ces plaisirs si !' !oux, si passifs, si betes, sont precisement ceux qui ;i 'le conviennent le mieux." — Vol. ii. pp. 134, 133. I II is time now that we should come to j(. ,Iadame du Deffand herself: — the wittiest, the jioet selfish, and the most ennuye of the whole ('■ farty. Her wit, to be sure, is very enviable '* |nd very entertaining ; but it is really con- alatory to common mortals, to find how little could amuse its possessor. This did not roceed in her, however, from the fastidious- . ess which is sometimes supposed to arise om a long familiarity with excellence, so luch as from a long habit of selfishness, or ither from a radical want of heart or afTec- * . |on. La Harpe says of her, " Qu'il etoit dif- ficile d'avoir moins de sensibilite, et j)Ius d'egoisme." With all this, she was greatly given to gallantry in her youth ; though her attachments, it would seem, were of a kind not very likely to interfere with her peace of mind. The very evening her first lover died, after an intimacy of twenty years, La Harpe assures us, ''Qu'eile vint souper en grande coinpagnie chez Madame de Marchais, oil j'etais; et on lui parla de la perte qu'eile ve- nait de faire. He las ! il cxt mort ce soir a six hcures ; sans cela, vous ne me verricz pas ici Ce furent ses propres paroles ; et elle soupa comme a son ordinaire, c'est-a-dire foit bien: car elle etait tres-gourmande." (Pref.p.xvi.j She is also recorded to have frequently' de- clared, that she could never bring herself to love any thing, — though, in order to take every possible chance, she had several times attempted to become devote — with no great success. This, we have no doubt, is the secret of her ennui ; and a line example it is of the utter worthlessness of all talent, ac- complishment, and glory, when disconnected from those feelings of kimlness and generosity, which are of themselves sufficient for happi- ness. Madame du Deffiind, however, must have been delightful to those who sought only for amusement. Her tone is admirable ;. her wit flowing and natural ; and though a little given to detraction, and not a little importu- nate and exigeantc towards those on whose complaisance she had claims, there is always an air of politeness in her raillery, and of knowledge of the world in her murmurs, that prevents them from being either wearisome or oflfensive. Almost all the letters of her writing which are published in these volumes, seem to have been written in the month of July 1742, when she spent a few weeks at the waters of Forges, and wrote almost daily to the Presi- dent Henault at Paris. This close corres- pondence of theirs fills one of these volumes ; and, considering the rapidity and carelessness with which both parties must have written, must give, we should think, a very correct, and certainly a very favourable idea of the style of their ordinary conversation. We shall give a few extracts very much at ran- dom. She had made the journey along with a Madame de Pequigni, of whom she gives the following account. :; " Mais venons a un article bien plus inte^ressanf, c'est ma compagne. O mon Dieu ! qu'eile me dcplait ! Elle est radicalement folle ; elle ne con- noil point d'heure pour ses repas ; elle a dejeune a Gisors a huit heures du matin, avec du veau froid ; a Gournay, elle a mange du pain trempe dans le pot, pour nourrir un Limousin, ensuiie un morceau de brioche, et puis trois assez grands biscuits. Nous arrivons, il n'est quo deux heures et demie, et elle veut du riz et une capilotade ; elle mange t-omme un singe; sesmainsrcssemblent a leurs pattes; elle ne cesse de bavarder. >Sa pretention est d'avoir de I'imaKination, et de voir toutes choses sous des faces singuliures, el comme la nouveaute des id<'es lui manque, elle y supplee par la bizarrerie de I'ex- pression, sous pretextc qu'eile est naturellc. Elle me declare toutes ses fantaisies, en m'assurant qu'eile ne veut que ce qui me convient ; maie je crains d'etre force a etre ea complaisaute; cepen- 100 LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPHY dant je compte bien que cela ne s'eiendra pas sur ce qui imcressera mon regime. Elle comptoit tout a I'heure e'eiabiir dans ma chambre pour y laire 868 repas, mais je lui ai dit que j'allois ecrire : je I'ai priee de taire dire a Madaini' Laroche les lieures ou elle vouloit manner et ce qu'elle voudroii man- ger, et ou ello vonli>it manger ; et que, pour nioi, je coniptois avoir la mime liberie: en consequence je manoerai du nz et uii poulet a huit heures du 8oir."— Vol. ii. pp. 191, 19,'. After a few days she returns again to this unfortunate comijanion. " La Pequigni n'est d'ancune ressoiirce, el son esprit est comme ler^pace: il y a ciendue, profon- deur. et peut-etre louies les auires dimensions que je lie saurais dire, parce que je ne les sais pas ; mais cela n'est que du, vide pour I'usage. Elle a torn 8«n:i. tout jugn, tout eprouve. tout choisi, tout rejete ; elle esi, dit-elle, d'une ditficulie sin- gulicre en compagnii;, et cependant elle est touie la journec avec louies iios peiiies madames a jaboter comme utie pie. Mais ce n'est pas cela qui me deplait en elle : cela ni'est commode des aiijourd'hui, et cela me sera ires agreable siioi que Formont sera arrive. Ce qui iii'est insup- portable, c'est le diner ; elle a I'air d'une lolle en mangeaiit ; elle deptce uiie poularde dans le plat ou on la sen, ensuiie elle la met dans un autre, se fait rapporter du bouillon pour mettre dessus, tout semblabie a celui qu'elle rend, ei puis elle prend un haut d'nilc. ensuite le corps dont elle ne mange que la moitic ; et puis elle ue veut pas que Ton reiourne le veau pour couper un os, de peur qu'on n'amoUisse la peau ; elle coupe^ un os avec toiite la pci;ie possible, elle le ronge a demi, puis re'ourne a sa poularde ; apres elle ^it'le tout le de.'sus du veau. ensuite elle revient h ronger sa poularde : cela dure deux heures. Elle a sur sou assiette des morceau.x d'os rontjees, du peau.x sn- cees, e: pendant ce temps, ou je m'ennuie, a la niort, ou je mange plus qu'il ne taudrait. C'est line cirio'^i;'' de lui voir manger un biscuit; cela dure une domi-heure, et le total, c'est qu'elle manae comme un loup: il est vrai qu'elle fait un exercicc enrage. Je suis f&chee que voiis ayez de commun avec elle rimpossibilite de resier une minute en repos.'' — Vol. iii. pp. 39 — 41. The rpst of h^r company do not come any better off. The lady she praises most, seems (0 come near to the English character. " ]\Iadame de Bancour a Irente ans; elle n'est pas vilaine ; elle est trt's douce et ties polie, et ce n'est pas sa faute de ti'eire pns plus amusante; c'est fauie d'avoir rien vu : car elle a du bon sens, n'a nulle pretention, et est fort naturelle ; son ton de voi.x est doux, naif et meme un pen niais, dans If go It (le Jelioi ; .si elle avail vecu dans le nionde, elle serait ainiable : je lui fais confer sa vie; elle est occupee de ses devoirs, sans aus'erite ni osien- ta:ion ; bi elle ne ni'ennuyait pas, elle me plairait ossez." — Vol. iii. p. 2r>. The following are some of her mailings over her tanishment. " l\me. prend des etonnemens funestes d'etre ici : c'est conimc la pcii.-ee de la mort ; si je ne m'en distrayais, I'en mourrais reelletnent. Vousiiesnu- nez vouH figurer la trisiesne de ce .sejour; mais si fait, puwpie vous eie.i a Piombieres : mais non ; c'est que ce n'est point le lieu, c'est la compagnie dont il em impossible de faire aucuii usage. Heu- reiisemenl depuis que je suis ici, i'ai un certain hebetement qui teraii que je n'enteiidrais pas le plus petit raiHonnementj je vt'gt'te." — " Je ne crois pas qu'aucun remcde puissc eire bon lorsqu'on s'ennuie autant niie je fais: cc n'est pas que je aupporte mon nial paiicminent ; mais jamais je ne suis bicn-aise, et ce n'est que parcu que je vegete que je suie tranquillc : quand dix heures arrivent je suis ravie, je vois la fin de la journee avec delices. Si je n'avais pas mon lit et mon fauteuil, je serais cent fois plus malheureuse." — Vol. iii. pp. 96 — 98. The following, though short, is a good spec- imen of the tone in which she treats her lover. " Je crois que vous me regrettez, c'est -a-dire, que vous pensez beaucoup a moi. Mais (comme de raison) vous vous divertissez fort bien : vous etes comme les quieiistes, vous fanes tout en moi, pour moi et par moi j mais le fait est que vous faiies tout sans moi ei que vos journees se passent gaiement, que vous jouissez d'une certaine liberie qui voua plait, et vous etes fort aise que pendant ce lemps-la je travaille a me bien porter. Mes units ne sent pas trop bonnes, et je crois que c'est que je mange i un peu trop: hier je me suis retranche le Loeut, au- jourd'hui je compie reformer la quaniiie de pain." — " N'allez point vous corriger sur rien, j'aime que vous me parliez ormeaux, ruisseaux. moineaux, etc., el ce m'est une occasion tres-agreable de v>»us don- I ner des demeiiiis, de vous conloiidre, de vous tour- j menter, c'est je crois ce qui coniriliue le plus a me j faire pas.*er mes eaux." — Vol. iii. pp. 126, 1-27. 129. We have scarcely left ourselves room to I give any of the gentleman's part of this cor- respondence. It is very pleasingly and gaily sustained by him, — though he deals mostly in I the tittle-tattle of Paris, and appears a little ' vain of his oAvn currency and distinction. We extract the following paragraphs; just as the) turn up to us. " Je ne crois pas que Ton pnisse etre heureux ei province qnand on a passe sa vie a Pans ; mai lieureux qui n'a jamais connu Paris, et qui n'ajout pas nccessairement a cetie vie les maux chime riques, quisont les plus grands! caronpeut guerir u seigneur qui geniit de ce qu'il a ete grele, en h faisant voir qu'il se trompe, et que sa vigne est cot verte de raisin ; mais la grele metaphysique ne pei etre combattue. La naiure, ou la providence n'e: pas si injusie qu'on le veut dire; n'y meltons rif du noire, et nous serons moins a plaindre ; et pu regardons le terme qui approche, le marteaii qui i frapper I'heure, et persons que tout cela va di para It re. " Ah I I'inconcevable Pont de Veyle ! il vient i donner une parade chez M. le due d' Orleans : cet scene que vous connaissez du vendeur d'orvieta Au lieu du Forcalquier, c'eiait le peiit Gaiiffin q faisait le Giles; et Pont de Veyle a disiribue moins deux cents boites avec in> couplet pour to le monde: il est plus jeune que quand vous I'av vu la premiere fois ; (7 s' amuse de 'out; n'aime rie et n'a conserve de la memoire de la detunte que hnine pour la musique frangaise." — Vol. i. i 110. 111. At the end of the letters, there are plac a variety of portraits, or characters of the mi distinguished persons in Madame du D^ fand's society, written by each other — son times with great freedom, and sometiir with much flattery — but almost always w wit and penetration. We give the follow by Madame du Deffand as a specini chiefly because it is shorter than most of : others. " Madame la Duchesse d'Aiguillon a la bou s enfonce, le nez de travers. le regard fol et hard • et malgre cela eile est belle. L'cclat de son t ' I'emporie sur I'irregulariie de ces trails. " .Sa taille est grossiere, sa gorge, ses bras i ' enormes ; cependant elle n'a point I'air pesan li epais : la force suppli'e en elle a la legereu'. "Son esprit a beaucoup dc rapport a sa figuri' est pour ainsi dire aussijpal aessineque i:On visi' MAD. Dll DEFFAND AND MLLE. LESPINASSE. lo: et aussi eclatant : I'abondance, I'activi c, rinipetu- osite en sont les qualites dominantes. 8an9 gout, sans grace, et sans juslesse, elle eiomie, elle sur- prena, niais elle iie phut iii n'intcresse. " On pourrait comparer Madame la Duohesse d' Aiguillon ii ces statues faitcs pour le cintrc, et qui paraissent moiistrueuses etant dans le parvis. Sa figure ni son esprit ne veulent point ^Ire viis iii ex- amines de trop pres ; une ceriaine distance est noces- saire a sa beauie : des juges pen eclairos et peii delicats sont les sculs qui puissent ctre favorables a son esprit. " Setnblabie a la trompette du jugetnent, elle est faite pour resusciter les rnoris; ce sont les impiiis- sans qui doivent I'aimer, ce sont lea sourds qui doi- veiit rentendre." — Vol. iii. pp. 154 — IfiG. There are three characters of Madame du Deffand herself, all very flattering. That by the President Renault is the least so. It ends as follows. i " Cependani, pour ne pas marquer trop de prf'- 'r vention et obtenir plus dc croyance, j'ajouterai que I'age. sans iui oter ses lalens, I'avait rendue ja- louse et mefiante, cedant a ses premiers mouve- mens, maladroite pour conduire les hommes dont elle disposait naturellement ; enfin de I'humeur ■ inegale, injuste, ne cessant d'etre aimable qn'aux yeux des personnes auxquelles il Iui itnportait de , plaire, et, pour finir, la personne par laquelle j'ai ■ ete le plus heureux et le plus malheureux, parce qu'elle est ce que j'ai leplus aime." — Vol. iii. p. 188. He is infinitely more partial to a Madame de Flamarens, whose character he begins with great elegance as follows. " Madame de Flamarens a le visage le plus touchanl et le plus modeste quifut jamais ; c'est un . genre de beaute que la nature n'a attrape qu'une f'ois : il y a dans ses traits quelque chose de rare et de mysterieux, qui aurait fait dire, dans les temps . fabuleux, qu'une in^mortelle, sous cette forme, ne ( ,8'eiait pas assez denuisee !"— Vol. iii. p. 196. ■ I We take our leave now of these volumes : ! 'and of the brilliant circle and brilliant days ( of Madame du Deffand. Such a society pro- bably never will exist again in the world : — : nor can we say we are very sorry for it. " It was not very moral, we are afraid; and we ' have seen, that the most distinguished mcm- |: jbers of it were not very happy. When we ', |Say that it nmst have been in the highest de- ', Igree delightful to those who sought oidy for n' amusement, we wish it to be understood, not f ionly that amusement does not constitute hap- '■ 'piness, but that it can afford very little plea- sure to those who have not other sources of • happiness. The great e.vtent of the accom- I plisned society of Paris, and the familiarity ' of its intercourse, seems to have gradually '; brought almost all its members to spend their -'- Avhole lives in public. They had no notion, s' itherefore, of domestic enjoyments; and their i*' (affections being dissipated among so many i* icompetitors, and distracted by such an inces- «' 'sant variety of small occupations, came natur- ally to be weakened and exhausted ; am! a It tertain heartless gaiety to be extended indis- \i* l^riminately to the follies and the misfortunes ■«' bf their associates. Bating some little fits of ^ jrallantry, therefore, there could be no devo- Ijj jtedness of attachment ; and no profound sym- ■' jpathy for the sufferings of the most intimate f|i friends. Every thing, we find accordingly, kas made a subject for epigrams; and those who did not make jests at their friends" ca- lamities, were glad, at any rate, to forget them in the society of those who diil. VVhen wi; recollect, too, that the desertion of all the high duties of patriots and statesmen, and the in- sulting and systematic degradation of the great body of the people were necessary conditions of the excellence of this society, we cannot hesitate in sayinir, that its brilliancy was maintained at tar too great a cost; and that the fuel which was wasted in its support, would have been infinitely better applied in diffusing a gentler light, and a more genial heat, through the private dweUings of the land. We have occupied ourselves so long with Madame du Deffand and her associates, that we can afford but a small portion of our atten- tion for Mademoiselle de Lespina.sse. Avery extraordinary person we will allow her to have been ; and a most extraordinary publication she has left us to consider. On a former oc- casion, we took some notice of the account which Marmontel had given of her character and conduct, and expressed our surprise that any one, who had acted the unprincipled and selfish part which he imputes to her, should be thought worthy, either of the admiration he expresses, or of the friendship and patron- age of so many distinguished characters, or of the devoted attachment of such a man as D'Alembert. After reading these letters, we see much reason to doubt of the accuracy of Marmontel's representation ; but, at the same time, find great difficulty in settling our own opinion of the author. Marmontel describes her as having first made a vain attempt upon the heart of M. de Guibert, the celebrated author of the Tactics. — and then endeavoured to indenniify herself by making a conquest of M. de Mora, the son of the Spanish ambassa- dor, upon whose death she is stated to have died of mortification : and, in both cases, she is represented as having been actuated more by a selfish and paltry ambition, than by any feeling of affection. The dates, and the tenor of the letters before us, enable us to detect many inaccuracies in this statement ; while they throw us into new perplexity as to the true character of the writer. They begin in 1773, after M. de Mora had been recalled to Spain hv his relations, and when her whole soul seems to be occupied with anguish for this separation ; and they are all addressed to M. de (luibert; who had then recently recom- mended himself to her, by the tender interest he took in her affliction. From the very be- ginning, however, there is more of love in them, than we can well reconcile with the subsistence of her first engrossing passion ; and, long before the death of M. Mora, she expresses the most vehement, unequivocal, and passionate attachment to M. Guibert. Sometimes she has fits of remorse for this; but, for the most part, she seems quite uncon- scious, either of inconsistency or impropriety; and M. Guibert is, in the same letter, ad- dressed in terms of the most passionate ado- ration, and made the confident of her un- speakable, devoted, and luialterable love for 1 2 102 LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPHY. M. Mora. So she goes on, — most furiously and outrageously in love with them both at the same time, — till the death of M. JNIora, in 1774. This event, however, makes no differ- ence in her feelings or e.xpressions; she con- tinues to love his memory, just as ardently as his living successor in her affection ; and her letters are divided, as before, between ex- pressions of heart-rendinii: grief and unbounded attachment — between her bcsoin de mourir for M. Mora, and her delight in living for M. Guibert. There are still more inexplicable things in those letters. None of Guibert's letters are given, — so that we cannot see how he responded to all these raptures; but, from the very first, or almost from the first, she complains bitterly of his coldness and dissipa- tion : laments that he has a heart incapable of tenderness; and that he feels nothing but gratitude or compassion for a being whom he had fascinated, exaUed, and possessed with the most ardent and unbounded passion. We cannot say that we see any clear traces of her ever having hoped, or even wished that he should marry her. On the contrary, she re- commends several wives to him ; and at last he takes one, with her approbation and con- sent, while the correspondence goes on in the game tone as before. The vehemence and excess of her passion continue to the last of the letters here published, which come down to within a few weeks of her death, in 1776. The account which we have here given ap- pears ridiculous: and there are people, and wise people, who, even after looking into the book, will think Mademoiselle de Lespinasse deserving of nothing but ridicule, and consign her and her ravings to immeasurable con- tempt. Gentle spirits, however, will judge more gently; and there are few, we believe, who feel interest enough in the work to read it through, who will not lay it down with emotions of admiration and profound com- passion. Even if we did not know that she was the chosen companion of D'Alembert, and the respected friend of Turgot, Condillac, Condorcet, and the first characters in France, there are, in the strange book before us, such traces of a powerful, generous, and ardent mind, as necessarily to command the respect even of those who may be provoked with her inconsistencies, and wearied out with the ve- hemence of ht,*r sorrow. There is something so natural too, so elo(}uent, and so pathetic in her expression — atone of ardour and enthusi- asm so infectious, and so much of the true •and agonizing voice of heart-struck wretched- ness, that it burdens us with something of the weight of a real sorrow ; and we are glad to make ourselves angry at her unaccountable- ness, in order to get rid of the oppression. It ouizht to be recollected also, that during the whole course of the corres])ondene(^ this poor young woman was dying of a painful and ir- ritating disease. Tortured with sickness, or aoritated with opium, her blood never seems in all tliat time to have llowed peaceably in her veins, and her nfrves and her passions seem to h:ive reacted upon each other in a series of cruel agitations. Why she is so very wretched, and so very angry, we do not in- deed always understand ; but there is no mis- taking the language and real emotion ; and while there is something wearisome, perhaps, in the uniformity of a vehemence of which we do not clearly see the cause, there is some- tliing truly dechirant in the natural and pite- ous iteration of her eloquent complainings, and something captivalhig and noble in the fire and rapidity with which she pours out her emotions. The style is as original and extra- ordinary as the character of its author. It is quite natural, and even negligent — altogether without gaiety or assumed dignity — and yet full of elegance and spirit, and burning with the flames of a heart abandoned to passion, and an imaghiation exalted by enthusiasm. It is not easy to fall into the measure of such a composer, in running over a miscellany of amusement ; but we cannot avoid addhig a few extracts, if it Avere only to make what we have been saying intelligible, to some at least of our readers. " Je nie sentoi? uiie repugnance mortclle a ouvrir voire lettre : si je n'avois craint de vous otfenser, j'allois voiis la renvoyer. Quelque chose nie disoit qu'elle irriieroit mes mau.x, ct je voulois me me- nager. La soufTrance coniinncUe de^ mon corps affai-ssc mon ame : j'ai encore eu la fievre ; je n'ai pas ferme I'ceil ; je n'en puis plus. De grace, par piiie, ne tourmentez plus une vie qui s'eieiiit, et dont tou.? les installs sent devoues a la douleur et aux regrets. Je iie vous accuse point, je n'e.xige rien, vous ne me devez rien : car, en effei. je n'ai pas eu un mouvement, pas un sentiment auquel j'ai con- senti ; el quand j';ii eu le malheur d'y ceder, j'ai toujours deteste la force, ou la foiblesse, qui ni'en- trainoif. Vous voyez que vous ne me devez aucune reconnaissance, et que je n'ai le droit de vous taire aucun reproche. Soyez done libre, retournez a ce que vous aimez, et a ce qui vous convient plus que vous ne croyez peui-etre. Laisscz-moi a ma dou- leur ; lais.?cz-moi m'occuper sans distnciion du seul ohjet que j'ai adore, et dont le s^ouvenir m'est plus cher que tout ce qui reste dans la nature. Mon Dieu ! je ne devrois pas le pleurer ; j'aurois du le suivre : e'est vous qui me faites vivre, qui faiies le tourment d'une creature que la douleur consume, et qui eniploie ce qui lui reste de forces a invoquer la mort. Ah ! vous en faites irop, et pas assez pour moi. Je vous le disois bien 11 y a huit jours, vous me rendez difficile, exi^eante : en donnant tout, on veut obienir quelque chose. Maia, encore une fois, je vous pardiinne, et je ne vous hais point : ce n'est pas par gencrosite que je vous pardonne, ce n'est pas par honte que je ne vous hais pas ; c'est que mon ame est lasse, qu'elle meiirt de fatigue. Ah! mon ami, lai.-sez-nioi. ne me diies plus que vou3 ni'aimcz : ce baume devient du poison ; vous calmez et dechirez ma plaie tour a tour. Oh! que vous me faites mnl ! que la vie me pe.«e ! que je vous aime pourtant, et que je .serois desolee de meitre de la irisiesse dans votre ame ! Mon ami, elle est trop pariagee, tiop dissipee, pour que le vrai plaisir y puisse peiietrer. Vous voulez que je vous voie ce soir; et bien, venez done !" — Vol. ii. pp. 20() — 208. " Combiendefois auroisje pu me plaindre ; com- bien de fois vous ai-je cache mes larmcs ! Ah 1 je le vols trop bien: on ne snuroit iii reteiiir, ni ra- niener un co?ur qui est entranip par un autre pen- chant : jp me le dis sans cesse, quelquefois je me rroi.i gueric ; vous paroissez, et tout est detruit. La reflexion, mes resolutions, le malheur, tout perd^ sa force au premier mot que vous prononcez. Je ne vois pln.-» d'asile quo la mon. et jamais aucuD: malheureiix ne I'a iuvoquee avec plu* d'ardeui Je retiena la moitie de mon nnie : sa clinjeur, sor' mouvement vous imporiui-rtrrrr, el vous eleindrot MAD. DU DEFFAND AND MLLE. DE LESPINASSE. 103 tout-a-fait ; le feu qui n'echauffe pas, incommode. | the heart ; and, when we thhik that this ex- Ah ! si vous saviez, si voua lisiez comme j'ai tait i traoidinary woman wrote all this, not in the jouir une ame forte et passionnee, du plaisir d'etre Jays of impatient youth, when the heart is aimee ! 11 comparoit ce qui avoit a.me, ce qui ^ ^ sutferinf?, and takes a strange de- light in the vehemence even ot its pamlul emotions, but after years of misery, and with. rainioit encore, et il nie disoit sans cesse : ' 01 elled ne sont pas dignes d'eire vos ocolieres ; votre anie a ete cliaullee par^ ie soleil de Lima, et ines conipatriotcs semblent eire iiees sous U's glares de la Lapoiiie.' Et c'etoit de Madrid qu'il me niaiidoit celal Mon ami, il ne me loiioit pas; il jouissoii ; et je ne ciois point me louer, quand je vous dis qu"en vous anuaiit a la folie, je ne vous donne que ce que je ne puis pas garder ou relenir." — Vol. ii. pp. 215—217. " Oh, mon Dieu I que Ton vit/or< lorsqu'on est mort a tout, exceptc a un objei qui est I'univers pour nous, et qui s'empare tellemcnt de touics nos tacultes, qu'il n'est plus possible de vivre dans d'autres temps que dans le moment oii Ton est ! Eh 1 comment voulez-vous que je vous dise si je vous atmerai dans <™ts mols? Comment pourrois- je, avec ma pensee, me distraire de mon senii- nient? Vous voudnez que, lorsque je vous vois, lorsque votre presence charme mes sens et mon ame, je pusse vous rendre compte de reffei que je recevrai de voire manage ; mon ami, je n'en sais rien, — mais rien du tout. S'ii me guerissoit. je vous le dirois, et vous eies assez juste pour ne m'en pas blamer. Si. au coiitraire, il porinit le desespoir datis mon ame, je ne me plaiiidrois pas, et je soufFri- rois bien pen de temps. Alors vous seriez assez sensible et assez delicat pour approuver un parti qui ne vous cofiieroit que des regrets passagers, et dont votre nouvelle situation vous distrairoit bien vite ; et je vous assure que cette pensee est consolante pour moi : je m'en sens plus libre. Ne me demandez done plus ce que je ferai lorsque vous aurez engage voire vie ^ une autre. Si je n'avois que de la vanite et de I'aniour-propre, je serois bien plus eclairee sur ce que j'eprouverai alors. II n'y a guere de meprise aux calculs de I'amour-propre ; il prevoit assez juste: la passion n'a point d'avenir ; ainsi en vous disant : je vous airne, je vous dis tout ce que je sais et tout ce que je sens. — Oh I mon ami, je rne sens capable de tout, excepte de plier : j'aurois la force leatli before her eyes — advancing by gradual but visible steps, it is impossible not to feel an iiulescribable emotion of pity, resentment, and admiration. One little word more. "Oh! que vous pcsez sur mon ccEur, lorsque vous voulez me prouver qu'il doit etre content du voire ! Je ne me plaindrois jamais, mais vous me forcez sotivent a ciicr. taut le mal que vous me faites est aigu et profond ! Mon ami, j'ai etc aimee, je le suis encore, et je meurs de regret en pensant que ce n'est pas de vous. J'ai beau me dire que je ne meritai jamais le bonheur que je regrette ; mon coBur cette iois lait taire mon amour-propre: il me dit que, sije dus jamais ctre aimee, c'etoit de celui qui auroit assez de charme a mes yeux, pour me dis- traire de M. de M et pour me retenir a la vie, apres I'avoir perdu. Je n'ai fait que languir depuis votre depart ; je n'ai pas ete une heure sans souf- france ; le mal de mon ame passe a mon corps ; j'ai tous les jours la fievre, et mon medecin, qui n'esl pas le plus habile de tous les homines, me repete sans eesse que je suis consumee de chagrin, que mon pouts, que ma respiration annoncent une dou- leur active ; et il s'en va toujours en me disant : nous 11 avails point de remedc pour I'ame. II n'y en a plus pour moi : ce nest pas guerir que je voudrois, mais me calmer, mais retrouver quelques momens de repos pour me conduire a celui que la nature m'acrordera bieniot." — Vol. iii. pp. 146, 147. " Je n'ai plus assez de force pour mon ame— elle me tue. Vous ne pouvez plus rien sur moi, que me faire souffrir. Ne tachez done plus a me conso- ler, et cessez de vnuloir me faire le victimede votre morale, apres m'avoir fait celle de votre legerete. — Vous ne m'avez pas vue, parce que la journee n'a que douze heures, et que vous aviez de quo! les remplir par des inierets et des plaisirs qui vous sont, d'un martyr, pour satisfaire ma passion ou celle de | pt quj doivent vous etre plus chers que mon mal la personiie qui m'aimeroit : mais je ne trouve rien ; heur. Je ne reclame rien, je n'exige rien, et je me en moi qui me reponde de pouvoir jamais faire le ; ^jg sa„g cpsse que la source de mon bonheur et de sacritice de mon sentiment. La vie n'est rien en p^on plaisir est perdu pour jamais."— Vol. iii. p. 59. comparaison, et vous verrez si ce ne sont la que les • u i, discours d'une tete exaltee. Oui, peut-etre ce sont I We cannot leave our readers with these la les pensees d'une ame exaltee, mais a laquelle ! painful impressions; and shall add just one appartiennent les actions fortes. Seroit-ce a la rai- : ^^^^^.j ^^ j^^.^ ^j- ^^.p^j^f jg jrayest in these deso- son qui est si prevoyante, si loible dans ses vues, et | . . , ;menie si impuissante dans ses moyens, que ces i 1^'^i^S volumes. pensees pourroieiitappartenir? Mon ami, je ne suis " i\i. Grimm est de retour ; je I'ai accable de point raisoiinable, et c'est peut-etre a force d'etre ] questions. II peint la Czarine, non pas comme une passionnee que j'ai mis toute ma vie tani de raison ii | gouveraine, mais comme une femme aimable, pleine tout ce qui est soumis au jiigement et a Topinion des j d'esprit, de saillies, et de tout ce qui pent seduire indifferens. Combien j'ai usurpe d'eloges sur ma g, charmer Mais dans tout ce qu'il me disoit, je Imuderation, sur ma noblesse d'ame, sur mon desin- 1 reconnoissois plutot cet art charmant d'une courti- leressement, sur les sacrifices pretendus que je ; garie arecque, que la dignite et I'eclat de I'lmpera- Tai-ois a une memoire respectable et chere, et a la , (^ice d'un criand empire." — Vol. ii- p- 105. maison H'Alb. . . . ! Voila comme le monde jiige, ! «. Avani diner je vais voir rue de Clery desauto- comme il voii ! Eh, bon Dieu ! sots que vous eies. j ,Tiaies ; qui sont prodigieux. a ce qu'on dit. Quand je ne merite pas vos louanses : mon ame n'etoit j'allois dans le monde, je n'aurois pas eu cette cii- '■ |pas faiie pour les peiits inierets qui vous occupent ' toute entiere au bonheur d'aimeret d'etre, aimc il ' jie m'a fallu iii force, ni honnetete pour supporter la pauvrete, et pour dedaigner les avantages de la ' vanite. J'ai taut joui, j'ai si bien senti le prix de la vie. que s'il falloit recommencer, je voudrois que ce ' ilui aux memifS conditions. Aimer et souffrir — le "• biel, I'enfer, — voila a quoi je me devouerois. voila *!' '-e que je voudrois sentir, voila le climat que je vou- Irois habiter; et non cet ctat tempere dans leijuel iivciu tous les sots et tous les automates dont nous »-jniines environnes." — Vol. ii. pp. 228 — 233. * I All this is raving no doubt; but it is the 0' taviiig of real passion, and of a lofty and «'! k>owerful spirit. It is the eloquent raving of nosite: deux ou trois soupers en donnent satiete; mais ceux de la rue de Clery valent mieux : ils agissent et ne parlent goini. Venez-y, en allnnt au :\Iarais, et je v.nis dirai la si j'ai la loge de M. leducd'.\umont. Madame de Ch. . . ne vous croit point coupable de negligence : elle m'a demande aujourd'hui si votre retraite duroit encore. Ce ^ue les femrnes veulent seulement, c'est d'etre prefe- rees. Pre.^que personne n'a besoin d'etre airne, et cela est bien heureux : car c'est ce qui se fait le plus mal a Paris. lis osent dire qu'ils aiment ; et ils sont ralmes et di.ssipes ! c'est assurement bien connoiire le sentiment et la passion. Pauvresgens! il faiit les louer comme les Liliputiens: ils sont bien jolis, bien gentils, bien aimables. Adieu, moa ami."— Vol. ii. pp. 197, 198. r04 LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPIH^, We have left ourselves no room to make ' visibly within a few weeks of her end, and is any reflections 3 except, only, that the French j wasted with coughs and spasms, she still has fashion of living, and almost of dying, in I her salon filled twice a day with company, public, is nowhere so strikingly exemplified as in the letters of this victim of passion and of fancy. While her heart is torn with the most agonizing passions, and her thoughts turned hourly on suicide, she dines out. and makes visits every day ; and, when she is and drags herself out to supper with all the countesses of her acquaintance. There is a great deal of French character, indeed, in both the works of which we now lake our leave ; — a great deal to admire, and to wonder at — but very little, we think, to envy. (August, 1825.) Wilhelm Mcister^s Apprenticeship: pp. a Novel. From the German of Goethe. 3 vols. l2mo. 1030. Edinburgh: 1824. There are few things that at first sight ap- pear more capricious and unaccountable, than the diversities of national taste ; and yet there are not many, that, to a certain extent at least, admit of a clearer e.xplanation. They form evidently a section in the great chapter of National Character; and, proceeding on the assumption, that human nature is everywhere fundamentally the same, it is not perhaps very difficult to indicate, in a general way, the circumstances which have distinguished it into so many local varieties. These may be divided into two great class- es, — the one embracing all that relates to the newness or antiquity of the society to which they belong, or. in other words, to the stage which any particular nation has attained in that great progress from rudeness to refine- ment, in which all are engaged : — the other comprehending what may be termed the ac- cidental causes by which the character and condition of communities may be affected ; such as their government, their relative posi- tion as to power and civilization to neighbour- ing countries, their prevailing occupations, determined in some degree by the capabilities of their soil and climate, and more than all perhaps, as to the question of taste, the still more accidental circumstance of the character of their first models of excellence, or the kind of merit by which their admiration and national vanity had first been excited. It is needless to illustrate these obvious sources of peculiarity at any considerable length. It is not more certain, that all primi- tive communities proceed to civilization by nearly the same stages, than that the progress of taste ismarked by corresponding gradations, and may. in most cases, be distinguished into periods, the order and succession of which is nearly as uniform and determined. If tribes of savage men always proceed, under ordinary circumstances, from the occupation of hunting to that of pasturatre, from that to agriculture, and from that to commerce and manufactures, the sequence is scarcely less invariable in the history of letters and art. In the former, verse is uniformly antecedent to prose — mar- vellous legends to correct history — exagge- rated sentiments to just representations of nature. Invention, in short, regularly comes before judgment, warmth of feeling before correct reasoning — and splendid declamation ] and broad humour before delicate sunplicity or refined wit. In the arts again, the progress is strictly analagous — from mere monstrosity to ostentatious displays of labour and design, first in massive formality, and next in fantas- tical minuteness, variety, and flutter of parts; — and then, through the gradations of start- ling contrasts and overwrought expression, to , the repose and simplicity of graceful nature. These considerations alone explain much of that contrariety of taste by which diflerent ' nations are distinguished. They not only start in the great career of improvement at different times, but thej- advance in it with different velocitie.s — some lingering longer in one stage than another — some obstructed and some helped forward, by circumstances oper» atinc: on them from within or from without. It is the unavoidable consequence, however, of their being in any one particular position, ■ that they will judge of their own productions: jand those of their neighbours, according to' ithat standard of taste which belongs to the jplace they then hold in this great circle ; — and that a whole people will look on their neighbours with wonder and scorn, for ad- miring what their own grandfathers looked on with equal admiration, — while they them-' selves are scorned and vilified in return, fox tastes which will infallibly be adopted by the grandchildren of those who despi.se them. ; What we have termed the accidental causes of great differences in beings of the samt' nature, do not of course admit of quite sc simple an exposition. But it is not in realit) more difficult to prove their existence ant explain their operation. Where great ant degrading despotisms have been early estab lished, either by the aid of superstition or of mere force, as in most of the states of .Asia- or where small tribes of mixed descent have been engaged in perpetual contention for free dom and superiority, as in ancient Greece— where the ambition and faculties of individ uals have been chained up by the inslitutioj of castes and indelible separations, as in Indi; and Egypt, or where all men practise all oc cupations and aspire to all honours, as in Ger many or Britain — where the sole occupatioi GOETHE'S WILHELM MEISTER. 105 of the people has been uar, as in infant Rome, I or where a vast pacific population has been ibr ages inured to mechanical drudgery, as in China — it is needless to say, that very oppo- , site notions of what conduces to delight and ; amusement must necessarily prevail ; and that the Taste of the nation must be aifected both by the sentiments which it has been taught to cultivate, and the capacities it has been led to unfold. The influence of early models, however, is perhaps the most considerable of any; and may be easily enough understood. When men have been accustomed to any particular kind of excellence, they naturally become good judges of it, and account certain consid- erable degrees of it indispensable, — while they are comparatively blind to the merit of other good qualities to which they had been less habituated, and are neither offended by their absence, nor at all skilful in their estima- tion. Thus those nations who, like the English ind the Dutch, have been long accustomed to ireat cleanliness and order in their persons |md dwellings, naturally look with admiration 3n the higher displays of those qualities, and ire proportionally disgusted by their neglect; ivhile they are apt to undervalue mere pomp uid stateiiness, when destitute of these re- ■oinmendations : and thus also the Italians i!i(l Sicilians, bred in the midst of dirt and nagiiificence, are curiously alive to the beau- ies of architecture and sculpture, and make lut litle account of the more homely comforts \ hull are so highly prized by the others. In he same way, if a few of the first successful '.dventurers in art should have excelled in ny particular qualities, the taste of their na- ioii will naturally be moulded on that stand- .n! — will regard those qualities almost ex- lusively as entitled to admiration, and will :ot only consider the want of them as fatal to 11 pretensions to excellence, but will unduly lespise and undervalue other qualities, in ihemselves not less valuable, but with which (heir national models had not happened to laake them timeously familiar. If, for ex- mple. the first great writers in any country honld have distinguished themselves by a 'ompous and severe regularity, and a certain laborate simplicity of design and execution, will naturally follow, that the national taste .ill not only become critical and rigorous as 3 those particulars, but will be proportionally (niiicned to the merit of vivacity, nature, and ivt^ntion, when combined with irregularity, onieliness, or confusion. While, if the great atriarchs of letters had excelled in variety ml rapidity of invention, and boldness and mil of sentiment, though poured out with Oiisjderable disorder and incongruity of mau- ler, those qualities would quickly come to be pe national criterion of merit, and the cor- pctness and decorum of the other school be fespised. as mere recipes for monotony and ameness. These, we think, are the plain and certain Jffects of the peculiar character of the first Veat popular writers of all countries. But ■e do not conceive that they depend al- 14 treat t ill wt together on any thing so purely accidental as the temperament or I'arly history of a lew in- dividuals. No doubt the national taste of France and of England would at this moment have been diiferent, had Shakespeare been a Frenchman, and Boilrau and Racine written in English. But then, we do not think that Shakespeare co!cted as the learned drudges of Europe, and reproached with their consonants and commentators : and determined, about fifty years ago, to show what metal they were made of, and to give the world a taste of their quality, as men of . genius and invention. In this attempt the : first thing to be effected was at all events to I avoid the imputation of being scholastic imi- i tators of the classics. That would have smelt loo much, they thought, of the old shop ; and in order to prove their claims to originality, it ' was necessary to go a little into the opposite extreme, — to venture on something decidedly modern, and to show at once their indepen- dence on their old masters, and their supe- rioiily to the pedantic rules of antiquity. With this view some of them betook them- selves to the French models — set seriously to study how to be gay — appendrc a etre vif — and ■ composed a variety of petites pieces and ■ novels of polite gallantry, in a style — of which ' we shall at present say nothing. This manner, however, ran too much counter to the general character of the nation to be very much fol- lowed- -and undoubtedly the greater and bet- ter part of their writers turned rather to us. - for hints and lessons to guide them in their 'i lambitioLis career. There was a greater original '" affinity in the temper and genius of the two nations — and. in addhion to that consideration, • our great authors were indisputably at once more original and less classical than those of »'' jFrance. England, however, we are sorry to If- fsay. could furnish abundance of bad as well »1- 'asof gootl models — and even the best were *; 'perilous enough for rash imitators. As it i- happenetl. however, the worst were most Lienerally selected — and the worst parts of the 2onil. Shakespeare was admired — but more ; for his flights of fancy, his daring improprie- s ■ [ties, his trespasses on the borders of absurdity, eff [than for the infinite sagacity and rectifying " 's'ootl sense by which he redeemed those e.\- - travagancies. or even the profound tenderness and simple pathos which alternated with the i«. 'lofty soaring or dazzling imagery of his style. his {Altogether, however, Shakespeare was beyond ;their rivalry ; and althouiih Schiller has dared. jiiiit land not ingloriously, to emulate his miracles, ntell lit was plairdy to other merits and other rival- Biit Iries that the body of his ingenious country- liaA,|men aspired. The ostentatious cib.surdily — pait'lthe affected oddity — the pert familiarity — the cou] ibroken style, and exa ; he is not courteous and condescending, he is needy and degraded. "'The second stroke that came upon him wounded deeper, bowed still more. It was the marriage of his mother. The faithful tender son had yet a mother, when his lather passed away. He hoped, in the company of his surviving and noble-minded parent, to reverence the heroic form of the departed ; but his mother too he loses I and it is something worse than death that robs him of her. The trustful image, which a good child loves to form of his parents, is gone. With the deadi there is no help — on the living no hold ! She alsO' is a woman, and her name is Frailty, hke that of aU her sex. , , " 'Figure to yourselves this youth,' cried he,^ ' this son of princes ; conceive him vividly, bringi his state before your eyes, and then observe him when he learns that his father's spirit walks! Stand by him in the terrors oi the night, when the venerable ghost itself appears before him. A hor- rid shudder passes over him ; he speaks to the mys- terious form ; he sees it beckon him ; he follows it, and hears. The fearful accusation of his uncle rings in his ears; the summons to revenge, and the piercing oft-repeated prayer. Remember me ! " ' And when the ghost has vanished, who is it that stands before us? A young hero panting for vengeance ? A prince by birth, rejoicing to be called to punish the usurper of his crown? No! Trouble and astonishment take hold of the solitary young man : he grows bitter against smiling vil- lains, swears that he will not forget the spirit, and concludes with the expressive ejaculation : The time is out of joint : O ! cursed spite, I That ever I was born to set them right ! " ' In these words, I imagine, will be found thf key to Hamlet's whole procedure. To me it ii clear that .Shakespeare meant, in the present case to represent the efTects of a great action laid upon i* soul unfit for the performance of it. In this view the whole piece seems to me to be cotnposed. Ai oak-tree is planted in a costly jar, which shouk have borne only pleasant flowers in its bosom ; thi roots expand, the jar is shivered ! A lovely, pure noble, and most moral nature, without the strengll of nerve which forms a hero, sinks beneath a bur den which it cannot bear, and must not cast awa\ All duties are holy for him ; the present is too hare Impossibiliiies have been required of him ; not i themselves impossibilities, but such for him. H winds, and turns, and torments himself; he advance and recoils; is ever put in mind, ever puts himsel in mind; at last does all but lose his purpose trot his thoughts; yet still without recovering his peac of mind.' " There is nothing so good as this in any c our own commentators — nothing at once s poetical, so feeling, and so just. It is incor ceivable that it should have been written t the chronicler of puppet-shows and gluttonot vulgarities. "The players, with our hero at their hea now travel across the countrj-, rehearsin lecturing, squabblhig, and kissing as usuf There is war however on their track ; ai when seated pleasantly at dinner in a wot on their journey, they are attacked by son armed marauders, robbed of their goods, ai poor Wilhelm left wounded and senseless < the field. What follows, though not ve original in conception, is described with efff and vivacity. " On again opening his eyes, he found himself the strangest posture. The first thing that pierc the dimness which yet swam before his vision, m Philina's face bent down over his. He leli hims; weak ; and making a movement to rise, he covered that he was in Philina's lap ; into wbiti indeed, he again sank down. She was sitting GOETHES WILHELM MEISTER. 115 I the sward. She had sofily pressed towards her the ■ head of the lalleii young man ; and made for him an easy couch, as tar as this was in her power. Migiion was kneeling with dishevelled and hloody ■ hair at his feet, whiL'h she embraced with many , tears. Philina let him know that this Inic-hearted '■ creature, seeing her friend wounded, and in the hurry of the instant, being able to think of nothing 1 whicti would staunch the blood, had taken her own hair that was flowina; round her head, and tried to Slop tlie wounds with it ; hut had soon been obliged to g;ive up the vain attempt; that afterwards they had hound with moss and dry mushrooms, Philina herself criving up her neck-kerchief for that purpose. ' ■ Atier a tew mmnents. a young lady issued iVoiii the thickets, riding on a gray courser, and accom- panied by an elcierly gentleman and some cavaliers. Grooms, servants, and a troop of hussars, closed up the rear. Philina stared at this phenomenon, and was about to call, and entreat the Amazon for help ; when the latter, turning her astonished eyes on the group, instantly checked her horse, rode up to them, and halted. She inquired eagerly about the wounded man, whose posture in the Tap of this light- ■ minded Samaritan seemed to strike her as peculiar- ly strange, ' Is it your husband ?' she inquired of Philina. ' Only a friend.' replied the other, with a tone that Wilhelm liked e.xtremely ill. He had fi.fed his eyes upon the soft, elevated, calin, sympa- thizing features of the stranger: he thought he had never seen aught nobler or more lovely. Her shape he could not see : it was hid by a man's great -coat. which she seemed to have borrowed from some of her attendants, to screen her from the chill evening air."— Vol. ii. pp. 38—43. A surgeon in this compassionate party ex- amines his wounds, and the lovely young woman, after some time — "turned to the old gentleman, and said, 'Dear uiii If. may I be generous at your expense ?' She took off the great-coat, with the visible intention to give it to the stripl and wounded youth. " Wilhelm. whom the healing look of her eyes had hitherto held fixed, was now, as the surtout tell away, astonished at her lovely figure. She came near, and softly laid the coat above him. At this ,moment, as he tried to open his mouth, and stam- pier out some words of graii;ude, the lively impres- , ision of her presence worked so strongly on his .. senses, already caught and bewildered, that all at , pnce it appeared to him as if her head were encir- :led with rays ; and a glancing light seemed by de- Igrees to spread itself over all her form ! At this '::■ moment the surgeon, endeavouring to extract the (' ioall from his wound, gave him a sharper twinge ; (. jhe angel faded away from the eyes of the fainting iPatient : he lost all consciousness ; and, on returning himself, the horsemen and coaches, the fair one >vith her attendants, had vanished like a dream. " He, meanwhile, wrapt up in his warm surtout, A'as lying peacefully upon the litter. An electric J,' [Aarmth seeined to flow from the fine wool into his . ;3ody : in short, he telt himself in the most delight- lul frame of mind. The lovely being, whom this ' ijarment lately covered, had affected him to the 2 Very heart. He still saw the coat falling down V- -rom her shoulders: saw that noble form, begirt villi radiance, stand beside him ; and his soul hied iver rocks and forests on the footsteps of his de- , . ^larted benefactress. — Vol. ii. pp. 45 — 47. i*^ The party afterwards settles in a large [own, under the charge of a regular manager. tir? There are endless sqabbles and intrigues, and lip Interminable dissertations on acting. Our hero ■' 'lerforms Hamlet with great applause, and ets tipsy with the whole company at a riotous upper after it — the rehearsals, the acting, , : iid the said supper being all described with great spirit and animation. We may extract the end of the latter. " .'^mid the pleasures of the entertainment, it had not been nonced ihat the children and the Harper were away. Ere long they made their entrance, and were blithely welcomed by the company. They came in together, very strangely deckea : Feli.x was beating" a triangle, Mignon a tambou- rine ; the old man had his large harp hung round his neck, and was playing on it whilst he carried it before him. They marched round and round the table, and sang a multitude of songs. Eatables were handed to them ; and the guests believed ihey could not do a greater kindness to the children, than by giving them as much street wine as they chose to drink. For the company themselves had not by any means neglected a stock of savoury fidfkg, presented by the two amateurs, which had arrived this evening in baskets. The children tripped about and sang; Mignon in particular was frolicsome beyond what any one had ever seen her. She beat the tambourine wiih the greatest liveli- ness and grace : now, with her finger jiressed against the parchment, she hr.mmed across it quick- ly to and fro ; now rattled on it with her knuckles, now with the back of her hand; nay sometimes, with alternating rhythm, she struck it first against her knee and tjjen against her head ; and anon twirling it in her hand, she made the shells jingle by themselves ; and thus, from the simplest instru- ment, elicited a great variety of tones. The com- pany, as much as they had laughed at her at first. were in fine obliged to curb her. But persuasion was of small avail ; for she now sprana up, and raved, and shook her tambourine, ana capered round the table. Wuh her hair flymg out behind her, with her head thrown back, and her limbs as it were cast into the air, she seemed like one of those antique Maenades, whose wild and all but impossible positions still strike us with astonish- ment when seen on classic monuments, »fec. " It was late ; and Aurelia, perhaps the only one retaining self-possession in the party, now stood up, and signified that it was time to go. By way of termination, Serlo gave a firework, or what resem- bled one : for he could imitate the sound of crack- ers, rockets, and fire-wheels with his mouth, in a style of nearly inconceivable correctness. You had only to shut your eyes, and the deception was complete. On reaching the open air, almost all of them observed that they had drank too liberally. They glided asunder without taking leave. "The instant Wilhelm gained his room, he stripped, and, extinguishing his candle, hastened into bed. Sleep was overpowering him without delay, when a noise, that seemed to issue from be- hind the stove, aroused him. In the eye of his heated fancy, the image of the harnessed king was hovering near hint : he sat up that he might address the spectre ; but he felt himself encircled with soft arms, and his mouth was shut with kisses, which he had not force to push away !" — Vol. ii. pp. 205 — 209. In this division of the story we hear a great deal of an Aurelia — a sisterof the managers — an actress of course — but a woman of talent and sentiment — who had been perfidiously left by her lover — and confided all the bitter- ness of her heart to our hero. There is a good deal of eloquence in some of these dia- logues — and a nearer approach to nature, than in any other part of the work. This is a sample of them. "'One more forsaken woman in the world'.' you will say. You are a man. You are thinking : ' What a noise she makes, the fool, about a neces- sary evil, which certainly as death awaits women when such is the fidelity of men !' Oh, my friend! if my fate were common, I would gladly undergo 116 LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPHY. a common evil. But it is so singular : why cannot I present it to you in a mirror, whv not command some one lo tell it you ? Oh, hacl I. had I been seduced, surprised, and afterwards forsaken I there would then be comfort in despair : but I am far more miserable ; I have been my own deceiver ; I have wittingly betrayed myself; and this, this is what shall never be forgiven me.' " ' I hate the French languase.' she added, ' from the bottom of my soul. During the period of our kindliest connection, he wrote in German, and what pemiine. powerful, cordial CJermnn ! It was not till he warned to get quit of me, that he began seriously to write in French. I marlied. I felt what he meant. What he would have blushed to utter in his mother tongue, he could by this means write with a quiet conscience. It is the lan- guage of reservations, equivocations, and lies : it is a pfrj^ious language ! Heaven he praised ! I can- not find another word lo express this ■perfide of theirs in all its compass. Our poor treulos, the faithless of the English, are innocent as babes be- side it. Perfide means faithless with enjoyment, with insolence and malice. How enviable is the culture of a nation that can figure out so many shades of meaning by a single word ! French is exactly the language of the world; worthy to be- come the universal language, that all may have it in their power to cheat, and lozcii, and betray each other! His French letters were always smooth and pleasant while yon read them. If yo'i chose to believe it. they sonndi d warmly, even passion- ately : but if you examined narrowly, they were but phrases, accursed phrases ! Me has spoiled my feeling to the whole language, to French literature, even to the beautiful delicious expressions of noble souls which may be found in it. I shudder when a French word is spoken in my hearing.' " What follows is still more in the raving style — and we suppose is much more admired in Germany. " She simk in thought ; then after a brief pause, she exclaimed with violence : ' You are accustomed to have all things fly into ynii- arms. No, you cannot feel ; no vian is iti a case to feel the worth of a woman that cait reverence herself. By all the holy angels, by all the images of blessedness which a pure and kindly heart creates, there is not any thing more heavenly 'ban 'he .<:oiil of a woman that gives herself to the man she loves! Wc are cold, proud, high, clear-sighted, wise, while we deserve the name of women ; and all these qualities we lay down at your feet, the instant that we love, that we hope to excite a return of love. Oh ' how have I cast away my entire existence wittingly and wil- lingly ! But now will I despair, purposely despair. There is no drop of blood within me but shall suffer, no fibre that I will not puitish. Smile, I pray you ; laugh at this theatrical display of pas- sion.' " VVilhelm was far enough from any tendency lo laugh. Thi.s horrible, half-i;aturnl, half-fictitious coniliiion of his Iriend afflicted him but too deeply. She looked him intently in the face, and asked: ' Can you say that you never yet betrayed a woman, that you never tried with thoughtless gallantry, with hUc Ms.«everatioi^.s. with ctijolinc oaths, to wheedle favour from her ?' ' I can,' .'^aid Wilhelm, ' and indeed without much vanity ; my life has been so simple and sequestered. I have had but few en- ticements lo attempt such things. And what a warning, my beautiful, my noble friend, is this melancholy slate in which I see you ! Accept of me a vow, which is suited 'o my heart, &,c. ; no woman shall receive an acknowledgment of love from my lips, to whom I caimot consecrate my life.' She looked at him with a wild indifierence ; and drew back some steps as he offered her his hand. ' 'Tis of no moment !' cried she : ' so many women'8 tears more or Icwcr ! the ocean will not swell by reason of them ! And yet,' contmned she, ' among thousands one woman saved ! that still is something: among thousands one honest man discovered ; this is not to be refused. Do you know then what you promise?' *I know it,' an- swered VVilhelm with a smile, and holding out his hand. 'I accept it then,' said she, and made a movement with her right hand, as if metining to take hold of his : but mslanily she darted it into her pocket, pulled out her dagger as quick as light- ning, and scored with the edge and point of it across his hand! He hastily drew back his arm: but the blood was already running down. " ' Ont must mark you men rather sharply, if one means you to lake heed,' cried she wi:li a wile mirth, which soon passed into a quick assiduity She took her handkerchief, and bound his ham: with it to staunch the fast-fiowing blood. ' Fori give a half-crazed being,' cried she. 'and regrei not these few drops of blood. I am appeased, ,( am again myself. On my knees will I crave you' pardon : leave me the comfort of healing you.' "- Vol. ii. pp. 12S— 132. Alternating with these agonies, we hav many such scenes as the following. " ' 'Tis a pity, I declare,' said Serlo lo Philinj ' that we have no ballet ; else I would make yo, dance me a jms de due:c with your first, and anoth« with your second husband : the harper might V lulled to sleep by the measure ; and your bits c feet and ancles would look so pretty, tripping i and fro upon the side stage.' ' Of my ancles yc do not know much,' replied she snappishly ; ' ar I as to my bits of feet,' cried she, hastily rcachit below the \Ahle, pulling off her slippers, and hole ing them out to Serlo ; ' here are the cases of ther and I give you leave to find me nicer ones.' ' were a serious task,' said he, looking at the elega half-shoes. ' In truth, one does not often me with any thing so dainty.' They were of Parisi; workmanship ; Philina had obtained them as a pi sent from the countess, a lady whose foot w celebrated for its beauty. ' A charming thing cried Serlo; ' mv heart leaps at the sight of thei ' What gallant throbs!' replied Philina. ' There nothing in the world beyond a pair of slippers,' »' he ; 'of such pretty manutacture, in their prof time and place ' Philina look her slipp' from his hands, crying, ' You have squeezed thi all I They are far too wide for me!' She plaj with them, and rubbed the soles of them togeth ' How hot it is !' cried she, clapping the sole up her check, then again rubbing, and holding it • Serlo. He was innocent enough to stretch out i hand to feel the warmth. ' Clip I clap !' cried Sj, giving him a smart rap over the knuckles with .1 heel, that he screamed and drew back his hai; ' I will teach you how to use my slijipers betl" ' And I will teach you also how to use old folk i;» children,' cried the other ; then sprang up, sei'l her, and plundered many a kiss, every one of wl,» she artfully contested with a show of serious reli - ance. In this romping, her long hair goot lo;', and floated round the eioup; the chair overset ; i Aurelia, inwardly indignant at such rioting, a' 8 in great vexation." — Vol. ii. pp. 166, 167. \ This said Aurelia has a little boy ca;:d Feli.\ — and dying at last of her sorrow, lea^B a letter for her betrayer, which she had d* gaged our hero to deliver to him in peri_». But between the giving and e.xecution of i'JB mandate, the ingenious author has inte'** lated a sep;irat(! piece, which he has cnti:jd " the confessions of a fair Saint" — and wl* has no other apparent connection with.p story, than that poor Aurelia's physician' jd lent it to her to read in her last momef- Though eminently characteristic of the aui»' GOETHE'S WILHELM MEISTER. 117 /it need not detain us long. The first part is full of vulgarity and obscurity— the last ab- solutely unintelligible. This fair saint lived in her youth among a set of people whom she calls German courtiers, and says, with singu- lar delicacy, " Ilook \ipon it as a providential guidance, tliat none of these many hand.sonie, rich, and wcli- dressed men could take my fancy. They were rakes, and did not hide it ; this scared me back : their speech was frequently adorned with double meanings; this offended me. and made me act with coldness towards them. Many times their impro- prieties surpassed belief 1 and I did not prevent my- self from being rude. Besides:, my ancient coun- sellor had once in confidence contrived to tell me, that, with the greater part of these lewd fellows, health as well as virtue was in danger! I now shuddered at the sight of them ; I was afraid, if one of them in any way approached too near me. I . would not touch their cups or glasses, even the chairs they had been silting on ! Thus morally and physically I remained apart from them." ' She then falls in love with a certain Narciss, with whom her first acquaintance was formed ■ at a ball, where, '-'after having jigged it for a ' while in the crowd, he came into the room ; where I w^as, in consequence of a bleeding at the nose, with which he had been overtaken, and beean to speak about a multitude of ; things !" In spite of this promising beginning, ' however, the mutual flame is not caught till ' they meet again at a dinner, where, ; 1 " Even at table, we had many things to suffer; ' ' for several of the gentlemen had drank too much: ! ; and after rising from it, they insisted on a sjame at 1 1 forfeits. It went on with great vivacity and tumult. ; I ^farciss had lost a forfeit : they ordered him, by : 1 way of penally, to svhisper something pleasant in ) f the ear of every member of the company. It seems, ; he staid too long beside my neighbour, the lady of ;: .a captain. The latter on a .sudden struck him such i-Ahox with his fist, that the powder flew ahr)Ut-my sieyes and blinded me! Wlien I had cleared my (- I sight, and in some degree recovered from my terror, ;.\l saw that bo'h of them had drawn their swords. ll.|Narciss was bleeding; and the other, mad with [ii(wine, and rage, and jealousy, cmld scarcely be «[, (held back by all the company: I seized Narciss, jj fled him by tiie arm up stairs; and as I did not think [ |my friend even here in safety from his frantic ,1 (enemy, I shut the door and bolted it." '•! After this they are soon betrothed ; but she ■ Igrows Methodistical, and he cold, — and their j[eng^ement lliesotT: — And then she becomes li: (pious m good earnest, and is by turns a Hal- miean and a Herrnhuther, and we do not know ren- tirrship placed there, with many others whose names he did not know. ' May I ho|)e to cast a look into these rolls ?' ' In this chamber, there is now noihing hid from you.' 'May I put a (|ues- lion ?' ' Ask not,' said the Abbe. ' Hail to thee, young man ! Thy apprenticeship is done ; Nature has pronounced ihee free.' " When he afterwards inspecte tliis roll, he t20 LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPHY. finds "his whole life delineated with large, shaqj strokes, and a number of bland and ceneral reflections!" We doubt whether there is any such nonsense as this, any where else in the universe. After this illumination, the first step he takes, with the assent of these oracular sages, is to propose for Theresa, in a long letter. But while waiting for her answer, he is sent by Lothario to visit his sister, to whose care, it appears, poor INIignon had been transferred by Theresa. This sister he takes, of course, for the Countess from whom he had parted so strangely in the castle, and is a little em- barrassed at the thought of meetuig her. But he discovers on the road that there is another sister : and that she is the very healing an- gel who had given him the great coat when wounded in the forest, and had haunted his fancy ever since. " He entered the house ; he found himself in the most earnest, and, x\a he almost felt, the holiest place, which he had ever trod. A pendent dazzling lustre threw its light upon a broad and softly rising etair, which lay before him, and which paned into two divisions at a turn above. Marble statues and busts were standing upon pedestals, and arranged in niches; some of them seemed known to him. The impressions of our childhood abide with us. even in their minutest traces. He recognised a Muse which had formerly belonged to his grandtather-" He finds poor Mignon in a wretched state of health — and ascertains that it is a secret passion for him that is preying on her deli- cate form. In the mean time, and just as his romantic love for Natalia (his iair hostess) has resumed its full sway, she delivers him Theresa's letter of acceptance — very kind and confiding, but warning him not to lay out any of his money, till she can assist and direct him about the investment. This letter peiple.v- es him a little, and he replies, with a bad grace, to the waim congratulations of Natalia — when, just at this moment Lothario's friend steps in most opportunely to inform them, that Theresa had been discovered not to be the daughter of her reputed mother ! — and that the bar to her union with Lothario was therefore at an end. Wilhelm affects great magnanimity in resigning her to his prior claim.s — but is puzzled by the warmth of her late acceptance — and still more, when a still more ardent letter arrives, in which she sticks to her last choice, and assures him that '"'her dream of living with Lothario has wandered far away from her soul ;" and the matter seems finally settled, when she comes post- haste in her own person, flies into his arms. and exclaims, '-Aly friend — my love — my husband ! Yes, for ever thnie ! amid.st the warmest kisses'' — and he responds, "0 my Theresa!" — and kis.sps in return. In spite of all this, however, Lothario and his friends come to urge his suit : and, with the true Ger- man taste for impossibilities and protracted agonies, the whole party is represented as living together quite quietly and harmonious- ly for several weeks — none of the parties pressing for a final determination, and all of them occupied, in the interval, with a variety of tasks, duties, and dissertations. At last the elective afiinities prevail. Theresa begins to cool to her new love ; and, on condition of Natalia undertaking to comfort Wilhelm, con- sents to go back to her engagements with Lo- thario — and the two couples, and some more, are happily united. This is the ultimate catastrophe — though they who seek it m the book will not get at it quite so easily — there being an infinite varie- ty of other events intermingled or premised. There is the death of poor Mignon — and her musical obsequies in the Hall of the Past— the arrival of an Italian Marchese, who turns out to be her uncle, and recognises his brother in the old crazy harper, of whom, though he has borne us company all along, we have not had time to take notice — the return of Phili- na along with a merry cadet of Lothario's house, as sprightly and indecorous as ever — the saving of Felix from poi.soiiing, by his drinking out of the bottle instead of the glass — and the coming in of the Count, whom Wilhelm had driven into dotage and piety by wearing his clothes — and the fair Countess, who is now discovered to have suffered foj years from her mom en tarj- lapse in the casth — the picture of her hu.sband having, by i most apt retribution, been pressed so hard t( her breast in that stolen embrace, as to givt pain at the time, and to alHict her with fear: of cancer for very long after! Besidt s a! this, there are the sayings of a very decidei and infallible gentleman called Jarno — anc his final and not very intelligible adniissior that all which our hero hp.d seen in the ha' of the castle was "but the rehcsof a voulhfi undertaking, in which the greater part (>f tli initiated were once in deep earnest, tlioug all of them now viewed it with a smile." Many of the passages to which we hai now alluded are e.xecuted with gi-e.-it tnleni and we are very sensible are better woiih e: tracting than many of those we have cite( But it is too late now to change our .«rle>tioi — and we can still less aflbrd to add to iher On the whole, we close the book with son feelings of mollification towards its fault and a disposition to abate, if possible, son part of the censure we were impelled to b stow on it at the beginning. It improves cf tainly as it advances — and though nowhe probable, or conversant indeed eitln r wi natural or conceivable characters, the ii vi i ive powers of the author seem to sti< i 2'h by e.xercise, and come gradually to !-•■ li frequently employed on childish or n \'>V. subjects. While we hold out the work tiic fore as a curious and striking instance ot tl diversity of national tastes, which makes writer idolized in one part of polishf d KurO]' who could not be tolerated in ni.othri, ■ would be understood as holding it out as' object rather of wonder than of coiiteni) and though the greater part certainly coi. not be endured, and indeed could not hs been written in England, there are manyp sages of which any country might reasona' ' be proud, and which demonstrate, that if ta' be local and variable, genius is permanent J I universal. CORRESPONDENCE OF SAMUEL RICHARDSON. 12 ((October, ISO'i.) The Correspondence of Samukl Ixichaudson, Author of Pamrla. Clarissa, ami Sir Charles [ Grandisoii : selected from the oriii:iual Maniiscripls br(jui'alhed to his Fawity. To which are prefixed, a Biographical account of that Author, and UI)scrralions on his If'nlings. By Anna LiETiTiA Barbauld. 6 vols. 8vo. Phillips, London: 1804. and of his sitting!: down, after his adventures are concluded, to give a particular account of them to the public. There is somethinjj rather childish, we think, in all this investiiration : and the prob- lem of comparative probability seems to be stated purely for the pleasure of the solution. No reader was ever disturbed, in the middle of an interesting story, by any sciuple about the means or the inducements which the nar- rator may be presumed to have had for tell- ing it. While he is eng-aged with the story, such an mquiry never suggests itself; and when it is suggested, he recollects that the whole is a fiction, invented by the author for his amusement, and that the best way of communicathig it must be that by which he is most interested and least fatigued. To us it appears very obvious, that the first of the three modes, or the author's own narrative, is by far the most eligible ; and for this plain reason, that it lays him under much less re- straint than either of the other two. He can introduce a letter or a story whenever he hnds it convenient, and can make use of the dramatic or conversation style as often as the subject requires it. In epistolary writing there must be a great deal of repetition and egotism; and we must submit, as on the stage, to the intolerable burden of an insipid confidant, with whose admiration of the hero's epi.stles the reader may not always be dis- posed to sympathize. There is one species of novel indeed (but only one), to which the epistolary style is peculiarly adapted ; that is, the novel; in which the whole interest de- pends, not upon the adventures, but on the characters of the persons represented, and in which the story is of very subordinate im- portance, and only serves as an occasion to draw forth the sentiments and feelings of the agents. The Heloise of Rousseau may be considered as the model of this species of writing; and Mrs. Barbauld certainly over- looked this obvious distinction, when she as- serted that the author of that extraordinary work is to be reckoned among the imitators of Richardson. In the Heloise, tliere is scarcely any narrative at all; and the interest may be said to consist altogether in the eloquent ex- pression of fine sentiments and exalted pas- sion. All Richardson's novels, on the other hand, are substantially narrative; and the letters of most of his characters contain little more than a minute journal of th(? conversa- tions and transactions in which they were successivelv engaged. The stylo of Richard- son might "be perfectly copied, though the The public has great reason to be satisfied, ,i ,we think, with Mrs. BarbaukPs share in this i ipublication. She has contributed a very well ; written Introduction ; and she has suppressed about twice as many letters as are now pre- -. sented to our consideration. Favourably as [ ,we are disposed to think of all for which (, [she is directly responsible, the perusal of the [s i whole six volumes has fully convinced us I that we are even more indebted to her for- if, bearance than to her bounty. j- I The fair biographer unquestionably posses- y Ises very considerable talents, and exercises [, her powers of writing with singular judgTnent ; and propriety. Many of her observations are ; iacute and striking, and several of them very it; .fine and delicate. Yet this is not, perhaps, <; ithe general character of her genius; and it ':;, jmust be acknowledged, that she has a tone . land manner which is something formal and , heavy ; that she occasionally delivers trite and , obvious truths whh the pomp and solemnity . lof important discoveries, and sometimes at- I tempts to exalt and magnify her subject by (: a very clumsy kind of declamation. With all those defects, however, we think the life , land observations have so much substantial , ■merit, that most readers will agree with us in thinking that they are worth much more than all the rest of the publication. , She sets oii' indeed with a sort of formal I dissertation upon novels and romances in , .general ; and, after obligingly recapitulating (the whole history of this branch of literature, ,from the Theagenes and Chariclea of Helio- , ;dorus to the Gil Bias and Nouvelle Heloise ,;, lOf modern times, she proceeds to distinguish ,! ithese performances into three several classes, .[ iaccording to the mode and form of narration , ladopted by the author. The first, she is pleased to inform us, is the narrative or epic ,: form, in which the whole story is put into the , imouth of the author, who is supposed, like j . the Muse, to know every thing, and is not ! obliged to give any account of the sources of ; hi-< information; the second is that in which th:^ hero relates his own adventures; and the fh'nl is that of epistolary correspondence, ! wh'^re all the agents in the drama successive- ,, 1y narrate the incidents in which they are j [principally concerned. It was with Richard- ,; ison, Mrs. "Barbauld then informs us, that this [last mode of novel writing originated ; and ; ■ she enters into a critical examination of its ad- j vantages and disadvantages, and of the com- ; jj. parative probability of a person dispatching a narrative of every interesting incident or con- versation in his life to his friends by the post, 16 122 LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPIH'. epistolary form were to be dropped ; but no imitation of the Heloise could be recognised, if it were not in the shape of letters. After finishing her discourse upon Novels. Mrs. Barbauld proceeds to lay before her readers some account of the life and perform- ances of Richardson. The biography is very scanty, and contains nothing that can be thought very interesting. He was the son of a joiner in Derbyshire; but always avoided mentioning the town in which he was born. He was intended at first for the church; but his father, finding that the expense of his education would be too heavy, at last bound him apprentice to a printer. He never was acquainted with any language but his own. From his childhood, he was remarkable for invention, and was famous among his school- fellows for amusing them with tales and stories which he composed e.xtempore. and usually rendered, even at that early age, the vehicle of some useful moral. He was con- stitutionally shy and bashful ; and instead of mixing with his companions in noisy sports and exercises, he used to read and converse with the sedate part of the other sex. or assist them in the composition of their love-letters. The following passage, extracted by ISIis. Barbauld from one of the suppressed letters, is more curious and interesting, we think, than any thing in those that are published. "As a bashful and not forward boy, I was an early favourue with all the yomiii women of taste and reading in the neighbourhood. Half a dozen of them, when met to work with their needles, used, when they got a book they liked, and thought I should, to borrow me to read to them ; their mothers sometimes with ihem; and both mothers and daughters used to be pleased with ihe observa- tions lliL-y put me upon making. "I was not more than thirteen, when three of these young women, unknown to each other, having an high opinion of my taciturnity, revealed to me their love-secrets in order to induce me to give them copies to write after, or correct, for answers to their lovers' letters ; nor did any of them ever know that I was the secretary to the oihir.';. I have been di- rected to chide, and even to repulse, when an offence was either taken or giveti. at the very time that the heart of the chider or rcpulser was open before me, overflowing wiiii esteem and affection; and the tair repulser, dreading to be taken at her word, directing Ihis word, or that expression, to be softened or changed. One highly gratified w'vl\ her lover's fervour and vows of everlasting love, has said, when I hive asked her direction — I can- not tell you what to write ; but (her heart on her lips) you cannot write too kindly. All her fear was only that she should incur slight for her kind- ness." — Vol. i. Introduction, p. xx.xix. xl. We add Mrs. Barbauld's observation on this passage, for the truth of the sentiment it contains, though more inelegantly written than any other sentence in her performance. " Human nature is human nature in every class ; the hopes and the fears, the perplexities and the struggles, of these low-bred girls in probably an obscure village, supplied the future author with those idea.« which, by their gradual development, produced the characters of a Cl.irissa and a Cle- mentina; nor was he prob.-ilily happier, or amused in a more lively manner, when sitting in his grotto, with a circle of the best informed women in Eng- land about him. who in after times courted his society, than in reading to these girls in, it may be, a little back shop, or a mantua-maker's parlour with a brick floor." — p. xl. xli. During his apprenticeship, he distinguished himself only by exemplary diligence and fidelity ; though he informs us, that he even then enjoyed the correspondence of a gentle- man, of great accomplislunents. from whose patronage, if he had lived, he entertauied the highest expectations. The rest of his worldly history seems to have been pretty nearly that of Hogarth's virtuous apprentice. He married his master's daughter, and succeeded to his business ; extended his wealth and credit by sobriety, punctuality, and hitegrity ; bought a residence in the coimtry ; and, though he did not attain to the supreme dignity of Lord INIayor of London, arrived in duf time at the respectable situation of Master of the Wor- shipful Company of Stationers. In this course of obscure prosperity, he appears to have continued till he had passed his fiftieth year, without giving any intimation of his future celebrity, and even without appearing to be conscious that he was differently gifted from the other flourishing traders of the metropolis. He says of himself, we observe, in one of these letters — "My business, till within these few years, filled all my time. I had no leisure : nor, being unable to write by a rcgxi- lar plan, knew I that I had so much invention, till I almost accidentally slid into the writing of Pamela. And besides, little did I imagine that any thing I could write would be s( kindly I'eceived by the world." Of the origir and progress of this first work he has himsell left the following authentic account. "Two booksellers, my particular friends, en treated me to write for them a litile volume o letters, in a common style, on such subjects a might be of use to those country readers who wer unable to indite for themselves. Will it be an; harm, said L in a piece you want to be written S' low, if we should inslru'ci them how they shouli think and act in common cases, as well as indite They were the more urgent with me to begin th little voluine for this hint. I set about it; and, i the progress of it, writing two or three letters t instruct handsome girls, who were obliged to g out to service, as we phrase it, how lo avoid th snares that might be laid against their virtue ; th above story recurred to my thought; and henc sprung Pamela." — Introd. p. liii. This publication, we are told, which mad its first appearance in 1740, was received wit a burst of ajjplanse. Dr. Sherlock iccon mended it from the pulpit. Mr. Pope said would do more good than volumes of seimoni and another literary oracle declared, that i all other books were to be burnt, Pamela an the Bible should be preserved 1 Its snccef was not less brilliant in the world of fa.'^hioi '• Even at Ranelagh," Mrs. Barbanlil assure us, "it was usual for the ladies to hold up tt volumes to one another, to show they had gt the book that everyone was talking of.'' An( what will appear .still more extraordinary, or gentleman declares, that he will ijive it to h S(m as soon as he can read, that he mav has an early impression of virtue. — After faithful reciting these and other testimonies of tl CORRESPONDENCE OF SAMUEL RICHARDSON. 123 high estimation in which this work was once ' held by all ranks of people, Mrs. Barbauld subjoins some very acute and judicious ob- servations both on its literary merits and its . moral tentlency. We cannot find room for the : whole of this critique ; but there is so much ' good sense and propriety in the following pas- ;; I sage, that we cannot refrain from inserting it. ■ I " So long as Pamela is solely occupied in sciicnies 11- i to escape from her persecutor, her virtuous resist- t ance obtains our unqualified approbation ; but from . the moment she begins to entertain hopes of mar- rying him, we admire her guarded prudenee, rather than her purity of mind. She has an end in view, ; an interested end ; and we can only consider her as i the conscious possessor of a treasure, wliich she is i; wisely resolved not to part with buf for its just price. I Her staying in his house a moment after she found L herself at liberty to leave it, was totally unjustifiable: " her repentant lover ought to have followed her to her taiher's cottage, and to have married her from » thence. The familiar fooling upon which she con- f descends to live with the odious Jewkes, shows ;,: also, that her fear of offending the man she hoped .. to make her husband, had got the better of her i delicacy and just resentment ; and the same fear leads her to uive up her correspondence with honest ■ Mr. Williams, who had generously sacrificed his J intenst with his patron in order to effect her deliv- I erance. In real life, we should, at this period, con- , sider Pamela as an interesting girl : but the author says, she married Mr. B. because he had won her affection : and we are bound, it may be said, to be- ■ lieve an author's own account of his characters. ■ But again, it is quite natural that a girl, who had :. ;such a genuine love for virtue, should feel her heart aiirac ed to a man who was endeavouring to destroy , that virtue ? Can a woman value her honour infi- nitely above her life, and hold in serious detestation • every word and look contrary to the nicest purity, ■'■ and yet be won by those very attempts against her honour to which she expresses so much repugnance? — His attempts were of the grossest nature ; and ■ , previous to. and during those attempts, he endeav- ; cured to iniiniidaie her by sternness. He puts on '; the master too much, to win upon her as the lover ^l 'Can affection be kindled by outrage and insult ? J^^ ISurely, if her passions were capable of being awa- "■ kened in his favour, during such a persecution, the t circumstance would be capable of an interpretation ': very little consistent with that delicacy the author j" meant to give her. The other alternative is, that "'; !she married him for ' The gilt coach and dappled Flanders mares.' 1) jindeed. the excessive humility and gratitude ex- . I .pressed by Ik rself and her parents on her exaltation, (J .shews a reoaid to rank and riches beyond the just measure ot an independent mind. The pious good- ,man Andrews should not have thought his virtuous ]ii ^daughter so infinitely beneath her licentious mas- ,,;• ter, who. after all, married her to graiity his own ,jj, ipassions.— Inirod. pp. I.xiii. — Ixvi. iiJ I The first part of this work, which concludes lOC fwith the marriage of the heroine, was written it lin three months: and was founded, it seems, iSlon a real story which had been related to :K iRichardson by a gentleman of his acquaint- lii lance. It was followed by a second part, con- •« ffessedly very inferior to the first, and was pi! fridiculed by Fielding in his Joseph Andrews; \\ Ian offence for which he was never forgiven. .ti I' Within eight years after the appearance of I [Pamela, Richardson's reputation may be said ii'i (to have attained its zenith, by the successive ' publication of the volumes of his Clarissa. We have great pleasure in laying before our reailers a part of Mrs. Barbaiild's very judi- cious observations upon this popular and original performance. After a slight sketch of the story, she observes, "The plot, as we have seen, is simple, and no underplots interfere with the main design — no di- gressions, no episodes. It is wonderful that, without these helps of common writers, he could support a work of such length. With Clarissa it begins, — with Clarissa it ends. We do not come upon un- expected adventures and wonderful recognitions, by quick turns and surprises : We see her fate from afar, as it were through a long avenue, the gradual approach to which, without ever losing sight of the object, has more of simplicity and grandeur than the most cunning labyrinth that can be contrived by art. In the approach to the modern country seat, we are made to catch transiently a side-view of it through an opening of the trees, or to burst upon it front a sudden turning in the road ; but tlie old mansion stood full in the eye of the traveller, as be drew near it, contemplating its turrets, wliich grew larger and more distinct every step that he ad- vanced; and leisurely filling his eye and his imagin- ation with still increasing ideas of its magnificence. As the work advances, the character rises; the distress is deepened ; our hearts are torn with pity and indignation ; bursts of grief succeed one another, till at length the mind is composed and harmonized with emotions of milder sorrow ; we are calmed into resignation, elevated with pious hope, and dis- missed glowing with the conscious triumphs of vir- tue. — Introd. pp. Ix.xxiii. l.xxxiv. She then makes some excellent remarks on the conduct of the story, and opt the characters that enliven it ; on that of the heroine, she observes, "In one instance, however, Clarissa certainly sins against the delicacy of her character, that is, in allowing herself to be made a show of to the loose companions of Lovelace. But, how does her character rise, when we come to the more distress- ful scenes; the view of her horror, when, deluded liy the pretended relations, she re-enters the fatal house ; her temporary insanity afier the outrage, in which she so affectingly holds up to Lovelace the li- cence he had procured, and her dignified behaviour when she first sees her ravisher, after the perpetra- tion of his crime ! What finer subject could be pre- sented to the painter, than the prison scene, where she is represented kneeling amidst the gloom and horror of that dismal abode ; illuminating, as it were, the dark chamber, her face reclined on her crossed arms, her white garments floating round her in the negligence of woe ; Bellord coiiteinplating her wiih resi)ectful commiseration: Or. the scene of calmer but heart-piercing sorrow, in the interview Colonel Morden has with her in her dying mo- ments I She is represented fallen into a slumber, in her elbow-chair, leaning on the widow Lovick, whose left arm is around her neck : one faded rhcek resting on the good woman's bosom, the kindly warmth of which had overspread it wiih a faintish flush, the other pale and hollow, as if al- ready iced over by death ; her hands, the blueness of the veins contrasting their whiteness, hanging lifeless before her — the widow's tears dropping un- felt upon her face — Colonel Morden, with his arms folded, gazing on her in silence, her cofl^n just ap- pearing lithind a screen. What admiration, what reverence, does the amlinr inspire us with for the innocent sufferer, the sufferings too oi such a pecu- liar nature ! "There is something in virgin purity, to which the imagination willingly pays homage. In all ages, something saintly has been attached to the idea of^ unblemished chastity; but it was reserved im Richardson to overcome all circumstances of dis- honour and disfjrace, and to throw n splendour around the viohitvd virgin, more radiant than she possessed in her first bloom. lie has drawn the i24 LITERATURE Ax\D BIOGRAPHY. triumph of mental chastify ; he has drawn it un- coniaminaied. untarnished, and incapable of min- gling with poliulion. — The scenes which follow the death of the heroine, exhibit grief in an affecting variety of forms, as it is modified by the characters of different survivors. They run into considerable length, but we have been so deeply interested, that we feel it a relief to have our grief drawn off, as 'it were, by a variety of sluices, and we are glad not to be dismissed till we have shed tears, even to satiety." — Introd. pp. xciii. — xcvii. This criticism we think is equally judicious and refined ; and we could easily prolongs this extract, in a style not at all inferior. With regard to the morality of the work, Mrs. Bar- bauld is very indignant at the notion of its being intended to exhibit a rare instance of female chastity. She objects with some reason, to the num- ber of interviews which Clarissa is represented to have had with Lovelace after the catas- trophe ; and adds, •' If the reader, on casually opening the book, can doubt of any scene be- tween them, whether it passes before or after the outrage, that scene is one too much." — The character of Lovelace, she thinks, is very much of a fancy piece ; and affirms, that our national manners do not admit of the existence of an original. If he had been placed in France, she observes, and his gallantries di- rected to married women, it might have been more natural; "but, in England, Lovelace would have been run through the bod}', long before he had seen the face either of Clarissa or Colonel Morden." Mrs. Barbauld gives us a copious account of the praise and admiration that poured in upon the author from all (juarters, on the pub- lication of this extraordinary work : he was overwhelmed with cornplintientary letters, messages, and visits. But we are most grati- fied with the enthusiasm of one of his female correspondents, who tells him that she is very sorry, '-'ihat he was not a woman, and blest with the means of shining as Clarissa did ; for a person capable of thawing such a character, would certainly be able to act in the same manner, if in a like situation V After Clarissa, at an interval of about five years, appeared his Sir Charles Grand ison. Upon this work, also, Mrs. Barbauld has made many excellent observations, and pointed out both its blemishes and beauties, with a very delicate and discerning hand. Our limits wijl not permit us to enter upon this disquisition: we add only the following acute paragraph. " Sir Charles, as a Christian, was not to tight n duel; yet he was to be recognised as the fini.shod gentleman, and could not be allowed to want the most essential part of the character, the deportmeil of a man of honour, courage, and spirit. .And. in order to exhibit his spirit and courage, it was neces- sary to bring them into action by adventin-es and rencounters. His first api)earance is in the rescue of Miss Byron, a meritorious action, but one wliich must necessarily expose him to a clnlleiiife. \\ivpd. But we were obliged to part again, and : i-ait two years for our wedding. My mother ;- \fon\d not let me marry a stranger. I could marry E "sen without her consentment, as by the death of iiy father my fortune depended not on her; but ^^ bis was an horrible idea for me ; and thank Hea- ■' !en that I have prevailed by prayers 1 At this ''■ fme knowing Klopstock, she loves him as her ," 'fely son. and thanks God that she has not per- -i: isted We married, and I am the happiest wife i 1 the world. In some few months it will be four / ears that I am so happy, and still I dote upon •' -lopsiock as if he was my bridegroom. "If you knew my husband, you would not londer. If you knew his poem, I could describe ini very briefly, in saying he is in all respects what -' is as a poet. This I can say with all wifely mo- . -Sty But I dare not to speak of my hus- l^ij jWtt; I am all raptures^ when I do it. And as happy as I am in love, so happy am I in friendship, in my mother, two elder sisters, and five other women. IIow rich I am I" — Vol. iii. pp. hlG — 149. One of the best letters is dated from Tun- bridge in 1751. We shall venture onane.xtract. " But here, to change the .scene, to see Mr. Walsh at eighty (Mr. Gibber calls him papa), and Mr. Gibber at seventy-seven, hunting alter new faces i and thinking themselves happy it they can obtain the notice and familiarity of a tine woman ! — How ridiculous I — " Mr. Gibber was over head and ears in love with Miss Ghudleigh. Her admirers (such was his hap- piness I) were not jealous of him ; but, pleased with that wit in him which they had not, were always for calling him to her. She said pretty thnigs — tor she was Miss Ghudleigh. lie said pretty things — for he was Mr. Gibber; and all the company, men and women, seemed to think they had an interest in what was said, and were halt as well pleased as if they had said the sprightly things themselves; and mighty well contented were they to be second- hand repeaters of the pretty things. But once I laced the laureate squatted upon one of the benches, with a face more wrinkled than ordinary with dis- appointment. ' I thought,' said I. ' you were of the party at the tea treats— Miss Ghudleigh is gone into the tea-room.' — 'Pshaw!' said he, 'there is no coming at her, she is so surrounded by the toupets.' — .\nd I left him upon the fret — But' he was called to soon after i and in he flew, and his lace shone again, and looked smooth. "Another extraordinary old man we have hail here, but of a very diflerent turn; the noted Mr. Whiston, showing eclipses, and explaining other phenomena of the stars, and preaching the millen- nium and anabaptism (for he is now, it seems, of that persuasion) to gay people, who, if they have white teeth, hear him with open mouths, though perhaps shut hearts ; and after his lecture is over, not a bit the wiser, run from him the more eagerly to G — r and W — sh, and to flutter among the loud- laughing young fellows upon the walks, like boys and girls at a breaking up," — Vol. lii. p. 31G — 319, As Richardson was in the habit of flattering his female correspondents, by asking their advice (though he never followed it) as to the conduct of his works, he prevailed on a cer- tain Lady Echlin to communicate a new catastrophe which she had devised for his Clarissa. She had reformed Lovelace, by means of a Dr. Christian, and made him die of remorse, though the last outrage is not supposed to be committed. How far Lady Echlin's epistles are likely to meet Avith readers, in this fastidious age, may be con- jectured, from the following specimen. " I heartily wish every Christain would read and wisely consider Mr. Skelton's fine and pious les- sons. 1 admire the warmth of this learned gentle- man's zeal ; it is laudable and necessary, ' especially in an age like this, which, for its coldness (he ob- serves) may be called the winter of Christianity,' A melancholy truth, elegantly expressed! I have only perused a small part of this divine piece, and am greatly delighted with what 1 have read. Surely he is a heavenly man. I am also very fond of Dr. Clark: a?id excellent good Seed.' 1 thank you, sir, for introducing another wise charmer, not less worthy of every body's regard. He merits atten- tion, and religiously commands it," — Vol, v, p. 40, Next come several letters from the Rever- end Mr, Skelton, mostly on the subject of the Dublin piracy, and the publication of some works of his own. He seem.n to have been a man of strong, coarse sensi;, but extremely irritable. Some delay iii the publication of 128 LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPHl'. hiis sermons dra-\TS from him the following amusing piece of fretfulness. "Johnston kept ihem a monih on the way; WiUoii kept them three, and docs notliing, only hiiiis a sort of contemptuous censure of them to you, and huffs them out ot his hands. The booksellers (^e^pise them, and I am forced to print them, when the season for sale is over, or burn them. God's will be done! If I had wrote against my Saviour, or his religion, my work would long ago have been bought, and reprinted, and bought again. Millar would have now been far advanced in his third edition of it ! But why do I make these weak com- plaints ? I know my work is calculated to serve the cause of God and truth, and by no means con- tempiibiy executed. I am confident also, I shall, il God spares me life to give it the necessary intro- duction, sell it to advantage, and receive the thanks of every good man for it. I will therefore be in the hands of God, and not of Mr. Millar, whose indif- ference to my performances invite me not to any overtures."— Vol. v. p. 234, 235. Although Richardson is not responsible for more than one fifth part of the dulness e.\- hibited in this collection, still the share of it that may be jusfly imputed to him is so con- siderable, and the whole is so closely asso- ciated with his name, that it would be a sort of injustice to take our final leave of his works, without casting one glance back to those orig- inal and meritorious performances, upon which his reputation is so firmly established. The great excellence of Richardson's novels con.sisls, we think, in the unparalleled minute- nevss and copiousness of his descriptions, and in the pains he takes to make us thoroughly and intimately acquainted with every particu- lar in the character and sitiuition of the per- sonages with whom we are occupied. It has been the policy of other writers to avoid all details that are not necessary or impressive, to hurry over all the preparatory scenes, and to reserve the whole of the reader's attention for those momentous passages in which some de- cisive measure is adopted, or some great passion brought into action. The consequence i.s, that we are only acquainted with their characters in their dress of ceremony, and that, as we never see them except in those critical circumstances, and those moments of strong emotion, which are bnt of rare occur- rence in real life, we are never deceived into any belief of their reality, and contemplate the whole as an exaggerated and dazzling illusion. With such authors we merely make a visit by appointment, and see and hear only what we know has been prepared for our re- ception. With Richardson, we shp, invisible, into the domestic privacy of his characters, and hear and see every thing that is said and doii'- .■iiiiong them, \^hether it be int(!restiiig or otlr.'Mvise. and whether it gratify our curi- o.-;ily or disappoint it. We sympathise with tlf foinier, therefore, only as we .sympathise with the monarchs and statesmen of history, of who.se condition as individuals we have but a very imperfect conception. We feel for the latter, as for our private friends and actiuaint- ancn, with whose whole situation we are familiar, and as to whom we can conceive exactly the effects that will be produced by every thing that may befal ihem. In this art Richardson is undoubtedly without an equal, and, if we except De Foe, without a competitor, we believe, in the whole history of literature. We are often fatiirued. as we listen to his prolLx descriptions, ami the repeti- tions of those rambling and inconclusive con- versations, in which so many pages are con- sumed, without any apparent progress in the storj-; but, by means of all this, we get so intimately acquainted with the characters, and so impressed with a persuasion of their reality, that when any thing really disastrous or important occurs to them, we feel as for old friends and companions, and are irresistibly led to as lively a conception of their sensa- tions, as if we had been spectators of a real transaction. This we certainly think the chief merit of Richardson's productions: For. great as his knowledge of the human heart, and his powers of pathetic description, must be ad- mitted to be, we are of opinion that he might have been equalled in those particulars by many, whose productions are infinitely less I interesting. ; That his pieces were all intended to be j strictly moral, is indisputable: but it is not' quite so clear, that they will uniformly be' found to have this tendency. We have already quoted some obsen'afions of Mrs. Barbaijjd's on this subject, and shall only add, in general, that there is a certain air of irk-, some regularity, gloominess, and pi dantrjy attached to most of his virtuous chaiacters, which is apt to encourage more unfortunate associations than the engaging (jualities with which he has invested some of his vicious ones. The mansion of the HarJowes. which.' before the appearance of Lovelace, is repre- sented as the abode of domestic felicity, is i place in which daylight can scarcely be sup posed to .shine; and Clarissa, with her forma devotions, her intolerably early rising, he day divided into tasks, and her quantities o) needle-work and discretion, has something ij her much less winning and attractive than in ferior artists have often communicated to a; innocent beauty of seventeen. The solem nity and moral discourses of Sir Charles, hi bows, minuets, compliments, and immovc abl' tranquillity, are much more likely to excif the derision than the admiration of a moder reader. Richardson's good people, in shor. are too wise and too foimal, ever to appear i' the light of desirable companions, or to excit' in a youthful mind any wish to resembl; them. The gaiety of all his characters, to is extremely girlish and silly, and is mue more like the prattle of spoiled children, tha' the wit and pleasantry of persons acquainte' with the world. The diction ihrnugliout ' heavy, vulgar, and embarrassed : though tl^ interest of the tragical scenes is too powerf to allow us to attend to any inferior consider; tion. The novels of Richnidson. in sho" though ]ira'.sed perhaps seraewhat beyoi their merits, will always be read with a miration : and certainly can never appear i greater advantage than when contrasted wr' the melancholy farrago which is here entitli, his Correspondence. BARON DE GRIMM. 129 (lulB, 1S13.) Correspondance, Littemirc, Philosophique et Critique. Addressee a un Souverain d^ AUemagne, depuis 1770 jtisqu'd 1782. Par le Baron de Grimm, et par Diderot. 5 tomes, 8vo. pp. 2250. Paris: 1812. This is certainly a very entertaining book — thougli a little too bulky — and, the greater part of it; not very important. We are glad to see it, however ; not only because we are glad to see any thing entertaining, but also because it makes us acquainted with a per- son, of whom every one has heard a great deal, and most people hitherto known very little. There is no name which comes ot'teiier across us, in the modern hi.story of French literature, than that of Grimm : and none, perhaps, whose right to so much notoriety seemed to most people to stand upon such scanty titles. Coming from a foreign country, without rank, fortune, or exploits of any kind to recommend him, he contrived, one does not very well see how, to make himself conspicu- 9us for forty years in the best company of Paris : and at the same time to acquire great influence and authority among literary men jf all descriptions, without publishing any :hing himself, but a few slight observations ppon French and Italian music. I The volumes before us help, in part, to ex- plain this enigma ] and not only give proof of ialents and accomplishments quite sufficient :0 justify the reputation the author enjoyed imong his contemporaries, but also of such a iegree of industry and exertion, as entitle jiim, we think, to a reasonable reversion of i'ame from posterity. Before laying before ;iur readers any part of this miscellaneous ;hronicle, we shall endeavour to give them a ;:eneral idea of its construction — and to tell hem all that we have been able to discover ibout its author. . Melchior Grimm was born at Ratisbon in 723, of very humble parentage; hut, being olerably well educated, took to literature at '; very early period. His fust essays were aade in his own country — and. as we under- stand, in his native language — where he com- losed several tragedies, which were hissed ipon the stage, and unmercifully abused in jie closet, by Lessing. and the other oracles ;f Teutonic criticism. He then came to Paris, p a sort of tutor to the children of JNI. de ichomberg, and was employed in the humble ,apacity of reader to the Duke of Saxe-Gotha, 'hen he was first brought into notice by , jOusseau, who was smitten with his enthusi- ■ srn for music, and made him known to I'iderot. the Baron d'Holbach, and various "her persons of eminence in the literary orld. His vivacity and various accomplish- lents soon made him generally acceptable ; jhile his unifonn prudence and excellent |)od sense prevented him from ever losing ■ |iy of the friends he had gained. Rousseau, deed, chose to quarrel with him for life, 17 upon his sitting down one evening in a seat which he luul previously fixed upon for hmi- self ; but with Voltaire and D'Alembert, and all the rest of that illustrious society, both male and female, he continued ah\ ays on the most cordial footing; and, while he is re- proached with a certain degree of obsequious- ness toward the rich and |X)werful, must be allowed to have used less llattery toward his literary associates than was usual in the in- tercourse of those jealous and artificial beings. When the Duke of Saxe-Gotha left Paris, Grimm undertook to send him regularly an account of every thing remarkable that oc- cured in the literary, political, and scandalous chronicle of that great city; and acquitted himself in this delicate oflice so much to the satisfaction of his noble correspondent, that he nominated him, in 1776, his resident at the court of France, and raised him at the same time to the rank and dignity of a Baron. The volumes before us are a part of the des- patches of this literary plenipotentiary ; and are certainly the most amusing state papers that have ever fallen under our obversation. The Baron de Grimm continued to exercise the functions of this philosophical diplomacy, till the g-athering storm of the Revolution drove both ministers and philosophers from the territories of the new Republic. He then took refuge of course in the court of his mas- I ter, where he resided till 1795; when Catha- ! rine of Russia, to whose shrine he had for- ! merly made a pilgrimage from Paris, gave him "the appointment of her minister at the court of Saxony — which he continued to hold till the end of the reigii of the unfortunate Paul, when the partial loss of sight obliged him to witiidraw altogether from business, and to return to the court of Saxe-Gotha, where he continued his studies in hterature and the arts with unabated ardour, till he sunk at last under a load of years and infirmi- ties in the end of 1807. — He was of an un- comely and grotescjue appearance — with huge projecting eyes and discordant features, which he rendered still more hideous, by daubing them profusely with white and with red paint i — according to the most approved costume of pctits-maitrcs, in the year 1748, when he ' made his debut at Paris. ' The book embraces a period of about twelve ' yeais only, from 1770 to 1782, with a gap for j 1775 and part of 1776. It is said in the title- pas'e to be partly the work of Grimm, and j partly that of Diderot, — but the contributions I of the latter are few, and comparatively of little importance. It is written half in the style of a journal intended for the public, and ' half in that of private ar.d confidential cor- ISO LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPITi'. respondence; and, notwithstanding the re- trenchments which the editor boasts of having made in the pianuscript, contains a vast mis- cellany of aU sorts of uitelligence; — critiques upon all new publications, new operas, and new performers at the theatres ; — accounts of all the meetings and elections at the acade- mies, — and of the deaths and characters of all the eminent persons who demised in the period to which it extends; — copies of the epigrams, and editions of the scandalous sto- ries that occupied the idle population of Paris ' during the same period — interspersed with various original compositions, and brief and pithy dissertations upon the general subjects that are suggested by such an enumeration. Of these, the accounts of the operas and the actors are (now) the most tedious, — the criti- cal and biographical sketches the most live- ly. — and the peneral obsei-vations the most striking and important. The whole, however, is given with great vivacity and talent, and with a degree of freedom which trespasses occasionally upon the borders both of pro- priety and of good taste. There is nothing indeed more e.vactly paint- ed in these graphical volumes, than the char- acter of M. Grimm himself ; — and the beauty of it is. that as there is nothing either natural or peculiar about it. it may stand for the char- acter of most of the wits and philosophers he fretjuented. He had more wit, perhaps, and more sound sense and information, than the greater part of the society in which he lived — But the leading traits belong to the whole class, and to all classes indeed, in similar situations, in every part of the world. Whenever there is a very large assemblage of persons who have no other occupation but to amuse themselves, there will infallibly be generated acuteness of intellect, refinement of manner.s, and good taste in conversation : — and, with the same certainty, all profound thought, and all serious affection, will be generally discarded from their society. The multitude of persons and things that force themselves on the attention in such a scene. and the rapidity with which tliey succeed *?ach other and pass away, prevent any one from making a deep or permanent impression ; and the mind, having never been tasked to any course of application, and long habituated to this lively succession and variety of objects, -comes at last to require the excitement of perpetual change, and to find a multiplicity of friends as indispensable as a multiplicity of amusements. Thus the characteristics of large and polished society, come almost in- evitably to be, wit and heartlessness — acute- ness and perpetual derision. The same im- patience of uniformity, and passion for va- riety, which gives so much grace to their conversation, by excluding tediousness and pertinacious wrangling, make them incapable of dwelling for many minutes on the feelings and concerns of any one individual; while the constant pursuit of little gratifications, and the weak dread of all uneasy sensiitions, render them etiually averse from serious sym- pathy and deep thought. They speedily find out the shortest and most pleasant way to all truths, to which a short and a pleasant way can readily be discovered ; and then lay it down as a maxim, that no others are worth looking after — and in the 'same wa} . they dc such petty kindnesses, and indulge such light s}Tnpathies, as do not put them to any trouble. I or encroach at all on their amusements, — ■ whde they make it a principle to wrap them- ; selves up in those amusements from the as- sault of all more engrossing or imporlunat( ; affections. The turn for derision again arises naturalh out of this order of things. When passioi ' and enthusiasm, affection and serious occupa j tion have once been banished by a short-signt ed voluptuousness, the sense of ridicule i almost the only lively sensation that remains I — and the envied life of those who hav I nothing to do but to enjoy themselves, woul( I be utterly listless and without interest, if the were not allowed to laugh at each othei^ ; Their quickness in perceiving ordinary follie; and illusions too. affords great encouragemer to this laudable practice; — and as none o; them have so much passion or enthusiasij left, as to be deeply wounded by the shaf'! of derision, they fall lightly, and withoil rankling, on the lesser vanities, which supply in them those master springs of human actio and feeling. The whole style and tone of this pubhc tion affords the most striking illustration i these general remarks. From one end of to the other, it is a display of the most cor plete heartlessness, and the most uninterru) ed levity. It chronicles the deaths of half i authors acquaintance — and makes jests up them all; and is much more serious in d cussing the merits of an opera dancer, th in considering the evidence for the being o God, or the first foundations of morali Nothing; indeed, can be more just or concl sive, than the remark that is forced from '. Grimm himself, upon the utter carele. pan exceed the freedoms in which M. Grimm f indulges, both as to his productions, and his •haracter. All his poetry, he says, after Tan- •red, is clearly marked with the symptoms )f approaching dotage and decay ; and his I /lews of many important subjects he treats is altogether erroneous, shallow, and con- ii jemptible. He is particularly offended with (; I'm for not adopting the decided atheism of (I \h.eSyxtc7ne de la Nahire. and for weakly stop- it aing short at a kind of paltry deism. '-The ,15 Patriarch," says he, ••' still sticks to his Re- ;i> nnnerateur-Vcnsciir, without whom he fancies ;j! [he world would go on very ill. He is reso- j; lute enough, I confess, for putting down the » tod of knaves and bigots, but is not for part- ,« |ig with that of the virtuous and rational. He j; jeasonsupon all this, too, like a baby — a very j,( tmart baby it must be owned — but a baby 5P lotwithstanding. He would be a little puz- ,,j (led, I take it, if he were asked what was ,i, he colour of his god of the virtuous and wise, ,.,. pc. &c. He cannot conceive, he says, how ,j( jiere motion, undirected by inteiligence,should y, jver have produced such a world as we in- ,i^. abit — and we verily believe him. Nobody " Ian conceive it — but" it is a fact nevertheless; ...v |nd we see it — which is nearly as good." ^!,j, jl^'e give this merely as a specimen of the isciple's irreverence towards his master : for othing can be more contemptible than the 'asoning of M. Grimm in support of his own fsolatina: opinions. He is more near being iht, where he makes himself merry with I le Patriarch's ignorance of natural philoso- .,., jhy. Every Achilles however, he adds, has ,, ^ vulnerable heel — and that of the hero of ' terney is his Physics.* I * This is only tnie, however, with regard to nat- al history and chemistry i for as to the nobler irt of physics, which depends on science, liis at- inrnents were equal perhaps to those of any of s age and country, with the exception of D'Aletn- •rt. Even his astronomy, however, though by ) means " mince et raccounie." had a tendency , confirm him In that paltry Deism, for wluch he M. Grimm, however, reveals worse infirmi- ties than this in his great preceptor. There was a young Mademoiselle Rancour, it seems, who. though an actress, enjoyed an unblem- ished reputation. Voltaire, who hatl never seen her, chose one morning to write to the Marechal de Richelieu, by whom she was patronized, that she was a tiotorious prosti- tute, and ready to be taken into keeping by atiy one who would olfer for her. This im- putation having beeti thoughtlessly communi- cated to the damsel herself, produced no little commotion ; and upon Voltaire's beitig re- monstrated with, he immediately retracted the whole story, which it seems was a piece of pure invention; and confessed, that the only thing he had to object to IVhnille. ]{iiucour was, that he had understood tliey had put off the represciitation of a new play of his. in or- der to gratify the public with her appearance in comedy: — '-and this was enougli," sa)s M. Grimm, "to irritate a child of seventy- nine, against another child of seventeen, who came in the way of his gratification !" A little after, he tells another story which is not only very disreputable to the Patriarch, but affordsa striking example of the monstrous evils that arise from religious intolerance, in a country where the whole popukition is not of the same communion. A Mens, de H. in- troduced himself into a proteslant family at Montauban, and after some time, publicly married the only daughter of the house, hi the church of her pastor. He lived several years with her, and had one daughter — dissipated her whole property — and at last deserted her, and married another woman at Paris — upon the pretence that his first union was not bind- ing, the ceremony not having been performed by a Catholic priest. The Parliament ulti- mately allowed this plea ; and farther direct- ed, that the daughter should be taken fiom its mother, and educated in the true faith in a convent. The transaction excited general in- dignation ; and the legalhy of the sentence, and especially the last part of it. was very much disputetl, both in the profession and out of it ; — when Voltaire, to the astonishment of all the world, thought lit to put forth a pam- phlet in its defence I M. Grimm treats the whole matter with his usual coldness and pleasantry ; — and as a sort of apology for this extraordinary proceeding of Ins chief, very coolly observes, '-The truth is. that for .some timepast, the Patriarch has been suspected, and indeed convicted, of the most abominable cowardice. He defied the old Parliament in his youth with signal courage aixl intrepidity; and now he cringes to the new one. and even condescends to be its paneg-yrist, from an ab- surd dread of being persecuted by it on tlm very brink of the tomb. '' Ah ! Seigneur Pat- is so unmercifully rated by M. Grimm. We do not know many quartains in French poetry more beautiful than the following, which the Patriarch indited impromptu, one fine summer evening — "Tons ceB vaBtos pays d'Azur et de Liimicre, Tir^ du sein du vide, et f(irm68 sanH matiere, ArrondiB sans cornpas, et tournanB Bans pivot, Ont it peine coul6 la depense d'un mot !" 132 LITERATITRE AND BIOGRAPHY. riarche !" he concludes, in the trae Parisian accent, " Horace was much more excusable for flattering Augustus, who had honoured him, though he destroyed the republic, than you are, for justifying, without any intelligible mo- tive, a proceeding so utterly detestable, and upon which, if you had not courage to speak as became yon, you were not called upon to say any thing." It must be a comfort to the reatler to learn, that immediately after this sen- tence, a M. Vanrobais, an oiil and most re- spectable gentleman, was chivalrous enough, at the age of seventy, to marry the deserted widow, and to place her in a situation every way more respectable than that of which she had been so basely defrauded. There is a great deal, in the first of these volumes, about the statue that was voted to Voltaire by his disciples in 1770. — Pigalle the sculptor was despatched to Ferney to model him, in spite of the opposition he affects to make in a letter to Madame Necker. in which he very reasonably observes, that in order to be modelled, a man ought to have a face — but that age and sickness have so reduced him, that it is not easy to point out where- abouts his had been : that his eyes are sunk into pits three inches deep, and the small remnant of his teeth recently deserted : that his skin is like old parchment wrinkled over dry bones, and his legs and arms like dry spindles ; — in short, ■•' (ju'on ira jamais sculpte un pauvre homme dans cet etat.'" Phidias Pi^alle, however, as he calls him. goes upon his errand, notwithstanding ail these discour- agements: and finds him. accordina: to M. Grimm, in a state of great vivacity. "He skips up stairs," he assures me. '-more nimbly than all his subscribers put together, and is as quick as lightning in running to shut doors, and open windows : but, with all this, he is very anxious to pass for a poor man in the last extremities : and would take it much amiss if he thought that any body had dis- covered the secret of his health and vigour."' Some awkward person, indeed, it appears, has been complimenting him upon the occasion ; for he writes me as follows: — •• My dear friend — though Phidi.as Pigalle is the most virtuous of mortals, he calumniates me cruel- ly ; T understand he goes about saying that T am (juite well, and as sleek as a monk! — Such is the ungrateful return he makes for the pains I took to force my spirits for his amn^;Rment. and to puff up my bnccinatory mnsoles, in order to look well iii his eyes ! — Jean Jacques, to be sure, is far morp puffed up than I am ; but it is with conceit — from which I am free."' In another letter he says. — •' When the peasants in my village saw Pi- galle laying out .some of the instruments of his art, they flocked round us with great glee, and said, Ah ! he is going to dissect him — how droll ! — so one spectacle you see is just as good for some people as another."' The account which Pi of this cordiality, proceeded to urge him to make some sign or acknowledgment of liis behef in M 134 LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPHY". the Christian faith, he gently pushed him back, and said, "Alas! let me die in peace." The priest turned to his companion, and with great moderation and presence of mind, ob- served aloud, ''-Yoa see his faculties are quite gone." They then quietly left the apartment ; — and the dyini;: man, having testified his gratitude to his khid and vigilant attendants, and named several times the name of his favourite niece Madame Denis, shortly after e.xpired. Nothing can better mark the character of the work before us. and of its author, than to state, that the despatch which contains this striking account of the last hours of his illus- trious patron and friend, terminates with an obscene epigram of M. Rulhiere, and a g-ay critique on the new administration of the opera BuflTa ! There are various epitaphs on Voltaire, scattered through the sequel of the volume : — we prefer this very brief one, by a lady of Lausanne. "Ci-gk V enfant gate du monde qii' d gata." Among the other proofs which M. Grimm has recorded of the celebrity of this extra- ordinary person, tlie incredible multitude of his portraits that were circulated, deserves to be noticed. One ingenious artist, in particular, of the name of Huber, had acquired such a facility in forminir his countenance, that he could not only cut most striking likenesses of him out of paper, with scissars held be- hind his back, but could mould a little bust of him in half a minute, out of a bit of bread, and at la.st used to make his (/og manufacture most excellent profiles, by making him bite off the edge of a biscuit which he held to him in three or four different positions ! There is less about Rousseau in these volumes, than we should expect from their author's early intimacy with that great writer. What there is. however, is candid and judi- cious. M. Grimm agrees with Madame de Staei, that Rousseau was nothing of a French- man in his character; — and accordingly he observes, that though the magic of his style and the extravagance of his sentiments pro- cured him some crazy disciples, he never had any hearty partisans among the enli<;htened part of the nation. He laughs a good deal at his affectations and unpardonable animosi- ties, — but gives, at all times, the h yhest praise to his genius, and sets him above all his contemporaries, for the warmth, the ele- gance, and the singular richness of his style. lie says, that the general opinion at Paris was, that hi- had ])0!S()!icd himself: — that his natu- ral disposition to melancholy had increased in an alarming degri-e after his retnrn from Eng- land, and had been atigravated by the sombre and solitary life to which he had condemned himself; — that mind, he adds, at once too .strong and too weak to bear the burden of existence with trancinillity. was perpetually prolific of monsters and of phantoms, that haunted all his steps, and drove him to the bonlers of distractior . There is no doubt, continups M. (Triinni, that for many months before his death he had firmly persuaded himself that all the powers of Europe had their eyes fixed upon him as a most danger- ous and portentous being, whom they should take the first opportunity to destroy. He was also satisfied that M. de Choisenl had pro- jected and executed the conquest of Corsica, for no other purpose but to deprive him of the honour of legislating for it : and that Prussia i and Russia had agreed to partition Poland I upon the same jealous and unworthy con- sideration. While the potentates of Europe : were thus busied in thwartinir and mortifying f him abroad, the philosophers, he was per- \ suaded, were entirely devoted to the same.i: project at home. They had spies, he firmly' ij believed, posted round all his steps, and were ■ continually making eflbrts to rouse the popu- lace to in.sult and murder him. At the head of this conspiracy, of the reality of which he i no more doubted than of his existence, he/ had placed the Due de Choiseul, his physi-i, cian Tronchin, M. D'Alembert. and our au- thor ! — Hut we must pass to characters less known or familiar. The gayest, and the most naturally gay: perhaps of all the coterie, was the Abbe Ga-] Hani, a. Neapolitan, who had residetl for many; years in Paris, but had been obliged, very] much against his will, to return to his o-wn' country about the time that this journal com-' menced. M. Grimm inserts a variety of his. letters, in all of which the infantine petulance; and freedom of his character are distinctly! , marked, as well as the singular acuteness ano^ : clearness of his understanding. The first if written immediately after his exile from Pari,- in 1770. "Madame, je suis toiijonrs iiiponsolable d'avoi quilfe Paris; et encnre plus inronsolnbie de n'avoi' re^u anciine nouvelle ni de vons, ni du paresseu;; philosophe. Est-il possible que ce monsire, dan' son impassibilitie, ne neWe pas a quel point moi^ honneur. ma gloire. dnnt je me fiche, mon piaisi et eelui de mes amis, dont je me soucie beaucoup sont interesses dans Tafliiire que je ini ai confiee, e' cumbion je siiis impatient d'apprendre qu'en fin I pacotille a double le cap et passe le terrible defii de la revision : car, aprcs cela, je serai tranquil! sur le reste. " Mon voyage a ete trt^s heureux siir la terre i^ surl'onde; ila memeeicd'un bonheurinconcevabf; Je n'ai jamais eu chaud. et loujours le vent en poup sm- le Rhone et sur la mer; il p:u;iit que tout ir pousse il m'eloigiier de tout ce que j'aime an mond , L'heroisme sera done bien plus grand et bien pie memorable, dp vaincre lea olt'mens, la nature, li, dieux coiispire.a, et de retourner n. Paris en def d'pux. Oui, Paris est ma patrie ; on aura bei' m'en exiler. j'y rclomberiii. Atiendcz-vous doi a me voir etabli dans la rue Fromenieau, au quatt' erne, sur le derriere, chez la nommt'e • • • ; ■_. fi',' j majeure. La demeurera le plus grand genie • I notre age. en pension a irenie sous par joiir ; et| sera heureux. Quel plaisir que do delirer ! ^ Adi^ei' Je vnus prie d'envoyer vos lettres toujours a riioi ( de Tambassadeur. " Grimm est-il de retoiir de son voyage ?" j I Another to the Baron Holbach is nearly ; the same tone. " Quefaiies-vous, moneherbnron ? Vousamusr I vous ? La bnronne se porie-i-elle bien ? Commonneurs. badins par essence. Un mauvais tableau enlanie une bonne brochure ; ainsi vous par lerez niicux des arts que vous ne les culiiverez jamais. II se trouvera au bout du compte, dans quelques siccles, que vo,is auroz le mieux raisonne, le mieux discute ce que loutes les autres nations auront fait de mieux. Cherissez done Timprimerie, c'est voire lot dans ce has monde. Mais vous avez mis un impot sur le papier. Quelle soitise! Plaisanterie a part, un impot sur le papier est la faute en politique la plus forie que se soil comniise en France depuis un siecle. II valait mieux faire la banquerouie univcrselle, et laisser au Fran^ais le plaisir de parlcr a I'Europe a peu dc frais. Vous avez plus conquis de pays par les livres que par les amies. Vous ne devez la ijloire de la nation qu'a vos ouvrages, et vous voulez vous forcer a vous taire !" " Ma belle dame, s'il servait a quclque chose de pleurer les morts. je viendrais pleurer avec vous la perie de notre Helveiius ; mais la mort n'est autre chose que le regret des vivans ; si nous ne le regret- ions pas, il n'esi pas mort : tout comme si nous ne I'avions jamais ni connu ni aiine, il ne serait pas ne. Tout ce qui exisie. existe en nous par rapport a nous. Souvenez-vous que le petit prophutc faisait de la meiaphysique lorsqu'il etait triste ; i'en fais de meme a present. Mais enfin le mal de la perle d' Helveiius est le vide qu'il laisse dans la ligne du ba'aillon. Serrons done les lignes, aimons-nous davantage, nous qui resions, et il n'y paraitra pas. Moi qui suis le major de ce malheureux regiment, je vous crie a tous : scrrcz les lignes, avanccz, leu ! On ne s'apercevra pas de notre perte. Ses enfans n'ont perdu ni jeunesse ni beaute par la mort de leur pcre ; elles out gagne la qnalile d'horiiieres ; pourquoi diable allez-vous pleurer sur leur sort? Flics se marieront, n'en doutez pas: cet oracle est plus xiirque celui de Calclias. Sa femme est plus a p'aindre, a moins qu'elie ne rencontre un gendre aussi raisnnnable que son mari, ce qui n'est pas bien aise, rnais plus ais6 a Paris qu'aillcurs. II y a encore bien des moaurs, des vert us, de I'heroVsme dans voire Paris; il y en a plus qu'ailleurs, croyez- inoi : c'est ce qui me le fait regretter, et me le lera pent-eire revoir un jour." The notice of the death of Helvctais, con- tained in this last extract, leads us iialuiully m LITERATURE X^D BIOGRAPHY. to turn to the passage in M. Grimm in which this event is commemorated; and we there find a very full and curious account of this zealous pliilosopher. Helvetius was of Dutch extraction ; anil his father having been chief physician to the Queen, the son was speedily appointed to the very lucrative situation of Fanner-general of the Finances. He was re- markably good tempered, benevolent, and liberal ; and passed his youth in idle and vo- luptuous indulgence, keeping a sort of seraglio as a part of his establishment, and exercising himself with universal applause in the noble science of dancuig, in which he attained such eminence, that he is said to have several times supplied the place of the famous Dupre in the ballets at the opera. An unhappy pas- sion for literary glory came, however, to dis- turb this easy life. The paradoxes and ef- frontery of Maupertuis had brought science into fashion ; and for a season, no supper was thought complete at Paris without a mathe- matician. Helvetius, therefore, betook him- self immediately to the study of geometry : But he could make no hand of it ; and for- tunately the rage passed away before he had time to expose himself in the eyes of the in- itiated. Next came the poetical glory of Vol- taire; — and Helvetius instantly resolved to be a poet — and did with great labour produce a long poem on happiness, which was not pub- lished however till after his death, and has not improved his chance for immortalitv. But it was the success of the President Montes- quieu's celebrated Esprit des Loix, that fnial- ly decided the literary vocation of Helvetius. That work appeared in 1749; and in 1750 the Farmer-general actually resigned his office ; married, retired into the country, spent ten long years in digesting his own book De r Esprit, by which he fondly expected to rival the fame of his illustrious predecessor. In this, however, he was wofully disappointed. The book appeared to philosophers to be nothing but a paradoxical and laborious repe- tition of truths and difficulties with which all good thinkers liad long been familiar ; and it probably would have fallen into utter obhvion, had it not been for the injudicious clamour which was raised against it by the bigots and devotees of the court. Poor Helvetius. who had meant nothing more than to make him- self remarkable, was as much surprised at the outcries of the godly, as at the silence of the philosophers; and never perfectly re- covered the shock of this double disappoint- ment. He still continued, however, his habits of kindness and lihf'ialit)- — gave dinners to the men of letters when at Paris, and hunted and compiled philosophy with great perse- verance in the country. His temper was so good, that his society could not fail to be agreeable ; but his conversation, it seems, was not very captivating; he loved to push everv matter of discussion to its very last results ; and reasoned at times so very loosely and largely, as to be in danger of beinc: taken for a person very much overtaken with liquor. He died of gout in his stomach, at the age of lifty-six; and; as an author; is now completely forgotten. | Nobody knows a better or a more amiable figure in this Ijook, than Madame Geoffrin. Active, reasonable, indulgent, and munificent beyond example for a woman in private life, she laid a sure claim to popularity by taking for her maxim the duty of " giving and for- giving;" and showed herself so gentle in her deportment to children and servants, that if she had not been overcome with an unlucky passion for intrigue aud notoriety, she might have aflbrded one exception at least to the general heartlessness of the society to which she belonged. Some of the repartees re- corded of her in these volumt^«, are very remarkable. M. de Rulhiere threatened to make public, certain very indiscrei i remarks on the court of Russia, from the sale of which he expected great profits. Madame Geoffrin, who thought he would get into djll,i ulties by taking such a step, offered him a v ly hand- some sum to put his manuscript i;. the fire He answered her with many lolty and ani- mated observations on the meaniurs and un-l worthiness of taking money to suj^i > ss truth. To all which the lady listened with i lie utmos complacency; and merely repli(i!. "Weill say yourself how much more you n.i st have.'l Another mot of hers became an ( -'ablishcH canon at all the tables of Paris. Tae Comtii de Coigny was wearying her on.' eveninj,' with some interminable story, wL-n, upo)! somebody sending for a part of 'Iil dish bel fore him, he took a little knife ; it of hi pocket, and began to carve, talk: _r all th time as before. " Monsieur le Oivte.'" sai Madame Goeffrin, a little out o; patimet '•at table there should only be l;.:_e knivt and short stories. In her old age .-^he w£ seized with apoplexy; and hei ilaughte during her illness, refused access ;• ihe fh losophers. When she recovered a ];ttk'. si laughed at the precaution, and ^i ade hi daughter's apolog)- — by saying. ■ ;^he ha done like Godfrey of Bouillon — di '^ j;ded h tomb from the Iniidels."' The i," a of h^ ending in devotion, however, occa. 'inues!- Grimm, to obsen'e, how positive ■ i ; iv peo]" are, that all this is the result oi ■: deep p'. on the part of the Encyclopedi^^ ~ anil tl.. this silly farce is the fruit of a - ;-'inn c; spiracy against the privileged oil i is, andi BAROi\ DE GRIMM. 137 support of the horrible doctrine of universal equahty. If they would only, condescend to consult me, howeven he concludes, I could oblige them with a much simpler, though less magnificent solution of the mystery ; the truth being, that the extravagance of M. Marmon- tel's little plot proceeds neither from his love of equality, nor from the commands of an anti- social conspiracy, but purely from the poverty of his imagination, and his want of talent for dramatic composition. It is always much more easy to astonish by extravagance, than to interest by natural representations; and those commonplaces, of love triumphing over pride of birtli, and benevolence getting the better of feudal prejudices, are among the :most vulgar resources of those who are inca- pable of devising incidents at once probable and pathetic. This was written in the year 1770; — and while it serves to show us, that the imputa- tion of conspiracies against the throne and the altar, of which succeeding times were doomed to hear so much, were by no means ■an original invention of the age which gave them the greatest encouragement, it may help also to show upon what slight founda- tion such imputations are usually hazarded. Great national changes, indeed, are never the result of conspiracies — but of causes laid deep and wide in the structure and condition of so- ciety. — and which necessarily produce those combinations of individuals, who seem to be the authors of the revolution when it happens (to be ultimately brought about by their in- istrumentality. The Holy Church Philosophic 'of Paris, however, was certainly quite inno- ;centof any such intention ; and, we verily be- lieve, had" at no time any deeper views in its councils than are expressed in the following iextract from its registers. I " Comme 11 est d'usage, dans notre saintc Eglise iphilosophique, de nous reunir qiielquefois pour don- tner au.x fidt'les de salutnires et utiles instructions sur I'eiat actuel de la foi, les progres ei bonnes CEuvres de nos freres, j'ai I'honneur de vous adres- jSer les annoiices et bans qui ont eu lieu a la suite de 'notre dernier sermon." : "Frere Thomas fait savoir qu'il a compose un •Exsai sur les Femm.es, qui i'era un ouvrage con- siderable. L'Eiilise estime la purete de mceurs et lea vertus de irere Thomas; elle craint qu'il ne jconnaisse pas encore assez les femmes ; elle iui conseille de se lier plus intimement, s'il se peut, 'avec quelques unes des heroines qu'il frequente, pour le plus grand hien de son ouvrage ; et, pour le plus grand bien de son style, elle le conjure de considerer combien, suivant la df'couverte de notre iillusire pairiarche, I'adjectif affaiblit souvent le sub- jBianiif, quoiqu'il s'y rapporte en cas, en nombre et en genre. t " Soeur Necker fait savoir qu'elle donnera tou- jjonrs a diner les vendredis : I'Eglise s'y rendra, arce qu'elle fait cas de sa personne et de celle de epoux ; elle voudrait pouvoir en dire autant de cuisinier. Soeur de I'Espinasse fait savoir que sa fortune e iui permet pas d'offrir ni a diner, ni a souper, et lu'elli; n'en a pa.s moins d'envie de recevoir chez 111' les freres qui voudrontyvenirdigerer. L'Eglise n'ordonne de Iui dire qu'elle s'y rendra, et que, iiuand on a autant d'esprit et de merite, on peut se '- passer de beauie et de fortune. iiH' [ " Mere Geoffrin fait savoir qu'elle renouvelle les ■^i pefenses et lois prohibitives des annees precedentes, ' ; 18 et qu'il ne sera pas plus permis que par le passe de parier chez elle ni d'aHaires inieneures, tn d'otfuirea e.vierieures ; ni d'atlairea de la cour, ni d'artaires de la ville ; ni de paix, ni de guerre ; ni de religion, in de gouvernenient ; ni de iheologie, iii de meia- physique ; ni de gramniaire, ni de mu.sique ; ni, en general, d'aucune maUrro quelconque ; et qu'elle comniei dom Burigni, brntdiciin de rolie courte, pour faire laire lout le nionde, a cause de sa dex- teiiie, connuc, ot du grand crt'dit dont il jouii, et pour Otrc grondc par elle. en particulicr, de louies les contraventions ii ces defenses. L'Eiilise, con- siderant que le silence, et notanimeni sur les ma- nures dont est question, n'est pae son tori, promet d'obeir autant qu'elle y sera conirainte par forme de violence." We hear a great deal, of course, of Diderot., in a work of which he was partly the author; and it is impossible to deny him the praise of ardour, originality, and great occasional eloquence. Yet we not only feel neither re- spect nor aflection for Diderot — but can sel- dom read any of his lighter pieces without a certain degree of disgust. There is a tone of hlackgiianlism — (we really can find no other word) — both in his indecency and his pro- fanity, which we tlo not recollect to have met with in any other good writer; and which is apt, we think, to prove revolting even to those who are accustomed to the licence of this fraternity. They who do not choose to look into his Rclipeuse for the full illustration of this remark — and we advise no one to look there for any thing — may find it abundantly, though in a less flagrant form, in a little essay on women, which is uiserted in these volumes as a supplement or corrective to the larger work of M. Thomas on that subject. We must say, however, that the whole tribe of French writers who have had any pretensions to philosophy for the last seventy years, are infected with a species of indelicacy which is peculiar, we think, to their nation : and strikes us as more shameful and ofl'ensive than any other. We do not know very well how to describe it, otherwise than by saying, that it consists in a strange combination of physical science with obscenity, and an attempt to unite the pedantic and disgusting details of anatomy and physiology, with images of vo- luptuousness and sensuality; — an attempt, we think, exceedingly disgusthig and de- basing, but not in the least degree either seductive or amusing. Maupertuis and Vol- taire, and Helvetius and Diderot, are full of this. Bution and d'Alembert are by no means free of it ; and traces of it may even be dis- covered in the writings of Rousseau himself. We could pardon some details in the Emile — or the Confessions ; — but we own it appears to us the most nauseous and unnatural of all things, to find the divine Julie ht'rself inform- ing her cousin, with much complacency, that she had at last discovered, that ''(juoicjue son canir trop tendre avoit besoin d"amour, ses sens n'avoient plus besoin d'un amant." The following epigram is a little in the taste we have been condemning; — but it has the merit of being excessively clever. Ma- dame du Chatelet had long lived .'^.•parate from her husband, and was understood to re- ceive the homage of two lovers— Voltaire and M 2 LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPHY M. de St. Lambert. She died in childbirth; atid the following dramatic elegy was circu- lated all over Paris the week after that catas- trophe. " .J/, de Cliatdet. — Ah ! ce ii'est pas ma laute J •• M. de Voltaire.— 3e Tavais predit ! '^ M. de St. Lambert.— EWe l"a voulu !" Crtbdlon the younger is naturally brought to our recollection by the mention of wit and indecfiicy. We have an account of his death, and a just and candid estimate of his merits, in one of the volumes before us. However frivolous aiid fantastic the style of his novels may ajipear, he had still the merit of invent- ijig that style, and of adorning it with much ingenuity, wit, and character. The taste for his writings, it seems, passed away very ra- pidly and completely in France; and long before his death, the author of the Sopha, and Les E'larcmens du Caur et de VEsprit, had the mortification to be utterly forgotten by the public. M. Grimm thinks this reverse of fortune rather unmerited ; and observes, that in foreign countries he was still held in esti- matio;i, and that few French productions had had such currency m London as the Sopha. The reason perhaps may be, that the manners and characters which the French at once knew to be unnatural, might be mistaken by u.s for true copies of French originals. It is a little more difficult, however, to account for the fiiet. that the perusal of his works inspired a young lady of good family in this country with such a passion for the author, that she ran away from her friends, came to Paris, married him, and nursed and attended him with exemplary tenderness and affection to his dying day. "But there is nothing but luck, good or bad — as M. Grimm sagely observes — in this world. The author of a licentious novel inspires a romantic passion in a lady of rank and fortune, who crosses seas, and abandons her family and her native country for his sake ; — while the author of the Nouvelle Heloixc. the most delicate and passionate of all lovers that ever existed, is obliged to clap up a match with his singularly stupid cham- bermaid ! Of all the loves, however, that are recorded in this chronicle, the loves of INIadame du DefTant and M. de Ponte-de-Vesle, are the most <-xernpIary ; for they lasted upwards of fifty years without quarrel or intermission. The secret of this wontlerful constancy is, at all events, worth knowing : and we give it in the worils of an authentic dialogue between this venerable Acme and Septimius. " Pont-de- Veslp ? — Madame ? — Oil r-tes>-voiis ? — An f'oin clt! voire cheininee. — (^oiirho les pieds siir les chenets, conime on est chez ses amis ? — • •ui, M;iij;itiie. — II fiiut cnnveiiir qii'ii est pen de liai.fons aiissl nnciermes quo In noire. — Celii est vrai.— II y a rimiuaiiie ans — Oiii. cinqiiante ans pris.Sf's^ — Rt dans ce loni; iniervalle aucun nuage, pas m<'me I'appareTipe d'une bronilleric. — C'esi re que j':ii ic>iijciur.s admire. — Male, Pont-de- Vesle, cela lie viendrai'-il point de ce qu'aii fond nous avons loijjoiira "to tort inditfi'rens I'lin a I'autru ? — Cela .51^ piiiirrail hifri. Madaine " The evening this veteran admirer died, she came rather late to a great supper in the neigh- bourhood ; and as it was known that she made it a point of honour to attend on him, the catastrophe was generally suspected. She mentioned it, however, herself, immediately on coming in ; — adding, that it was lucky he had gone off so early in the evening, as she might otherwise have been prevented from appearuig. She then sate down to table, and made a very hearty and merry meal of it ! Besides Pont-de-Vesle, however, this cele- brated lady had a lover ahno.-t as ancient, in the President Henault — whini also she had the misfortune to survive ; though he had the complaisance, as well as his predecessor, to live to near ninety years ibr her sake. The poor president, however, fell into dotage, be- fore his death; and one day. when in that state, Madame du Defiant having happened to ask him, whether he liked her or IVladame de Castelmoron the best. he. quite unconscious of the person to v\ hom he was speaking, not oidy declared his preference of the absent lady, but proceeded to justify it by a most feeling and accurate enumeration of the vice? and defects of liis hearer, in which he gre^\ so warm and eloquent, that it was quite im- possible either to stop him, or to prevent al who were present from piohting by the com munication. When Madame de Chatek t died Madame du Detfant testified he r grief for th. most intimate of her female accjuaintance, h] circulating all over Paris, the very next morn ing, the most libellous and venomous attacl on her person, her understanding, and he morals. When she came to die herself, how ever, she met with just about as much sym pathy as she deserved. Three of her dearee friends used to come and play cards ever evening by the side of her couch — and as sh chose to die in the middle of a very interes ing g'ame, they quietly played it out — an settled their accounts before leaving the a}:ar meiit. We hope these little traits go near 1 justify what we ventured to say in the oulse of the tendency of large and agreeable societ to fortify the heart; — at all events, they giA us a pretty lively idea of the /?h?.som.s thi united kindred souls at Paris. We might ad. to the number several anecdotes of the Pref dent Henault — and of the Baron d'Holbac who told Ilelvetius. a little time before tl death of the latter, that though he had live all his life with irritable and indigent men «. letters, he could not recollect that he hi either quarrelled with, or done the smallt service to, any one among them. There is a great deal of admirable criticit; in this work, upon the writings and genius almost all the author's contemporaries — Dor- Piron, Millot, Bernard. Mirabeau, INlonc) Colardean, and many others, more or h' generally known in this country; nor do 'j know any publication, indeed, so well cal(, lated to give a stranger a just and compreht' sive view of the recent literature of Franf. The little we can afford to extract, howev. must be hung upon names more notorious. The publication of a stupid journal of Mi- taigne's Travels in Italy gives M. Grinmi i BARON DE GRIMM. 139 I opportunity of saying something of the Essays i of that most agreeable veteran. Nothing can ! be more just than the greater part of the fol- i lowing observations. I " Quoi-qu'il y ait dans ses Essais une infinite (ie fails (I'aneciJoies et de ciiaiions, 11 nVsl pas dillicile de s'appercevoir que ses eludes n'etaient ni vasies j ni profoiides. II n'avait giieie lu que quelques po- I etes latins, quelques livres de voyage, et sou Sene(iue ; et sou Pluiarque." " De tuns les auieurs qui nous restent de Tan- tiqiiite. Fhitarque est, sans contredit, celui qui a reuueilli Ie plus de verites de fait et de speculation. Ses oBUvres sont une mine inepuisable de luiuiorea et de coniiaissances: c'est vraiment rEiicyelopedie • des anciens. IMontaigne nons en a donne la fleur, et ii y a ajouie les reflexions les plus fines, et sur- tout les resultats les plus secrets de sa propre ex- perience. II me semhle done que si j'avais a donner une iJpe de ses Essais, je dirais en deux mots que c'est un cominentaire que Montaigne fit sur lui- nieine en niediiant les ecrits de Plutarque. . .Je . pense encore que je dirais mal: ce serait iui preter un projet. . .Montaigne n'en avait aucun. En niet- . tant la plume a la main, il parait n'avoir songe qu'au , plaisir de causer familiereiiient avec son iecteur. II Iui rend compte de ses lectures, de ses pensees, de ■ ses reflexions, sans suite, sans dessein : il vent avoir [ Ie plaisT de penser tout haut, et il en jouit a son . aise. 11^ ci:e souvent Plutarque, parce que Plu- , tarqiie etait son livre favori. La seule loi qu'il 'semhle s'etre prescrite, c'est de ne jamais parler ;qtie de le qui I'interessait vivement: de la renernie f et la vivacite de ses expressions, la grace et I'origi- Inalite de son langage. Son esprit a cette assurance |et cette Iranchise aimable que Ton ne trouve que [dans ces etifans bien nes, dont la conirainie du , nionde et de I'l'ducation ne gena point encore les mouvemens faciles et naturels." ' \ After a still farther encomium on the sound 1 1 sense of this favourite writer, M. Grimm cou- : i eludes — Personne n'a-t-il done pense plus que Mon- taigne ? .Ie I'ignore. Mais ce que je crois bien Waij )savoir, c est que personne n'a dit avec plusde sim- .plicite ce qu'il a semi, ce qu'il a pense. On ne pent rien ajou'er il I'eloge qu'il a fait Ini-meme de son .oiivrage ; c' est ici un livre de honne foi. Cela est [ ;divin. et cela est exact." | '• Qu'est-ce que touies les connaissances hn- j imaines? le cercle en est si borne ! . . . . Et depuis | iqnatre mille ans, qu'a-t-on fait pour retendre?| : .^Ionlesq'lien adit quelque part, qu'il travaiUail i) , |K« livre de doiize pagen, qui contiendrail tout re que nouf Savons sur la Metaphysique, la Politique et la Morale, et tout re que de grands auteurs ont ouhlie dafis les volumes quils ont donnes sur res sciences- la ,Te suis tres serieusement persuade qu'il I ne tenait qu'a Iui d'accomplir ce grand projet." Montesquieu, Buffon. and Raynal are the * [only authors, we think, of whom M. Grimm ! ' speaks with serious rpspect and admiration. Great praise is lavished upon Robert.soii"s ■ [Charles v.— Young's Night Thoughts are said. ■ and with justice, to be rather intrenious than 'pathetic : and to show more of a szloomy im- ; ■ !. This rage for liberty continued to pos.sess him in his return through Prussia, and really seems to have reached its acme when it dic- tated the following most preposterous pas- sage, — which, we cannot help suspecting, is indebted for part of its absurdity to the trans- lator. " I visited Zorndorff, a spot rendered famous by the sanguinary battle fought between the Russians and Prussians, where tbousandu of men on both 148 LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPHY. sides were immolated on the altar of despotism, and thus escaped from the galling yoke which op- pressed them. The place of their interment was easily recognised by its greater verdure, and by yielding more abundant crops ihaii the t)arrfn and improduciive soil in its immediate vicinity. On this oreanioti, I refiecled. with forrow, that slavef seem ever>/irkere only hnni to fertilize the foil on which theif' vegetate."— Vol. i. pp- 1%, 1^7. After this he meets with a beautiful ass at Gottingeii; and rearret? that his indolence pre- vented hinn from availing himself of this excellent opportunity for writing some im- measurably facetious verses "upon this ren- counter of a German and an Italian ass. in so celebrated an university !"' After a hasty e.\- pedition to Spa, he again traverses Germany and Holland, and returns to England in the twcr.ty-third year of his age ; where he is speedily involved in some very distressing and discreditable adventures. He engages in an intrigue with an English lady of rank, and is challenged, and sliahtly wounded by lier husband. After this eclat, he consoles him- self with the thouL;ht of marrying the frail fair, with whom he is. as usual, most heroic- ally in love : when he discovers, to his infi- nite horror and consternation, that, pievious to her connection with him. she had been equally lavish of her favours to her husband's crooin! whose jealous resentment had led iFiim to watch and e.vpose this new infidelity. Alter many struggles between shame, resent- me-:t. and imconquerable love, he at last tears him-:elf from this sad sample of English vir- tue, and makes his way to Holland, bursting with grief and indignation : but without seeming to think that there was the slightest occasion for any des-ree of contrition or self- co.^.demnation. From Hollaml he 2oes to France, and from France to Spain — as idle, and. more t)ppressed with himself than ever — buying and caressing Andalusian horses, and constantly ready to sink under the heavy burden of existence. At IMadrid Iv-" has set down an extraordinary trait of the dangerous impetuosity of his temper. His faithful ser- vant, i;i combing his hair one day. happened accidentally to aive him pain by stretching one hair a little more than the rest, upon which, without savins a word, he first seized a candlestick, and felled hiin to ihe jrround with a huffe wound on his temple, and then drew his sword to despatch him. upon his offering to make some resistance. • The sequel of the story Is somewhat more creditable to his inagnanimitj-, than this part of it is to his self-command. " 1 was shocked at the brutal excess of passion into whii'h I had fallen. Though Elias was sotne- what calmed, he siill appeared to retain a certain degree ot resentment ; yet I was not disposed to display towards him the smallest distrust. Two hours aft'-r his wound was dressed I went to bed, leaving the door open, as usual, between my apart- ment and the chamber in which he slept : notwith- standing the remonstrance of the Spaniards, who pointed out to me the absurdity of putting ven- geance in the power of a man whom I had so much irritated. I said even aloud to Elias, who was al- ready in bed, that he might kill me. if he was so inclined, during the night ; and that I justly merited such a fate. But this brave man. who possessed as much elevation of soul as myself, took no other re- venge for my outrageous conduct, except preserv- ing for several years two handkerchiete stained with blood which had been bound round his head, and which he occasionally displayed to my view. It is necessary to be fully acqtiainted with the character and manners of the Piedmontese, in order to com- prehend the mi.xture of ferocity and generosity dis- played on both sides in this atlair. " When at a more mature age, I endeavoured to discover the cause of this violent transport ot rage. I became convinced that the trivial circumstance which gave rise to it, was, so to speak, like the last drop poured into a vessel ready to run over. My irascible temper, which must have been rendered still more irritable by solitude and perpetual idle- ness, required only the slightest impulse to cause it to burst forth. Besides, I never lifted a hand against a domestic, as that would have been putting them on a level with myself. Neither did 1 ever employ a cane, nor any kind of weapon in order to chastise them, thouirh I frequently threw at them any moveable that fell iii my way, as inany young people do, during the first ebullitions of anger ; yet I dare to affirm that I wotild have approved, and even esteemed the domestic who sh(uild on such occasions have rendered me back the treat rncnt he received, since I never punished them as a master, but only contended with them as one man with another." — Vol. i. pp. 244 — 246. At Lisbon he forms an acquaintance with a literary coiuitr^TTian of his own, and feels, for the first time of his life, a glow of admiration on perusing some passages of Italian poetry. From this he returns to Spain, and, after lounging over the whole of that kingdom, re- turns through Fiance to Italy, and arrives at Turin in 1773. Here he endeavours to main- tain the same unequal contest of dissipatior agjiinst ennui and conscious folly, and tallt furiously in love, for the third time, with i woman of more than doubtful reputation, ter years older than himself. Neither the in toxication of this passion, however, nor tht daily exhibition of his twelve fine horses could repress the shame and indignatioi which he felt at thus wasting his days in in glorious licentiousness : and his health was a last seriously affected by those compunctiou visitings of his conscience. In 1774, whil watching by his unworthy mistress in a fit c sickness, he sketched out a few scenes of dramatic work in Italian, which was throw aside and forgotten immediately on her n covery ;. and it was not till the year afte that, after many struggles, he formed the re& lution of detaching' himself from this degrar ing connection. The efforts which this co him, and the means he adopted to ensure h own adherence to his resolution, appear i together wild and extravagant to our northe imaginations. In the first place, he had hii self lashed with strong cords to his elbc chair, to prevent him from rushing into t Rresence of the syren : and, in the next plat e entirely cut off his hair, in order to raa' it impossible for him to appear with decen in any society ! The first fifteen days, ■ assures u.s, he spent entirely " in uttering t most frightful groans and lamentations,"' a the noxt \n riding furiously through all " solitary places in the neigh j.)ourhood. Atkj however, this frenzy of grief began to s ; side; and, most fortunately for the world <' LIFE AND WRITINGS OF VICTOR ALFIERI. 14; the author, gave place to a passion for litera- ture, which absorbed the powers of this fiery- spirit during- the greater part of his future ex- istence. The perusal of a wretched tragedy on the story of Cleopatra, and the striking re- semblance he thought he discovered between his own case and that of Antony, first inspired him with the resolution of attempting a dra- matic piece on the same subject; and, after encountering the most extreme difficulty from his utter ignorance of poetical diction, and of pure Italian, he at last nammered out a trage- dy, which was represented with tolerable success in 1775. From this moment his whole heart was devoted to dramatic poetry ; and literary glory became the idol of his imagi- nation. In entering upon this new and arduous ca- reer, he soon discovered that greater sacrifices were required of him than he had hitherto offered to any of the former objects of his idolatry. The defects of his education, and liis long habits of indolence and inattention to every thins connected with letters, imposed 'upou him far more than the ordinary labour of a literary apprenticeship. Having never ;\)een accustomed to the use of the pure Tus- i^an, and being obliged to speak French durmg so many years of ti-avelling. he found himself shamefully deficient in the knowledge of that oeautiful language, in which he proposed to (?nter his claims to immortality ; and began, ilherefore, a course of the most careful and Critical reading of the great authors who had adorned it. Dante and Petrarca were his Jireat models of purity ; and, next to them, Ariosto and Tasso ; in which four writers, he i^ives it as his opinion, that there is to be I'ound the perfection of every style, except ,hat fitted for dramatic poetry — of which, he inore than insinuates, that his own writings •.re the only existing example. In order to ^cquire a perfect knowledge and conxmand ^f their divine language, he not only made nany long visits to Tuscany, but absolutely Interdicted himself the use of every other jort of reading, and abjured for ever that ^M-ench literature which he seems to have dvvays regarded with a mixture of envy and .isdain. To make amends for this, he went esolutely back to the rudiments of his Latin ; . ind read over all the classics in that language ■ i.'hh a most patient and laborious attention. , jle likewise committed to memory many thou- ; find lines from tlie authors he proposed to . Initate ; and sought, with the greatest assi- ; juity, the acquaintance of all the scholars and I jritics that came in his way, — pestering them ' Hth continual queries, and with requesting ;ieir opinion upon the infinite quantity of bad jerses which he continued to compose by way J f exercise. His two or three first tragedies g e composed entirely in French prose ; and ..' perwards translated, with infinite labour, into ! alian verse. "In this manner, without any other judge than i \y own feelings, I have only finished those, the { ketches of which I had written with energy and , jithusiasm ; or, if I have finished any other, I '■; tve at least never taken the trouble to clothe them in verse. This was the case with Charles I., which I began to write in French prose, immediately alter finishing Phihppe. When I had reached to about the middle of the third act, my heart and my hand be(^anie so benumbed, that I found it impossible 10 hold my piMi. The same thing happened in regard 10 Romeo and Juliet, the whole of which I nearly expanded, ihou"h with much labour to myself, and at long intervals. On rcperusiiig this skelcli, I found my enthusiasm so mucli lowered, tliat, traiis- poried with rage against myself, I could proceed no ftiriher, but threw my work into the fire." — Vol. ii. pp. 48—51. Two or three years were passed in these bewitching studies; and, during this time, I nine or ten tragedies, at least, were in a con- I siderable state of forwardness. In 1778, the study of !Machiavel revived all that early zeal for liberty which he had imbibed from the perusal of Plutarch; and he composed with j great rapidity his two books of "La Tirauide ;" ' I — perhaps the most nervous and elotjuent of all his prose compositions. About the same period; his poetical studies e.xperienced a still more serious interruption, from the commence- ment of his attachment to the Countess of Albany, the wife of the late Pretender; — an j attachment that continued to soothe or to j agitate all the remaining part of his existence. ; This lady, who was by birth a princess of the i house of Slolberg, was then in her twenty- j fifth year, and resided with her ill-matched I husband at Florence. Her beauty and ac- ' complishments made, from the first,* a pow- ! erful impression on the inflammable heart of I Alfieri, guarded as it now was with the love I of glory and of literature ; and the loftiness I of his character, and the ardour of his admi- 1 ration, soon excited corresponding sentiments { in her, who had suffered for some time from the ill temper and gross vices of her super- I animated husband. Though the author takes j the trouble to assure us that " their intimacy ; never exceeded the strictest limits of honour,'' I it is not difficult to understand, that it should I have aiigiavaled the ill-humour of the old ! husband; which increased, it seems, so much, j that the lady was at last forced to abandon his society, and to take refuge with his brother, the Cardinal York, at Rome. To this place Alfieri speedily followed her; and remained there, divided between love and study, for upwards of two years ; when her holy guar- dian beoomina' scandalized at their intimacy, it was thought necessiiry for her reputation^ that they should separate. The eflects of this separation he has himself described in the following short, but eloquent passage. "For two years I remained incapable of any kind of study whatever, so different was my pres- * His first introduction to her, we have been in- formed, was in the <;reat gallery of Florence; — a circumstance which led him to signalize his admira- tion by an extraordinary act of gallantry. A.s iliey slopped to e.xamine the picture of Charles XII. of Sweden, the Countess observed, that the singular uniform in which that prince is usually painted, ap- peared to her extremely becoming. Nothing more was said at the time ; but, in two days after, Alfieri appeared m the streets in the e.xact costume ol that warlike sovereign, — to the utter consternation of all the peaceful inhabitants. n2 150 LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPHY. ent forlorn state from the happiness I enjoyed during my late residence in Rome : — there the Villa Slrozzi near to the warm baihs of Dioclesian, af- forded me a delighrful retreat, where I passed my mornings in siudy. only riding for an hour or two through tiie vast solitudes which, in the neighbour- hood ot Rome, invite to melancholy, meditation, and poetry. In the evening, I proceeded to the city, and tound a relaxation trom study in the so- ciety of her who constituted the charm of my ex- istence; and, contented and happy, 1 returned to my solitude, never at a laier hi)ur than eleven o'clock. It was impossible to find, in the circuit of a great city, an abode more cheerful, more re- tired, — or better suited to my taste, my character, and my pursuits. Delightful spot ! — the remem- brance of which I shall ever cherish, and which through life I shall long to revisit." — Vol. ii. pp. 121, 122. Previously to this time, his extreme love of independence, and his desire to be constantly with the mistress of his affections, had in- duced him to take the very romantic step of resigning his whole property to his sister : reserving to himself merely an annuity of 14,000 livres, or little more than 500/. As this transference was made with the sanction of the King, who was very well pleased, on the whole, to get rid of so republican a sub- ject, it was understood, upon both sides, as a tacit compact of expatriation ; so that, upon his removal from Rome, he had no house or fixed residence to repair to. In this desolate and unsettled state, his passion for horses re- vived with additional fury ; and he undertook a voyage to England, for the sole purpose of purchasing a number of those noble animals ; and devoted eight months " to the study of noble heads, tine necks, and well-turned but- tocks, without once opening a book or pursuing any literary avocation."" In London, he pur- chased fourteen horses, — in relation to the number of his tragedies ! — and this whimsical relation frequently presenting itself to his imagination, he would say to himself with a smile — '• Thou hast gained a horse by each tragedy !"' — Truly the noble author must have been far gone in love, when he gave way to such innocent deliration. — He conducted his fourteen friends, however, with much judg- ment acrovss the Alps ; and gained great glory and notoriety at Sieima, from their daily pro- cession tlirough the streets, and the feats of dexterity he exhibited in riding and driving them. In the mean time, lie had printed twelve of his tragedies: and imbibed a sovereign contempt for such of his countrymen as pre- tended to find them harsh, obscure, or affect- edly sententious. In 1784, after an absence of more than two years, he rejoined his mis- tress at Baden in Alsace ; and, during a stay of two months with her. sketched out three new tragedies. On his return to Italy, he took up his abodi' for a short time at Pisa, — where, in a lit of indignation at the faults of Phny's Panegyric on Trajan, he composed in five days thtit animated and eloquent piece of the same name, which alone, of all his works have fallen into our hands, has left on our minds the impression of ardent and flow- ing eloquence. His rage for liberty likewise prompted him to compose several odes on the subject of American independence, and seve- ral miscellaneous productions of a similar character: — at last, in 1786, he is permitted to take up his permanent abode with his mis- tress, whom he rejoins at Alsace, and never . afterwards abandons. In the course of the follow ing year, they make a journey to Paris, with which he is nearly as much dissatisfied as on his former visij, — and makes arrange- ments with Didot for printing his tragedies in a superb form. In 1788. however, he resolves upon making a complete edition of his whole works at Kehl ; and submits, for the accom-- modation of his fair friend, to take up his' residence at Paris. There they receive in- telligence of the death of her husband, which seems, however, to make no change in their way of lite; — and there he continue- busily emplo}ed in correcting his variuur w orks for publication, till the year 1790, whei the first part of these memoirs closes witi, anticipations of misery from the progress oi' the revolution, and professions of devoted at tachment to the companion whom time hac only rendered more dear and respected. The supplementary part bears date in ]\Ia; 1803 — but a few months prior to the death o the author, — and brings down his historj though in a more summary manner, to ths period. He .seems to have lived in much ur easiness and fear in Paris, after the con mencernent of the revolution ; from all appn^ bation, or even toleration of which trag farce, as he terms it, he exculpates himse' with much earnestness and solemnity ; bu having vested the greater part of his fortui in that country, he could not convenient abandon it. In 1791, he and his companit made a short visit to England, with which 1 was less pleased than on any former occasio — the damp giving him a disposition to got and the late hours interfering with his hab of study. The most remarkable incident this journey, occurred at its teiniination. . he was passing along the quay at Dover, his way to the packet-boat, he caimht glimpse of the bewitching woman on w he account he had suffered so much, in his f ! mer visit to this country nearly twenty yei before ! She still looked beautiful, he sa and bestowed on him one of those enchanti;; smiles whicli convinced him that he was ■ cognised. Unable to control his emotion, '■ rui^hed instantly aboard — hid himself bel ' — and did not venture to look up till he \ > landed on the opposite shore. From Cals he addressed a letter to her of kind inqu , and oflersof set vice ; and ri'ceived an ansv/, which, on account of the singular tone of c ■ dour and magnanimity \\hich it exhibits,!? has subjoined in the ajipendix. It is r doubtedly a very remarkable production, -.'i sliows both a strength of mind aiid a kindr !« of disposition whicli seem worthy of a nap'if fortune. In the end of 1792, the increasing furif the revolution rendered Paris no longer a p; * of safety for foreigners of high biith: 'd Alfieri and his counti-ss with some diflic.V LIFE AND WTRITIXGS OF VICTOR ALFIERI. 151 effected their escape from it, and established themselves, with a diminished income, at his beloved Florence. Here, with his usual im- petuosity- he gave vent to his anti-revolution- ary feelings, by composing an apology for Louis XVI.. and a short satirical view of the French e.vcesses, which he entitled •• The Anligallican." He then took to acting his own plays; and. for two or three years, this new passion seduced him in a good degree from literature. In 1795, however, he tried his hand in some satirical productions : and began, with much zeal, to reperuse and trans- late various passages from the Latin classics. Latin naturally led to Greek : and, in the forty-ninth year of his age, he set seriously to i the study of this language. Two whole years ! did this ardent genius dedicate to solitary ' drudgery, without being able to master the subject he had undertaken. At last, by dint of perseverance and incredible labour, he be- gan to understand a little of the easier authors ; ; and, by the time he had completed his fiftieth ! year, succeeded in interpreting a considerable part of Herodotus, Thucydides, and Homer. The perusal of Sophocle.s, in the following ^ year, impelled him to compose his last trage- |dy of Alceste in 1798. In the end of this 1 year, the progress of the French armies threat- [ened to violate the tranquillity of his Tuscan I retreat! and, in the spring following, upon ' the occupation of Florence, he and his friend ' retired to a small habitation in the country. From this asylum, however, they returned so precipitately on the retreat of the enemy, ,'that they were surprised by them on their I second invasion of Tuscany in 1800; but had more to sutler, it appears, from the importu- nate civility, than from the outrages of the 'conquerors. The French general, it seems, 'was a man of letters, and made several at- tempts to be uitroduced to Alfieri. When evasion became impossible, the latter made the following haughty but gxiarded reply to his warlike admirer: — •' If the general, in his official capacity, com- mands his presence. Victor Alfieri. who never re- sists constiiiued auihorityof any kind, will imme- diately hasten to obey the order; but if, on the jcontrary. he requests an interview only as a private jindividual, .Alfieri begs leave to observe, that be- ing of a very retired turn of mind, he wishes not to Iforin anv new acquaintance; and therefore entreats I the French general to hold him excused." — Vol. ii. I pp. 286, 287. ! Under these disastrous circumstances, he was suddenly seized with the desire of sig- ] nalizing himself in a new field of exertion ; | and sketched out no fewer than six comedies j at once, which were nearly finished before the end of 1802. His fiealth," during this year, was considerably weakened by repeated at- j tacks of irregular gout and inflammatory af- fections: and the memoir concludes with the (ii'scriptioii of a collar and medal which he, had invented, as the badge of '' the order of iHomer," which, in his late sprung ardour for [ Greek literature, he had founded and en- 'dowed. Annexed to this record is a sort of postscript, addressed, by his friend the Abbe i Caluso, to the Countess of Albany ; from which ) it appears, that he was carried off by an in- flammatory or gouty attack in his bowels, which put a period to his existence after a few days' illness, in tlie month of October 1803. We have since learned, that the pub- liciition of his posthumous works, which had been begun by the Countess ol Albany at Mikui, has betui stopped by the French gov- ernment ; and that several of the manuscripts have, by the siune authority, been committed to the flames. We have not a great deal to add to this copious and extraordinary narrative. Many of the peculiarities of Alfieri may be safely referred to the ticcident of his birth, and the eriors of his education. His ennui, arrogance, and dissipation, are not very unlike those of many spoiled youths of condition ; nor is there any thing very extraordinary in his subse- quent application to study, or the turn of his first political opinions. The peculiar nature of his pursuits, and the character of his literary ])roductions, aflbrd more curious matter for speculation. In reflecting on the peculiar misery which Altieri and some other eminent persons are recorded to have endured, while their minds were withheld fiom any worthy occupation, we have sometimes been tempted to con- clude, that to suffer deej)ly from emiui is an indication of superior intellect ; and that it is only to minds destined for higher attainments that the want of an object is a source of real affliction. Upon a little reflection, however, we are disposed to doubt of the .soundness of this opinion ; and really cannot permit all the shallow coxcombs who languish under the but den of existence, to take themselves, on our authority, for spell-bound geniuses. The most powerful stream, indeed, will stagnate the most deepl)-, and will burst out to more w ild devastation when obstructed in its peace- ful course; but the weakly current is, upon the whole, most liable to obstruction ; and will mantle and rot at least as dismally as its bet- ters. The innumerable blockheads, in short, who betake themselves to suicide, dram- drinking, or dozing in dirty nightcaps, will not allow us to suppose that there is any real connection between ennui and talent; or that fellows who are fit for nothing but mending shoes, may not be very miserable if they are unfortunately raised above their proper occu- pation. If it does frequently happen that extraor- dinary and vigorous exertions are found to follow this heavy slumber of the faculties, the phenomenon, we think, maybe explainea without giving any countenance to the sup- position, that vigorous faculties are most liable to such an obscuration. In the first place, the lelief and delight of exertion must act with more than u.sual force upon a mind which has .^nil'ereil from the want of it; and will be apt to be pushed further than in cases where the exertion has been more regular. The chief cause, however, of the signal success which has sometimes attended those who Iiave been rescued from ennui, we really believe to be their ignorance of the diflicuities they have 158 LITERATURE Ai\D BIOGRAPHY. to encounter, and that inexperience which makes them venture on undertakings which more prudent calculators would decline. We have already noticed, more than once, the effect of early study and familiarity with the best models in repressin*^ emulation by de- spair: and have endeavoured, upon this prin- ciple, to explain why so many original authors iiave been in a great degree without educa- lion. Now, a youth spent in lassitude and dissipation leads necessarily to a manhood of ignorance and inexperience; and has all the Advantages, as well as the inconveniences, of buch a situation. If any inward feeling of strength, ambition, or other extraordinary im- pulse, therefore, piompt such a person "to at- tempt any thing arduous, it is likely that he will go about it with all that rash and vehe- ment courage which results from unconscious- ness of the obstacles that are to be overcome ; and it is needless to say how often success is ensured by this confident and fortunate auda- city. Thus Alfieri, in the outset of his literary career, ran his head against dramatic poetry, almost before he knew what w^as meant either by poetry or the drama ; and dashed out a tragedy wliile but imperfectly- acquainted with the language in which he was writing, and utterly ignorant either of the rules that had been delivered, or the models which had been created by the genius of his great prede- cessors. Had he been trained up from his early youth in fearful veneration for these rules and these models, it is certain that he would have resisted the impulse which led him to place himself, with so little prepara- tion, within their danger ; and most probable that he would never have thought himself qualified to answer the test they required of him. In giving way, however, to this pro- pensity, with all the thoughtless freedom and vehemence which had characterised his other indulgences, he found himself suddenly em- barked in an unexpected undertaking, and in sight of unexpected distinction. The success he had obtained with so little knowledge of the subject, tempted him to acquire what was wanting to deserve it; and justified hopes and stimulated exertions which earlier reflection would, in all probability, have for ever pre- vented. The morality of Alfieri seems to have been at least as relaxed as that of the degeneiate nobles, whom in all other things he professed to reprobate and despise. He confesses, avith- cut the slightest appearance of contrition, that his general intercourse with women was pro- fligate in the extreme; and has detailed ihp particulars of three several intrigues with married women, without once appearing to imagine that they could require any apology or expiation. On the contrary, while recortl- ing the deplorable consequences of one of them, he observes, with great composure, that it was distressing to him to contemplate a degradation, of which he had, " though in- nocently," been the occasion. The general arrogance of his maimers, too, and the occa- sional brutality of his conduct towards his inferiors, are far from giving us an amiable impression of his general character ; nor have we been able to find, in the whole of these confessions, a single trait of kindness of heart, or generous philanthropy, to place in the bal- ance against so many indications of selfish- ness and violence. There are proofs enough, indeed, of a firm, elevated, and manly spirit; but small appearance of any thing gentle, or even, in a moral sense, of any thing very re- spectable. In his admiration, in short, oi the worthies of antiquity, he appears to have copied their harshness and indelicacy at least as faithfully as their loftiness of character r and. at the same time, to have combined with it all the licentiousness and presumption of a modern Italian noble. We have been somewhat perplexed with his politics. After speaking as we have seen, of the mild government of the kings of Sar-. dinia, — after adding that, -when he had rea^i Plutarch and visited England, he felt the mos' unsurmountable repugnance at marrying, oi havhig his children born at Turin,-' — after re- cording that a monarch is a master, and i subject a slave. — and -that he shed tears ol mingled grief and rage at having been bon; in such a state as Piedmont;'" — after all thii' — after giving up his estates to escape fron, this bondage, and after writing his books on the Tiranide, and his odes on American lib,' erty, — we really were prepared to find hin. taking the popular side, at the outset at leasi of the French Revolution, and exuhing in tb downfal of one of those hateful despotisms against the whole system of which he hai previously inveighed with no extiaordinar; moderation. Instead of this, hi)wever, w find him abusing the revolutionists, ard ex tolling their opponents with all the- zeal of professed antijacobin. — writing an eulogiur on the dethroned monarch like Mr. P^bu^ and an Antigallican like Peter Poicupint Now, we are certainly very far from sayinj that a true friend of liberty might not ext crate the proceedings of the French rcvoli tionists: but a professed hater of loyalt might have felt more indulgence for the ne^ republic; such a crazy zealot for liberty, s Alfieri showed himself in Italy, both by h.> writings and his (tonduct, might well hav been carried away by that promisi' of emaif cipation to France, which deluded souuc ids than his in all the countries of Euroi i h There are two keys, we think, ii; the woi before us. lo this apparent inconsistenc;, Alfieri, with all his abhorrence of tyrant' was, in his heart, a great lover of a; isiocracv and; he had a great spite and antipathy :; the French nation, collectively and indivif ually. i Though professedly a republican, it is easi to see, that the republic he wante ' his eye above the shoe-buckles of the Ider boys, who tyrannized over him."'" From 'lis seminary, he seems to have passed, with- ut any academical preparation, into the So- iety of the Inner Temple, where he continued .) reside to the age of thirty-three. Neither is biographer nor his letters give any satis- ictory account of the way in which this large lit I most important part of his life was spent. Jthongh Lord Thurlow was one of his most itimate associates, it is certain that he never lade any proficiency in the study of the law; ikI the few slight pieces of composition, in ■hich he appears to have been engaged in lis interval, are but a scanty produce for rif- »en years of literary leisure. That a part of lose years was very idly spent, indeed, ap- ears from his own account of them. In a •tter to his cousin, in 1786, he says, '■ I did artiiaily live three years with Mr. Chap- laii. a solicitor ; that is to say, I slept three years I his hou-;e ; but I lived, that is to say, I spent my lys ifi Southampton Row, as you very well re- lember. There was I, and the future Lord Chan- >IKir, constantly employed, from morning tonight, niHghns. and making giggle, instead oi studying : ' law." — V-'ol. i. p. 178. Aid in a more serious letter to Mr. Rose, -' nakes the following just observations. " Th^ colour of our whole life is generally such ; ilie three or four first years, in which we are our ■VM masters, make it. Then it ia that we may l>e li 1 to sh ipe our own destiny, and to treasure up r ourselves a series of future successes or disap- lintment!^. Had I employed my time as wisely as "3U, in a siuaiion very similar to yours, I had never len a poet perhaps, but I might by this lime have •quired a character of more importance in s dence, if we rightly understand his biographer, that was the immediate cause of the unfor- tunate derangement that overclouded the re- mainder of his life. In his thirty-first year, his friemis procured for him the office of reading-clerk to the House of Lords ; but the idea of reading in public, was the source of ^uch torture and apprehension to him. that he very soon resigned that place, and had interest enough to exchange it for that of clerk of the journals, which was supposed to require no personal attendance. An unlucky dispute iti Parliament, however, made it neces.sary for him to appear in his place ; and the conse- quences of this requisition are stated by Mr. Hayley. in the following, not very lucid, ac- count. " His terrors on this occasion arose to such an astonishing height, that they utterly overwhelmed his reason : for although he had endeavoured to prepare himself for his public duty, by ailending closely al the office for several monihs, to examine the parliamentary journals, his application was ren- dered useless by that excess of diffidence, which made him conceive, that whatever knowledge he might previously acquire, it would all forsake hmi at the bar of the flouse. This distressing appre- hension increased to such a degree, as the lime for his appearance approached, that when the day so anxiously dreaded arrived, he was unable to make the experiment. The very friends, who called on him for the purpose of attending him to the House of Lords, acquiesced in the cruel necessity of relin- quishing the prospect of a siaiion so severely for- midable to a frame of such singular sensil)ili!y" " The conflict between the wishes of just aflTec- lionaie ambition, and the terrors of diffidence, so entirely overwhelmed his health and faculiies, that after two learned and benevolent divines (Mr. John Cowper, his brother, and the celebrated Mr. Mar- tin Madan, his first cousin) had vainly endeavoured to establish a lasting tranquillity in his mind, by friendly and religious conversation, it was found necessary to remove him to St. Alban's, where he resided a considerable time, under the care of that cinineni physician Dr. Cotton, a scholar and a poet, who added to many accomplishments a peculiar sweetness of manners, in very advanced life, when [ h.id the pleasure of a personal acquaintance with him." — Vol. i. pp. 2r>, 26. In this melancholy state he continued for upwards of a year, when his mind began slowly to emerge from the depression under which it had laboured, and to seek for coii- .solation in the study of the Scriptures, and other religious occupations. In the city of Huntingdon, to which he had been removed a situation in which my friends would have | in his illnes.s, he now formed an acquaintance n better pleased to see me. But three years | with the family of the JJeverend Mr. Unwi isspent in an aiiorney's office, were almost of , ^.jth whose widow the greater part ot his after 'Tn-ffr^T. I'^^'Z'rLZlZnVfl ZITT. ' ' i<"« "''^•'^ P^sse^I • The scries of letters, which the temple: and the consequence has been, as passed Mr. Hayley has introduced in this i)lace, are altogether of a devotional cast, and bear evi- hers, when occasion may j dent symptoms of continuing depression and anxiety. He talks a great deal of his conver- sion, of the levity and worldlincss of his former life, and of the srace which had at last been vouchsafed to him ; and seems so entirely the gaiety in which it appears to have i and constantly absorbed in those awful medi- ■n wasted, had corrected that radical def(>ct ! tations, as to consider not only the occupations lis constitution, by which he was di.sabled ! of his earlier days, but all temporal bysiness or amusement, as utterly unworthy of his at- tention. We do not think it necessary to make e Italian epitaph says, " Stoqui'' — The only use can make of myself now, at least the best, is to ■rve in lerrorem to 'ippen to offer, that they may escape (so far ltnonitio..s can have any weight wiih them) my | lly and my fate."— Vol. i. pp. 3;«, 334. I \"ither the idleness of this period, however. om making any public display of his acqui tious ; and it was the excess of this diffi 156 LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPHY. any extract from this part of the publication ; j and perhaps Mr. Hayley might have spared j some of the methodistical raptures and dissert- | ations that are contained in those letters, i without any injury either to the memory of j his friend, or the reputation of his own per- , formance. After the death of Mr. Unwin, he retired | wiih his widow to the village of Olney in 1768. where he continued in the same pious and sequestered habits of life till the year 1772, when a second and more protracted I visitation of the same tremendous malady ob- | scured his faculties for a melancholy period | of eight years ; during which he was attended i by Mrs. Unwin with a constancy and tender- ness of affection, which it \^s the great busi- | ness of his after life to repay. In 1780, he j began gradually to recover ; and in a letter | of that year to his cousin, describes himself in this manner : "You see me sixteen years older, at the least. than when I saw you last ; but the effects of liine seem to have taken place rather on the outside of my head than within it. What was brown is be- come grey, but what was foolish remains foolish still. Green fruit must rot before it ripens, if the season is such as to affjrd it nothing but cold winds and dark clouds, that interrupt every ray of sunshine. My days steal away silently, and march on (as poor mad King Lear would have made his soldiers march) as if they were shod with felt ! Not so silently but that I hear them ; yet were it not that I am always listening to their flight, having no in- firmity that I had not when I was much younger, I should deceive myself with an imagination that I am still young." — Vol. i. pp. 96, 97. One of the first applications of his returning powers was to the taming and education of the three young hares, which he has since celebrated in his poetry : and, very soon after, the solicitations of his "affectionate companion first inducecj him to prepare some moral pieces for publication, in the hope of giving a salu- tary employment to his mind. At the age of fiftv, therefore, and at a distance from all the excitements that emulation and ambition usu- ally hold out to a poet, Cowper beg-an to write for the public, with the view of diverting his own melancholy, and doing service to the cause of morality. Whatever efl'ect his pub- lications had on' the world, the composition of them certainly had a most beneficial one on himself. In a letter to his cousin he says, " Dejection of spirits, which I suppose may have prevented many a man from becoming an author, made me one. I find con.=!lant employment neces- sary, and therefore take care to be constantly em- ployed. — Manual occupations do not engaae the mind suflficiently, as I know by experience, having tried many. B\it composition, especially of verse, absorbs it wholly. I write, therefore, generally three hours in a morning, and in an evening I transcribe. I read also, but less than I write." — Vol. i. p. 147. There is another passage in which he talks of his performance in so light and ea,sy a manner, and assumes so much of the pleasing, though antiquated language of Pope and Ad- dison, that we cannot resist extracting it. "My labours are principally the production of last winter ; all indeed, except a few of the minor pieces. When I can find no other occupation, I think ; and when I think, I am very apt to do it in rhyme. Hence it comes to pass, that the season of the year which generally pinches oft' the flowers of poetry, unfolds mine, such as they are, and crowns me with a winter garland. In this respect, therefore, I and my contemporary bards are by no means upon a par. They write when the di lighiful influence of fine weather, fine prospects, and a brisk nwtion of the animal spirits, make poetry almost the language of nature ; and I, when icicles depend trom all the leaves of the Parnassian laurel, and when a reasonable man would as httle expect to succeed in verse, as to hear a blackbird whistle. This must be my apology to you for whatever want of fire and animation you may observe in what you will siionly have the perusal of. As to the public, if they like mc not, there is no remedy-" — Vol. i. pp. 105, 106. The success of his first volume, which ap- peared ill the end of the year 1781. was by no means such as to encourage him to proceed to a second : and, indeed, it seem? now to be admitted by every body but Mr. Hayley, that it was not well calculated for becoming popu- lar. Too serious for the general reader, ii had too much satire, wit. and criticism, to bt a favourite with the devout and enthusiastic the principal poems were also too long am desultory, and the versification throughout was more harsh and negligent, than the public hat, yet been accustomed to. The book therefonj was very little read, till the increasing fami of the author brought all his works into notice and then, indeed, it was discovered, that i contained many traits of strong and origina genius, and a richness of idiomatical phrase ology, that has been but seldom equalled i our language. In the end of this year, Cowper formed a accidental acquaintance with the widow of S Thomas Austen, which, in spite of his iiisupe: able shyness, ripened gradually into a mutut and cordial friendship, and was the immediat source of some of his happiest hours, an most celebrated productions. — The facetioi history of -'John Gilpin"' arose from a suj aestioii of that lady, in circumstances and i a way that marks the perilous and mood state of Cowper's understandhig more stril ingly perhaps than any general description. ■"It happened one afternoon, in those year when his accom[)lished friend Lady Austen made part of his little evening circle, that she observ' him sinking into increasing dejection ; it was h custom, on these occasions, to try all the resourc of her sprightly powers for his immediate reli' She told him the story of John Gilpin (which h been treasured in her memory from her childhood) dissipate the gloom of the passing hour. Its efl^et on the fancy of Cowper had the air of enchant mei He informed her the next morning, that convul.iio of lauisliler. brought on by his recollection of h siory, had kept him waking during the greatest pi, of the night ! and that he had turned it into a balk — So arose the pleasant poem of John Gilpin.", Vol. i. pp. 128, 129. In the course of the year 1783, howevr' Lady Austen was fortunate enough to dire the poet to a work of much greater importanc and to engage him, from a very accidenv circumstance, in the composition of '-T Task," by far the best and the most popui of all his performances. The anecdote, whi' is such as the introduction of that poem ll_^ HAYLEYS LIFE OF COVVPER. 157 1 probably suggested to most readers, is givei; in this manner by Mr. Hayley. " This lady happened, as an admirer of Milton, to be partial to blank verse, and often soliciied her poetical friend to try his powers in that species of composition. After repeated solicitation, he pro- mised her, if she would furnish the subject, to com- ply with her request. ' Oh !' she replied, ' you can never be in want of a subject , — you can write upon any — write upon this sola!" The poet obeyed her command: and, from the lively repartee of tamiliar conversation, arose apoem of many thousand verses, unexampled, perhaps, both in its origin and excel- ilence." — Vol. i. p. 135. \ This extraordinary production was finished , fin less than a year, and became extremely ■ popular from the very first month of its publica- ' tion. Thecharmof reputation, however, could not draw Cowper from his seclusion; and his solitude became still more dreary about this period, by the cessation of his intercourse - 'with Lady Austen, with whom certain little "i^ fjealousies on the part of Mrs. Unwin (which ', Ithe biographer might as well have passed "' 'over in silence) obliged him to renounce any *' farther connection. Besides the Task and ■John Gilpin, he appears to have composed ' ' several smaller poems for this lady, which are published, for the first time, in the work now before us. We were particularly struck with '■ a ballad on the unfortunate loss of the Royal ' George, of which the following stanzas may serve as a specimen. " Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone ; His last seafight is fought ; His work of glory done. '!' It was not in the battle ; No tempest gave the shock ; She sprang no fatal leak ; She ran upon no rock. " His sword was in its sheath ; His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down. With twice four hundred men. Vol. i. p. 1-27. The same year that saw the conclusion of The Task," found Cowper engaged in tlie )» Iranslation of Homer. This laborious under- j,„ jaking-, is said, by Mr. Hayley, to have been irst suggested to him by Lady Austen also : hough there is nothing in the correspondence «'*' )ie has published, that seems to countenance hat idea. The work was pretty far advanced ii'fore he appears to have confided the secret f it to any one. In a letter to Mr. Hill, he xplains his design in this manner : Knowing it to have been universally the opinion f the literati, ever since they have allowed ihem- slves to consider the matter coolly, that a transla- on, properly so called, of Homer, is, notwithsrand- ig what Pope has done, a desideratum in the English language, it struck me, that an attempt to jupply the deficiency would be an honourable one ; lijjft ind having made myself, in former years, some- ij b^hnt critically a nia=ter of the original, I was. by , pis double translation, indued to make the atieinpt [*'* CJyself. I am now nanslaiing into blank verse iCC* be last book of the Iliad, and mean to publish by o["t ubscripiion."— Vol. i. p. 1.^1. t i*f* I Some observations that were made by Dr. ite,» -laty and others, upon a specimen of his translation, about this time, seem to have drawn from him the following curious and unafi'ected delineation of his own thoughts arid feelings. " I am not ashamed to confess, that having roni- metued an author, I am most ainindanily desirous to succeed as such. 7 /lavc (what perhaps i/oii little SKupecl vie of) In mij valurr, an hifinite nharr of am- Intion. But with it, I have at the same tniie, as you well know, an erjual share of diffidence. To tliis combination of opposite qualities it has been owing, that, till lately, I stole through life without undertaking any thing, yet always wishing to dis- tinguish myself .\\ last I ventured : ventured, too. in the only path that, at so late a period, was yet open to me ; and I am determined, il God hath not determined otherwise, to work my way through the obscurity that hath been so long my portion, into notice." — Vol. i. p. 1 own backwardness to assent to the necessity of it ; and the more, wlien I consider, that Milton, with whose manner I account myself intimately ac- quainted, is never quaint, never twangs through the nose, but is every where grand and elegant, without resorting to musty antiquity for his beauties. On the contrary, he took a long stride forward, left the language of his own day far behind him. and antic- ipated the expressions of a century yet to come." —Vol. i. pp. 360, 361. The translation was finished in the year 1791. and published by subscription imme- diately after. Several applictifioiis were made I to the University of Oxford or the hoi. our of their subscription, but without success. Their I aiLSwer was, '-That ihey subscribed to noth- ling." — " It seems not a little extiaoidaiarv," C .says the offei^ded poet on this occasion, "that 158 LITEEATURE AiND EIOGRAPHY, persons so nobly patronised themselves on the score of literature, should resolve to give no encouragement to it in return.'" We think so too. The period that elapsed from the publica- tion ol his first volume in 1781, to that of his Homer in 1791, seems to have been by far the happiest and most brilliant part of Covv- per's existence. It was not only animated by the vigorous and successful exertions in which he was engaeen chiefly remarkable for a certain feminine gentleness, and deli- cacy of nature, that shrunk back from all that was boisterous, jiresumptuous, or rude His secluded life, and awful impressions of religion, concurred in fixing upon his man- ners, something of a saintly purity and de corum, and in cherishing that pensive ani contemplative turn of muid, by which he wa so much di-stiriguished. His temper appear to have been yielding and benevolent : aiK though sufficiently steady and confident ii the opinions he had adopted, he v.as ver little inclined, in general, to force them upoi the conviction of others. The warmth of hi religious zeal made an occasional e.xception but the habitual temper of his mind wa toleration and indulgence ; and it would b dilficult, perhaps, to name a satirical aiK popular author so entirely free from jealous- and fastidiousness, or so much disposed t' make the most liberal and impartial estimat of the merit of others, in literature, in pol: tics, and in the virtues and accomplishment of social life. No angry or uneasy passiom indeed, seem at any time to have found place in his bosom : and, being incapable o malevolence himself, he probably passe through life, without having once excite that feeling in the breast of another. As the whole of Cowper's works are no before the public, and as dt-ath has linaf: closed the account of his defects and exce' lencies, the public voice may soon he expec' ed to proclaim the balance : and to pronoun*, that impartial and irrevocable sentence whic is to assigii him his just rank and station in tl poetical commonwealth, and to ascertain I. value and extent of his future reputation. J the success of his works has, in a great me! sure, anticipated this sentence, it is the less pi' sumptuous in us to offer our opinion of the The great merit of this writer appears us to consist in the boldness ar:d original of his composition, and in the fortunate < dacity with which he has carried the i minion of poetry into regions that had bf considered ys inaccessible to her anibiti The gradual refinement of taste had. Jor nea a century, been weakening the foiee of or nal genius. Our poets had become timid i fastidious, and circumscribed themselves h i in the choice and the management of tl ■ subjects, by the observance of a limitJ^d m ■ ber of models, who were thought to have ,• , hausted all the legitimate resonicesol the Cowper was one of the first who cros^ed } enchanted circle ; who reclaimed the nati 1 liberty of invention, and walked abroitd in iJ open field of observation as freely as thosey whom it was originally trodden. He pasi from the imitation of poets, to the imita'n of nature, and ventured boldly upon the > resentation of objects that had not been s;> tified by the description of any of his pr<''- cessors. In the ordinary occupations d duties of domestic life, and the conse(iuei 'f of modern manners, in the common seer)' of a rustic situation, and the obvious cont> plafion of our public institntio; ,-. he has fc.'d a multitude of subjects for ridicule ands- liection, for pathetic and picturesque desip- tion, for moral declamation, and devoti al rapture, that wouki have been look-'d i)n with disdain, or with despair, by most of ut poetical adventurers. He took as wifH HAYLEY'S LIFE OF COWPER. 161 range in lansniage too, as in matter: and. shakinjr off the tawdry incumbrance of that poetical diction which had nearly reduced the art to the skilful collocation of a set of conventional phrases, he made no scruple to ' set down in verse every expression that would have been admitted in prose, and to take ad- ' vantaire of all the varieties with which our ■ lan views with which it was unrlertaken have already been very fully ex- ])lained in the extracts we have given from his correspondence ; and it is impossible to deny, that his chief object has been attained in a very considerable degree. That the translation is a preatdeal more close and lite- ral than any that had previously been at- tempted in Euiilish verse, probably will not be disputed by those who are tlu^ lea.'^t dis- jwsed lo admire it; that the style into which it is translated, is a true English style, though not perhaps a very elegant or poetical one, may also be assumed ; but we are not sure that a rigid and candid criticism will go far- ther in its commendation. The langnaage is often very tame, and even vulgar ; and there is by far too great a profusion of antiquated and colloquial forms of expression. In the dialogue part, the idiomatical and familiar turn of the language has often an animated and happy effect; but in orations of dignity, this dramatical licence is frequently abused, and the translation approaches to a parody. In the course of one page, we observe that Nestor undertakes '• to entreat Achilles to a calmJ^ Agamemnon calls him, •• this wrangler here." And the godlike Achilles himself complains of being treated " like a fellow of no worth.'' " Ye critica soy, How poor to this was Homer's style !" In translating a poetical writer, there are two khids of fidelity to be aimed at. Fidelity to the mailer^ and fidelity to the manner oi the original. The best translation would be that, certainly, v hich preserved both. But, as this is generally impracticable, some concessions 'must be made upon both sides; and the largest upon that which will be least regretted by the common readers of the translation. Now, though antiquaries and moral philosophers, may take great delight in contemplating the state of manners, opinions, and civilization, that prevailed in the age of Homer, and be offended, of course, at any disguise or modem embellishment that may be thrown over his representations, still, this Mill be but a second- ary consideration with most readers of poet- ry; and if the smoothness of the verse, thej perspicuity of the expression, or the vigour; of the sentiment, must be sacrificed to the! observance of this rigid fidelity, they willj generally be of opinion, that it ought ratheri to have been sacrificed to them ; and that the poetical beauty of the original was better worth preserving than the litcial import of the expressions. The splendour and magnifi- cence of the Homeric diction and versification is altogether as essential a part of his conipo-' sition, as the sense and the meaning which they convey. His poetical reputation depend? quite as much on the one as on the other ; ant. a translator must give but a very imperfect anc' unfaithful copy of his original, if he leave ou ' half of those qualities in which the excellencf of the original consisted. It is an indispensa ble part of his duty, therefore, to imitate th« harmony and elevation of his author's Ian Cfuage. as well as to express his meaning ; an( he is equally unjust and unfaithful to hi! original, in passing over the beauties of hi, diction, as in omitting or disguising his sen timents. In Cowper's elaborate version, ther" are certainly some striking and vigorous pas' sages, and the closeness of the tianslatio continually recals the original to the memor ; of a classical reader; but he will look in vai for the melodious and elevated hu;gi;rii2e o Homer m ihn unpolisluul verses and i;olk, quial phiaseology of his trauslator, i HAYLEYS LIFE OF COWPER 163 (Juln, ISO''!.) The Life and Posthumous Writings of Wir.r.iAM Cowpkr, Rsi]. to the Right Honourable Earl Cowper. Bv Wimjam Hav 416. Johnson. London : 1804. If'uh an Introductory Lrttrr ,KY, Esq. Vol III. 4 to. pp. I This is the continuation of a work of which I public; and having livetl in a state of entire ■we recently submitted a very ample account seclusion from the world, there were no aiiec- and a very full character to our readers: (In | dotes of his conversation, his habits or onin- ithat qcca.sion. we took the liberty of observ- ' ions, in circulation arnoni; his admirers. The ing; thai two quarto volumes seemed to be publication of his corres[)ondence has in a almost a.s much as the bioirraphy of a .seclud- j great measure supplied this deticiency ; and pd scholar was entitled to occupy; and, with we now know almost as nuu-h of Cowper as 1 little judicious compression, we are still of we do of tho,se authors who have spent their Dpinion that the lite and correspondence of days in the centre and glare of literary or Cowper might be advantageously included in fashionable notoriety. The^se letters, however, fomewhat narrower limits. We are by no will continue to be read, long after the curi- fneans disposed, however, to quarrel with this osity is gratified to which perhajts they owe.! •hird volume, wh^ch is more interesting, if their first celebrity: for the character with xissible, than either of the two former, and which they make us acquuinted, will always vvill be read, we h.ive uo doubt, with general j attract by its rarity, ancl engage by its ele- ulmjration and delight. | gance. The feminine delicacy and purity of Though h still bears the title of the life of Cowper's manners and disposition, the ro- Ik)\\7)er. this volume contains no further par- I mantic and unbroken retirement in which h's .iculars of his history; but is entirelj- made j innocent life was passed, and the singular |jp of a collection of. his letters, introduced by \ gentleness and modesty of his whole charac- i long, rambling dissertation on letter-writing ter, disarm him of those terrors that so often in general, from the pen of his biographer, shed an atmosphere of repulsion around the {rhis prologue, we think, possesses no pecu- persons of celebrated writers, and make us iar merit. The writer has no vigour, and I more indulgent to his weaknesses, and xnori' ery little vivacity : his mind seems to be I delighted with his excellences, than if lie had ■uliivated. but not at all fertile ; and. while j been the centre of a circle of wits, or the om- 1-! always keeps at a safe distance from ex- cle of a literary confederacy. The inteu^sl ravagance or absurvlit}-. he does not seem to of this picture is still further heightened by "« |>e uniformly capable of distinguishing afTect s! ftion from elegance, or dulness from good '1 ladgment. This discourse upon letter-writ- n mg. in short, contains nothing that might not i^ pve been omitte^l with considerable advan- the recollection of that tremeud»us malady, to the visitations of which he was subject, and by the spectacle of that perpetual conflict which was maintained, through the greater part of his life, between the depression of t' It jage to the publication : and we are rather I constitutional horrors, and the g-aietythat if inclined to think, that those who are amhi- I« uous of being introduced to the presence of M pwper. will do well not to linger very long it« ki the antichamber with Mr. Hayley. f Of the letters themselves, we may safely In Issert, that we have rarely met with any d jimilar collection, of superior interest or ;Ji keauty. Though the inciilents to which they 115 elate be of no public magnitude or moment. f(( ind the remarks -^vhich they contain are not le* niformJy profound or original, yet there is ets bmething in the sweetness and facility of the lei iction, and more, perhaps, in the glimpses i lii ney afford of a pure and benevolent mind, [:ii pat diffuses a charm over the whole collec- lol [on, and communicates an interest that is not cik sten commanded by performances of greater iS ignity and pretension. This interest was ,ili« Ifomoted and assisted, no doubt, in a consid- j![i ^•able degree, by that curiosity which always jlaK peks to penetrate into the privacy of celebrat- ,0 u men, and which had been almost entirely uiu histrated in the instance of Cowper, till the 3«ti bpearancR of this publication. Though his I'ci rritings had long been extremely popular. he author himself was scarcely known to the suited from a playful imagination, and a heart animated by the mildest affections. In the letters now before us, Cowper dis- plays a great deal of all those peculiarities by which his character was adorned or distin- guished: he is frequently the subject of his own observations, and often delineates the finer features of his understanding with all the industry and impartiality of a stranger. But the most interesting traits are those which are unintentionally discovered, and which the reader collects from expressions that wore em- ployed for very different purposes. Among the most obvious, perhaps, as well as the most important of these, is that extraordinary com- bination of shyness and ambition, to which we are probably indebted for the very exist- ence of his poetry. Being distiualified, liy the former, from vindicating his proper j^uce in the ordinary scenes either of bitsiness ot of society, he was excited, by the latter, to at- tempt the only other avenue to reputation that appeared to be open, and to assort the real dignity of the talents with which he felt lh:it he was gifted. If he could only have mus- tered courage enough to read the journals o? 164 LITERATURE AND BIOGRAPHY. the House of Lords, or been able to get over the diffidence which fettered his utterance in general society, his irenius would probably have evaporated in conversation, or been con- tented with the humbler L'lory of contributing to the Rolliad or the Connoisseur. As the present collection relates to no par- ticular set of subjects or occurrences,, but exhibits a view of the author's miscellaneous correspondence with the few intimate friends he had retained; it i.- impossible to give any abstract of hs contents, or to observe any order in the extracts that may be made from it. We shall endeavour, however, to intro- duce as irreat a variety as possible. Though living altogether in retirement, Cowper appears to have retained a very nice perception of the proprieties of conduct and manners, and to have exercised a great deal of acuteness and sagacity upon the few sub- jects of practical importance which he had occasion to consider. The following sketch IS by a fine and ma«ter]y hand ; and proves how much a bashful recluse may excel a gen- tleman from the grand tour in delicacy of ob- servation and just notions of politeness. " Since I wrote lasi, we had a visit from . I did not feel myself vehemently dispo.spd lo receive him with that comt)laisani-e, from which a Ptranger generally infers that he is welcome. By his man- ner, which was rather hold than easy, I judged that there was no occasion for it ; and that it was a triflp which, if he did not meet with, neither would he feel the want of He has the air of a travelled man. but njt of a travelled gentleman ; is quite delivercii from that reserve, which i.s so common an ingre- dient in tiie English character, yet does not open himself gently and Hradnally. as men of polite he- haviour do, but bursts upon yon all at once He talks very loud ; and when our poor little robins hear a great npise, they are inimediaiely seized with an ambition to surpass it — the increase of their vo- ciferation occasioned an increa.se of his ; and his. in return, acted as a stimulus upon theirs — neither side entertained a thousrht ol" giving up the contest, w hit remarkable things in this volume, is the great profusion of witty and humorous pass;\ges which it contains: though they are usually so short. ;ind stand so much connected with mote iiiy were our counterparts exactly ; and time, that has sewed up the slashed sleeve, and reduced the laree trunk-hose to a neat pair of silk stockings, has left human nature just where it found it. The inside ot the man, at lisast, has undergone no change. His passions, appetites, and aims are just what they ever were. '^'Iiey wear perhaps a handsomer disguise than they did in days of yore ; for philnsoiiliy and literature will have their effect upon the exterior ; but in every other respect a modern is only an ancient in a different dress." p. 48. " I am much obliged to you for the voyages, which I received, and began to read last night. My imagination is so captivated upon these oc-casions, that I seem to partake with the navigators in all the dangers they encountered. I lose my anchor; my main-sail is rent into shreds ; 1 kill a shark, and by signs converse with a Patagonian, — and all this without moving from the fire-aide. The principal fruits of these circuits that have been made around the globe, seem likely to be the amusement of those that staid at home. Discoveries have been made, but such discoveries as will hardly satisfy the ex- pense of such undertakings. We brought away an Indian, and, having debauched hirn, we sent him home again to communicate the infection to his country — fine sports to be sure, hut such as will not defray the cost. Nations that live upon bmad- fruit, and have no mines to nvike thetn worthy of our acquaintance, will he but little v'sitcd for the future. So much the better for them ; their poverty ie indeed their mercy." — pp. 201, 202. Cowper's religious impressions occupied too great a portion of his thoughts, and e.\ercised too great an iuHuence on his character, not to make a proiniiiftit figure in his correspond- ence. They form the subject of many elo- quent and irlowiiiir pussiges ; and have some- times suiruested sentiments and expressions that cannot be perused without compassion and regret. The following jjassage, however, is liberal and important. " No man was ever scolded out of his sins. The heart, corrupt as it is, atid becanse it is so, grows anwry if it be not treated with some manajrement ana good manners, and scolds ai^ain. A surly mas- tiff will bear perhaps to be stroked, ihouiih he will growl even under that operation ; but if you touch him roughly, he will bite. There is no grace that the spirit of self can counterfeit with more success than a religious zeal. A inao thinks he is fighting for Christ, when he is fighting for his own notions. He thinks that he is skilfully searching the hearts of others, while he is only gratifying the malignity of his own ; and charitably supposes his hearers destitute of all grace, that he may shine the more in his own eyes by comparison." — pp. 17'J, 180. The following, too, is in a fine style of eloquence. " We have exchanged a zeal that was no better than madness, for an indifference equally pitiable and absurd. The holy sepulchre has lost iis im- portance in the eyes of nations called Christian; not because the light of true wisdom had delivered them from a superstitious aiiachmeni to tiie spot, but because he that was buried in it is no longer regarded liy them as the -Saviour of the world. The exercise of reason, enlightened by philosophy, has cured them indeed of the misery ot an abused understanding; but, together with the delusion, they have lost the substance, and, for the sake of the lies that were grafted upon it, have qunrrellec with the truth itself Here, then, we see the n< plus ultra of human wisdom, at least in affairs o^ religion. It enlightens the mind with respect t< non-essentials ; but, with respect to that in whicli the essence of Christianity consists, leaves ii perj fcctly in the dark. It can discover many errora that in different ages have dis<;raced the fai;h ; btt! i it is only to make way for the admission of oni, more fatal than them all. which represents thaj faiih itself as a delusion. Why those evils hav>j . j been permitted, shall be known hereafter. Om , thing in the meatiiime is certain ; that ihe folly an' I frenzy of the professed disciples i>f ihe gospel hav been more dangerous to iis interest than ail ih avowed hostiliiies of its adversaries." — pp. 2(X), 20 There are many passages that breathe th very spirit of Christian gentleness and sobe judgment. But when he talks of his frJen Mr. Newton's prophetic intimations (p. 35. and maintains that a great proportion of th ladies and gentlemen who amuse themselv( with dancing at Briirhthelmstone, must nc essarily be damned (p. 100. ), we cannot fe the same respect for his understanding, ar are repelled by the austerity of his fait The most remarkable passage of this kin j however, is that in which he supposes tl death of the celebratetl Captain Cook to ha' been a jiulg:ment on him for having aJlowi himself to be worshipped at Owhyhee. IV! Hayley assures us, in a note, that Cuwp, proceeded altogether on a misapprehension . the fact. The passage, however, is curioi am! shows with what eagerness his powerl mind followed that train of superstition ir; I which his devotion was sometimes so unforf nately betrayed. " The reading of those volumes affords d much amusement, and I hope some insinicii No observalion, however, forced it.-;elf upon ■ With more violence than one. that I could not h" making, on the death of Captain Cook. God it jealous God ; and at Owhyhee the poor man \\ conieni to be worshipped! From that niom{,f the remarkable interposiiion of Providence in I favour, was converted into an opposition t:t thwarted all his purposes. He left ihe sceiii> of.» deiticniion, but was driven back to it by a ir t violent storm, in which he suffered more that I any that had preceded it. When he depaned.J left his worshippers still infatuated with an idetl his godshiii. consequently well disposed to se8 hill). At his relnrn. he fmind them snUcn, * rnistfiil, and mysterious. A trifling ihcft was ci'* mit;ed, which, by a blunder of his own in pursi I r ILVYLEi''S LIFE OF COWPER. 167 the thief after the property had been restored, was magnified to an affair of the last importance. One of their favourite chiefs was killed, too, by a bhni- ' der. Nothing, in short, but blunder and mistake attended him, till ho fell breathless into the water — atid then all was smooth again I The world m- i deed will not take notice, or see that the dispensa- ; lion l)ore evident marks of divine displeasure ; but ! a mind, I think, in any deuree s|)iriiual, cannol ( overlook them." — pp. 2^)3, 29-1. '! Fiom tlie*;e extiacts. our reatlers will now , be al>le to form a pretty accurate notion of i the contents ami composition of this volume. Its chief merit consists in the singular ease. eleg-ance. and familiarity with which every thing is expressetl. and in the simplicity anil ; sincerity in wh.ch every thiii^- appearsto be I conceived, lis chief fault, perhaps, is tlie loo j frequent recurrence of those apologies for ilnil ' letters, and complaints of the want of sub- ) jects, that .seem occasionally to bring it down I to the level of an ordinary corresj)ondence, 'and to represent Cowper as one of those who make every letter its own subject, and cor- 'respond with their friends by talking about 'their corre.spondence. I Besiiles the subjects, of which we have (exhibited .some specimens, it contains a good ideal of occasional criticism, of which we do • not think very highly. It is not easy, indeed, {to say to what tlegree the judgments of those iwho live in the Avorid are biassetl by the opinions that prevail in it; but. in matters of 'this kind, the general prevalence of an opinion (is almost the only test we can have of its [truth ; -ind the judgment of a secludeil man [is almost as justly convicted of error, when it Iruiis counter to that opinion, as it is extolletl Ifor sagacity, when it happens to coincide wilh jit. The critical remarks of Cowper furnish us with instances of both sorts; but perhaps with most of the former. His admiration of Mr.s. Macanlay's History, and the rapture with which he speaks of the Heiny and Emma of Prior, and the compositions of Churciiill; will not. we should imagine, at- ict the sympathy of many reader.^, or .sti.s- peiid the sentence which time appears lo be mas.sing on those performances. As there is j Scarcely any thing of love in the poetry of Cowper. it is not very wonderful that lliere ' phonid be nothing of it in his corresjiondence. j iTIiere is somelhiiiir very tender and amiable Sii his affection for his cousin Lady Heskelh: ibiit we do not remember any passage where llie approaches to the language of gallantry. lf)r:i])pears to have indiiliied in the seiilimenls fh.it might have led to its employment, it is | ilso somewhat remarkable, that during the \ vliole course of his retirement, thongli a good . Meal embarrassed in his circumstances, and : p"re(|iiently very much distressed for want of | km|)l(iynieiii. he never seems lo have had an I (idea of betakiiiLr himself to a jiroft-ssion. The ' ^olntion of this difficulty is probably to be i fo\\\u\ in the infirmity of his mental health:; put there were ten or twelve years of his life. kheii he seems lo have; been fit for any exer- I MOii that did not require a public appearance, knd to liave suffered very much from the I want of all occupation. I This volume closes witli a fmgrnent of a poem by Cowper, which Mr. Haj ley %\as for- tuiiiite enough to discover by accident among some loose papers which had been found in the poet's study. It consists of somelhing less thiin two hundred Ihie.s. and is atldressed to a very ancient and decajetl o;ik iii the vicinity of Weston. We do not think quite so highly of this production as the editor ap- pears to do; at the .same time that wt; con- fess it to be impressed with all the maiks of Cowper's most vigorous hand : we do not know any of his compositions, indeed, that alfords a more striking exemplification of most of the excellences and defects of his pecnliar style, or might be more fairly quoted as a specimen of his vuinncr. It is full of the conceptions of a vigorous ami poetical fancy, expres.sed in nervous and familiar language; but it is rendered harsh by unneces.sary in- versions, and deba.^ed in several places by the use of anti any of his owne or succeeding times, lb tr-? n;' mother a noblf allowance of 300/. a v, ne hf owne private ex-pence, and had given I- r ; ii*' owne portion to dispose ot how she iliri' y soone as she was married ; which she sulii r'd f- crease in her friend's hands ; and wlm my b'' allowed her she spent not in vanities, nl Iimi had what was rich and requisite upon oi( n-in she Inv'd most of it out in pious and ch.nriM - 8r. Wain rRawIeigh and Mr. Rut bin bi ■ r in the Tower, and addicting ihemselvi - trie, she siifler'd ihcm to make their < men;s at her cost, partly to comfort :ii poorc prisoners, and partly to gniiie 'In of their e.xpetimenis. and the medici: such poore people as were not able to f'-.>. ; , LIFE OF COLONEL HUTCHLNSON. 171 [sitians. By these means she acquir'd a greate deale [of skill, which was very profitable to many all her jlife. She was not only to these, but to all the other ;prisoners that came into the Tower, as a niotlier. All the time she dwelt in the Tower, if any were 'i her soule, when she saw this gentleman who had haire.. eies, shape, and countenance enough to begeit love in any one at the first, and these sett off %viih a eracefuU and a senerous mine, which promis d an extraordinary person. Although he had but an evening sight of her he had so long desir d, and that at disadvantage enough for her, yeti the pre- vailing sympathie of his soule. made him thinke al his payn.s well pay'd, and this first (lid whett hu desire to a second sight, which he had by acc.den the next day, and to his ioy found she was who.lj diseneaged'from that ireaty which he so mud fear'd'had been accomplisht ; he found withall. tha though she was modest, she was accostable, an. willing to entertaine his acquaintance. 1 his soon. past into a mutuall friendship betweene them, an. ihou2h she innocently thought nothing of love, ye was she triad to have acquir'd such a friend, wh had wisedome and venue enough to be trusie witli her councells. Mr. Hutchinson, on the othe; side, having bene told, and seeing how she shiinn . all oth.r men, and how civilly she entertain d hinr believd thai a secret power had wrought a mutua inclination betweene them, and dayly frequente her moiher's house, and had the opportunine < eonver-^ing with her in those pleasant walke which, at that sweete season of the spring, inviit all the neighbouring inhabuants to seeke the ioys; where, though they were never alone, y thev had everv day opportunry for converse vm each other, which the rest shar d tmt m, whi everyone minded iheir own dehghts. — -pp. J^ ■* Here the ladv breaks off her account of th romantic courtship, as of "matters that a to be forgotten as the vanities of youth, at not worthy mention among the greater trai. actions of their lives.'' The consent paT*-iits having been obtained on both siclt f most deformed person that could be seene, to LIFE OF COLONEL HUTCHINSON. 173 ^reate vhile after she recover'd; yett he was noth- n~ troul)Ied ai it, but married her assoone as she ivas able to quitt the chamber, when the priest and ill that saw her were affrighted to looke oti her! lut Liod recompenc'd his iusiice and constancy, by estoring her, though she was longer than ordinary jefore she recover'd, as well as before." — pp. -15, 46. There is a ijood deal more of this affectioii- ite and romantic style of writiiij^ throuixhout he book: but the Shade of Mrs. Huti-hiiison vould not forgive us. if we were to detain tlie eader longer with these '• vanities of her •outh." We proceed; therefore, to graver natters. We might cull many striking specimetis of loqnence from her summary account of the 'English Constitution and of the Reformation ; lUt the following view of the changes which lok place on the accession of James and of "harles. are more characteristic of the ;ige jid of the party to which she belongs. j "Tlie honor, wealth, and glory of the nation, .'herein Qiieene Elizabeth left it, were soone pro- igally wasted by this thrifilesse heire, the nobility Itlie land utterly debas'd by setting honors to puli- pk sale, and conferring them on persons that had either blood nor meriit fitt to weare, nor estates to pare up their titles, but were faine to invent pro- icts to pill* the people, and pick their purses for 16 maintenance of vice and lewdnessc. The gene- ,.llity of the gentry of the land soone learnt the )urt fashion, and every greate house in the country i'came a sty of uncleannesse. To keepe the peo- |e in their deplorable security, till vengeance over- joke them, they were entertairi'd with masks. jige playes, and sorts of ruder sports. Then be- »n murther, incest, adultery, drunkennesse, swear- , Ig, fornication, and all sorts of ribaldry, to be no . jnceal'd but countenanc'd vices ; because they : 'Id such conformity with the court example." — And now the ready way to preferment there, was declare an opposition to the power of godlinesse, ; ;der that name ; so that their pulpitis might iustiy , j called the sc.orner's chair, those sermons only ( i^asinH that flatier'd them in their vices, and told , fi poore king that he was Sdlomon ! — that his sloth . ,d cowardize, by which he betrey'd the cause of ,)d and honour of the nation, was gospell meeke- j i,s?e and peaceablenesse, for which ihey rays'd him „ '. above the heavens, while he lay wallowing like j. ijwine in the mire of his lusts. He had a little jj, li.rning, — and this they call'd the spiriit of wise- ll( time, and so magnified him, so falsely flattcr'd him. „. I'^t he could not endure the words of truth and ,, Mndnesse, but rewarded these base, wicked, un- t btull fawners with rich preferments, attetidcd ^ h pomps and titles, which heav'd them up above : nmane heighth : With their pride their envie ^ jfjell'd against the people of God, whom thev be- ■jj,a) to proiect how they might roote out of the land ; ,j,^l when they had once given them a name, what- ",.eJ!r was odious or dreadfull to the king, that they jj,!) upon the Puritane, which, according to their Ciiracter, was nothing but a factious hypocri'e." ;oi: \ pp. .59— fil. Ijjii j* The face of the court was mtich chang'd in the A.cLnge of the king; for King Charles was temper- ' , oL chast, and serious; so that the fooles and ■''"wds, mimicks and catamites of the former court Sfii'glw out of fashion; and the nobilitv and courtiers, lllJ^ did not quite abandon ;h>-ir debo.-liciif-s. bad gu yl that reverence to the king, to retire into corners ttliraclise them: JMen of learning and ingenuity •sf'akrls were in rsteeme, and receiv'd encourag-e tifS^npt from the king; who was a most excellent iMige and a greate lover of paintings, caivings lit iekS • Pill— pillage, plunder.' gravings, and many oilier ingenuities, less offensive then the prophane abusive witt. which was the only e.xcrcisc of the other court." — p. b.*). The characters of this king's counsellors are drawn, in general, with great force and liveliness; aiitl with a deuree of candour scarcely to have been expected in the widow of a regicide. We give that of Lord Stratliud as an example. '■ But there were two above all ilie rest, who lid the van ot the king's evill councellors, and these were Laud, archbisliop of Canterbury, a Icllow of meane extraction and arrogant prido, and the earl of Stratford, who as much outstript all the rest in tavour as he did in abilities, being a man of deep policy, Sterne resolution, and ambitious zeale to keepe up the glory of his own greatnesse. In the begininng of this king's reitjne. tins man had bene a s;rong as.serior of the liberties of the people, among whom he had gain'd himselfe an honorable reputation, and was (Ireadfiill to die court party, who thereupon strew'd snares in his way, and when tiiey found a breach at his nmbinon, his soule was that way enter'd and capiivan d. He was ad- vanc'd first to be lord president of the councell in the north, to be a baron, after an carle, then deputy of Ireland ; the inoresi to a favourite ol any man since the death of the duke of Buckingham, who was rays'd by his first master, and kept up by the second, upon no account of personall worth or any deserving abilities in him, but only upon violent and private inclinations of the princes ; but die earle of Strafford wanted not ;uiy arcomplishment that could bf^ desir'd in the most scrvireahle minister of state: besides, he having made himselfe odious to the people, by his revolt from their interest to that of the oppressive court, he was now oblig'd to keep up his owne interest with his new party, by all the malliiious practises that pride and revenge could in- spire him with." — pp. 68, 69. One of Mrs. Hutchinson's great talents, in- deed, is the delineation of characters; and though her aflections are apt to throw rather too glowhig or too dark a tint over the canvas, yet Ihis very warmth carries with it an im- pression of sincerity, which adds not a little to the interest of her pictures. We pass by her short sketches, — of the Earl of Newcas- tle, who was -a prince in his own country, till a foolish ambition of glorious slavery canied hiin to court;" — the Earl of Kingston, "whose covetousiiess made him divide his sons between the two parties, till his fate drew him over to the king's side, where he behaved himself honourably, and died re- markably ,'' — the Earl of Clare, "who was very often of both parties, and, I think, never advantaged either."' — and a great number 'i in 'he '^nd ; and with these smooth insinu- 'ilit led him allong to a private place, giving him lha;es for the advertisement he had receiv'd from jFI<;wood, and using all his art to sen out of the j-:»!iiell the knowledge of the persons engag'd in i.heoiispiracy against him. But none of his cun- 'lin nor promises, nor flatteries, could prevaile 'vvil (he collonell to informe him more than he iihoVht necessary to prevent the execution of the '"■"•'; which when the protector perceiv'd. he n most infinite thankes for what he had I. and acknowledg'd it open'd to him some - ... i that had perplext him, and agreed so with 'ili| intelligence he had. that he must owe his ,,,>re|-vation to him : ' But.' says he, ' deare collo- ieliivhv will nor you come in and act among us ?' inell told him plainly, because he liked not . -; waves since he broke the parliament, as xo which led to certeine and unavoydable ri, not only of ihemselves, but of the whole lit par'v and cause, and thereupon tooke . with his usual] freedom, to tell him into "ad ha7.ard all things were put, and iiow • a way was made for the resiituiion of all vranny and bondage. Cromwell seem'd ■ ■■ this honest plainnesse with ihe greatest 'hat could be. and acknowlcds'd his pre- sse in some things, and with teares com- i how Lambert had put him upon all those «»> toUt actions, for which he now accus'd him and sought his ruine. He e.\prcsst an earnest de.xire to restore the people's liberties, and to lake and pursue more safe and sober rouiirells, and wound up all with a very lair courtship ol the collonell lo engage with him, olli-ring him any thing he would account worthy of him. The collonell told him, he could not be forward to make liis owne ndvantage, by serving to the enslaving of his country. 'I'lio other told him, he intended nothinp more then the re- storing and confirming the liberties of the good people, in order to which he would employ such men of honor and interest as the people should re- joyce, and he should not refuse to be one of them. And after, with all iiis arts, lie had endcavour'd to e.\cuse his publique actions, and lo draw in the collonell. he dismist him with such expressions as were publickely taken notice of by all his little courtiers tlien about him ; when he went to the end of the gallery with the collonell, and there, embrac- ing him, sayil allowd to him, ' Well, collonell, satis- fied or dissatisfied, you shall be one of us. for wee can no longer exempt a per.-on so able and faiihfull from the publique service, and you shall be satisfied in all honest things.' The collonell left him with that respect that became the place he was in ; when immediately the same courtiers, who had some of them past him by without knowing him when he came in, although they had bene once of his familiar acquaintance ; and the rest, who had look'd upon him with such disdainfull neglect as those little people use to those who are not of their fac- tion, now flockt about him, striving who should expresse most respect, and, by an extraordinary officiousnesse, redeeme their late slighlings. Some of them desir'd he would command their service in any bnsinesse he had with their lord, and a thou- sand such frivolous compliments, which the collonell smiled ati, and, quitting himselfe of them as soone as he could, made haste to returne into the country. There he had not long bene but that he was in- form'd, notwithstanding all these faire shewes, the protector, finding him too constant to be wrought upon to serve his tirannie. had resolv'd to secure his person, least he should head the people, who now grew very weary of his bondage. But though it was certainly confirm'd to the coUoriell how much he was afraid of his honesty and freedome. and that he was resolv'd not to let him longer be att liberty, yet, before his guards apprehended the collonell, death itnprison'd himselte, and confin'd all his vast ambition, and all his cruell desi^nes into the narrow coinpasse of a grave." — pp. 340 — 342. Two other anecdotes, one very discreditable to Cromwell, the other affording a striking proof of his bravery and knowledge of man- kind, may be found at p. 308. and 316. But we dismiss the subject of this ''great bad man," with the following eloquent representa- tion of his government after he had attained the height of his ambition ; — a representation in which the keen regrets of disappointed patriotism are finely mingled with an indig- nant contempt for those who submitted to tyranny, and a generous admission of the tal- ents and magnanimity of the tyrant. "In the interim Cromwell and his armie grew wanton with their power, and invented a thousand tricks of government, which, when nobody oppos'd, they themselves fell to dislike and vary every day. First he calls a'parliament out of his owne pockett, himselfe naming a sort of godly men for every county, who meeting and not agreeing, a part of them, in the name ot the people, give up the sove- reigniv to him. .Sliortly after, he makes up seve- ralf sorts of mock parliaments, but not finding one cif iliein nbsoluiely for his turne, turn'd them off againe. He soone'quitied himselfe of his triumvirs, and first thrust out Harri-son, then tooke away Lambert's commission, and would have bene king 176 fflSTORY AND HISTORICAL MEMOIRS. He weed- I the nation, there is something in this account' ed, in a few months' time, above a hundred and but for feare of quilting his generallship. fifty godly officers out ot the arinie, with whom ..laiiy of the religious souldiers went off. and in their roome abundance of the king's dissolute souldiers were enteriain'd, and the arniie was almost chang'd from thai godly religious armie, whose vallour God had crown'd with triumph, into the dissolute armie they had beaten, bearing yett a better name. His wife and children too. were setting up tor princi- pality, which suited no better with any of them than Scarlett on the ape ; only, to speak, the truth ot him- selfe, he had much naturall greaiiiesse, and well became the place he had usurp'd. His daughter Fleetewood was humbled, and not e.xalted, with these things; but the rest were insolent fooles. Cleypoole, who married his daughter, and his son Heiiry, were two debauch'd ungodly cavaliers. Richard was a peasant in his nature ; yet gentle and vertuous ; but became not greatnesse. His court was full of siiine and vanity, and the more abomi- nable, because they had not yett quite cast away the name of God, but prophan'd it by taking it in vaine upon them. True religion was now almost lost, even among the religious party, and hipocrisie became an epideniicall disease, to the sad griete ol CoUonell Hutchinson, and all true-hearted Chris- tians and Englishmen. Almost all the ministers rvery where tell in nnd worshipt this beast, and courted and made addresses to him. So did the r.ity of London, and many of the degenerate lords of the land, with the poore spirited gentry. The cavaliers, m pollicy, who saw that while Cromwell reduc'd all the exercise of tirannicall power under another name, there was a doore opeii'd for the re- storing of their party, f>'ll much in with Cromwell, and heighten'd all his disorders. He at last ex- ercis'd such an arbitrary power, that the whole land grew weary ol him, while he sett up a com- pnnie of silly meane fellows, call'd maior-generalls, as governors in every county. I'hese rul'd. accord- ing to their wills, by no law but what seem'd good in their owne eies ; imprisoning men, obstructing the course of iustice beiweene man and man. per- verting right through partialliiy, acquining some that were guilty, and punishing some that were innocent as guilty. Then he exercised another proiect to rayse niony, by decimation ol the estates of all the king's party, ot which actions 'tis said Lambert was the instigator. At last he tooke upon him to make lords and knights; and wanted not many fooles, both of the armie and gentry, to accept of and struii in his mock titles. Then the Earle of Warwick's grandchild and the Lord Fal- conbridge married his two daughters ; such pittifuU slaves were the nobles oi those dayes. Ait last Lambert, perceiving himselfc to have bene all tliis while deluded with hopes and promises of succes- sion, and seeing that Cromwell now intt;nded to confimie the government in his own lamely, fell off from him, but behav'd himselfe very pittifully and nieanely, was turn'd out of all his places, and return'd againe to ploti new vengeance at his house at Wimbledon, where he fell to drcsse his flowers in his garden, and worke at the needle with his wife and his maides I while he was watching an oppertunity to serve againe his ambition, which had this difference from the protector's: the one was gallant and greate, the other had noihing but an unworthy pride, most insolent in prosperity, and as abiect and base in adversity." — p. 335 — 338. In makiiip the^^e miscellaneous extracts, for the amusement of our readers, we are afraid tliat we have too far lost siirhl of the worthy colonel, for whose honour the whole record was designed; and thondi the biography of a private person, however eminent, is seldom of much consequciK-e to the general reader, e.xcipl where it illustrates the manners of the times, 01 connects with the pviblic history of of Colonel Hutchinson Avhich appears to us deserving of notice with reference to both these particulars. Soon after his marriage, he retired to his house at Ow^horpC; wheiv he took to the studyi of divinity; and having his attention roused to the state of public all'airs. by the dreadfu massacres of Ireland, in 1641. set himselii diligently to read and consider all the dispute) which were then begun between the Kini and Parliament ; the result of which was, ; steady conviction of the justice of the pre tensions maintained by the latter, with *: strong an.\iety for the preservation of jieace' His first achievement (we are sorry to say was, to persuade the parson of his parish t deface the images, and break the painte, glass in the windows of his church, in obf dience to an injunction of the parliament his next, to resist Lord Newark in an illegj attempt to carry otT the ammunition belonginj to the county, for the use of the King. H' deportment upon this last occasion, when I was only twenty-tive jears of age, affordsl very singular pioof of temper and firmness,-^ perfect good breeding, and great powers t' reasoning. ! When the King set up his standard at N(? tingham. Mr. Hutchinson repaired to the canf of Essex, the parliamentary general: but "dj not then fuid a clear call from the Lord to jc with him." His irresolution, however, v speedily dissipated, by the persecutions of t Royalists, who made various efibrts to sel him as a disaffected person. He accoidin; began to con.sult with others in the same p dicament : and havnig resolved to try to dele the town and castle of Nottingham against i assaults of the enemy, he was first elec governor by his associates, and alterwa had his norninatioii confirmed by Fairfax f by the Parliament. A great deal too mi of the book is occupied with an account of petty enterprises in which this little gaivi was engaged: the various feuds and diss sions which arose among the different offii • and the committees who were appointed,- their council : the occasional desertion •! treachery of various individuals, and the m i contrivances, and saciilices. and exertions >' which Colonel Hutchin.'^on wa.-< enabledo maintain his post till the Ihial d i scorn fi'ur«,f the Roval party. This narrative containso doubt, many splendid examples of coui e and fidelity on both sides : and, for the var y of intrigues, cabals, and successful and f successful attempts at corruption whic it exhibits, may be considered as a comjf ? miniature of a greater hi-story. Hut the ii ',■ nificance of the events, and the obscurit 'i the persons, take away all interest liom le story: and our admiration of Coloicl Hi i- inson's lirmness. ai.d disinterestednrss nl valour, is scarcely sufficient to keep ouran- tion alive through the langnishiig narnVf of the obscure v,-arfaie in \\lii*pat in Parliament, for the countv of Nottingham; and was an indignant spectator of the base iiroceedingn of Monk, and the headlong ami improvident zeal of the ])eoj)le in the matter of the restoration. In the course of the debate on the treatment to be dealt to the regicides, such of them as were members of the House rose in their places, and made such a defence of their conduct as they re- spectively thought it admitted of. 'I'he fol- lowing p;issage is very curious, and gives us a high idea of the readiness and address of Colonel Hutchinson in a situation of extraor- dinary difficulty. " When it came to In^lcpbics lurnc, he. with many learex, profest his repentance for iliai niuriiicr ; and lold a liilse lale, how Cromwell liuid ins hand, and forc'd liim to sul)siTi!)e the sentence I and made a most whining recantation; after whicli he reiir'd, and another had almost ended, when C'ollonell Hutchinson, who was not there at the hctjinning, came in, and was told what they were about, and that it would he expected he should say someiliing. He was surpriz'd with a thing he expected not ; yet neither then, nor in any the like occa.'iion, did he ever faile himselfe, but told them, 'That tor hi.s actings in those dnyes, if he had err'd, it was the inexperience of his age, and the defect of lii.>; nidge- ment, and not the malice of his heart, wiiich had ever prompted him to persue the generall advantage of his country more then his owne ; and if the sacri- fice of him might conduce to the publick peace and settlement, he should fret^ly submit his lite and tor- tunes to their dispose ; thai the vain expence ol his age, and the greate debts his publick employments had runne him into, as they were testimonies that neither avarice nor any other interest had carried him on, so they yielded him iust cause to repent that he ever forsooke his owne blessed (jiiieti, to enibarque in such a troubled sea, where he had made shipwrack of all things but a good conscience ; and OS to that particular action of the king, he de- r'd thi her foot, uhich bled. I'pfin this. he immediately caused her to be laid upon the bed again, and to be rubbed, and such means, as she came to life, and opening her eye.s. saw iwo of her kinswomen stand by her, my Lady Knollys aild my Lady Russell, both wish great wide sleeves, as the frishion then was, and said. Did not you promise me fifieen years, and are you come again already ? which they not undersianding. per>uaded her to keep her .spirits quiet in that great weakness wherein sin- then was; but, some hours after, she desired my father and Dr. Howlsworih might be left alone with her. to whom she snid, I will ac- quaint you, that, during the time of my irance. I wa.s in great quiet. l)ut in a place I could neither distinguish nor describe ; but the sense ol leaving my girl, who is dearer to me ihan all mv children, remained a trouble upon my spirits, i^uddenly I saw two l>y me, cloathcd in long white garments. and meti)on<;ht I fell down wiih my face in the dust ; and they asked me why 1 was troubled in so great happiness. I replied, O let me have the same grant given to Hezekiah, ihui I may live (ir;een years, to see my daughter a woman : to which they answered, Ii is done: and then, at that instant, I awoke out of my trance; and Dr. Howlsworth did there affirm, that that day she died made just fifieen years from that time." — pp. 26 — 28. This eift of dreaming dreams, or dceins visions, seems, indeed, to have been heredi^ tary in the family; for the following is given on the credit of the fair writer's own experience. When she and her husband went to Ireland, on their way to Portugal, they were honour- .'ibly entertained by all the distinguished royal- ■ ists who came in their way. Among others, she has recorded that, " We went to the Lady Honor O'Brien's, a lady that went for a maid, but few believed it ! She • was the youngest daughter ol il>e Earl of Tliomond. I, There we siaid three nights. The first of \\ l-.ich I '■ was surprised by being laid in a chamber, where, ■( about one o'clock, I heard a voice that wakened (,' me. I drew the curtain, and. in the casement of i^ the window, I saw, by the light of the moon, a i woman leaning into the window, ihrougli the case- 'j nient, in white, with red hair, and pale and ghastly j complexion. She spoke loud, and in a tone I had ; never heard, thrice, ' A horse I' and then, with a ' sigh more like the wind than breath, she vai\ished, ; and, to me, ber body looked more like a liiick cloudu than substance. 1 was so much frightened, thati) my hair siood on end, and my night-cloihes tell off ij I pulled and pinched your father, who never woke ' during the disorder I was in ; but at last was much' surprised to see me in this fright, and more so when' I related the si cry and showed him the window' opened. Neiiber of us slept any more that night,, but he entertained me with lelling me how mucbi more these apparitions were usual in this country, than in England! and we concluded the cause to! be the sreat superstition of the Irish, and the wantl of iliat knowing faith, which siiould defend themi from the power of the devil, whicii he exercises among them very much." Ingenious and orthodox as this solution ol the mystery mu.st be allowed to be, we cent fess we should have been inclined to prefet] that of the fair sleeper having had a fit o:; nightmare : had it not been for the conclusiv' testimony of the putative virgin of the hous of Tliomond. who supplies the following as tonishing confirmation ; and leads us rathe to suspect that the whole might have been trick, to rid herself the sooner of their sen, pulous and decorous company. ■' Ai)out live o'clock," continues Lady Fai shawe, ''the lady of the house c;iine to see u, saying she had not been in bed all night, bccau • a cousin O'Brien of hers, whose ancestors hi, owned that house, had desired her to stay wi him in his chamber, and ihat he died at two o'cloc ' and she said, ' I wish you lo have had no d; lurbam-e. for 'tis the custom of ihe place, thi when any of the family are dying, the shape ol woman appears in the window every night lill th be (lend. 'I'his woman was many ages ago j; with child by the owner of this place, who mt dercd her in his garden, and Hung her into the li'i under the window, hut truly 1 thought not ol when I lodged you liere, it being the best room; the house."' We made little reply lo her spee^: bill disposed ourselves to be gone suddenly." We shall close this chapter, of the sup; natural, with the following ratiier remarka..' ghost story, which is calculated, we tlilnk.' make a strong impression on the imaginatii- Our Mdigent chromcler picked it up, it seei; MEMOIRS OF LADY FANSHAWE. \fM on her way througJi Canterbury in the year 1663 ; and it is thus honourably attested : •'And here I c:innot omit lelniing ilie entiuinp siory, confimipd by Sir Thon\ai? Batten, Sir Arnola Bre.iiTies. the Dean ot Canterbury, witli many wore gentlemen and persons of tliis town. •' There lives not tar from Canterbury a gentle- man, called Colonel Colopeper. whose mother was widow unto the Lord Stransford : this gentle- man had a sister, who lived with him, as the world said, in too much love. She married Mr. Porter. This brother and sister being both atheists and living a life according to their profession, went in a t'rolick into a vault of their ancestors, where, be- fore thoy returned, they pulled some of their father's and mother's hairs ! U'ithiii a very few days after, Mrs. Porter fell sick and died. Her brother kept her body in a coffin sot up in his buttery, saying it would not be lonsr before he died, and then they would be both buried together ; but from the night after her death, until the time tliat wc were told the story, which was three months, they say that a head, as cold as death, with curled hair like his sister's, did ever lie by him wherever he slept, notwith- standing he removed to several places and countries to avoid it; and several persons told us they also had felt this apparition." We may now go back a little to the atiairs of this world. Deep and devoted attachments are ■more frequently conceived in circumstances of distress and danger than in any other : 'and. accordingly, the love and marriage of Sir JRichard Fanshawe and his lady befel dur- : ling their anxious and perilous residence with , ;the court at Oxford, in 1644. The following 'little sketch of the life they passed there is ■ icurious and interesting : n I " My father commanded my sister and myself to Bi come to him to O.vford, where the Court then was ; •E but we, that had till that hour lived in great plenty and great order, found ourselves like fishes out of .;he water, and the scene so changed, that we knew '"■ not at all how to act any part but obedience ; for, ti rrom as good a house as any gentleman of England f. pad, we came to a baker's house in an obscure j'j fetreet; and from rooms well furnished, to lie in a jl,,. |/ery bad bed in a garret, to one dish of meat, and r jhat not the best ordered, no money, for \re were ^' Is poor as Job. nor clothes more than a man or two *' brought in their cloak bags: we had the perpetual sri liscourse ot losing and gaining towns and men : at f':^, Ihe windows the sad spectacle of war. sometimes ^;.; jilagues, sometimes sicknesses of other kind, by ' ;eason of so many people being packed together, !s, I believe, there never was before of that quality ; ,j,i Iways in want, yet I must needs say, that most uijf lore it with a martyr-like cheerfulness. Jb'or my ^ii(,, iwn part, I began to think we should all, like „i„K Abraham, live in tents all the days of our lives. he king sent my faihera warrant for a btironet, lUt he returned it with thanks, saving he had too nch honour of his knighthood, which his majesty d honoured him with some years before, for the riune he now possessed." — pp. 3.'> — 37. They were married very privately the year ter; and certainly entered upon life with lit- but their mutual love to cheer and support uff, iiemj but it seems to have been sufficient. be"* j"Both his fortune and my promised portion, ot*'* [hich was made 10,000? , were both at that time in jleil! jipectaiion ; and we miglii irvily be called merchant , , J |venturers, for the stock we set up our trading i "* J fith did not amount to twenty pounds betwi.xt us ; list*'! y, however, it was to us as a little piece of armour [against a bullet, which, if it be right placed, s^^GT than a shilling, serves as well as armour; so our stock bought pen, ]:^^ jougb no bigge ' |ij kvhole suit of ! ink, atul paper, which w.ns your father's trade, and by it, I assure you, we lived better than those who were born to 2000/. a year, as long as he had hii liberty." — pp 37, 38. The ne.vt scene presents both of them in m) amiable and respectable a light, that v\'e think it but ju.stice to extract it, though rather long, without any abridgment. It is. indeed, one of the most pleasing and interesting passages in the book. They had now gone to Bristol, in 1645. " My husband hiid provided very good lodging.s for us, and as soon as he could come home from the council, where he was at my arrival, he with all expressions of joy received me in his arms, and gave me a hundred pieces of gold, saying, ' I know thou that keeps my heart so well, will keep my fortune, which from this time I will ever put into thy hands as God shall bless me with increase;* and now I thought myself a perfect queen, and my husband so glorious a crown, that I more valued mvself to be called by his name than born a princess; for I knew him very wise and very good, and his soul doaied on me, — upon which confidence I will tell you what happened. My Lady Rivers, a brave woman, and one that had suffered many thousand pounds loss for the king, and whom I had a great reverence for, and she a kindness for me as a kinswoman, in discourse she tacitly commended the knowledge of state alTairs ; and that some women were very happy in a good understanding thereof, as my Lady Auliigny, Lady Isabel Thynne, and divers others, and yet none was at first more capable than I ; that in the night she knew there came a post from Paris from the queen, and that she would be extremely glad to hear what the queen commanded the king in order to his aflairs ; saying, if I would ask my husband privately, he would tell nte what he found in the packet, and I might tell her. I, that was young and innocent, and to that day had never in my mouth ' What news?' began to think there was more in inquiring into public aff.iirs than I thought of; and that it being a fashionable thing would make me more beloved of mv husband, it that had been possible, than I was. When my husband returned home from council, after welcoming him. a? his custom ever was, he went with his handful of papers into his study for an hour or more ; I followed him ; he turned hastily, and said, 'What wouldst thou have, my life?' 1 told him, I heard the prince had received a packet from the queen, and I guessed it was that in his hand, and I desired to know what was in it ; he smilingly re- plied, ' My love, I will immediately come to tnee ; pray thee go, for I am very busy :' when he came out of his closet I revived my suit ; he kissed me. and talked of other things. At supper I would eat nothing ; he as usual sat by me. and drank often to me, which was his custom, and was lull of discourse to company that was at table. Going to bed I asked again ; and said I could not believe he loved me if he refiised to tell me all he knew ; but he answer- ed nothing, but stopped my mouth with kisses. So we went to bed; I cried, and he went to sleep! Next morning early, as his custom was, he called to rise, but began to discourse with me first, to which I made no reply ; he rose, came on the other side of the bed and kissed me, and drew the cur- tains softlv, and went to court. When he came home to dinner, he presently came to me as was usual, and when I had him by the hand, I said, ' Thou dost not care to see me troubled ;' to which he, taking mc in his arms, answered, ' My dearest soul, nothing upon earth can afflict me like that: But wbe'i yon n«ked ine of my business, it was wholly out of my power to satisfy thee ; for my life and fortune shall be thine, and every thought of my heart in which the trust I am in may not be revealed: But my honour is my own; which I cannot preserve if I communicate the prince's 182 HISTORY AND fflSTORICAL MEMOIRS. affairs ; and, pray thee, with this answer rest satis- fied.' So great was his reason and goodness, that, upon consiaeration, it made my folly appear to me so vile, that from that d;iy until the day ol his death, I never thought fit to ask him any business, but what he communicated freely to me, in order to his estate or family." After the ill success of the royal arms had made it necessary for the Prince to retire be- yond seas, Lady JFanshawe and her husband attended him to the Scilly Islands. We give this natui-dl and simple picture of their dis- comforts on that expedition : — " The next day, after having been pillaged, and extremely sick and big with child, I was set on shore, almost dead, in the island of Scillv ; when we had got lo our quarters near the casile, where the prince lay, I went immediately to bed, which was so vile that my iooiman ever lay in a bciier, and we had but three in the whole house, which consisted of four rooms, or rather partitions, two low rooms, and two little lofis, wiih a ladder to go up: in one of these they kept dried fish, which was his trade, and in this my husband's two clerks lay ; one there was for my sister, and one for myself, and one amongst the rest of the servants ; but when 1 waked in the morning, I was so cold I knew not what to do: but the daylight discovered that my bed was near swimming with the sea, which the owner told us afterwards it never did — but at spring tides.^' We must not omit her last interview with her unfortunate Sovereign, which took place at Hampton Court, when his star was hastening to its setting! It is the only interview with that unhappy Prince of which she has left any notice ; and is, undoubtedly, very touch- ing and amiable . " During his stay at Hampton Court, my hus- band was with him ; to whom he was pleased to talk much of his concerns, and gave him three credentials for Spain, with private instructions, and letters for his service: But God. for our sins, dis- posed his Majesty's affairs otherwise. I went three times to pay my duty to him, hoih as 1 was the daughter of his servant, and wife of his servant. The last time I ever saw him, when I took my leave, I could not refrain from weeping. When he had saluted me, I prayed to God lo preserve his majesty with long life and happy years; he stroked me on the cheek, and said, ' Child, if God pleaseih it shall be so ! both you and I must submit to God's will, and you know in what hands I am in ;' then turning to your father, he said. ' Be sure, Dick, to tell my son all that I have said, and deliver those letters to my wile; pray God bless her! I hope I shall do well;' and taking him in his arm?, said, ' Thou hast ever been an honest man, and I hope God will bless thee, and make thee a happy ser- vant to rny son. whom I have charged in my letter to continue his love, and trust to you ;' adding, • J do promise you. that if ever I am restored to my dignity, I will bountifully reward you for both your service and suflR^rinirs.' Thus did we part from that glorious sun, that within a few months after was murdered, to the grief of all Christians that were not forsaken by God." These are almost suflRcient specimens of the work before us ; for it would not be fair to extract the whole substance of it. However, we must add the following striking trait of heroism and duvoted affect ion, especially as we have sjwken rather too ilisparaginglv of the fair writer's endowment of those qualities. In point of courage and love lo her husband it is quite on a level, perhaps with any of the darings of Mrs. Hutchinson, — though we can- not say that the occasion called so clearly foi their display. During their voyage to Portu- gal, and — •' When we had just passed the Straits, we saw cominLT towards us, with full sails, a Turkish galley well manned, and we believed we should be al carried away slaves, for this man had so laden hii ship svitli goods for Spain, that his guns were use less, though the ship carried si.xty guns. Hecallec for brandy, and alter he had well drunken, and al his men, which were near two hundred, he callec for arms, and cleared the deck as well as he could resolving to fight rather than lose his ship, whicl was worth 30,000Z. This was sad for us passengers but my husband bid us be sure to keep in the cabin and not appear, the women, which wcpuld make th' Turks think that we were a man-of-war, but i they saw women, they would take us tor merchants and board us. He went upon the deck, and took gun and bandoliers, and sword, and, with the ret of the ship's company, stood upon deck expectin the arrival of the Turkish man-of-war. This beas the captain, had locked me up in the cabin ; I knocl- ed and called long to no purpose, until at length tl cabin-boy caine and opened the door. 1, all i tears, desired him to be so aond as to give me h blue thrum cap he wore, and his tarred coat, whi( he did, and I gave him half-a-crown. and puttii them on, and flinging away my night-clothes, crept up softly and stood upon the deck by n husband's side, as free from si (o Mynheer Roder, which was kept at Goring Hou.sc " ith very great stale, cost, atid noble company. But among all liie beauties there, my wife was thought the greatest.— 13th. Up early, the first day that I put on my blacf camlett coat wiih silver buttons. To Mr. Spong whom I found in his night-gown, &.c. — 14th. Ti the Privy Seale, and thence to my Lord's, when Mr. Pirn the tailor and I agreed upon making me ; velvet coat. — 25th. This night W. Hewer brough me home from Mr. Pirn's my velvet coal and cap the first that ever I had. This the first day tha ever I saw my wife wear black paulies since w were married. — My wife seemed very pretty to-day it being the first time I had given her leave to wear a black patch. — 22d. This morning, hearing that ih Queene grows worse again, I sent lo stop ilic mak ing of my velvet cloak, till I see wheihtr she live or dies. — 30ih. To my great sorrow find mysel 43Z. worse than I was the last monih, which w:i then 760^., and now it is but 717L But it hat chiefly arisen from my layings out in clothes f( myself and wife; viz. for her about 127. and ii myself 55/.. or thereabouis ; having made mysell velvet cloak, two new cloth skirts, black, pla: both ; a new shag gown, trimmed with gold bu Ions and twist, wiih a new hat, and silk tops !orm legs, and many other things, being resolved lienc( forward lo go like myself. And also two perriwigg one whereof costs me 3/. and the other 40."!. 1 ha> worn neither yet, but will begin next week, Gi willing. — 29ih. Lord's day. This mormng I p, on my best black eloih suit, trimmed with scarlei ribbon, \ery neat, with my cloak lined wiih velvelj and a new l)eaver, which altogeiher is very nobL with my black silk knit canons 1 bought a men ago. — 30ih. Up, and put on a new smnmer blac l)ombazin suit; and beine come now to an agre, merit with my barber to keep my perriwig in got, order at 20.«. a year, I am like to gi) very sprucj more than I used to do. — 31si. This day 1 gol, little rent in my new fine camlett c'loak with t latch ol 8irG. Carteret's door; l)Ut it is darned at my tailor's, that ii will be no great blemish io but it troubled me." This, we suppose, is enough — though the are more than five hundred such notices att., service of any curious reader. It may be smj posed what a treat a Coronation would be » such a fancier of line clothes : and according' we have a most rapturous description of it, all its glory. The King and the Duke of Yc in their morning dresses were, it seems, ''t very plain men ;" but. when attired in th "most rich embroidered suits and cloaks, th looked mo.st noble." Indeed, after some tin he assures us, that " the show was so gloric with gold and silver, that we are not able look at it any longer, our eyes being so ran overcome !" Asa specimen of the credulity and tircul which constitutes another of the slajiles this collection, the reader may take the 1 lowing. " 19ih. Waked wiih a very high wind, and s to my wife, ' I pray God I hear not ol ihc death any great person, — Tins wind is so high !' fear that the Queene might be dead. So up ; and go by coach with Sir W. Batten and Sir .1. Minncs .'Si. Jnmes', they tell me thai Sir W. Compion, v ' it is true had been a little sickly for a week or fc night, but was very well upon Friday night last ■• the Tangier Committee with us. was dead. — djl yesterday: at which I was inost exrefdiiigly s} prised. — he being, and ."O all the world saying t'| he was, one of the worihyest nuti a7td bent oj}icert\ State now in Enalund I "23d. To Westminster Abbey, and there ;l see all the tombs very finely ; having one with ;> alone (there being no oiher company this day to '5 the tombs, it being Shrove- Tuesday): and here J MEMOIRS OF SAMUEL PEPYS. 187 'did see, by particular favour, the body of Queen IKatherine of Valois ; — and I had the upper part of jherbody in my hands, — and I did kiss her niouih ! j — reflecting upon it that I did kiss a quceno, and ■that this was my birth day, — thirty-six years old! — that I did kiss a qneene ! But here this man, who seems to understand well, tolls nie that tlie saying ,is not true that she was never buried, — for she was .buried. — Only when Henry the Seventh built his chapel, she was taken up and laid in this wooden coffin ; but I did there see that in it the body was buried in a leaden one, which remains under ilie body to this day, «Slc. &c. — 29th. We sal under the iboxes, and saw the fine ladies ; among others, my •Lady Kcrneguy, who is most devilishly painted. And so homt — it being mighty pleasure to go alone with my poor wile in a coach of our own to a plav I and ma'kes us appear mighty great, I think, in the w.uld; at least, greater than ever I could, or my fririiils for me, have once expected; or, I think, than ever any of my family ever yet lived in mv imenidry — but my cosen Pepys in Salisbury Court.'' Or the following memorandums of his I travels. I " A mighty cold and windy, but clear day ; and ihRd the pleasure of seeing the Medway running twMuiing up and down mightily, — and a very fine 'country : and I went a little out of the way to have vjitcd .Sir John Bankes. but he at I/ondon ; but here I had a sight ot his seat and house, the outside, which is an old abbey just like Hinchingbroke. and as fgood at least, and mightily finely placed by the 'river; and he keeps the grounds about it. and walks and the house, very handsome : I was might- ily pleased with the sight of it. Thence to Mnyd- stone. which I had a mighty mind to see. having never been there; and walked all up and down the ■'town, — and up to the top of the steeple — and bad a noble view, and then down again : and in the town did see an old man beating of flax ! and did step into the barn and give him money, and savv that ipiece of husbandry, which I never saw ; and it is |very pretty ! In the street also I did buy and send |io our iinie the Bell, a dish of fresh fish. And so ihaving walked all round the town, and found it very jpretty as most towns I ever saw, though not very big. and people of good fashion in it, we to our inne and had a good dinner ; and a barber came to me and there triutmed me. that I might be clean against night to BO to Mrs. Allen. &c. " So all over the plain by the sight of the steeple kthe plain luL'h and low) to Salisbury by night ; but before I came to the town, I saw a great fortifica- tion, and there light, and to it and in it ! and find it prodigious ! so as to fright me to be in it all alone. at that time of night — it being dark. I uiidersiand since it lo be that that is called Old Sarum. C<, in the following passage, described the i-llects they protluced on him, in a way that mu.st be admitted to be original The Virgin Maityr (of Massingcr), he says, w.'i-s "miglity jjleasant ! Not that the jday is wortli much, but it is finely acted by Reck Marsliall. But that wliich did please Ine be- yond any thing in the wliole world, was the wind-musicjue when the angel comes down : which is so sweet that it ravit^hed me, and indeed, in a word, did wrap up my soul, so that it made me rcaJh] sic): ! — just as / have formerly been vhrn in tore u-ith my vife !'' Though -'mighty merry" upon all occa- sions, and, like gentle dulness, ever loving a joke, we are afraid he had not much relish for wit. His perplexity at the success of Hudibras is exceedingly ludicrous. This is his own account of his first attempt on him — "Hither come Mr. Baitersby; and we falling into discourse of a iifvi hook of droUiry in use, called Hudehrrts. I would needs go find it f>ut, and met with it at the Temple: cost me 2.1. 6fi. But when I <^ome to read it, it is so silly aji abuse of the Presbyter Ki ighi going to the warrs, that 1 am asliamcd of it; and by and by meeting at Mr. Townsetid's at dinner, J sold it to him for 18 Mr. Coventry, who lakes it very kindly, tind sends me a very kind let- ter, and Ihe plate hack again. — of which my hvart is very glad " Throughout the whole work, indeed, he is mainly occupied with reckoning up and se- curing his srains— turning them into good 18S HISTORV AND HISTORICAL MEMOIRS. gold — and bageinir and hiding them in holes and corners. His prosperity, indeed, is mar- vellous: and shows us how good a thing it was to be in olHce. even in the year 1660. When he goes with Lord Sandwieh to bring over the King, he is overjoyed with his Ma- jesty's bounty of a month's pay to all the ships" officers— and exultingly counts up his share, and '■ finding himself to be worth very ncarhj lOU/., blesses Almighty God for it — not having been worth 2.5/. clear when he left his home.'" And yet. having got the office of Clerk of the Ac"ts in the Admiralty, and a few others, he thrives with such prodigious ra- pidity, that before the end of 1666, this is his own account of his condition. "To my accounts, wherein at last I find them clear and right ; liut to my sreat discontent do find that my gettings this year have been 573Z. less than my last: ii being this year in all but 2986/.; where- as, the last, I >tniiiister. he had some natural qualms. " And to comfort myself did go to the Dog and drink half a pint of niullod sack,— and in the hall did drink a dram of brandy at .VIre. Hewlett's ! and with the warmth of this did tind myself in belter order as to courage, truly." He spoke three hours and a half ■'• as com- fortably as if I had been at my own table," and ended soon after three in the afternoon : but it was not tliought (it to put the vote that day, •'many members having gone out to dinner, and come in agiiin half drunk. ■- Ne.\t morning his glory opens on him. " 6:h. Up betimes, and wiili .Sir D. (Jauden lo Sir W. Coventry's chamber ; where the first word hf said to me was, ' Good-morrow, Mr. Pepys, that must be Speaker of the Parliament House:' and did protest I had got honour lor ever in Parlia- ment. He said that his brother, that sal by him. admires me; and another gentleman said that I could not get less than 1000/. a year, if I would jim^ on a giiwii and plead at the Chancerti-liar. But, what pleases me most, he lells me thiit the Solici- tor-generall did protest that he thought I spoke the best of oni/ 7nan in England. My Lord Baikt-ley did cry me up for what ihey had heard of it ; and otiiers. Parliament-inen there about the King, did say that Ihiy veier heard such a speech in their liver, delivered in that manner. From thence I went to Westmi' s'er Hall ; wiiere I met with .Mr. (!. Mon- tagu, who came to me imd kissed me, and told me tiiat he had often lieretotMre kissed my hands, but now he would kiss mi/ lips: protesting that / uas another Cict.ro! m d .said all ihf world raid the same ot me. Mr. (Jiidolphiii ; .Mr. Sands, who swore he would g'> iwi>tity miles at hi'v time to hear ilie like again, and tlini he never saw so many sil lour hfi'irs loge her to he.-ir aiiv man m his lilc as tliere did to h»ar me. Mr. Clii'-hly, .Sir John Duncomb, and <-veiV l>ody do r^ay that tin kingdom iiill rine of my iih lilies, and that 1 have doii« myself riijht I.t my wlioie lift' ; and so ("apai i t .<)k«- and irlicr* oi ii,^ .'rieiids say thai ?tu man luiii t v« [ «utti an oppor- ]90 HISTORY AND HISTORICAL MEMOIRS. tunity of making hLs abilities known. And that I may cite all at once, Mr. Lieutenant of rh« Tovver did tell ine that Mc. Vaughan did protest to him, and that in his hearing said so to the Duke ot Al- bertnarie. and afterwards lo Sir \V. Ct»vciitry, that he liad sat twenty-six years in Parlianieiit and never heard sitcli a speecft thf.re before ! for which the Lord God make mc thankful ! atid that I m.iy make use of it. i:o; to pride and vainglory, but that, now I have this es:eem, I may do nothing that may lesson it 1" There is a great deal more of this — but we have priven rather too much space already to Mr. IVpys" individual coucenis : and must turu now to something of mote public interest. Before taking leave of private life, however, we may notice one or two things, that we collect incidentally, as to the maimers and habits of the times. The playhouses, of which there seem to have been at least three, opened apparently soon after noon — though the en- tertainments often lasted till late in the night — but we caimot make out whether they were ever exhibited by daylight. The pit, in some of them at least, must have been uncovered ; for our author speaks repeatedly of being an- noyed in that place by rain and hail. For several years after the Restoration, women's parts were done by boys, — though there seem always to have been female singers. The hour of dinner was almost always twelve ; and men seem generally to have sat at table with their hats on. The wines mostly in use ap- pear to have been the Spanish white wines — both sweet and dry — some clarets — but no port. It seems still to have been a custom to go down to drink in the cellar. The Houses of Parliament met, like the courts of law, at nine, and generally adjourned at noon. The style of dress seems to have been very vari- able, and very costly — periwigs appear not to have been introduced, even at court, till 1663 — and the still greater abomination of hair powder not to have been yet dreamed of. Much of the outskirts of the town, and the greater part of Westminster, were not paved — and the police seems to have been very deficient, as the author frequently speaks of the danger of returning from Whitehall and that neighbourhood to the city early in the evening — no lamps in the streets. Some curious notices of prices might be collected out of these vohunes — but we have noted but a few. Coaches seem to have been common, and very cheap — our author gets a very hand- some one for 32/. On the other hand, he pays Al. 10s. for a beaver, and as much for a wig. Pictures too seem to have brought large prices, considering the value of money and the .small proportion of the people who could then have any knowledire of the art. He pays 25/. for a portrait of his wife, and 30/. for a miniature, besides eight guineas for the setting — and mentions a flower-piece for which the jxiinter refused 70/. We may take leave of him ami his housekeeping, by inserting his account of two gratid dinners he seems to have given — both which he apjiears to have regarded as matters of very weighty concernment. As to the first he says — " My head being full of to-morrow's dinner, went to my Lord Crewe's, there to invite Sir Thomas, &.c. Thence home : and there find one laying of my napkins against to-morrow in figures ot all sorts ; which is mighty pretty ; and it seems it is his trade, and he gets much money l)y it. 14il). Up very l)eiimes. and with Jane to Leveti's, there to conclude upon our dinner; and thence to the pewterer's to buy a pewter sesterne, which 1 linve ever hiihcrio been without, .^non conies my com- pany, VIZ. niy Lord Hincliingbroke and his lady, 8ir Philip Carteret and his lady, Godolphin and my cosen Roger, and Creed: and mighty merry; aid by and by to dinner, which was very good and pleniitul (and I should have said, and 5lr. Gtoii:e .MoiJiagu, who came at a very little warning, which was exceeding kind of him). And there, among other things, iny lord had Sir Samuel .Morland's la'e invention ibr casting up of sums of JC s. d.; which is very pretty, but not very useful. .Most of our discourse was of my Lord Sandwicii and his family, as being all of us of ihe family. .And wiih e.xtraordinary jileasure all the afternoon . thus to- jzether, eating and looking over my closet." The next' seems to have been still more solemn and successful. "23d. To the office till noon, when \\. rJ brougiii me that my Lord Sandwicii wascuinv . mj 1 presently rose, and there I linuui niv Lord.- . , i wich, Peierhorou<;h, and ."^ir Charles Harbord , . d presently after them comes my Lord Ilinr i ^- broke, Mr. Sidney, and Sir \\ illiiim Gociolihiu. .\nd after areeiing them and some time sp' . in talk, dinner was brought up, one dish alter ai:.. ^ i. but a dish at a time ; but all so good ! Biti. i^ <>\e all tliiiiffs, the variety of \\ ines and excelleiM ■! .. :r kind I liad tor iheni. and all in so good ore;, i , na they were mightily pleased, and myself full ui .U;. tent at it: and indeed it was. of a dinner ol , .mt six or eight dishes, as noble as any man in ■ i lo have, I think; at least, all was done in the n ■: e>! manner that ever I had any. and 1 have ran I . ■ > , in my life better any where else, even a: ih( ( \,in. -After dinner my lords to cards, and the rest ol us sitting about ihem and talking, and looking on my books and pictures, and my wile's drawings, which ihey lommeiided mighiily : and mighiy inerrynil day long, with exceeding great content, and so tili seven at night; and so took their leaves, it bting! dark and f.ni! weather. Thus was this en!eri;iiii mem over — the best of its kind and the fiilb ,-: nt honour and content to me that ever I had ii m\ lite ; and 1 shall not easily have so good aETim." On turning to the political or historioa parts of this record, we are rather ilisap pointed in finding so little that is curious o interesting in that earliest portion of it whici carries us through the whole work of th Restoration. Though there are almo.st dail 1 entries from the 1st of January 1659. aii' though the author was constantly in conimi; nication with persons in public situations- was personally introduced lo the King at th Hague, and came home in the same shi with him, it is wonderful how few parliculai of any moment he has been enabled to pt down; and how little the tone of his jouri:; exhibits of that hiterest and anxiety whic, we are apt to imagine must have been un vcrsal durhig the liepcndence of so monien ous a revolution. Even this barrennes.s, ho\ ever, is not without instiucliou — and ilhistral' by a new example, how insensible the cO; temporaries of great transactions often are < their importance, and how much more jv terity sees of their character than those wl were parties to them. We have already o MEMOIIIS OF SAMUEL PEPYS. 191 ;erved that the author's own political predi- sctions are scarcelj- distingaiishable till he 3 embarked in the lleet to briuij home the ling — and the greater part ot" those with fhom he converses seem to have been nearly s undecided. ]Monk is spoken of through- out with considerable contempt and aversion; |ad among many instances of his duplicity, ; is recorded that upon the 21st day of Feb- aary 1660; he came to Whitehall, "and there lade a speech to them, recommending to lem a Commonwealth^ and agains't Charles tuart." The feeling of the city is repre- tited, no doubt, as extremely hostile to the arliament (here uniformly called the Rump); ut their aspinitioiis are not said to be directed royalty, but merely to a free Parliament id the dissolution of the existing junto. So te as tlie month of March our author ob- rves, ■■'great is the talk of a single person, tiarles, George, or Richard again. For the f of which ray Lord St. John is said to !ak very high. Great also is the dispute the House, in whose name the writs shall iue for the new Parliament." It is a com- rt however to lind, in a season of such uni- rsal dereliction of principle, that signal rfidy, even to the cause of the republic, visited with general scorn. A person of B name of Morland, who had been em- lyed under the Protector in the Secretary State's office, had been in the habit of 1 fraying his trust, and communicating pri- •"tely with the exiled monarch — and, upon iw resorting to him, had been graced with t? honour of knighthood. Even our cold- larted chronicler speaks thus of this deserter. • ?ilr. Morland, now Sir Samuel, was here on b:ii : liiit I do not find that my lord or any body ■ . him any respect — he being looked upon and all men as a knave. Among others ved Sir Rich. Willis that married Dr. F. ^ ' ~ (laughter, who had paid him lOOOZ. at one t ^ In' the Protector's and Secretary Thurloe's oer. for intelligence that he sent concerning the ■*.;ul there is afterwards a similar expres- g '1 of honest indignation against " that per- tiious rogue Sir G. Downing,'" who, though ii' had served in the Parliamentary army uier Okey, yet now volunteered to go after hH and Corbet, with the King's warrant, to K;land, and succeeded in bringing them b'k as prisoners, to their death — and had -tl| impudence, w-hen there, to make a speech to- the Lords States of Holland, telling them tc!h»ir faces that he observed that he was n*' received with the respect and observance Mit'. that he was when he came from the tt'Jor and rcbcll Cromu-ell ! by whom, I am mK he halh got all he hath in the world, — at' they know it too." IV^hen our author is presented to the King, • htvsry simply puts down, that "he seems *o!)e a very sober man!" This, however, prt>ably referred only to his dress and equip- mjit; which, from the following extract, se'ns to have been homely enough, even for * ipublic. :< JThis afternoon Mr. Edward Pickering told me K^inlhat a sad, poor condition (or clothes and money the king was, and all his attendants, when he r:iine lo him first from my lord ; their cioilies «o; /(fiw^ uwrth forty shillinirs — the best of ihoni. And how overJDved the KiiiE; was when Sir J. Greenville hrougiii him some money ; so joyful, that he culled the Princess Royal and Duke of York to look upon it, ns it lay m the portmanteau before it waa taken out." On the voyage home the names of the ships are changed — and to be sure the Rich- ard, the Nasebij, and the Dunbar, wc^re not very fit to bear the royal flag — nor oven the Speaker or the Lambert. There is a long ac- count of the landing, and a still longer, of Lord Sandwich's investment with the Order of the Garter — but we do not find any thing of moment recorded, till we come to the condemnation and execution of the regicides — a pitiful and disgusting departure from the broad principle of amnesty, upon the basis of which alone any peaceful restoration could be contemplated, after so long and so une- quivocally national a suspension of royalty. It is disgusting to find, that Monk sate on the bench, while his companions in anns, Harri- son, Hacker, and Axtell, were arraigned for the treasons in which he and they had been associated. Our author records the whole transactions with the most perfect indiflfer- ence, and with .scarcely a remark — for ex- ample, " 13th. I went out to Charing Cross, to see Major-General Harrison hanged, drawn, and quar- tered ; which was done there ; he looking as cheer- fid .' as any man could do in that condition. — ISih. This mnrtiing, it being expected that Colonel Hacker and A.xtell should die, I went to Newgale, but found they were reprieved till to-morrow. — 19th. This morning my dining-room was finished with greene serge hanging and gilt lenihcr. which is very handsome. 1 his morning Hacker and A.xtell were hanged and quartered, as the rest are." He is, to be sure, a little troubled, as he expresses it, at the disinterring and gibbet- ting of Cromwell's dead and festering body — thinking it unfit that "a man of so great courage as he was, should have that dis- honour — though otherwise he might deserve it — enough!" He does not fail, however, to attend the rest of the executions, and to des- cribe them as spectacles of ordinary occur- rence — thus, " 10th. This morning, before we sat, I went to Aldgaie; and at the corner shop, a draper's, I stood, and did see Barkestead, Okey, and Corbet, drawne towards the gallows at Tiburnc; and there they were hanged and quartered. T/ity all looked veri/ chtirful ! but 1 hear they all die defending what they did to the King to be just; which is very strange !" " 14ih. About eleven o'clock, having a room got ready for us, we all went out to the Tower Hill ; and there, over again.st the scafTold, made on pur- pose this day, saw Sir Henry Vane brought. A very great press of people. He made a long .>^p< cell, many times inierrupied by the shcrifle ana others there; and they would have taken his paper out of his hand, but lie would not let it go. But they caused all the books of iho.se that writ after him lobe Hiven to the sherifTe ; and the trumpets were hrnught under the scaffold that he might not be heard. Then he prnyed. ;ird &o fii'ed him- self, and received the blow ; but the pcaffi.ld w.is so crowded liiai we could not see it done. He 192 HISTORY AND HISTORICAL MEMOIRS. fear him ; while here a prince, come in with al! thq A love and prayers and good liking of his people, who n have given greater signs of loyally and willingness ■ to serve him with their estates tlian ever was done by any people, hat/i losl all so soon, that it is a miracle that a man could devise to lose so much in so little time." The following particulars of the condition of the Protector's family are curious, and probably authentic. The conversation is in the end" of 1664. " In my way to Brampton in this day's journey I met with .Mr. While, Cromwell's chaplain that was, and had a great deal of discourse wiih him. Among others, he tells me that Richard is, and hath long been, in France, and is now going into Italy. He owns pubhckly, that he do correspond, and re- uirn him all his money. That Richard haih been in some straits in the beginning; but relieved by his friends. That he goes by another name but do not disguise himselT, iior deny himself lo any man that challenges him. He tells nte, for certain, that offers had been made to tlfold rnmi. of marriage between the ki/ii; and his daui^hler, to have obliged him — but he would not. He tiiinks ■with nie; ihat it never was in his power to bring in the King M-iih the consent of any of his officers about him ; and that he scorned to bring him in, as JSlonh did. to secure himself and deliver every hodtj else. When I told him o"f what I found writ ni a French book' of one Monsieur Sorbiere. that gives an account of I his observations here in England ; among otheij things he sap, that it is reported that CroinweDi did, in his lifetime, transpose many of the bodJeti of the kings of England tmm one grave to another ■ ■ 1 and that by that means it is not known cenaiiilyt '" whether the head that is now set upon a post be tha of Cromwell, or of one o( the kings : Mr. Whi'eiell; me that he believes he never had so poor a lov thought in him, to irouiile iiiinself about it. He sayi; the hand of God is mucli to be seen ; and that all hi children are in good condition enough as to estate^ and that their relations that betrayed ihcir family ar all now either hanged or very nnserablc." The most frequent and prolific topic in th lowing striking picture of the different temper : ^^.j^^j^ ^^^^^ „gxt perhaps to that ot dress, i and moral character of the old Republican i ,j^^ Ai^aey of the couit^)r what may fair! f^oUliers. as contrasted with those of the Roy- ^^ .lenominated court scandal. It would b alists— of the former he reports— j ei^jiegg. and not very edifying, to attempt an '• Let the King think what he will, it is them that thing like an abstract of the shameful iinmo must help him in the d.-.y ot warr. p-or generallv j ^]i^\^^ ^vhich this loyal author has record* '^^:^:S^fS:t:Z^L^::t.:t of the two royal brothers..and , he greater i^ Lord Sandwich, among other things, that of all the old army now you cannot see a man hegpina about the streets; but what? you shall have this capiain turned a shoemaker; this lieutenant a baker; this a had a blister, or issue, upon his neck, which he desired them not to kurt .' He changed not his colour or speech to the last, but died justifying himself and the cause he had stood lor ; and spoke verv confidently of his being presently at the riffhi hand of Christ; and m all things ap- peared the most resolved man that ever died in that manner." In spite of those rigorous measures, the author very soon gets disgusted with "the lewdness, beggary, and wastefulness," of the new coverimient — and after sagaciously re- marking, that •• I doubt our new Lords of the Councif do not mind things as the late ■powers did — but their pleasure or profit more,-- he proceeds to make the following striking re- marks on the ruinous policy, adopted on this, and many other restorations, of excluding the only men really acquainted with business, on the" score of their former opposition to the party in power. " From that we discoursed of the evil of put- ting out men of experience in business, and ot the coiidiiion of the King's party at present, who, as the Papists, though otherwise fine persons, yet being by law kept Tor these four-score years out of eirtplovment, they are now witolly imcapable ot business ; and so the Cavaliers, for twenty years, who for the most part have eiilicr given themselves over to look after country and family business, and those the best of them^ and the rest to debau- chery, &c. ; and that was it that hath made him hieh a^inst the late hill brought into the House for making all men incapable of employment that ! had served against the King. People, says the sea-service, it is impossible to do any thing without them, there being not more than three men of the whole King's side that are fit to com- mand almost ; and there were Capin. Allen. Smith, and Beech ; and it may be Holmes, and Utber ; and Batts might do someihing." In his account of another conversation with the same shrewd observer, he gives the fol- brewer; that a haberdasher ; this common soldier a porter : and every man in his apron and frock, &.c. as if ihey never had done any thing elsr : Whereas the oihe'r go with their belts and swords, swearing and cursing, and sleali/ig; running into people's houses, by force olientimes, to carry tway some- thing ; ani this is the difference between the temper (>f one and the other; and concludes (and I liiink with some reason), that the spirits of the old Par- liament soldiers are so quie: and contented wiih riod's providence, that the King is safer from any evil meant him by them, one thousand times more than from his own discontented Cavaliers. And then 10 the publick manaoiement of business ; it is done, as he i>b.«crves, so loosely and so carelessly, that ihe kinirdom can never be happv with it, every man looking alter hiniseh'. and li s own lusl and luxury." The following is also vf ry rt-markable. " Ii is strange bnw pverv boilv now-a-days do nflict ujHtn Oliver, and roiuiuciuJ tiiw ; what brave tliiii^^s he did, and made all the inighl>our princes of their favourites — at the same time, th; they occupy so great a part of thi- work, tli; we cannot well give an account of it withoi some notice of them. The reader will pr bably be satisfied with the following speC: mens, taken almost at random. •' In the Privy Garden saw the tinesi smocks a' linen petticoats of my Lady Ctisiloniaine's, laci with rich lace at the bottom, that ever I saw ; a' did me good lo look at them. Sarah told me how I ' King dined at my Lady Casilemaine's, and .-iuppii every day and night the last week ; and that i' night that the bonfires were made lor joy ot r] Quernc's arrivall, the King was there. But ihi was no fire at her door, though at all the rest ofl, doors almost in the street ; which was much t served : and that the King and she did send foj pair of scales, and velghed one rnoiher: and s!j beins with child, was said to be heaviest" •'.Mr. Pickering telis nie the .^^^ry is very t> of a child being dropped at •lie ball at Cnnri ; J that the King had it in his closet a wt-ek al'er. t did dissect i\; and making L'rcni sjwri "1 it. sa'd i in his opinion it must have been a inoiiih and tli ' hourcs old; and that, wlui'evtr odiers ihiiik.' hath the greaicst loss ^it being a boy. as be w;. MEMOIRS OF SAMUEL PEPYS. 193 that hath lost a subject by the business."" — ' He told me also how loose the Court is, nobody look- ing after business, hut every man his lust and gain; and how the King is now become so besotted upon ."Mrs. Stewart, that he gets into corners, and will be with her half an hour to£;eihcr kissing her 10 the observation of all the world ; and she now stays by herself and e.xpects it as my Lady Castle- maine did use to do ; to whom the King, he says, is still kind." &.c. " Coming to St. James, I hear that the Queene did sleep live hours pretty well to-night. The King they all say, is most fondly disconsolate for her, tind weeps by her, which makes her weep ; which jne this day told nie he reckons a good sign, for :hai it carries away some rheum from the head ! She tells us that the Queenc's sickness is the spotted ever ; that she was as full of the spots as a leopard : .vhicli is very strange that it should be no more ;no%vn; but perhaps it is not so. And that the \ing do seem to take it much to heart, for that he lath wept before her; but for all that, he hath 7iot uissed one iii^kt, since she was sick, ol supping ■viih my Lady Castleinaine ! which I believe is lue, for she says that her husband hath dressed the suppers every night; and I confess I saw him my- self coming through the street dressing up a great •upper to-night, which Sarah says is also for the ving and her; whicii is a very strange thing." ■ " Pierce do tell me, among other news, the late irolick and debauchery of Sir Charles Sedley and :5uckhurst running up and down all the night, al- uost naked, through the streets ; and at last fight- ig, and being beat by the watch and clapped up 11 night ; and how the King takes their parts ; and ly Lord Chief Justice Ke<'Iing linth laid the con- table by the luels to answer it ne.xt sessidiis; .. hich is a horrid shame. Also how the King and lese gentlemen did make the tiddlers of ThetforH, iiis last progress, to sing them all the obscene ifpgs they could think of. That the King was irunk at Saxam with Sedley, Buckhurst, iScc. the jght that my L Pepvs' official labours can alone be appreciate and we even find in the Diary, as early us lb. that a long letter of regulation, produced Letore commissioners of the navy by the Duke of \o as his oxon composition, was entirely wriiieii by . clerk of the acts."— (I. xxx.) We do not know whether the citations 1 have now made from these curious and m miscellaneous volumes, will enable otrr read , ' to form a just estimate of their value. J^^ we fear that, at all events, we cannot now^ dul"-e them in any considerable addition ' then number. There is a long account the "-reat lire, and the great sickntss in U and a still loiiger one of the insultirg adv. of the Dutch fleet to Chatham ni 166. - well as of our ab>uid settlement at Tang, and of various naval actions during the pc-i i to which the Diary extends. But, thougW these contain much curious matter we e not ttmpted to make any extracts : Both .•■ cause the accounts, being given in the^bro a and minute way which belongs to the Ln of a Diarv. do not aflord many ^trikinf'r summary 'passages, and because ^hat is i^ in them, is not for the most part ot any g '« iinportance. The public besides has n latelv prettvmuch satiated with detail, n mcst-of tho-.e subjects iir the cor.tcrnpo.y work of Evelyn,— of which we shall only li MEMOIRS OF SA:\1UEL PEI i'S. »95 that though its av\thor was indisputably more of a gentleman, a scholar, and a man of taste than our actuary, it is far inferior both in in- terest, curiosity, and substantial instruction, to that which we are now considt>ring. The two authors, however, we are happy to lind, were great friends : and no name is mentioneu in the latter part of the Diary with more uni- form respect and aflection than that of Kvelyn — though it is very edifying to see how the shrewd; practical sagucity of the man of busi- ness; revenges itself on the assumed supe- riority of the philosopher and man of letters. In tills respect we think there is a fine keep- ing of character iu iiie sincerity of the fol- lowing passage — " By water ti) Deptford, aiul there »iad(> u visit to Mr. Evelyn, wlio. ainon;; otlier thini'.'!, showed me most excellem paiiiiins: in little ; in di,«iempcr, Indian iiicUe, water colours: graveing; and above all. the whole niezzo-tinio, and the manner of it, which is very pretty, and sjood tilings done with it. , He read to me very much also ot' his discourse, he hath been many years and now is about, about Gardenase ; which is a most noble and pleasant ■ piece. He read me part of a play or two of his I own making — veri/ good, hut. not as he conceifs them. I think, to be. He showed me his flortus Hyemalis ; leaves laid up in a book of several plants kept dry. which preserve colour, however, and ilook very finely, better than an herball. In fine a iniost excellent person he is, — and rniist be allowed (rt little for a little eonceitcdnexs.; but he may well ibe so, being a man so much above others. He read bne, though with too much gu!om v.-hich they all in- ferred, that he was either to die or to suffer greatly, from a wound in that place. To their surprise, however, he died of some other in- Hiction, and the seers were getting out of repu- tation ; when luckily a fray arose at the fune- ral, and an arrow was shot fairly through the thigh of (lie dead man, in the very spot where the vision had shown it ! On another occa- sion, Lord Reay'e gitij.tifathM was told that circulation in the re gn of Charles II. Rea ing this book, in short, .seems to ns to be ([ui as good as living with ]\lr. Samuel Pepys ' his proper person. — and though the coi scandal may be detailed with more grace ai' vivacity in the Memoires de Giammont, \j have no doubt but even this part of his niul farious subject is treated with far great' fidelity and fairness in the work before us- while it gives us more clear and undistortj alimpses into the true English life of t' times — for the court was substantially foreii — than all the other memorials of them ]; toirether, that have come down to our own ' The book is rather too dear and magn/ cent. Put the editor's task we think exc- lently performed. The ample text is i incumbered with ostentatious commentari'. But very brief and useful notices are suppll of almost all the individuals who are m,' tioned ; and an admirable and very min,' index is subjoined, which methodises the • mense miscellany — and places tlie vast chi* at our disposal. ; FOX"S REIGN OF JAMES THE SECOND. 197 (j?uln. ISOS A Hiaionj of the early Part of the /JczVh of Jamex the f^ecand : v'lth rt?i Introductory Chapter. Bv the Ri^ht Honourable Charkks James Fox. To whiih is. aildtxi an Appeiulix. 4ti). pp. 340. Miller, London : 1808. iini If it be true that high expectation is almost always followed by disappointment, it is scarcely possible that the reailers of Mr. Fox"s history should not be disappointed. So great a statesman certainly has not appeared as an author since the time of Lord Clarendon ; and. independent of the great space w hich he fills in the recent history of this country, and the admitted splendour of his general talents, — his known zeal for liberty, the fame of his eloquence, and his habitual study of every thing relating to the constitution, concurred to direct an extraordinary degree of attention to the work upon which he was known to be engaged, and to fix a standard of unattainable excellence for the trial of his first acknowl- .edged production. The very circumstance of his not having published any considerable work during his life, and of his having died before bringing this to a conclusion, served to .ncrease the general curiosity: and to accu- nulate upon this single fragment the interest pf his whole literary e.vistence. No human production, we suppose, could pear to be tried by such a test : and those who it down to the perusal of the work before us, ider the influence of such impressions, are .'erj' likely to rise disappointed. With those, ': jiowever, who are at all on their guard against {he delusive eflect of these natural emotions, jhe result, we venture to predict, will be dif- erent : and for ourselves, we are happy to ,' ay, that we have not been disappointed at I III ; but, on the contrary, very greatly moved ^ nd delighted with the greater part of this " angular volume. ': We do not think it has any great value as a istory : nor is it very admirable as a piece f composition. It comprehends too short a eriod, and includes too few events, to add luch to our knowledge of facts ; and abounds )0 httle with splendid passages to lay much old on the imagination. The reflections •hich it contains, too, are generally more re- larkable for their truth and simplicity, than If any great fineness or apparent profundity " thinking: and many opportunities are ne- lected, or rather purposely declined, of en- ring into large and general speculations. otvvithstanding all this, the work, we tliink, invaluable; not onlv as a memorial of the gh principles and gentle dispositions of its lUstrious author, but as a record of those Wiments of true Engli.sh constitutional in- pendence, which seem to have been nearly rgotten in the bitterness and hazards of our ore recent contentions. It is delightful as e picture of a character: and most instruct- e and oj)portnne as a remembrancer of pub- ; duties : And we must be permitted to say ord or two upon each of these subjects. To tho.'ie who know Mr. Fox only by the great outlines of his public history, — who know merely that he passed from the dissi- I pations of too gay a \oulh iiUo the tumults I and cabals of a political life. — and that his I days were spent in contending about public ' measures, and in guidiniror averting the tem- pests of faction. — the spirit of indulgent and tender feeling which pervades this book must j appear very unaccountable. Those who live much in the world, even in a private station, I commonly have their hearts a little hardened, and their moral sensibility a little impaired. , But statesmen and practical politicians ar«, ] with justice, suspected of a still greater forget- fulness of mild impressions and honourable scruples. Coming necessarily into contact with great vices and oireat suflerin.gs, they must gradually lose some of their horror for the first, and nmch of their compassion for the last. Constantly engaged in contention, ; they cease pretty generally to regard any hu- i man beings as objects of sympath}- or disin- terested attachment : and. mixing much with the most corrupt part of mankind, naturall)' ! come to regard the species itself with indif- ference, if not with contempt. All the softer feelings are apt to be v orn off in the rough conflicts of factious ho.'-tility : and all the finer moralities to he efl'aced. by the constant con- templation of expediency, and the necessities of occasional compliance. Such is the common conception which we form of men who have lived the life of Mr. Fox; and such, in spile of the testimony of partial friends, is the impression which most i-privnte persons would have retained of him, if this volume had not come to convey a truer and a more engaging picture to the world at large, and to posterity. By far the most remarkable thing, then, in this' book, is the tone of indnlirence and un- feigned philanthropy which prevails in every part of it : — a most amiable sensibility to all the kind and domestic affections, and a sort of softheartedness towards the sufferings of individuals, which seems hitherto to have been thought incompatible with the stern dig- nity of historv. It cannot but strike us with something still more pleasing than surprise, to meet with traits of almost feminine tender- ness in the sentiments of this veteran states- man ; and a general character of charity towards all men, not only remote from the - rancour of vulgar hostility, but purified in a great degree from the asperities of party con- tention. He expres.ses indeed, throughout, a high-minded contempt for what is base, and a thorough detestation for what is cruel : But , yet is constantly led. by a sort of generous I prejudice in favour of human nature, to admit R 2 198 HISTORY AND HISTORICAL MEMOIRS. from their ancestors in the clays of the Revolu- tion. In the same circumstances, we are per- all possible palliations for the conduct of the individual delinquent, and never attempts to shut him out from the benefit of those natural fortune or situation. He nas <^iven a suaded, they would have acted with the same spirit; — nay, in consequence of the more new character, we think, to liistory, by this soft and condescending concern lor the leehngs of individuals ; and not only left a splendid record of the gentleness and affectionate sim- plicity of his own dispositions, but set an ex- ample by which we hope that men of genius gence, we believe they would have been still more 'zealous and more unanimous in tht cause of liberty. But we have of late been e.vposed to the operation of various causes which have tendetl to lull our vigilance, anc relax our exertions ; and which threaten, un^ less powerfully counteracted, to bring on o-iadually. such a aeneial indifference am; structions more ,_ _ „ Nothing, we are persuaded, can be more o-ratifying to his friends, than the impression of his character which this work will carry down to posterity ; nor is it a matter of indif- ference to the country, that its most illustrious statesman should be yet more distingTiished for the amiableness of his private afiections. This softness of feeling is the first remark- able thing in the work before us. The second is perhaps of more general importance. It is, that it contains the only appeal to the old principles of English constitutional freedom, and the only expression of those firm and temperate sentiments of independence, wliich are the peculiar produce, and natural protec- tion of our mixed government, which we recol- lect to have met with for very many years. The tone of the work, in this respect, recalls us to feelings which seem of late to have slumbered in the country wliich they used to inspire. In our indolent reliance upon the imperishable virtue of our constitution, and in our busy pursuit of wealth, we appeared to be forgettinc our higher vocation of free citi- zens ; and, in our dread of revolution or foreign invasion, to have lost sight of those intestine dangers to which our liberties are always more immediately exposed. The history of the Revolution of 1688, and of the times im- mediately preceding, was eminently calculated to revive those feelings, and restore those impressions, which so many causes had in our days conspired to obhterate ; and, in the hands of Mr. Fox, could scarcely have failed to produce a very powerful effect. On this account, it must be matter of the deepest re- gret that he was not permitted to finish, or fndeed to do more than begin, that inspiring narrative. Even in the little which he has done, however, we discover the spirit of the master: Even in the broken prelude which he has here sounded, the true notes are struck with such force and distinctness, and are in themselves so much in unison with the natu- ral chords of every British heart, that we think no slight vibration will be excited throughout the country ; and would willingly lend our assistance to propagate it into every part of the empire. In order to explain more fully the reasons for which we .set so high a value upon the work before us on this particular ac- count, we must be allowed to enlarge a little uixin the evil which we think it calculated to correct. We do not think the present generation of our couutr>-men substantially degenerated prepare the people for any tolerably mil«I form of servitude which their future ruler' may be tempted to impose upon them. The first, and the principal of these causes, however paradoxical it may seem, is the at tual excellence of our laAvs. and the suppose inviolability of the constitution. The secon is. the great increase of luxury, and the tnj m'endous patronage of the government. Th' last is, the impression made and mahitaine by the events of the French Revolution. "W; shall say but a word upon each of -these pr; lific themes of speculation. j Because our ancestors stipulated AA-iselyf, the public at the Revolution, it seemed ' have become a common opinion, that nothii was left to their posterity but to puisne th(j private interest. The machine of Govei, ment was then completed and set agonif , and it will go on without their interferen(|, Nobody talks now of the divine right, or t!, dispensing power of kings, or ventures to pj, pose to govern without Parliaments, or > levy taxes without their authority ;— the j) fore, our liberties are secure ;— and it is oi't factious or ambitious people that affect ajS jealousy of the executive. Things go on \t^ smoothly as they are _; and it can never j>; the interest of ariy party in power, to attent any thing very oppressive or injurious to ! public. By such reasonings, men excuse ft r abandonment of all concern for the comr • nity, and find, in the very excellence of 1 constitution, an apology for exposing it to (f, ruption. It is obvious, however, that libe-A like love, is as hard to keep as to win; :| that the exertions by which it was ongin;| gained will be worse than fruitles.s, if thei not followed up by the assiduities by w| alone it can be preserved. Wherever Uj is power, we may be sure that there isj will be, a disposition to increase it; ancf there be not a constant spirit of jealousy of resistance on the part of the people, evy monarchy will gradually harden into a jS- potism. it will not, indeed, wantonly proyi or alarm, by seeking again to occupy tlf, very positions from which it had once lj|> di.slodged: but it will extend itself in c{^ cpiarttns; and march on silently, underilP colours of a venal popularity. _ i This indolent reliance on the sufficiency the constitution for its own preservatioi;.| fords great facilities, no doubt, to those ' may be tempted to project its destruc'l but the efficient means are to be found chn FOX'S BEIGX OF JAMES THE SECOND. in the prevailing manners of the people, and ,the monstrous patroiiaire of the poveniment. ilt can admit of no doubt, wc suppose, that [trade, which has made us rich, has made us (Still more luxurious; and that the increased [necessity of expense, has in general outgone jthe means of supplying it. Almost every in- [dividual now finds it more difficult to live on ;a level Avith his equals, than he ditl when all were poorer ; almost every man, therefore, is needy ; and he who is both needy and luxu- rious, holds his independence on a very jire- Jcarious' tenure. Govenunent, on the other iiand, has the disposal of nearly twenty mil- lions per annum, and the power of nominating io two or three hundred thousand posts or places of emolument : — the whole population [of the country amounting (1808) to less than [five millions of grown men. Theconsetinenee [is, that, beyond the rank of ravre labourers. [there is scarcely one man out of three who [does not hold or hojx? for some appointment [or promotion from government, and is not Iponsequ'^ntly disposed to go all ho7iest lengths in- recommending himself to its favour. This, lit must be admitted, is a -situation which [justifies some alarm for the liberties of the toeople ; and, when taken together with that general indifference to the ])ublic which has been a'ready noticed, accounts sufficiently for :hat habit of presuming in favour of all exer- "ions of authority, and ag-ainst all popular piscontent or interference, w'hich is so re- markably the characteristic of the present leiieration. From this passive desertion of he people, it is but one step to abet and de- end the actual oppressions of their rulers: ,ind men, otherwise conscientious, we are fraid. too often impose upon themselves by j better reasonmgs than the followinriod of transition. If ambition and great activity therefore be not necessary to our happiness, we shall do wisely to occupy ourselves with the many innocent and pleasant pursuits that are allowed under all governments: instead of spreading tumult and discontent, by endeavonring to realize some jiolitical conceit of our own iniajgination. J\lr. 1-fnme. we are afraid, is cliietly responsi- ble for the prevalence of this Kpiciuean and ignoble strain of sentiment in this country. — an author iVom m liose disjiositions and under- sta'nding. a very ditlerent doctrine might have been anticipated.* But, under whatever au- thority it is maintained, we have no scruple in saying, that it seems to us as obviously false as it is pernicious. We need not apj)eal to Turkey or to Russia to prove, that neither liberal nor even g-ainful pursuits can be car- ried on with advantage, where there is no political freedom : For, even laving out of view the utter impossibilily of securing the persons and properties of individuals in any other way, it is certain that the con.sciousness of independence is a great enjoyment in ilself, and that, without it." all the powers of the mind, and all the capacities of happiness, are gradually blunted and d(>slroyed. It is like the privation of air and exercise, or the emas- culation of the body: — which, thoueh they may appear at first to conduce to tranquillity and indolent enjoyment, never fail to enfeeble the whole frame, and to produce a state of oppressive languor and debility, in com|iari- son with wliich even wounds and fatigue would be delicious. To counteract all these enervating and de- pressing causes, we had. no doubt, the increas- ing opulence of the lower and middling orders of the people, naturally leading them to aspire to greater independence, and improvini: their education and general intelligence. And thus, public opinion, which is in all countries the great operating check upon authority, had become more extensive and more enlightened; and might perhaps have been found a suffi- * Few things seem more iinnccoiintable. and in- deed absurd, than that Hume should have taken part with iiifrh-churcli and hish-monarcliy men. Tlie perscruiions which he suflured in his youth Irom thp Presbyterians, may perha|)s have iiitlu- cnced his ecclosiasiical pariialitios. But that he should have ^^idcd with the Tudors and liie Stuarts aL'aiiist the people, seems fpiiie inconsisient with ail ihe wreat traits ot his rhararier. His unrivalled sanacity nuist have looked wiih contempt on the preposterous arguments by which tlie jus divinum was maintained. His natural benevolence nmst have suggested the cruelty of sul)jeciing the enjoy- menls of thousands to the caprice of one unfeeling individual ; and his own practical independence in private life, might have taught him the value of ihnse leelings which he has so mischievously de- rided. Mr. Fox seems to have been struck with the same surprise at this strange trait in the charac- ter of our philr)S(ipher. In a Uller to Mr. [-ainrr. lie says, " He was an excellent man, and o( great powers of mind; but his partiality to kmcs and princes is intolerable: nay, it is, in my opinion, quite ridiculous; and is more like the foolish ad- miration which women and children soineiimes have for kings, than the opinion, right or wrong, of a philosopher." HISTORY AND HISTORICAL MEMOIRS. cient corrective of all our other corruptions, had things gone on around us in their usual and accustomed channels. Unfortmiately, however, the French Revolution came, to as- tonish and appal the world ; and. originating with the people, not only subverted thrones and establishments, but made such havoc on the lives and properties and principles of in- dividuals, as very naturally to e.xcite the horror and alarm of all whose condition was not al- ready intolerable. This alarm, in so far as it related to this country, was always e.vcessive, and in a great degree unreasonable : Buf it was impossible perhaps altogether to escape it : and the consequences have been incalcu- lably injurious to the interests of practical liberty. During the raging of that war which Jacobinism in its most disgusting form carried on against rank and royalty, it was natural for those who apprehended the possibility of a similar conflict at home, to fortify those orders with all that reason and even prejudice could supply for their security, and to lay aside for the time those jealousies and hereditary grudges, upon which, in better days, it was their duty to envp of liieratur] .Tnd fondness for poetry, which neiilipr plea.=iiri' n ; biKsiiiess hni) ever extineiiished. revivctl with .'^ ardour. ?urh as few, in ihe eagerness of yoiiih , in pursuit of fame or advaniHge. are rapnhle feelinff. f^nr some time, however, his .sriidies wp< not direeted to any particular objeel. ^'uch wdf ' happy disposition of his mind, that liis own ti'C.ci tions. whether supplied by conversation, desidio readin£r, or the common occurrences of a hf*' in 1 1 country, were always sniTicient to call forih li viiTOur and exertion of his faculties. Interconr; with the world had so little deadened in him t sense of the simplest enjoyments, that even in i ' hours of apparent leisure and inactivity, he retain; that keen relish of existence, which, after ihefi' impressions of life, is .so rarely excited but by gn, interests and strong passions. Hence it was, tl FOXS REIGN OF JAMES ILK SECOND. 201 1 the interval between his active attendance in par- amenr, and the undenaking of his History, he ever telt the tedium ot' a vacant day. A verse in ;Owper, which he frequently repealed, 'How Tarious his employments whom tlie world I Calls idle :' as an accurate description of the hfe lie was then ading ; and I am persuaded, that if he had con- ilted his own gratifications only, it would have Hitinued to be so. The circumstances which led m once more to take an aciive part in public dis- issions, are foreign to tiie purposes of this preface. . is sufficient to rfinark, liiat they could not be reseen, and that his notion of engaging; iu some erary undertaking was adopted during his retwe- ent, and with the prospect of long and uninter- pted leisure before him." — p. iii. iv. He seems to have fixed finally on the his- |ry of the Revolution, about the year 1799; iit even alter the \vork was bei^un, he not [ily dedicated large portions of his time to i.e study of Greek literature, and poetry in [siieral. but meditated and announced to his iirrespon dents a great variety of publications, ;x)n a very wide range of subjects. Among ese were, an edition of Dryden — a Defence i Racine and of the French Stage — an Essay j. the Beauties of Euripides — a Disquisition |)on Hume's History — and an Essay or Dia- [jue on Poetry, History, and Oratory. In |;02, the greater part of the work, as it now [inds, was fijiished ; but the author wished . consult the papers in the Scotch College, ;|.d the Depot des Affaires ctrangeres at Paris, ;d took the opportunity of the peace to paj- iivisit to that capital accordingly. After his turn, he made some additions to his chap- :r8; but being soon after recalled to the nties of public life, he never afterwards md leisure to go on with the work to w hich • had dedicated himself with so much zeal i d assiduity. What he did write was finished, Iwever, for the most part, with very great tre. He wrote very slow : and was extremely }'tidious in the choice of his expressions; Iding pedantry and alTectation, however, in Ij- greater horror than carelessness or rough- ips. Hecommonly wrote detached sentences « slips of paper, aiid afterwards dictated them (' to Mrs. Fox, who copied them into the ijok from which the present volume has been IMited without the alteration of a single syl- jThe only other part of Lord Holland's state- ihit, to which we think it necessary to call t|i attention of the reader, is that hi which li thinks it necessary to explain the peculiar litions which Mr. Fox entertained on the ject of historical composition, and the very id laws to which he had subjected himself !the execution of his important task. {' It is ilierefcjre necessary to observe, that he had fined his plan so exclusively on ihe model of an- C|nt writers, that he not only felt some repusnunce Ifhe modern practice of notes, but he thouiihi that a, which an his orian wished to say. should be in- tlduoed as pari of a continued narration, and never aVme the appearance of a digression, much less qa dissertation annexed to it. From the period, tirefore, that he closed his Introductory Chapter, tdefined his duty as an author, to consist in re- cknting the facts as they arose ; or in his simple all forcihle language, in telling the story of those limes. A conver.'iation which passed on the sub- ject of the literature of the age of James the .Se- cond, proves his rigid adherence to llieso ideas; and perhaps the substance of it may serve to illus- irtiie and explain them. In .speakinir of liio writers of (hat period, he lamenled that he had not devist'd a meihod of iiiierweaving any iircounl ol them or their works, n)uci) less any criiicwm on their style, into his history. l)n my suggeBiinc the example of Hume and Voliaim, who liad discussed such topics at some length, either at the end of each reign, or in a separate chapter, he observed, with niucii commendaiion ol their e.\eciilion ol it, that such a contrivance migiit be a good mode of writing criiical essays, but that it was, in his opinion, in- compatible with the nature of his undertaking, which, if it ceased to be a narraiive. ceased to be a history." — p. xxxvi. xxxvii. Now, we must be permitted to say. tnat this is a view of the nature of hi.story, which, in so far as it is intelligible, appears to be very narrow and erroneous: and which s«>ems, like all such partial views, to havf been so little adhered to by the tiuthor him.selt". as only to exclude many excellences, without at- tainiimthe praise even of consistency in error. The object of history, we conceive, is to give us a clear narrative of the transactions of piist ages, with a view of the character and condi- tion of those who were concerned in them, and such reasonings and rellections as may be necessary to explain their connection, or natural on reviewing their results. That some account of the authors of a literary age should have a place in such a composition, seems to follow upon two considerations : first, because it is unquestionably one object of history to give us a distinct view of the state and condition of the age and people with whose affairs it is occupied : and nothina can .serve so well to illustrate their true stale and condition as a correct estimate and description of the great authors they produced : and. secondly, be- cause the fact that such and such authors did flourish in such a period, and were ingenious and elegant, or rude and ignorant, are facts which are interesting in themselves', and may be made the object of narrative just as pro- perly as that stich and such princes or minis- tersdid flourish at the same time, and were ambitious or slothful, tyrannical or friends to liberty. Political eveiits are not the only events which are recorded even in ancient history: and, now when it is generally ad- mitted, that even political events cannot be fully understood or accounted for without taking into view the prectHiing and concomi- tant changes in manners, liteniture, com- merce, &c. it cannot fail to appear surprising, that an author of such a compass of mind as beloiiL'ed to Mr. Fox, should have thoui.dit of confining him.self to the mere chionicling of wars or factions, and held himself excluded, bv the laws of hisforictd compo.nilion, from touching upon topics so iiiiich more interest- ing. Th(! truth i.s, howev(>r, that Mr. Fox has by no means adhered to this plan of merely " telling the story of the times" of which he treats. On the cnjitrary, he is more full of argument, and what is i)rn|v»rly called rellec- tion, than most modern historians with whom 202 HISTORY AND HISTORICAL MEMOIRS. we are acquainted. His argument, to be sure, is chiefly directed to ascertain the truth of reputed facts, or the motives of ambiguous actions ; and his reflections; however just and natural, may commonly be considered as re- dundant, with a view to mere iiifonuation. Of another kind of reasoning, indeed, he is more sparing ; though of a kind far more valu- able, and, in our apprehension, far more es- sential to the true perfection of history. We allude now to those general views of the causes. which influence iho character and dis- position of the people at laiire ; and which, as they vary from age to age, bring a greater or a smaller jwrt of the nation into contact with its government, and ultimately produce the success or failure of every scheme of tyranny or freedom. The more this subject is medi- tated, the more certain, we are persuaded, it will appear, that all permanent and important occurrences in the internal history of a coun- tr}-. are the result of those changes in the general character of its population ; and that kings and ministers are neces.sarily guided in their projects by a feeling of the tendencies of this varying character, and fail or succeed, exactly as they had judged correctly or erro- neously of its condition. To trace the causes and the modes of its variation, is therefore to describe the true sources of events : and. merely to narrate the occurrences to which it gave rise, is to recite a history of actions with- out intelligible motives, and of effects without assignable causes. It is true, no doubt, that political events operate in their turn on that national character by which they are previ- ously motilded and controuled : But they are very far, indeed, from being the chief agents in its formation ; and the history of those very events is necessarily imperfect, as well as uninstructive, if the consideration of those other agents is omitted. They consist of every thing which affects the character of individuals : — manners, education, prevailing occupations, religion, taste, — and, above all. the distribution of wealth, and the state of prejudice and opinions. It is the more to be regretted, that such a mind as Mr. Fox's should have been bound up from such a subject by the shackles of an idle theory ; because the perio of fearh'ss integrity and natural mild- ness, which we have already noticetl us characteristic of this performance. "The execution of the King, ttioiigh a Inr loss violent measure ihnn ilmt ot Lord Sirnfl'ord, is nn event of so siiiguinr n niiiure, iliui wi; cannot wonder that it slioukl have ixeiiid more .sfn.-iatiua than any other in the annals of England. This e.x- eniplary aet of suhsianiia! justice, as it has been called hy some, of enormous wickedness by others, must be considered in two points of view. First, was it not in itself just and necessary ! Secondly, was the e.vainple ol it likely to be salu'ary or per- nicious ? In regard to the first of liuse rjueations, Mr. Hume, not perhaps intentionally, makes tite best juslifieation of it, liy.inying. that while Charles lived, the projected Republic could never be secure. But to justify taking away the life of an individual, upon the principle of self-defence, tlie danger niiis'. be, not problematical .and remote, but evident and innnediate. The danger in this instance was not of such a nature; and the imprisonment, or even banishment of Charles, might have given to the republic such a decree of security as any govern- ment ought to be contein wiiii. It must be con- fessed, however, on the other side, liiat if tiie re- publican govenmient had sufiered the King to escape, it would have been an act of justice and genero.sity wholly unexampled ; and to have granted him even his life, would have been one among the more rare efforts of virtue. The siiort interval between the deposal and death of princes is become proverbial ; and though there may be some few examples on the oilier side, as far as life is concerned, I doubt whether a single in- stance can be found, where liberty has been granted to a deposed monarch. Among the modes of destroying persons in such a situation, there can be little doubt but that adopted by Cromwell and his adherents is the least dis- honourable. Edward the Second, Richard the Second, Henry the Sixth, Edward the Fifth, had none of them long survived their deposal ; but this was the firsi instance, in our history at least, i where, of such an act, it could be truly said, that it was not done in a corner. " As to the second question, whether the advan- tnse to be derived from the example was such as to justify an act of such violence, it appears to me to be a complete solution of it to observe, that with respect to England (and I know not upon what ground we are to set examples for other nations, or. in other words, to lake the criminal justice of the world into our hands), it was wholly needless, aiid iherHl'ore unjustifiable. u> set one lor kings, at a time when it was intended the office of king should be abolished, niul consequently that no [ler- son should be in the situation to make it the rule of his conduct. Besides, the miser es attendant upon a deposed monarch, seem to be sufTic-ieni to deter any prince, who thinks of eorisequences, from running the risk of being placed in such a situa- tion : or if death be the only evil that can deter him, the fate of former tyrants deposed 1)V their subjects, would by no means eni-(uirHg'' nim to hope he could avoid even thai caiHsiroi)he. As far as we can judge from the event, the example was certainly not verv rfTectual; since both the sons of Charles, though having their father's fate before their eyes, vet fearer! tiot to violate the lib- erties of the people even more than ho had at- tempted to do. " After all, however. notwiihsiandinK what the more rcaeonable pan of mankind n»ay think upon 204 HISTORY AND HISTORICAL MEMOIRS. this question, it is much to be doub'ed whether this singular proceeding has not. as much as any other circumstance, served to raise the character of the English nation in the opinion of Europe in general: He who has read, and siill more he who has heard in conversation, discussions upon this subject, by foreigners, must have perceived, that, even in the nunds ol those who condemn the act. the impression made by it has been far more that of respect and admiration, than that of disgust and horror. The truth is, that the guilt of the action, that is to say, the taking away the life of the King, is what most men in the place of Cromwell and his associates would have incurred. What there is of splendour and of magnanimity in it, I mean the publicity and solemnity of the act, is what few would be capable of displaying. It is a degrading fact to human nature, that even the sending away of the Duke of Gloucester was an instance of generosity almost unexampled in the history of transactions of this nature." — pp. 13 — 17. Under the Protector, of whom he speaks with singular candour, the government was absolute — and. on his death, fell whollj- into the hands of the army. He speaks with con- tempt and severe censure of ^lonk for the precipitate and unconditional submission into which he hurried the country at the Restora- tion : and makes the following candid reflec- tion on the subsequent punishment of the regicides. " With respect to the execution of those who were accused of having been more immediately con- cerned in the King's death, that of Scrope, who had come in upon the proclamation, and of the military ofScers who had attended the trial, was a violation of every principle of law and justice. But the fate of the others, though highly dishonourable to Monk, whose whole power had arisen from his zeal in their service, and the favour and confidence with which they had rewarded him, and not per- haps very creditable to the nation, of w hich many had applauded, more had supported, and almost all had acquiest-ed in the act. is not certainly to be im- puted as a crime to the King, or to those ot his ad- visers who were of the Cavalier party. The pas- I sion of revenge, though properly condemned both i by philoso()hy and religion, yet when it is excited | by injurious treatment of persons justly dear to us. is among the most excusable oi human Irailiies ; and if Charles, in his general conduct, bad shown stronger feelings of gratitude for services performed to his father, his character, in the eyes of many, would be rather raised than lowered by this example of severity against the regicides." — pp. 22. 23. The mean and unprincipled submission of Charles to Louis XIV., and the profligate pre- tences upon which he was peipetnally solicit- ing an increase of his disgraceful stipend, are mentioned with becoming reprobation. The delusion of the Popish plot is noticed at ."^ome length; and some admirable remarks are in- troduced with reference to the debates on the expediency of passing a bill for excluding the Duke of York from the Crown, or of imposing certain restrictions on him in the event of his succession. The following observations are distinguished for their soundness, as well as their acuteness : and are applicable, in prin- ciple, to every period of our history in which it can be necessary to recur to the true prin- ciples of the constitution. " It is not easy to conceive upon what principles even the Tories could justify their support of tlie restrictions. Many among them, no doubt, saw the provisions in the same light in which the Whigs represented them, as an expedient, admirably in-. deed adapted to the real object of upholding the present king's power, by the defeat of ihe exclu- sion, but never likely to take effect for their pre- tended purpose of controuling that of his successor; and supported them for that very reason. But such a principle of conduct was too fraudulent to be avowed ; nor ought it perhaps, in candour, to he imputed to the majority of the party. To those who acted with good faith, and meant that the re-- strictions should really lake place, and be effectual;! surely it ought to have occurred (and to those whd most prized the prerogatives of the crown, it ought most forcibly to have occurred), that, in consenting to curtail the powers of the crown, rather than tn alter the succession, they were adopting the greater, in order to avoid the lesser evil. The qiiesiion of,i what are to be the powers of the crown ? is surely' of superior importance to that of, who shall wearitV Those, at least, who consider the royal prerosaiivf as vested in the king, not for his own sake, but foi that of his subjects, must consider the one of these questions as much above the other in dignity, as the rights of the public are more valuable than thos* of an individual. In this view, the prerogatives oj the crown arefn substance and effect the rights «/« the people : and these rights of Ihe people were notw he sacrificed to the purpose of preserving the succe$i sio7i to the most favoured prince, much less to on*} who. on account of his religious persuasion, vvai' justly feared and suspected. In truth, the ques' tion between the exclusion and restrictions seem peculiarly calculated to ascertain the diff(?rent view in which the different parties in this country havi seen, and perhaps ever will see, the prerogative ot the crown. The Whigs, who consider them a a trust for the people, a doctrine which the Torie themselves, when pushed in argument, will some times admit, naturally think it their duty rather t change the manager ot the trust, than to impair th subject of it : while others, who consider them a the right or property of the king, will as naturall act as they would do in the case of any other prop erty, and consent to the loss or annihilation of an part of it, for the purpose of preserving the remair der to him, whom they style the rightful owne If the people be the sovereign, and the king th delegate, it is better to change the bailiff" than t injure the farm ; but if the king be the proprietoi it is better the farm should be impaired, nay, pai of it destroyed, than that the whole should pa< over to an usurjier. The royal prerogative ough according to the Whigs (not in the case of a Popis successor only, but in all cases), to be reduced i such powers as are in their exercise beneficial i the people ; and of the benefit of these they will ni rashly sufl^er tiie people to be deprived, whethi the executive power be in the hands of an hered tary. or of an elected king ; of a regent, or of ar other denomination of magisirate ; while, on tl other hand, they who consider prerogative wi . reference only to royalty, will, with equal reac ness. consent either to the extension or the su' pension of its exercise, as the occasional interes. of the prince may seem to require." — pp. 37 — 39 Of the reality of any design to assassina the King, by tho.se engaged in what was calh the Rye-IIou.se Plot, iNIr. Fox appears to e tertain considerable doubt, partly on accou^ of the improbability of many of the circur. stances, and partly on account of theunifor and resolute denial of Rumbold. the chief ' that party, in circumstances when he had ! conceivable inducement to disguise the trut Of the condemnation of Russell and Sydne he speaks with the indiimation which xnn be felt by all friends to liberty at the reci lection of that disgraceful proceeding. T following passage is one of the most eloque FOX'S REIGN OF JAMES THE SECOND. 20i volume. Upon andoneof the most characteristic in the whole I q\iis of Halifax, for liaviii? piven an opinion in coiinoil that the North American coloni<'s should be niach' participant in the benefits of the Enuiish constitution, ijives occasion to the vidence such as has lieen statrd, was this great and excellent man (Sydney) coiuienined to die. Pardon was not to be e.xpecied. Mr. Hume says, that such an intcrUreiioe on llie part of the King, though it might have been an act of heroic generosity, could not he regarded as an in- dispensable duty. He might have said, wiih more propriety, that it was idle to expect that the govern- ment, alter having incurred so ninch guilt mi order to obtain the sentence, should, by rciniiiing ii, re- .linquish the object just when it is within its grasp. The same hisiorian considers the jury as highly blameable : and so do I ; But what was their guilt, in comparison of that of the court who tried, and of the government who prosecuted, in this infamous cause ! Yet the jury, being the only party ihat can with any colour be stated as acting indcpend- enily of the government, is the only one mentioned by him as blameable. The prosecutor is wholly omitted in his censure, and so is the court : this jast, not from any tenderness for the judge (who, 10 do this author justice, is no favourite with him), but lest the odious coniieclion between that branch , of the judicature and the goverinnent should strike the reader loo foicil)ly : l''or Jefi"eri(s, in this in- j .stance, ought to be regarded as the mere tool and , instrument (a fit one, no doubt) of the prince who f pad appointed him for the purpose of this and simi- , Jar services. Lastly, the King is gravely intro- , iduced on the question of pardon, as if he had had , no prior concern in the cause, and were now to ', decide upon the propriety of extending mercy to a 5, jjriminal condemned by a court of judicature ! (J Nor are we once reminded what that judicature ,, ivas, — by whom appointed, by whom influenced, ,' iiy whom called upon to receive that detestable „ .'vidence, the very recollection of which, even at 1 ihis distance of time, tires every honest heart with ij Indignation. As well might we palliate the mur- „ jlers of Tiberius ; who seldom put to death his vie- Jj Jims without a previous decree of his senate. The jj jnoral of all this seems to be, that whenever a '^ ^irincecan, by intimidation, corruption, illegal evi- i,. jlence, or other such means, obtain a verdict against r 11 subject whom he dislikes, he may cause him to „ ue executed without any breach of indispensible , ^ luty ; nay, that it is an act of heroic generosity, it he ;■ ipares him. I never reflect on Mr. Hume's staie- neiit of this matter but with the deepest regret. , .ViJely as I differ from him upon many other occa- ' ions, this appears to me to be the most reprehen- jible passage of his whole work. A spirit ot adu- '";, Btion towards deceased princes, though in a good "j; jneasure iree from the imputation of interested ' neanness. which is justly attached to flattery, when Iip'ied to living monarchs ; yet, as it is less iniel- t,'ible with respect to its motives than the oiher, so ,: It in its consequences still more pernicious to the ]' jeneral interests of mankind. Fear ot censure I rom contemporaries will seldom have much efTect _■ jpon men in situations of unlimited authority. ,V' I hey will too often flatter themselves, that the ame power which enables them to comniii the jrime, will secure them from reproach. 'I'he dread '*' If posthumous infamy, therefore, being the only ^^ estraint, thtir consciences excepted, upon the pas- jions of such persons, it is lamentable that this last fence (feeble enough at best), should in any de- ee be impaired ; and impaired it must be. if not tally destroyed, when tyrants can hope to hud in man like Hume, no less emineni for the iniegriiy [nd benevolence of his heart, than lor the depth d soundness of his unders'aniiii.g, an ap^jijiji-! r even their fouUtst murders." — pp. 1^^ — ■>(). The uncontrouled tyranny of Charles' ail- linistration in his lattt^r days, is depicted with [inch force and fidelity; and the clamour liaed by his other ministers against the Mar- loilowing natural reflection. "There is something curious in discovering, that, even at this early period, a question relative 10 North American lilieriy, and oven 10 North American ta.vaiion, was considered as the test ol principles friendly or adverse, 10 arbitary power at home. But the iruih is, thui among liie several controversies which ^ave arisen, there is no other wherein the natural rights ol nian on the one hand, and ihe authority of artilicial institution on the other, as applied respectively, by the Whiys and Tones, !o the KiiHlish consiituiion,are so fairly put in issue, nor by which the line ol separation briweeu th>- two parties is so strongly aiul distinctly marked." —p. r.o. The introductory chapter is closed by ihe followinjr profound and important remarks, which may indeed serve as a key to the whole transactions of the ensuing reign. '■ VVhoever reviews the interesiinsr period which we have been discussing, upon the principle recom- mended in the outset ol ihix chapter, will find, tiiat, from the consideration of the past, to prognosiiiaie the future, would, at the momeiii of Charles' de- mise, be no easy task. Between two persons, one of whom should expect that the country would re- main sunk in slavery, the oihcr, that- tin,' cause ot freedom would revive and triumph, it would be dilliciilt to decide, whose reasons were bei'i-r sup- ported, whose speculations the more probable. 1 should guevs that he wlio desponded, had looked more at the state of the public; while he who was sanguine, had tixed his eyes more aiieniively upon the person who was about to mount the throne. Upon reviewing the two great parties of the ntition, one observation occurs very forcibly, and that is, that the great strength of the Whigs consisted in their being able to brand their adversaries as lavour- ers of Popery; that of the Tories (as far as their strength depended upon opinion, and not merely upon the power of the crown), in their fiiidiiig col- our to represent the Whigs as republicans. Kroni this observation we niay draw .-i further inference, that, in proportion to the rasliness of the crown, in avowing and pressing forward the Ciuise of Popery, and to the moderation And steadiness of the AVhigs, in adhering to the form of monarchy, would be the chance of the people of England, for changing nil ignominious despotism lor glory, liberty, and hap- piness.'" — pp. 60, 67. James was known to have had so large a share in the councils of his brother, that in> one e.xjiected any material change of system from his accession. The Church, indeed, it was feared, might be less safe umler a juo- fessed Catholic; and the severity of his tem- per might inspire some dread of an aggravated oppressi(ni. It seems to be ]\lr. Fo.v's great obj(;ct. in this first cliapter. to j)i()ve thai the object of his early pilicy was. not to establi>.ii the Catholic religion, but 10 nitike hinisrll absolute and independent of hi.s Parliameiil. The fact itself, he conceives, is coiniilitely eslabli.*hed by the manner in which hi> m-- cret ueL'otiations with France were carried (in : in the whole of which, he was zealiui«i|y sf-rvi'd by ministers, no (ir;e of w horn liad the sli£rht(>;l" leanitig towards I'oj.ery, or coultl ever be brought to countenance the llle;l^ureK \»hl<-.h he iit'ltT wards puisued in its tuv»ur. It is mad',' still more evident h\ the complexion S 206 HISTORV AND HISTORICAL J.IEMOIRS. of his proceedings in Scotland; where the test, which he enforced at the p '•a state of more absolute slavery than a: that time subsisted m any part of Chris; endom."' In both Parliaments, the King's revenue,; was granted for life, in terms of his demand,; without discussion or hesitation; and Mr I Hume is censured with severity, and appa rently with justice, for having presented hi: readers with a summary of the arguineni which he would have them believe wet' actually used in the House of Commons c both sides of this question. '•' This misieprc sentation,'" JNIr. Fox observes, "' is of no smal importance, inasmuch as. by intimating tha such a question could be debated at all, ant; much more, that it was debated with the erj lightened views and bold topics of argumec' with which his genius has supplied him, hj gives us a very false notion of the chaiactti of the Parliament, and of the times which b' is describing. It is not improbable, that ii the arguments had been used, which this hi ! torian supposes, the utterer of them woul' have been expelled, or sent to the Tower; at it is certain that he would not have bet heard with any degree of attention, or evt' patience." — p. 142. The last chapter is more occupied withna' rative, atid less with argument and leflectio' than that which precedes it. It contains tl story of the unfortunate and desperate exp. d it ions of Argyle atid Monmouth, and of t'' condemnation and death of their unhapj' leaders. Mr. Fox, though convinced that t ; misgovernment was such as fully to justi resistance by arms, seems to admit that be those enterprises were rash and injudicioi With his usual candour and" openness, he ( serves, that '-the prudential reasons agaii' resistance at that time were exceedins, strong; and that there is no point, indeed, human concerns, wherein the dictates I virtue and of worldly prudence are so ideri fied, as in this great question of resistance : force to established governments." The e.xpeditions of Monmouth and Arg had been concerted together, and were tended to take effect at the same mome, Monmouth, however, who was reiuctan FOX'S REIGX OF JAMES THE SECOND. 20" ' upon thf! enterprise, was not so soon ; and Arsyle landed in the Hifjjhlands very small force before the Duke had ;iorn Holland. The details of his ir- ,1 ■ councils and ineffectual marches, are ivfii at far too great length. Though they ( rive occasion to one profound and important i leniark, which we do not recollect ever to 'ave met with before; but, of the justice of :.hich, most of those who have acted with arties must have had melancholy and fatal i.vperience. It is introduced when speaking ,f the disunion that prevailed among A rgyle's ff'f' band of followers. Aid to all this," he says, "that where spirit T- iiiii waniiiig, it was accompanied with a degree ^ I sMfcies of piTveisity wholly ine.\plicable, and hi''li I'aii hardly gain belief from any one whose xpericnce has not made him acquainted with the xtreiiie difficnliy of persuading men, who pride lemselves upon an extravagant love of liberiy, vher 111 compromise upon some points with those iao have, in the main, the same views with ihem- ]?lves, than to give power (a power which will in- illibly lie used for their own destruction) to an iversary, of principles diametrically opposite ; in [her words, rather to concede something to a bend, than every thing to an enemy." — pp. 187,188. j The account of Argyle's deportment from jie time of his capture to that of his exe- rtion, is among the most striking passages in ke book ; and the mildness and magnanimity his resignation, is described with kindred elings by his generous historian. The merits this nobleman are perhaps somewhat ex- fgerated ; for lie certainly wanted conduct id decision for the part he had undertaken ; id more admiration is expressed at the equa- mity with which he went to death, than the it frequency of this species of heroism ''low us to sympathize with: But the is finely and feelingly told ; and the im- ieij.-iioii which it leaves on the mind of the |ader is equally favourable to the author and the hero of it. We can only make room r the concluding scene pf the tragedy. "Before he left the casile he had his dinner at ? usual hour, at which he discoursed not only ilmly, but even clieeifully. with Mr. Charteris and •era. After dinner he retired, as was his custom. his bed-chamber, where, it is recorded, that he pt quietly lor about a quarter of an hour. While was in lied, one of the members of the council ine and iniiinated to the attendants a desire to ij^ak with him : upon being told that the earl was eep, and had left orders not to be distinbed, the nager disbelieved the acco\int, which he consid- d as a device to avoid further questionings. To sfy him, the door of the bed-chamber was half ned, and lie then beheld, enjoying a sweet and nquil slumber, the man who, by the doom of and iiis fellows, was to die within the space of ' Ijo ?hort hours ! Siruck with the sight, he hurried "I I of the room, quitted the castle with the utmost ('■ I nipiiation, and hid himself in the lodciings of an (( ipiHintance who lived near, where he flung him- ^ if upon the first bod that presented itself, and had J,, tpry appearance of a man suffering the most e.x- ''^ «|iciatiiig torture. His friend, who had been ap- ■' Iped by the servant of the state he was in. and io naturally concluded that he was ill, offered li) m some wine. He refused, saying, ' No, no, that It ^1 not help me: I have bfen in at Argyle, and jj ^ him sleeping as pleasantly as ever man did, J. lihin an hour of eternity! But as for me ' The name of the person to whom this anecdote re- lates is tint mentioned; and the truth of it may therefore be fairly considered as liable to that degree ot doglit with which men of jud.^nient receive every species of traduionul history. VVoodrow, however, whose veracity' is above suspicion, says he had it from the most \)ii(]ucsti<>nnl)le onihoriiy. It is not in itself imlikely ; and who is there (hat would not wish it true? What a saiistaclory spec- tacle to a philosophical mind, in see the oppn sHor, in the zenith of his power, envyiiip his viciiiii I What an acknowledgment of the superiority ol vir- tue I What an aifccniig and forcible testimony to the value of that peace of mind, which innocence alone can confer ! We know not who this man was ; but when we refleci, that the guilt whiili ai:onized him was probably incurred lor the sake of some vain liile, or at least of some increase of wealth, •which he did not want, and possibly knew not how to enjoy, our disgust is turned into something like compassion for that very foolish class of men, whom the world calls wise in their generation." pp. 207—209. " On the scaffold he embraced his friends, jrnvc some tokens of remembrance to his son-in-law. Lord Maidand. for his daughter and grandchildren ; siript himself of part of his apparel, ol which he likewise made presents ; and laid his head upon the block. Having uttered a short prayer, he gave the signal to the executioner; which was instantly obeyed, and his head severed from his body. Such were the last hours, and such the final close, of this great man's life. May the like happy serenity in such dreadful circumstances, and a death equally glorious, be the lot of all, whom tyranny, of what- ever denomination or description, shall in any age, or in any country, call to expiate their virtues on the scaflbld !" — p. 211. Rumbold, who had accompanied Argyle in this expedition, speedily shared his fate. Though a man of intrepid coura;ge. and fully a\^ are of the fate that awaited him, he persist- ed to his last hour in professing his innocence of any design to assassinate King Charles at the Ryehouse. Mr. Fox gives great import- ance to this circumstance ; and seems disjioscd to conclude, on the faith of it, that the Rye- house plot itself was altogether a fabrication of the court party, to transfer to their adver- saries the odium which had been thrown upon them with as little justice, by the prosecutions for the Popish {ilot! It does not appear to us, however, that this conclusion is made out in a manner altoiri'lher satisfactory. The expedition of Monmouth is detailed with as redundant a fulness as that of Argyle ; and the character of its leader still more over- rated. Though Mr. Fox has a laudable jeal- ousy of kings, indeed, we are ai'raid he has rather a partiality for nobles. Monmouth ap- pears to have been an idle, handsome, pre- sumptuous, incapable youth, with none of the virtues of a patriot, and none of the talents of an usuqier; and we really cannot discover upon what grounds Mr. Fox would exalt him into a hero. He was in arms, indeed, against a tyrant ; and that tyrant, though nearly con- nected with him by the ties of blood, sen- ttmced him with unrelenting cruelty to deafh. He was plunged at once from the heights of fortune, of youthful pleasure, and of arribition, to the most miserable condition of existence, — to die dii?giacefully after having stooped to ask his life'by abject submif-i-'icn ! l^li"- Fox dwells a great deal too long, we tliiiik, bolk HISTORY AND HISTORICAL ]VIEMOIRS. 208 upon his waverina and unskilful movements V,elore his defeat; and on some ambiguous words in the letter which he afterwards wrote to Kin-r James ; but the natural tenderness ot his disposition enables him to interest us in the description of his after sufiermgs The following extract we think, is quite charac- teristic of the author. •• In the mean while, the Queen Dowager who seems to have behaved with a uniformity of kind- ness towards h.=r husband's son .hat does her ^'rcat nonour. urgently pressed the King to admit his nephew to an audience. Importuned therefore by enireaties, and instigated by the cunosity which Monmouth's mysterious expressions and -^heldon s story had excited, he consented, though with a lixed determinatioM to show no mercy. James was not of the number of those, in whom the want ot an extensive understanding is compensated by a delicacy of sentiment, or by those right feehngs which are often found to be hetier guides lor the conduct, than the most accurate reasoning. His nature did not revolt, his blood did not run cold, at him- and one of them took that opportunity of ^ forming him, that their controversial ahercam were not yet at an end ; and that upon tlie scaffo he would again be pressed ior more e.xplicu j satisfactory declarations of repentance. \N hen rived at the bar, which had been pUt up for the p nose of keeping out the multitude, MonmoM descended from the carnage, and mounted | scaffold with a firm step, attended by his spiritl assistants. The sheriifs and e.xecutioners were- ready there. The concourse ot spectators was . numerable, and, if we are to credit iraditicl accounts, never was the general compassion ni ■ afiectingly expressed. The tears, sigh., and gro», which the tirsl sight of this hcart-rendmg specif i produced, were soon succeeded by an universal 1 awful silence ; a respectful attention and aHocii . ate an.xiety, to hear every syllable that should f < the lips ot the suflerer. The Duke began by >av ; he should speak little; he came to die; and; should die a Protestant of the Church ot hnglc Here he was interrupted by the assistants i told, that if he was of the Church ot England, s must acknowledge the doctrine of Non-rosistae to be true. In vain did he reply, that, il lie • knowledged the doctrine of the chijrch in gene , •ase, J nature did not revon. ins uiuu.i u.u ...--. .-. --' KnowieoKtu <;^ i,^....... - ,he thoughts of beholding the son of a brother whom .^"^^^Ij^ii ^ ,i,ev insisted he sh-uld he had loved, embracing bis knees, pentioning, and ^^^ pariicularlv wi,h respect to h petitioning in vain, tor lite I— of interchanging words ao«rii o p^ ^^_ .__^ ^^^^.^ ^^^,^ and looks with a nephew on whom he was inex- orably determined, within forty-eight hours, to in- flict an ignominious death. "In ^acpherson's extract from King James Memoirs, it is confessed that the King oughi not to have seen, if he was not disposed to pardon the culprit ; but whether the observation is made by the doctrine particuian\ "i" .i^f>--' '- •■•■ urged much more concerning their favourne po ; upon which, however, '.hey obtanied nothing b a repetition, in substance, ot former answers. ■^ pp. 'J6j, 26 After making a public profession of his !- ,.^.., .. ..- . . ■ , , .. lachment to his l?eloved Lady Harriet Wt- had made this reflection before Monmouth s c.xe- jnomins, confe.ssing ihe illegitimacy ol is cution, it must have occurred io that monarch, that i . -^^ declaring that the title of King d ,f he had inadvertently done that which he^ oughi . ) ^^ ^ j^^^ followers, n; h Z l^^:X ^'^^ ^- "Sat ^nt^ ' ^^^ own inclmaiion. conduct which was still in his power ; and since he _^ however, said, thai there >9 could not recall the interview, to grant the mirdon. ^^.^j^'-^'^/^^^P^'^.^ ,l,.H.t'resis,ance .; nor, th. ,h pp. 258, -59. ^^^"IJ^^^^^^ qnite'worn out with their in.por ,1- Being sentenced to die in two days, he made ; nes. said to o.,e of them ma '^^',^^'-^;"- l' a humble application to the Knig for sorne ! ^ am - ^^J^^— ;->„;'>,,S j, eoiLtent j little respite: but met with a positive ^"d , pnpcr ;v«u.a^^.^^ There were only a tew vd, ^tern refusal. The most remarkable thing in ; ^^^^, ^^^J^^^ ^^ ^,,g point. The substance o) n the history of his last hours, is the persecution ; nppii,.aiions on one hand, and answers on the o sr which he suffered from the bishops who had ; vvas repeated, over and over agam, m a iiu cr be!::^ s!^t io comfort him. Those •-e-d ! that^u^ n^ be beheved^ i le n.^ persons, it appears spent the greater part of , .^^.^-f^^byj ^'^i,-^ 1'^ Duke m de'claring h.s s. ..w Ihe time in uruing him to profess the orthodox , ^«;'^;^^f^,^d j, used the word invasion vr doctrines of passive obedience and non-resist- .^ ^^^ ,^^,^ ^.^„^^, g„id ,hey. ' nnd call n rebel i. !":i;i'„7;i.- «a,„ of ..epe„.a„ee: ,. n,„.. i .jj..pr-pilr;s;ri»--r:'..;S never be forgotten, indeed, as Mi. tox has "''"";;;,f,he favour of his Creator. H.s real- remarked, if we would understand the history earjvcst j ^^.^ ^^^^^^ ^^ ^^^^^^ ^.^^ ,^^ ^^^ ,^ „, of this period, "that the orthodox members ' ^' ■ ' '"• of the church regarded monarchy, not as a human, but as a dirme institution ; and pas- sive obedience aiul non-resistance, not as po- litical measures, but as articles of rehponP The foUowiiiir lu-count of the dying scene of this missuide.l and unhappy youth, is very I alluded only existed, accordingly, at the peril of its commencement. These were the ph ! losophers or speculative men who inculcate ! a love of liberty and a desire of reform \ ^ their writings and conversation } and the vi tuous and moderate, who attempted to « n\)on these principles at the outset of tl' Revolution, and countenanced or sugrrestf' ' those measures by which the ancient fran of the government was eventually dissolve; I To confound either of these classes of m«, with the monsters by \\ hom they were sii ceeded, it would be necessary to forget th they were in reality their most strenuous o i ponents — and their earliest victims ! If tb ' were instrumental in conjuring up the teii > pest, we may at least presume that their c operation was granted in ignorance, sin, ! they were the first to fall before it ; and c scared}' be supposed to have either forese: j or intended those consequences in whi] ! their own ruin was so inevitably involv(. That they are chargeable with impruder and with presumption, may be aflirmed, p haps, without fear of contradiction ; thouj; with reiinrd to many of them, it would be easy task, perhap.'*. to point out by what Cm duct they could have avoided such an im). tation ; and this charge, it is manifest, oui at any rate to be kept carefully separate frj that of guilt or atrocity. Benevolent int;- tions, though alloyed by vanity, and n,' guided by ignorance, can never become i' objects of the highest moral reprobation ; ;' enthusiasm itself, though it does the worl;' the demons, ought still to be distinguished fil treachery or malice. The knightly adv- BAILLY-S ME?.I01RS. 211 irer, who broke the chains of the calley- aves, purely that they might enjoy their de- verance from bondage, will always be re- irded with other feelings than the robber 'ho freed them to recruit the ranks of his anditti. We have examined in a former article the vtent of the participation which can be fairly nputed to the plti{osopkers,m the crimes and liseries of tire Revolution, and endeavoured • ascertain in how far they may be saiti to ave made themselves responsible for its ')nseqaences, or to have deserved censure for :ieir exertions: And, acquitting the greater •irt of any mischievous intention, we fou)id 'lason. upon that occasion, to conclude, that '.ere was nothing in the conduct of the ma- ritv which should expose them to blame, or jprive them of the credit which they would ive certainly enjoyed, but for consequences hich they could not foresee. For those who. ith intentions ecjually blameless, attempted ' carry into execution the projects which had •en suggested by the others, and actually 'gaged in measures which could not fail to rminate in important changes, it will not be isy, we are afraid, to make so satisfactory ;' apology. What is written may be cor- fcted : but what is done cannot be recalled ; ;-ash and injudicious publication naturally (lis forth an host of ansvs-ers ; and where the fbject of discussion is such as e.xcites a very jlwerful interest, the cause of truth is not ifvays least efTectually served by her oppo- I'nts. Bat the errors of cabinets and of leiris- I'ures have other consequences and other (ifutations. They are answered by insur- rMions. and confuted by conspiracies. A jjradox which might have been maintained t an author, without any other loss than that c a little leisure, and ink and paper, can qy be supported by a minister at the ex- fhse of the lives and the liberties of a na- tn. It is evident, therefore, that the pre- cjitation of a legislator can never admit of n same excuse with that of a speculative i) uirer ; that the same confidence in his onionSj which justifies the former in main- tilling them to the world, will never justify tl| other in suspending the happiness of his c'ntry on the issue of their truth ; and that h in particular, subjects himself to a tre- nlndous responsibility, who voluntarily takes ufin himself the new-modelling of an ancient ojstitution. 'Ve are very much inclined to do justice tclthe virtuous and erdightened men who ajunded in the Constituent Assembly of Ftnce. We believe that the motives of iTJiy of them were pure, and their patriot- i:ip[ unaffected : their talents are still more iifsputable : But we cannot acquit them of 'bllneable presumption and ine.xcusixble im- pil(!!ice. There are three points, it appears lO'S. in particular, in which they were bound jctojiave foreseen the consequences of their fPibeedings. I |) the /.»-.<;/ place, the spirit of exasperation. Ifr'fjir.ce. and inlirnidation, with which from ithl beginning they carried on their opposi- tion to the schemes of the •«o\irt, the clergy and the nobility, appears to us to have been as impolitic with a view to their ultimate success, as it was .suspicious perhaps as to their immediate motives. The jiarade wliich they made of their jiojndarity ; the support wiiich they submitted to receivi' from the menaces and acclamations of the mob : llie joy which they testified at the desertion of the royal armies; and the anomalous mili- tary force, of which they patronized tlie for- mation in the city of Paris, were so many preparations for actual liostility. and led al- most inevitably to that app«'a[ to force, by which all prospi-cl of establishing an equita- ble government was linally cut o(f. San- giiine as the patriots ot that assembly un- doubtedly were, they might still have re- membered the most obvious and imp)rtaiil lesson in the whole volume of history, That the nation which has recourse to arms for the settlement of its internal affairs, neces- sarily falls under the iron yoke of a military government in the end ; and that nothing but the most evident necessity" can justify the lovers of freedom in forcin:;: it from the hands of their yrovernors. In France, there certaiidy was no such necessity. The wliole weight and strength of the nation was bent upon political improvement and reform. — There was no possibility of their being ulti- mately resisted: and the only danger that was to be apprehended was, that their pro- gress would be too rapid. After the States- General were once fairly granted, indeed, it api^ears to us that the victory of the friends to liberty was certain. They could not have gone too slow afterwards ;, they could not have ])een satisfied with too little. The grjeat object, then, should have been to ex- clude the agency of force, and to leave no pretext for an appeal to violence. Nothing could have stood against the force of reason, which oui>lit to have given wa}-; and from a monarch of the character of Louis XIV. there was no reason to apprehend any at- tempt to regain, by violence, A;hat he Jiad yielded from princijiles of philanlliropy and conviction. The Third Estate would have groii-n into power, instead of usurping it ; and would have gradually compres.sed the other orders into their proper dimensions, instead of displacing them by a violence that could never be forgiven. Even if the Orders had deliberated separately, (as it ap- pears to us they ought clearly to have done.) the commons were sure of an ultimate pre- ponderance, and the government of a per- manent ana incalculable amelioration. Con- vencfl in a leqnslative assembly, and engross- ing almost entirely tlie re.'^pect and affections of the nation, they would have enjoyed the uidimited liberty of jiolitical (liscu.«sion, and ■rradually impressed on the governmt;nt the character of their peculiar princi))Ies. By the restoration of the legislative furi'^tion tO the commons of the kingdom, the .system was rendered complete, and required oidy to be put into action in order to assume all thoBC improvements which necessarily resulted from il2 HISTORY AND HISTORICAL MEMOIRS. thfi increased wealth and intelligence of its representatives. Of this fair chance of amelioration, the nation was disappointed, chiefly, we are in- clined to think, by the needless asperity and injudicious menaces of the popular party. They relied openly upon the strength of their adherents among the populace. If they did not actually encourage them to threats and to acts of violence, they availed themselves at least of those which were committed, to in- timidate and depress their opponents : for it is indisputably certain, that the unconditional compliance of the court with all the demands of the Constituent Assembly, was the result either of actual force, or the dread of its im- mediate application. This was the inaus- picious commencement of the sin? and the sufferings of the Revolution. Their progress and termination were natural and necessary. The multitude, once allowed to overawe the old government with threats, soon subjected the new government to the same degradation ; and, once permitted to act in arms, came speedily to dictate to those who were assem- bled to deliberate. As soon as an appeal was made to force, the decision came to be with those by whom force could at all times be commanded. Reason and philosophy were discarded ; and mere terror and brute vio- lence, in the various forms of proscriptions, insurrections, massacres, and military execu- tions, harassed and distracted the misguided nation, till, by a natural consummation, they fell under the despotic sceptre of a military u.surper. These consecjaences. we conceive, v/ere obvious, and might have been easily for- seen. Nearly half a century had elapsed since they were pointed out in those memo- rable words of the most profound and philo- 8t)phical of hi.idvement, and to the constant amelioration of the condition of the whole society. The difference between a free governnienf and a tyrannical one, con- sists entirely in the different proportions of the people that are influenced by their oj)in- lom, or subjugated by inttmidalioii or /orrf . In a large society, opinions can only be re- united by means of representations ; and the 214 HISTORY AND HISTORICAL MEMOIRS. natural representative is the individual whose example and authority can iiiiiuence the opin- ions of the greater part of those in whose behalf he is delegated. This is the natural ari.stocracv of a civilized nation ; and its legi.s- lature is then upon the best jxjssible footing, when it is in the hands of those who answer to that description. The whole people are then governed by the laws, exactly as each clan or district of them would have been by the patriarchal authority of an elective and unarmed chieftain ; and the lawgivers are not only secure of their places while they can maintain their individual influence over the people, but are withheld from any rash or injurious measure by the consciousness and feeling of their dej>endence on this voluntary deference and submission. If this be at all a just representation of the conditions upon which the respectability and security of a representative legislature must always depend, it will not be difficult to ex- plain liow the experiment miscarried so com- pletely, in the case of the French Constituent Assembly. That assembly, which the enthu- siasm of the public, and the misconduct of the privileged orders, soon enabled to engross the whole power of the country, consisted almost entirely of persons without name or individual influence; who owed the whole of their consequence to the situation to which they had been elevated, and were not abje, as individuals, to have influenced the opinions of one-fiftieth part of their countrymen. — There was in France, indeed, at this time, no legitimate, wholesome, or real aristocracy. — The noblesse, who were persecuted for bear- ing that name, were quite disconnected from the people. Their habits of perpetual resi- dence in the capital, and their total independ- ence of the good opinion of their vas.sals, had deprived thernof any real influence over the minds of the lower orders : and the or- ganization of society had not yet enabled thp rich manufacturers or proprietors to assume .such an inlluence. The persons sent as de- puties to the States-General, therefore, were those chiefly who, by intrigue and boldness, and by professions of uncommon zeal for what were then the great objects of popular pursuit, had been enabled to carry the votes of the electors. A notion of talent, and an opinion that tliey would be loud and vehement in supporting those reque.sts upon which the people had already come to a decision, were their passports into that assembly. They were sent there to express the particular demands of the peo])le, and not to give a general pledge of their ac(]uieseence in what might there be enact<>d. They were not ihe hereditary patrons of the people, but their hired advocates for a particular pleading. — They bid no general trust or authority over I hern, but were chosen as their special mes- sengers, out of a multitude whose influence and pretensions were equally powerful. When these men found themselves, as it were by accident, in po.ssession of the whole power of the .state, and inve.sted with the absolute government of the greatest nation that has existed in modern times, it is not to be wondered at if they forgot the slender ties by which they were bound to their constitu- ents. The powers to which they had suc- ceeded were so infinitely beyond any thing that they had enjoyed in their individual capacity, that it is not surprising if they never thought of exerting them with the same con- sideration and caution. Instead of the great, bases of rank and property, which cannot bei transferred by the clamours of the factious, or the caprice of the inconstant, and which serve to ballast and steady the vessel of the state in all its wanderings and perils, the assembly possessed only the basis of talent or reputation ; qualities which depend upon opiifion and 0])portunity, and which may b«! attributed in the same jnojjortion to an inconi, venient multitude at once. The whole legis'^ lature may be considered, therelbre, as com* posed of adventurers, who had already attained a situation incalculably above their oiigiiiai pretensions, and were now temptid to pud] then' fortune by every means that held ou^ the promi.se of immediate success. The\ had nothing; comparatively speaking, to lo8e| but their places in that assembly, or the influ- ence which they possesseil within its walls and as the authority of the assembly itsel depended altogetlier upon the popularity o its measures, and not upon the intrinsic ai thority of its members, so it was only to b maintained by a succession of brdliant an imposing resolutions, and by satisfying orou doing the extravagant wishes and expectatioi of the most extravagant and sanguine populaci that ever existed. For a man to get a lead J such an assembly, it was by no means neceij sary that he should have previously possessef any influence or authority in the communit'; that he should he connected with powerf' families, or supported by great and extensi' associations. If he could dazzle and overav, in debate ; if he could obtain the acclamatio, of the mob of Versailles, and make himse familiar to the eyes and the ears of the 8 sembly and its galleries, he was in a fairtra for having a great share in the direction of; assembly exercising absolute sovereignty ov thirty millions of men. The prize was f j tempting not to attract a multitude of coi petitors: and the assembly for many mont ! was iroverned by those who outvieil th' j associates in the impracticable extra vagar^ [of iheir patriotism, and .siicrificed most p, j fu.'^ely the real interests of the people at t shrine of a precarious popularity. ' i In this way, the assembly, from the inherr j vices of its constitution, ceased to he respe, able or useful. The same causes speedij put an end to its security, and converted) I into an instrument of destruction. I Mere popularity was at first the instrunnij by which this unsteady legislature was g>! I erned : But \\ hen it became apj)arent, tl; whoever could obtain the direction or co- I mand of it. must jjossess the whole author ' of the state, parties became less sciupuli' I about the means they employed for that p; I pose, and soon found out that violence «' BAILLY'S MEMOIRS. 215 'error were infinitely more effectual anel ox- leditioLis than persuapion and eloquence. The )eople at large, who had no attachment to '.ny families or individuals among their dele- i;ates, and who contented themselves with 'dolizing the assembly in general, so long as I passed decrees to their liking, were passive nd indirferent spectators of the ti-ansference f power which was effected by the pikes of he Parisian multitude : and looked with equal ffection upon every successive junto which 'ssumed the management of its deliberations, laving no natural representatives, they felt hemselves equally connected with all" who Ixercised the legislative function: and, being 'estitute of a real aristocracy, were without he means of giving effectual support even to lose who might appear to deserve it. En- iQuraged by tins situation of affairs, the niost 'aring, unprincipled, and proiliu-ate, proceeded ■) seize upon the defenceless legislature, and, riving all their ant;igouists bi-fore them by •iolence or intimidation, entered without op- losition upon the supreme functions of gov- himent. They soon found, however, that (le arras by which they had been victorious, i-ere capable of being turned against them- l^lves; and those who were envious of their 'recess, or ambitious of their distinction, easily lund means to excite discontent among the niltitude, now inured to insurrection, and to ifiploy them in pulling down those veiy in- 'viduals whom they had so recently exalted, ihe disposal of the legislature thus became a Hze to be fought for in the clubs and con- |)iracies and insurrections of a corrupted etropolis ; and the institution of a national 'presentative had no other effect, than that ■ laying the government open to lawless ;rce and flagitious audacity. \ It is in this manner, it appears to us. that J3m the want of a natural and etficient aris- (cracy to exercise the functions of represent- live legislators, the National Assembly of hince was betrayed into extravagance, and tU a prey to faction ; that the institution jielf became a source of public; misery and [sorder, and converted a civilized monarchy, jst into a sanguinary democracy, and then llo a military despotism. |It would be the excess of injustice, we |ve already said, to impute those disastrous ijnsequences to the moderate and virtuous ^lividuals who sat in the Constituent A.s- jmbly : But if it be admitted that they might ve been easily foreseen, it will not be easy ] exculpate them from the charge of very iKmeable imprudence. It would be difficult, ileed, to point out any course of conduct by jiich those dangers might have been entirely ;bided : But they would undoubtedly have leu less formidable, if the enliirhtcned mem- ftrs of the Third Estate had endeavoured to l^m a party with the more liberal and popu- If among the nobility; if they had associated t themselves a greater number of those to iose persons a certain degree of influence was attached, from their fortune, their age, or their official station ; if, in short, instead of grasping presuunitnously at the exclusive di- rection of the national council.s, and arrogating every thing on the credit of their zealous patriotiism and inexperienced abilities, they had sought to strengthen them.selves by an alliance with what was respectable in the existing establishments, and attached them- .'^elves at first as disciples to those whom they might fairly expect .•speedily to outgrow and eclijise. Ui>oii a review of the whole matter, it seems impossible to acquit tho.se of the revo- lutionary patriots, whose intentions are ad- mitted to be pure, of great precipitation, pre- sumption, and imprudence. Apologies may be found for them, perhaps, in the inexpe- rience which was incident to their situation ; in their constant apjirchension of being sepa- rated befnre their task was accom]ilishe gether unnecessary to combat this disci agement and this disgust; — and the g ' object of all that is argumentative in ; book, is to show that there is nothing in 6 character or condition, or late or early his; V of her countrymen, to render this reguUiu freedom unattainable by them, or to ^ qualify tkem from the enjoyment of a re;)* DE STAEL'S FRENCH REVOLUTION. :i9 sentative goverament, or the functions of free citizens. For this puijwse she takes a rapid and mas- ,terly view of the progress of the ditl'erent European kingdoms, from their primitive con- dition of feudal aristocracies, to their present state of monarchies Hmited by law, or niiti- igated by the force of public opinion ; and en- deavours to show, that the course has been :ihe same in all ; antl that its unavoidable ter- mination is in a balanced constitution like that »f England. The tirst change was the reduc- tion of the Nobles, — chietly by the aid which ;the Commons, then first pretending to wealth lor iutelligence, atibrded to the Crown — and, 'on this basis, some small states, in Italy and iGermany especially, erected a permanent isystem of freedom. But the necessities of Iwar. and the substitution of hired forces for (the feudal militia, led much more generally Ito the establisliiiient of an arbitrary or des- ipotical authority; which was accomplished in 1 France. Si>aiu. and England, under Louis XI., Philip il.. and Henry VIII. Then came the iage of commerce, luxury, and taxes. — which (necessarily ripened into the age of general liatelligence. individual wealth, and a sense iboth of right and of power in the people : — iaiid those led irresistibly to a lunitation on ithe powers of the Crown, by a representative assembly. j England having less occasion for a land jarmy — and having been the first in the career (of commercial prosperity, led the way in this jgreat amelioration. But the same general jprinciples have been operating in all the Cou- Itinental kingdoms, and must ultimately pro- iJuce the same eiTects. The peculiar advan- Uages which she enjoyed did not prevent jEngland from being enslaved by the tyranny |of Henry VIII.. and Mary; — and she also ex- iperienced the hazards, and paid the penalties iwliich are perhaps inseparable from the as- isertion of popular rights. — She also overthrew i|he monarchy, and sacrificed the monarch in iner first attempt to set limits to his power. )The English Commonwealth of 1648. origi- [iiated in as wild speculations as the French ;of 1792 — and ended, like it, in the establish- Iment of a militar)- tyranny, and a restoration jwhich seemed to confound all the asserters jof liberty in the general guilt of rebellion : — jYet all the world is now agreed that this was jbut the tirst explosion of a llame that could neither be extinguished nor penmanently re- pres.sed ; and that what took place in 1688. was but the sequel and necessary consumma- tion of what had been begnn forty years be- fore — and which might and woukl have been (accomplished without even the slightest shock |and distuibance that was then ex])erienced, [if the Court had profited as much as the [leaders of the jx-ople by the lessons of that tirst |e.\perieiice. Such toJ, Madame de Stael a.-.- j.sures us. is the unalterable destiny of France : I — and it is the great purpose of her book to jshow, that but for circumstances which cannot recur — mistakes that cannot be repeated, and [accidents which never happened twice, even jthe last attempt would have led to that blcsaed consummation — and that every ihiny is now in the fairest train to secure it, without any gieat eliort or ha/anl of ilislurbance. That these views are supported with iiilinile talent, spirit, and eKH|ueni'e, no one \n1io h.i!* I read the book will probably ilispute ; and wu should be sorry indeed to think that they were not substantially just. Vet we are not, wu j confess, (juite so sanjjuine as tiieiliftlingni.shed ] writer before us; ami though we ilo not iloubt I either that her ])rinciples are true, or that her : i^redictions will be uUimalcltj accomplished, we \ fear that the period of iheir triumph is not yet i at hand ; and that it is far more doubtlid than ; she will allow it to be. whether that triumph I will be easy, peaceful, ami sicure. The ex- ample of England is her great, indeed her only authority ; but we are atraid that she has nm the parallel with more boldnc ss than circum- spection, and overlooked a variety of {larticulars ill our case, to which she coiikl not ea.sily fijid any thing equivalent in that of her country. It might be invidious to dwell much on the oppo- site character and temper of the two nations; though it is no answer to siiy, that thischaracter is the work of the government. But can Ma- dame de Stacl have forgotten, that Englaiul had a parliament and a representative legislature for live hundred years before 1648 ; and that it was by that organ, and the widely spread and deeply founded rnai-hinery of the eleetionson which it rested, that the struggle was made, and the victory won. which ultnnaiely secured /otfs the blessings of political freedom ! The least reflection upon the nature of government, and the true foundations of all liberty, will show what an immense advantage this was in the contest ; and with what formidable obstacles those must have to struggle, who are obliged to engage in a similar conflict without it. All political power, even the most despotic, rests at last, as was profoundly observed by Hume, upon Opinion. A govenmient is Just, or otherwise, according as it jiromoles, more or less, the true interests of the peoj)le who live under it. But it is Stable and secure, ex- actly as it is directed by the opinion of those who really possess, and know that they pos- sess, the power of enforcing it, and \}\Min \\ hose opinion, therefore, it constantly depends; — that is, in a military despotism, on the opinion I of the soldiery: — in all rude and ignorant communities, on the opinion of those m ho I monopolise the intelligence, the wealth, or the i dis<-ipline which constitute power — the priest- hood — the landed proprietot.* — the armed and i inured to war : — and. in civil sed societies, on the opinion of that larger proportion of the j peojjle who can briiiir their joint taleiile, I wealth, and streiiirlh, to act in concert when ' occasion re(]uires. A government may indeed I subsist for a time, although op|K>scd to the I opinion of those classes of peisons; but its existence mu.st alwavs be precarious, ami il ; probably will not subsi.st long. The natural '■ and appropriate Constttutimi. therefore, is. in every case, that which enables those who ac- tually administer the government, to ascertain and confoim themselves in time to the opinion of those who have the ^wwer to overturn it ; m HISTORY AND HISTORICAL MEMOIRS. and no government whatever can possibly be secure where there are no arrangements for this purpose. Thus it is plainly for want of a proper Despotic ComtiUilion — for want of a regular and safe way of aettinfr at the opinions of their armies, that the Sultans and other Asiatic sovereigns are so frequently beheaded by their janissaries or insurgent soldiery : and, in like manner, it was for want of a proper Feudal Constitution, that, in the decline of that system, the King was so often dethroned by his rebellious barons, or excommunicated by an usui-ping priesthood. In more advanced times, there is the same necessity of conform- ing to the prevailins opinion of those more extended and diversified descriptions of per- sons in whom the power of enforcing and re- sisting has come to reside ; and the natural and only safe constitution for such societies, must therefore embrace a representative as- sembly. A government may no doubt go on, in opposition to the opinion of this virtual aris- tocracy, for a long time after it has come into existence. For it is not enough that there is wealth, and intelligence, and individual influ- ence enough in a community to overbear all pretensions opposed to them. It is necessary that the possessors of this virtual power should be aware of their own numbers, and of the conformity of their sentiments or views : and it is very late in the progress of society before the means of communication are so multiplied and improved, as to render this practicable in any tolerable degree. Trade and the press, however, have now greatly facilitated those communications; and in all the central coun- tries of Europe, they probably exist in a de- gree quite sufficient to give one of the parties, at least, very decided impressions both as to its interests and its powers. In such a situation of things, we cannot hesitate to say that a representative govern- ment is the natural, and will be the ultimate remedy ; but if we find, that even where such an institution existed from antiquity, it was possible so fatally to miscalculate and mis- judge the opinions of the nation, as proved to be the case in the reign of our Kinir Charles. is it not manifest that there must be tenfold risk of such miscalculation in a country where no such constitution has been previously known, and where, from a thousand causes, the true state of the public mind is so apt to be oppositely misconceived by the opposite par- ties, as it is up to the present hour in France ? The great and cardinal use of a representa- tive body in the leirislature is to afford a di- rect, safe, and leaitimate channel, by which the public opinion may be brought to act on the government : But. to enable it to perform this function with success, it is by no means enough, that a certain number of deputies are sent into the legislature by a certain number of electors. Without a good deal of previous training; the public opinion itself can neither be formed.^ collected, nor expressed in any au- thentic or effectual manner ; and the first establishment of the representative system must be expected to occasion very nearly as much disturbance as it may ultimately pre- vent. In countries where there never haire; been any political elections, and feXV loeai; magistracies, or occasions of provincial and parochial assemblages for public purposes, tht real state of opinion must be substantial!}' unknown even to the most observant lesiden', in each particular district ; — and its genera bearing all over the country can never possi' bly be learned by the most diligent inquiriesi or even guessed at with any reasonable de' gree of probability. The first deputies, there lore, are necessarily returned, without anr firm or assured knowledge of the .sentimenti of their constituents — and they again C9.tt have nothing but the most vague notions oli the temper in which these sentiments are t. be enforced — while the whole deputies con»: together without any notion of the disposi tions, or talents, or designs of each other, an/ are left to scramble for distinction and inflti« ence, according to the measure of their indii vidual zeal, knowledge, or assurance. I.| England, there were no such novelties to b! hazarded, either in 1640 or in 1688. Th people of this country have had an electivi parliament from the earliest period of thesl history — and, long before either of the period^ in question, had been trained in every hamlti to the exercises of various political franchisei! and taught to consider themselves asconneci ed. by known and honourable ties, with 8' the persons of influence and consideration i' their neighbourhood, and. through them, b' an easy gradation with the political leade): of the State ; — while, in Parliament itself, ttt place and pretensions of every man weii pretty accurately known, and the strength C; each party reasonably well ascertained I; long and repeated experiments, made undtl all variety of circumstances. The organiz!' tion and machinery, in short, for collectir': the public opinion, and bringing it into coi; tact with the administration, was perfect, ai' in daily operation among us, from very a cient times. The various conduits and cha nels by which it was to be conveyed from i first faint springs in the villages and burgh and conducted in gradually increasing strean-' to the central wheels of the government, wef all deep worn in the soil, and familiar known, with all their levels and connectior; to every one Avho could be affected by th(i condition. In France, when the new sluic were opened, not only were the waters ui' versally foul and turbid, but the quantity ai' the currents were all irregular and unknovr'; and some stagnated or trickled feebly alor| while others rushed and roared with the v: lence and the mischief of a torrent. But it time to leave these perplexing generaliti< and come a little closer to the work before i If was the Cardinal de Richelieu, accordi to Madame de Stael, who completed the d] \ gradation of the French nobility, begun ' Louis XL ; — and the arrogance and Spani gravity of Louis XIV., assumed, as .-^he sa^i ''pour eloigner de lui la familiarite dcs juj mens."' fixed them in the capacity of coi tiers; and put an end to that gay and ea' tone of communication, which, in the days DE STAEL'S FRENCH REVOLUTION. 221 Henri IV., had maiie the task of a courtier both less wearisome and less deijradiiig. She has no partiality, indeed, lor the memory of that buckram hero — and is very uuligiiant at his being regarded as the patron of literature. " II persecuta Port-Uoyal, dont Pascal etoit le chef; il fit mourirde chagrin Racine ; il «.\ila iFenelon: il s"opposa constamraent aiix hon- neurs qu'on vouloit rendre a La Fontaine, et ;ne professa de Fadmiration (|ue pour Boileau. La litterature. en I'exaltant avee exees, a bien plus fait pour lui qu'il n 'a fait \M3\\r ellc."' — (Vol. i. p. 36.) In his own person, indeed, he loutlived his popularity, if not his fame. The I brilliancy of his early successes was lost in his later reverses. The ctebts he haen, •• to persuade the King to do of hims«'lf that ju.sticc to the pcopli-, to obtain which they afterwards insisted for rep- resentiitivoa." Such a counsellor, of course, had no chance in 1780; and, tJie year after, IVI. Necker was accordmgly dismissed. The great objection to him was, that he pioinKsnl innovations — " et de tonics les innovations, cflle que les courti.s;ii)s et les tuiancicrs dc- te-stent le plus, c"est I'Kco.no.mik." Before iioing out, however, he did a great deal of ifood ; and found n\ean.s. while M. de Mau- rejiiis had a bad fit of gout, to get M. de Sar- tine removed from the ministry of marine — a personage so extremely diliirent in the studies belonging to his dcparlment. that when M. Necker went to see him soon after his appoint- ment, he found him in a chamber all hung rounil with maps; and boasting with much complacency, that "he could already put his haiul upon the largest of them, and ]x)int, with his eyes shut, to the four quarters of the world !" Calonne succeeded — a frivolous, presump- tuous person, — and a financier, in so far as we can jutUre, after the fashion of our poet-lau- reate : For he too, it .seems, wa.s used to call prodigality '" a large economy ;"' aiul to assure the King, that the more lavish he and his court were in their expenses, so much the better would it fare with the country. The consequence was, that the di.'sorder .soon be- came irremediable : and this spri^jhtly minis- ter was forced at last to ailopt Tingot's pro- posal of subjecting th^ privileged orders to their share of the burdens — and finally to ad vi.se the convocation of the Notables, in 1787. The Notables, how ever, being all privileged persons, refusecl to give up any of their im munities — and they and M. de Calonne were dismissed accordingly. Then came iht; w aver- ing and undecided admini.stration of I\l. de Brienne, which ended with the resolution to assemble the States-General ; — and this was the Revolution ! Hitherto, says Madame de Stael, the nation at large, and especially the low er orders, had taken no share in tho.se discu.s.sions. Th» resistance to the Court — the complaint.s — the call for reformation, originated and was con- tined to the privileged ordt>rs — to the Parlia- ments — the Nobles and the Clergy. No rev- olution indeed can succeed in a civilised country, which does not begin at least with the higher orders. It was in the parliament of Pajis. in which the i)eers of France had seat,s, and which had always been most tena- cious of the privileges of its members that the suggestion was first made which set fire to the four quarters of the kingdom. In that kiiiL'dom. indeed, it could hardly fail, as it was made in the form of a ])un or ban mot They were clamouriii',; again.st the nmiister for not exhibiting his account of th<> public exiK'nses, wlien the Abbe Salwdirr '•aid — •• Vous demandez. messieurs. Irs rials ill rfcrltr et di' d(;pens<' — et ce .^^ont les Kto>s-Ge, fraui i|u'il nou*; faut !"— This wnsetincrly lejealed in every order of society: addicf^si r. to that effect were poured in, in daily heaps: snd at 1 2 222 HISTORY AND HISTORICAL MEMOIRS. last M. ted individuals of the privileged classes. li the contrary. Madame de Stael asserts pitively, that the popular party was then : dposed, as of old. to unite with the sovereign ; ajinst the pretensions of those bodies, and I tltt the sovereign was understood to partici- ', pf in their sentiments. The statement cer- t; ly seems to derive no slight confirmation t II the memorable words which were ut- lt;d at the time, in a public address by the ' rfjjning King of France, then the first of the ■ Ppces of the blood. — "Unegrande revolution '"'•^ pret. dit Monsieur (aujourd'hui Louis '^!li.)a la municii)alite de Paris, en 1789; '<■ oi, par ses intentions, ses vertus. et son ; raf^' supreme, devoit en etre le chef!'' We ' p«t'ectly agree with Madame de Stael — •■'que Jirje la sagesse de la circonstance etoit dans 'c01Kiroles."' [othing. says Madame de Slael, can be imagined more striking than the first eight of the twelve humlred deputies of France. ai» they passeil in solemn procession to heai mass at Notre Dame, the day before the meetmg of the States-General. " Ln Noblesse sc Irouvnnt drchue cle sn splcn- deur. par I'esprii de couriisaii, pur I'lilliage des nnolilis, et par iiiie longiio piiix ; le Clerm'' i»e po8- spJaiH plus rnsc-endnni des iumierus tiii'ii nvoil eu dans les trnips liarbares ; rimportance des dq)uu's dii Tiers etm en eioii augmeniee. Leurs linbiiB et leiirs inanieaiix noirs, leiirs regards assures, leur nombre iinposant. attiroieiit raUeniion sur eux : Des bommes de Icures, dcs n6gociaiis, un grand nonil)re d'avocats oompo-soieni ce troisirnie ordre- Quelques nobler s'eioient fait nommer deputes du tiers, el parmi ce.'' nobles on reinnrquoit sunout le Coniie de Mirahran: l"opinion qu'on avoit de son esprit etoit siiisruliCrenient augmentee par la pour que faisoit son inunoraliie ; et cependant c'est cetle immoraliie ineiiie qui a diininue I'iutluence que see eionnantes laculies devoieni lui valoir. 11 etoit diffieile de ne pas le rcgarder long-temps, uuand on i'avoit une lois aperqu : Son inuiien^^e ciicvelure le distinguoii entre tous: on cut dit que sa torce en dependiiii comme celle de .Samson; son visage empruiiioit de Tcxpression de sa laide^ur mrme ; et toute sa personne donnoit Tidce d'uue puissance irreguliere, mais enfin d'une puissance telle qu'on se la representeroit dans un tribun de peuple. "Aucun nom propre, excepte le sien, n'l'toit encore cclebre dans les six cents deputes du tiers ; mais il y avoit beaucoup d'hommes honorables, ti beaucoup d'hommes a craindre." — Vol. i. pp. \bh, 186. The first day of their meeting, the deputies of course insisted that the whole three orders should sit and vote together; and the majority of the nobles and clergy of course resisttxl : — And this went on for nearly two months, in the face of the mob of Paris and the people of France — before the King and his Council could make up their own minds on the mat- ter! The inner cabinet, in which the Queen and the Princes had the chief sway, had noW taken the alarm, and was for resisting the ])relensions of tl^ie Third Estate; while M, Necker, and the ostensible ministers, were lor compromising with them, while their power was not yet provetl by experience, nor their pretensions raised by victory. The Ultras re- lied on the army, and were for dismissing the I Legislature as soon as they had gianled a ffw taxes. M. Necker plaiidy tokl the King, that he did not think that the army could be relieil on ; and that he ought to make up his mind to reign hereafter under a constitution like that of England. There were fierce disputes, and endless consultations; and at length, within three weeks after the States were i opened, and before the Commons had g-aitied any decided advantage, M. Necker obtained ' the full as.sent both of the King and Queen to a declaration, in which it was to be announced ; to the States, that they should sit and vote as one body in all questions of taxation, and in tiro chambers only in all other (juestions. This arraiifrement. Madame de Slael as.-;ures : us. would have .satisfied tlie Commons at the time, and invested the throne with the great strciiirfh of popularity. Hut, after a fnll and i deliberate consent had been ir'ven by 1 (i;}i ! their Majesties, the party about the Quei n 22< HISTORY AND HISTORICAL MEMOIRS. found means to put off from day to day the publication of the important instrument ; and a whole month was unpardonably wasted in idle discussions: during which, nearly one half of the nobles and clergy had joined the deputies of the Commons, and taken the name of the National Assembly. Their popularity and confidence had been dangerously in- creased, in the mean time, by their orators and pamphleteers; and the Court had become the object of suspicion and discontent, both by the rumour of the approach of its armies to the capital, and by what Madame de Stael calls the accidental e.xclusion of the deputies from their ordinary place of meeting — which gav(? occasion to the celebrated and theatrical oath of the Tennis-court. After all, Madame de Stael says, much might have been reg'jiined or saved, by issuing M. Necker's declaration. But the very night before it was to be deliv- ered, the council was adjourned, in conse- quence of a billet from the Queen : — two new councillors and two princes of the blood were called to take part in the deliberations ; and it was suddenly determined, that the King- should announce it as his pleasure, that the Three Estates should meet and vote in their three separate chambers, as they had done in 1614! M. Necker, full of fear and sorrow, refused to go to the meeting at which the King was to make this important communication. It was made, however — and received with mur- murs of deep displeasure; and, when the Chancellor ordered the deputies to withdraw to their separate chamber, they answered, that they were the National Assembly, and would stay where they were ! The whole visible population seconded this resolution, with indications of a terrible and irresistible violence : Perseverance, it was immediately seen, would have led to the most dreadful cons;'(iuences; and the same night the Queen entreated M. Necker to take the management of the State upori himself, and solemnly en- gaged to follow no councils but his. The minister complied; — and immediately the obnoxious order was recalled, and a royal mandate was issued to the Nobles and the Clergy, to join the deliberations of the Tiers etat. If these reconciling measures had been sin- cerely followed out, the country and the mon- archy might yet perhaps have been saved. But the party of the Ultras — " qui parloit avec beaucoup de dedain de I'autorite du roi d"An- gleterre, et vouloit faire considerercomme un attentat, la penseede reduire un roi de France au miserable sort du monarque Britannique" — this misguided party — had still too much weiirht in the royal councils; and, while they took advantage of the calm produced by M. Necker's measures and {xjpularity, did not cease secretly to hasten the maich of M. de Broglie with his German regiments upon Paris — w:th the design, scarcely dissembled, of employing them to overawe, and, if neces- sary, to disperse the a.ssembly. Considering from vhom hsr information is derived, we cau scarcely refuse our implicit belief to the following important statement, which haj never yet been made on equal authority, " M. Necker n'ignoroit pas le veriiable obj) pour Icquel on faisoit avancer les troupes, bie qu'on vouhit le lui cacher. L'inteniioii de la coi eioit de reunir a Conipiegne tons les membres d» irois ordrcs qui n'avoient point favoiise le systeir des innovations, et la de leur faire consentir ii la ha les itnpots et les emprunts dont elle avoit besoii' afin de leu renvoyer ei;suite ! Comme un tel proj' ne pouvoit eire seconde par M. Necker, on se pre posoit de le renvoyer des que la force militaire sere rasaeniblee. Cinquanie avis par jour I'informoie de sa situation, et il ne lui eioit pas possible d'en doi ter ; mais il savoit aussi que, dans les ciiconstanci oil Ton se trouvoit alors, il ne pouvoit quitter ij place sans confinner les bruits qui se repaiidoiei- sur les mesures violentcs que I'ou pr»'paroit a cour. Le roi s'etant rcsolu a ccs mesures, ? Necker ne vouliit pas y prendre part, niais il : vouloit pas non plus doimer le signal de s'y oppose et il restoit la comme une sentinelle qu'on laissi encore a son poste, pour Iromper les attaquans s la mancRuvre." — ^'ol. i. pp. 231 — 233. He continued, accordingly, to go every dij to the palace, where he was received wi' cold civility ; and at last, when the troo. were all assembled, he received an order j the middle of the night, commanding himi; stantly to quit France, and to let no one knq of his departure. This was on the night of t' 11th of July; — hom this high testimony can be borne, ithout risk of contradiction. "Depuis le ^part de M. de la Fayette pour I'Amerique, y a quarante ans, on ne peut citer ni une ■tion, ni une parole de lui qui n'ait ete dans I meme ligne, sans qu'aucnn interet per- Hinel se soit jamais mele a sa condnite." he Abbe Siej-es seems to us a little like our ^ntham. At all events, this little sketch of ira is worth preserving. '"II avoit mcne jnsqu'a quarante ans line vie fliiaire, reflechissant .sur les question.s poliiiques, iporiani une grande forre d'abstraction dans cette jide ; niais il eioit pen fait pour commnniqueravec Ji autres hommes. tant il s'irritoit aisement de leurs |,vers, et tant 11 les blessoit par les siens. Touie- is. comme il avoit un esprit superieuret de^s fa^onv I s'exprimer laconiques et iranrhantes, c'etoit la i')de dans rasseniblee de lui montrer un respect I'sque superstitieu.x. Mirabeau ne dematidoit pas iieu.x que d'accorder an silence de I'. Abbe Sieves l;pas sur sa propre eloquence; car ce genre de rialiie n'esi pasredoiitable. On croyoit a Sieves. !;cef homme niysterieu.x, des secrets sur les con- fiuiions, dont on espernit toujours des cfTets elon- ips quand il les reveleroii. Quelqiies jeuncs l\\s, et meme des espriis d'une srrande force, pro- f)soient la plus hau^e admiration pour lui ; et Ton flccordoii a le louer au.v depens de tout autre, j:;ce qu'il ne se faisoit jamais juger en entier, dans ai'iine circnnstance. Ce qu'on savoit avec cerli- t'e. c'est qu'il detestoit les distinctions nobiliaires ; ej-ependant il avoit conserve de son etat de prcire ijaitachement an clerge, qui se manifesta le pins rirement du monde lors de la sttppre.ssion des diies. Ih x^evleiit Hre librex, el ne savent pax eire hfs! disoit-il a ccne occasion ; et lonies les iilieg de Tasseniblee etoienf renferinees dans ces pjoles."— Vol. i. pp. 30.5. 30(5. iPhe most remarkable party, pei haps, in the .AUembly was that of the Aristocrats, con- f ing chiefly of the Nobles and Clergy, and aiut thirty of the Commons. In the situa- tii in which they were placed, one would he expected a good deal of anxiety, bit- toes.«, or enthusiasm, from them. But. irFrance, things affect people difreiently. 1^ hing can be more characteristic than the f(p\ving powerful sketch •' Ce parti. (]ui a' it protestc cotitre foutes les resolutions de I'fiemblce. n'y assistoit cpie par prndence. Tft ce (|U'on y faisoit lui paroi.ssoit insolent. ms tres-pen acrietLV ! tant il frouvoit ridicule c«|e decouverte du dix-huitieme siecle. une ihon! — tandis qu'on n'avoit eu justju'alors *1' des nobles, des pretres, et du peuple I" — (^1. i. p. 298.) They had their count(!rpart, h'.n| that these dreadful scenes signalized 1 ave rer^ient des Jacobins;" but seems to excul- pate dl the known leaders of that party trona Liy actual concern in the transaction •,-and yet it was that transaction that subverted the "Thefcame the abolition of titles of no bility-the institution of a constitutional cle^- jry-iand the federation of 14lh Juh 17J0. In spite of the storms and showers oi boo 'vhi?h we have already noticed the political horzon.it seems, still looked bright in the eves of France. The following; picture is fi^vely-a.Kl is among the traits -h.ch history does not usually preserve-and which, ^vhat she does preserve, certainly would not enable future ages to conjecture. " T.es etrangcrs ne sauroient '^^'l]'.^''J;t' vJIT71 et r6clat tarn vame de la soc.ete de I anss Us n'ont vu la France que dcpuis vingt ans : Ma]s on Sen dire avec verite, que jamais ceite soc.cie n a Iffaussi brillante et aus.i ser.euse tout ensemble que pendant les trois on quatre premiere.^^ annees de ?a r6volution. a compter de 1788 jusqu a la fin de 1791 Comme les affaires politiqucsetoient encore entre les mains dc la premiere classe, toute la v.gueur de la ibe^e et toule la cracc de la pol.tesse ancenne ee re uni.soient dans les memes personnel. Les hon mrs du ners eta., dis-ingues par leurs luniieres et ieurs lalens, se joignoieni a ces geutilshonnme. liercs annees de la revomuu... . "L'asscmblce cons.ituante, comme je I ai del, dit, ne suspendit pas un -"' J°"; ^^f.^J^^.t nresse Ains ceux qui souflroient de se irouvc; ^onltammJnt en mino'nte dans ra-emblee avoier, au moins la satisfaction de se n.oquer de lou i par" contraire. Leurs journaux faisoient de spm ue s calembours snr les c.rconstances les plus ,11 So antes; c'eioit I'histoire du monde^changee e c mnierage ! Tel est partout le caraciere de 1 an> ontie d'es eours. ^'est la dermere fo.s hel« one I'esprit francoise se sou montre dans tout w ^ a/; c^est la Lrmere lois, et ^ c^ielques egar. au«' comtry, he tendered his '•e^'^^'""-'^"'; •;;:^];; allowe-- -^^ S Je^i'd the Nobles should have staid, and resi« DE STAELS FRENCH REVOLUTION. >27 ivhat was wrong — or submitted to it. " Mais Is ont trouve plus simple d'invoquer la gen- iarmerie Eiiropeeniie, afln de mettie Paris ii ■aison." The late of their country, which juixht to have been their only coucern. was ihvays a secondary object, in their eyes, to *he triumph of their own opinions — '• ils I'oiit j^onlu comme un jaloux sa maitre.<5$e — tidelle I-U morte." — and seem rather to have con- idered themselves as allied to all the other nobles of Europe, than as a part of the French iiation. The Constituent Assembly made more Jaws \\ two years than the English parliament had Lone in two hundred. The succeeding as- sembly made as many — with this difierer.ce. hat while the former aimed, for the most les rangs en dosorHro. il rovint s'asspoir niipn's do In remc el de ses entaiis. l>i puis o- jour, li; ptuplo ne I'a plus revu — que sur recliataud I" Vol. li. pp. 54, 55. Soon after, the allies entered France ; the King refused to lake shelter in the army ul M. de la Fayette at Compiegne. Hi.s palace was stormed, and his guards butchered, on the lOih of August, lie was conmiitted to the Temple, arraigned, and executed ! and the reign of terror, with all its unspeakable atrocities, ensued. We must lass over much of what is most interesting in the book before us; forwefintl, that the most rapid sketch we can trace, woulil draw us into irreat lenjith. Madame lie Statl thinks that the war was ni'arlv unavoidable «rt, at general reformation, the last were all I O" the part of England; ami,* after a brief ersonaland vindictive. The speculative re- ' character ot our Fo.x and Pitt, she says ublicans were for some time the leaders of [ lis industrious body ; — and Madame de Stael. il describing their tone and temper while " II pouvoii eire avantagcu.x'toutcfois a I'.Angle- lerre que M. Pitt fut le diet de rpiiu dnns i.icrisc la plus dangcreuse oii ce pays se soil iroiivo ; maia il lower, has "given a picture of the political l "c retoii pas moins, qu'un espnt aussi ciendu que "■ " ■ ' celui de M. Fox suiiiiin les priiicipes iiialgre les circonstances; et sut preserver les dieu.x pcnatcs des amis de la liberie, au milieu de riiiceiidie. Ce •actability of her countrymen, which could barcely have been endured from a stranger. "Aucun argument, ancuiie inquietude n'eioient boutea par ses chefs. Us repondoient aux obser- iitions de la sagesse, et de la sagesse desinteressee, ir un sourire moqueur, symptome de raridiie qui 'suite de I'amour-propre : On s'epuisoit a leur ippeler les circonstances, et a leur en deduire les uises; on passoit lour iv tour de la theorie a I'ex- ^rience, et de Texperience a la iheone. pour leur 1 montrer I'identite; et. s'ils consentoient a re- ,)ndre, ils nioient les faits les plus autlieniiques, i combattoient les observations les plus evidenies, |j y opposant quelqiies niaximes coninumes, bieii ji'exprimees avec eloquence. lis se resardoient litre eux, comme s'ils avoieni eie seals dignes k s'eniendre, et s'encourageoient par I'idce que lut etoit pusillaiiiniite dans la resistance a ieur laniere de voir. Tels soiit les signes de I'esprit n est point pour conientcr les deux partis que je les loue ainsi tous les deux, quoiqu'ils aieni soutenu des opinions ires-opposees. Le fcontraire en France devroii peut-etre avoir lieu; les (actions diverses y sont presque loujours r'galement bliiiiiables : .Maia dans un pays libre, les partisans du minislere et les niembres de I'opposition pcuvent avoir tous rai- son a leur maniere ; ct ils font souveiit chacun du bien selon I'epoque. Ce qui importe seulement, c'est de ne pas prolonger le pouvoir acquis par la lutte, apres que le danger est passe." Vol. ii. p. 113. There is an excellent chapter on the ex- cesses of the parties and the people of France at this period ; which she refers to ihe sudden exasperation of those principles of natural J! parii chez les Francois! Le dedain pour leurs hostility by which the high and the low are jiversaires en est la base, et le dedain s'oppose [ujours a la eoiinoissance de la veriie." — "Mais fills lesdebats politiques," she adds, " oil la ma.«se June nation prend part, il ii'y a que la voix des {enemens qui soil entendue ; les argunu-ns n'in- jirentquele desir de leur repondre." ! The King, who seemed for a time to have jsigned himself to his fate, was roused at st to refuse his assent to certain brutal de- ees ag-ainst the recusant priests — and his { ilace and his person were immediately in- | always in some degree actuated, and which are only kept from breaking out by the mu- tual conces.sions v/hich the law, in ordinary times, exacts from both parties. The law was now annihilated in that country, and the natu- ral antipathies were called into uncontrolled activity ; the intolerance of one party having j no longer any check but the intolerance of j the other. Les qiiercilcs dea patriciens et des picbeiens. .ded by a ferocious mob— and he was soon 'a guerre des e«^claves, celle des paysans, cclle qui Iter compelled with all his family to assist at e anniversary of the 14th July, where, ex- Ipt the plaudits of a few children, every ing was dark and menacing. The following Iw lines appear to us excessively touching. • II falloit le caraciere de Louis XVI., ce earac- he de martyr qu'il n'a jamais dementi, pour sup- ]rier ainsi une pareille siiuaiion. Sa maniere de iiircher, sa contenance avoient quelque chose de f'ticulier. Dans d'aiiires occasions, on auroii pu lisoiihaiterp'us de grandeur; mais il suffisoitdans 'imoment de rester en loui le mcme, pour paroiire f|)Iime. Je suivis de loin sa teie poudrce au mi- l[ide ces tetes a cheveux noirsj son habit, encore Ijide comme jadis, ressorloit a cole du costume tj' gens du peuple qui se prcssoient autour de lui. %and il monta les de^res de I'autel, on crut voir Itictime sainte, s'ofiVant volontairement en sacri- ft! II redescendit; et, traversant de nouveau dure encore entre !cs nobles et les bcurceois, touies ont cu egalement pour engine la difficulic de main- tenir la socieie huiiiaino. sans df'sordre et sans in- justice Les hoinmes lie pourroienl existcr aujour- d'hui, nisepares, ni rcuiiis, si le respect de la loi ne s'ciablissoit pas dans les teies: toua les crimes nai- iroient de la socieie menie qui doii les prevenir. Le pouvoir abstrait des gouvernemens represcnta- tifs n'irrite en rien I'orgueil des hommes; et c'est pir cette insiiluiion que doivem s'etcindre Ifs flniiibeaux des furies. Ils se eont allumes dans un pays oil lout ('toil amour-projire ; ct rainour-propre irriie, ciie/ le peuple, ne rcsseniblo poit a nos nuances fugitives; c'est le besoin do donner la mort ! " Des massacres, non moins affreux nue ceux dc la terreur, ont etc coiiimis au nom dc la religion ; la race humainc s'eet epuiw'e pendaiu plusieurs siecles en efTorts iiiulilcs pour coiiiraindre lous les hommes a la mOme croyance. Un tcl but nc pou- voit etre atteint ; et I'idee la plus simple, la lo\6- 2U HISTORY AND HISTORICAL MEMOIRS. ranee, telle que Guillaume Penii I'a professee, a j banni pour toujours, du nord de rAmerique, le fanatisme dont le midiaete I'affreux ilipaire. II en j est de meme du t'an:awand order had been sufficiently trodden on already, by the Jacobin clubs and revolutionary tribunals : and the battalions of (General Augereau were just as well entitled to domineer as the armed sections and butch- ering mobs of Paris. There was no longer, ill short, any sanctity or principle of civil right acknowledged ; and it was time that the force and terror which had substantially reigned for three years, should appear in their native colours. They certainly became somewhat less atrocious when thus openly avowetl. We come at last to Bonaparte — a name that mil go down to posterity, and of whom it is not yet clear, peihaps. how posterity will judge. The greatest of coiupierors, in an age when great conquests appeared no longer possible — the mo.st splendid of usurpers, where usurpation had not been heard of for centuries — who entered in trium])h almost all the capitals of Continental Europe ; and led. at last, to his bed, the daughter of her proud- est s(}vereign — who set up kings and put them down at his pleasure, and. for sixteen years, defied alike the sword of his foreign enemies and the daggers of his domestic factions ! This is a man on whom future generations must yet -^it in judgment. But the evidence by which they are to Judge must be trans- mitted to them by his contemporaries. jMa- liame de Stael has colIecl(;d a great deal of this evidence ; and has reported it, we think, on the wliole. in a tone of great impartiality ; though not without some indications of per- sonal dislike. Her whole talents seem to be roused and concentrated when she begins to speak of this extraordinary man ; and much and ably as his character has been lately dis- cussed, we do think it has never been half so well described as in the volumes before U6. We shall venture on a pretty long e.xlract, be- ginning with the account of their hist inter- view ; for on tlus, as on most other subjects, 3Iadame de Stael has the unspeakable ad- vantage of writing from her own observation Alter mentioning the great popularity he hac acquired by his victories in Italy, and tht peace by which he had secured ihera a< Campo Formio, she says — ■• C'esi avei; i-e sentiment, du moins. que je Ic vij pour la premiere fois a Paris. Je ne trouyai pas dr paroles pour lui repondre, quand il vim ii nuii m* dirp qu'il avoit cherche mon pere a Copper, et qu'i: re;j;reitoii d'avoir passe en Suisse sans le voir. .Mais' lorsqiie je fus iiii peu remise du trouble de radmi ration, tin sentiment de crainte tres-pronoiice lu .succeda I Bonaparte alors n'avoit aucune puisi sance ; on le eroyoii meme assez menace par \e, s lup^oiis ombrageux du directoire ; ainsi, lacrainti qu'il inspiroii n etoit causee que par le singulis effet de sa per.somie sur presque tous cenx qui Tap prochent I J'avois vu des hommes tres-digiies d respect ; j'avois vu aiissides hommes ieroces : il n''; avoit rien dans I' impression que Bonaparte iiroduisi' sur moi, qui piit me rappeler ni lesunsni les autre/ J'aper^u.* assez viie, dans les diiferentes occasiori quej'ensde lerencontrer pendant son sejoura Parii que son caraciere ne pouvoit etre defini par les mo! dont nous avons coutume de nous servir ; il n'eto; ni bon, ni violent, ni dou.x, ni cruel, a la tajt' des individus a nous connus. Un tel eire n'aya point de pareil, ne pouvoit ni ressentir, ni fai eprouver aucune sympailiie. C'etoit phis ou moi qu'un liomme ! Sa tournure, son esprit, son la gage son' empreinis d'une nature Pirangerc — ava tage de plus ponr siibjuguer les Francois, ainsi q nc)us I'avons dit ailleurs. • Loin de me rassurer en voyant Bonaparte pl< soiivem, il m'intiinidoit toujours davaniage ! | sentois confusement qu'aucune emotion de ccEuri' pouvoif agir sur lui. II regarde une creature i maiiie romme un fait ou comme une chose, m, non conime nn semblable. 11 ne hait pas plus qi n'aime. II n'y a (|ue lui pour lui ; tout le re' des creatures son' des chiffres. La torce de sa'i' loiiie consisie dans Timperturbable calcui de r ego'i.snie ; c'est un habile joueur d'echecs. dont genre humain est la pariie adverse qu'il se prop de taire tM-bec et mat. Ses stuces tiennent aut :nix ([inli'f's que Ini manqueiit. tiu'au.x talens q possodc. Ni la pi'ie, ni I'attraii. ni la religion I'atia'hement a une idee quelconque ne sauroi le driourner de .sa direction principale. II est p ' son inierei, ce que le juste doit etre pour la ve.r| si le but eioit bon, sa perseverance seroit belle. • " Chaque fois que je renieiidois parler, j'cii frappee de sa superiorite. Elle n'avoit pour i aucun rapport avec celle des hommes instruit I cul'ivi's par I'rtude ou la socicte. tels que I'An.,- iprre et la France peuvent en offrir des exeipp • Mais scs discoiirs indiquoient le tact des cin • sian(;es. comnie le chasseur a cclm cie sa pi • Quclquefois il nicontoit lea fails poliiiques et t • laircs d<; sa vie d'une fa90ii tres-interessantf ;1 avoit minic. dans les reciis qui permettoiont t a gaic'c. tin pen de I'imagiiia'ion iialienne. Ce •■ dant rieii iif pmivoit iriompher de mon inviin • i eloigneniPiit pour ce que j'apercevois en lui. i* I sentois d.nns son aine une epee froide et trancb • qui gla^oit en bicssani ! Je sentois dans son e " une ironie profonde a laquelle rien de grand 1 1* bean, fias mCnte sa proprt gJoire, ne pouvoit ec )• l)er : Car il meprisoit la nation dont il vouloi •'* suffrages, et nulle eiincelle d'enthousiasme r »« mcloii ;i son bes/iin d'eionner I'esptce humaii •• (3e futdaiiB I'intervalleentre le reioiinle E k- parie ei son depart pour I'Egypie, c'osi-a-dire, f la fin de 1797, que je le vis plusieurs fois a F*i < PftC DE STAKF.S FRFACH REVOLUTION. 229 cf jamais la difficultp de respirev que j'oprouvoisen sa presence ne put se dissiper. JTiiois un jdur a table eiitre lui et I'abbe Sieves : siri^ulitTe piiuation, si j'avois pu prevoir I'aveniv I Pe\;miinois avee atteiilion la fiiiure de Bonaparte ; inuis eliaiiue lois qu'il decouvrmt en nioi des regard* obsiMvaieur.s, il avoit I'art d'oier a see yeux touie expression, coiiime s'ils i'ussent deveims de niarbre. Son visage rioii alors immobile ; excepie unsourire vague qu'il pla^oit sur ses levres a tout hasard, pour derouttr quiconque voudroit observer lea signes exierieurs de sa pensee. " Sa figure, alors niaigre ei pale, etoit asscz agreable ; depuis, il est engraisse, ce qui lui va tres-mal: car on a besoin de eroire uu tel homme tourmente par son carai-uVe, pour tolerer un peu que ce carauiere fasse lelleniem souffrir ies auires. Comnie sa stature est petite, et cependant'sa taille fort longue, il etoit beaucoup niieu.x a chcval qti'a pied ; en tout, c'est la guerre, et si'uleinent la guerre qui lui sied. Sa tnanirre d'etre dans la socieie est jenee sans timidite. 11 a quelque chose de dedaig- leu.x qijand il seconiient, el de vulgaire, quand il se met a I'aise. Le dedain lui vamieux — aussi ne i'en fait-il pas fiiute. " Par une vocation naturelle pour I'etat de prince, 1 adressoit deja des questions insignifiantcs a tons •eu.\ qu'on lui presentoit, Etes-vous marie? de- nandoit-il a Tun des convives. Combien avez- ^ous d'enfans? disoit-il a I'autre. Depuis quand ■les-vous arrive ? Quand partez-vous ? Et autres flterrogations de ce genre, qui elablissent la supe- ioriie de celui qui Ies fait surcelui qui veui bien se ,aisser questionner ainsi Je I vu un jour s'approcher d'une Fran^oise jres-connue par sa beaute, son esprit et la vivaciie ,e ses opinions ; il se pla^a tout droit devant elle |Omme le plus roide des generaux alleniands, el fjj dit : ' J\Jadame, je 7i aime pas que Ies fnnmes se lelent de polilique.' — ' Vo7is avez raiso7i, gi'neral.' pi repondit-elle : ^ muis dans un pays oa on leur \mpe la tele, il est nottire.l qu'elles aient envie de tivoir pourqiioi.' Bonaparte alors ne repliqua (en. C'est un homme que la resistance veritable Ipaise ; ceux qui ont souffert son despoiisme, doi- lent en etre autant accuses que lui-meme." i Vol. li. pp. H)8— 204. j The following little anecdote is every way kavacteristic. Un soir il parloit avec Barras de son ascendant >r lea peuples italiens. qui avoicni voulu le faire ic de Milan et roi d'ltalie. ' Mais je 7ie pense.' t-il, 'a Tien de semhlahle dans aucun pays.' — Vous faiteg bien de n' y pas songer e?i France,' pondit Barras ; ' car, si le directoire vous envoyoit t ^main au Temple, il n' y nuroit pas quatre pcrson- H '.s qui «'y opposassenl- Bonaparte etoit assis sur , il canape a cote de Barras : a ces paroles il s'e- f. iii^a vers la cheminee, n'etant pas iiiaitre de son titation ; puis, reprenant cette espece de calme parent dont Ies homines Ies plus passiones parmi It! J3 habitans du Midi soni capables, il dechira qu'il ft >uloit etre charge d'une expedition miliiaire. Le s rectoire lui proposa la descenie en Angleierre ; il ;! la visiter Ies coies ; et reconnoissant bieniot que ^ ite expedition etoit insensee, il revint decide a itS liter la conquele de TEgvpie." ( ■ Vol. ii. pp. 207, 208. '"; We must add a few miscellaneous passage?, J,^ develope a little farther this extraordinary ,-^ aracter. Madame de Stael had a lonj; con- inJ irsation with him on the slate of Switzer- (*' nd, in which he seemed quite insensible to '* i.y feelings of generosity. Iiii) " Cette conversation," however, she adds, " me ,.J( ' cependant concevoir I'agrement qu'on peut lui jjj ' luver quand il prend I'air bonhomme. et parle ijji ihime d'ime chose simple de lui-meme et de ses I'je'.d. Cet an, le plus redouiablc de tous, a captive bcnucoiip de geris. A cette memo epoque. je revis encore quelquetois Bonnparte en eocieie, el il mc pnrut loujours protondemeni occupe des rnp- ports ()u'il vouloil elablir ciitre lui el lea autre.-* nonimcs, Ies tenant ii disiance ou Ies rapprocliant de lui, euivant qu';l eroyoit se Ics ailQclier plus surement. Quand il se iruuvoit avec lea directeurn surtoui, il craignoii d'nvoir I'air d'un general sous Ies ordres de son >;ouvernemeiil, et il csHayoil tour ii tour dans ses manieres. avec cetic sorte de supe- rieurs, la dignite ou la lumiliuriic ; main il mnn(|uoii le Ion vrai de I'lnie el de I'auire. C'tut un hommn qui ne sail roil etre tialunl que tlant le commandt mn*/."— Vol. ii. pp. 211, 212. The following remark relates rather to the French nation than their ruler. We ijuote it for its exquisite truth rather than its severity. " Sa conversation avec le Mufti dans In pyramide de Cheops devoit eiu:hanter Ies Parisiens ; parce qu'elle reuni.-snit Ies deux chosesqui Ies capiivent : un certain genre de trrandeur, et de la momiene lout ensemble. Les Fran^iis sont bien aisi.'S d'etre emus, ct de rire de ce qu' its sont emut ! Le rhar- latanisme leur platt, et ils aideiit volontiers a t^e tromper pux-inemes ; pmuvu qu'il leureoit permis, tout en se conduisant comme des dupes, de mon- trer par quelques bon mots que pourtant ils ne le sont pas." — Vol. ii. p. 2-28. On his return from Egypt it was understood by every body that he was to subvert the ex- isting constitution. But he pas.'^ed live weeks at Paris in a quiet and apparently undecided way — and, with all this preparatory study, acted his part but badly after all. Nothing can be more curious than the following pas- sage. When he had at last determinetl to put down the Directory, — " Le 19 brumaire, il arriva dans le conseil des cinq cents, les bras croises, avec un air trcs-sombre, et suivi de deux grands grenadiers qui protegeoieni sa petite stature. Les deputes appeles jacobins pousserent des hurlemens en le voyant entrerdans la siille ; son freie Lucien. bien heureusement pour lui. etoit alors president ; il agiioit en vain la son- nette pour reialilir I'ordre ; les cris de trailre et d'usurptileur se faisoient entendre de toutes parts : et I'un des deputes, compatriote de Bonaparte, le cor.se Arena, s'lipproeba de ce general et Ic secoua foriemeiit par le collet de son habit. On a suppose, mais sans fondement, qu'il avoit un poignard pour le tuer. Son action rependaiu effraya Bonaparte ; et il dit aux grenadiers qui Violent a cote de lui, en laissani lomber sa tele sur I'epaule de l'u7id'euT : ' Tirez-moi d'ici !' Les grenadiers TenleverciU du milieu des deputes qui rentouroient ; ils le portr- reni hors de la suite en plein air ; et, des quMI y fut. sa presence d'esprit lui revint. II monta a cheval n I'ins'anl mf'me ; et, parcourant les rangs de ses grenadiers, il les determina bientot ii ce qu'il vou- loit d'eux. Daof cette circonstance, comme dans beaucoup d'autres, on a remarque que Bonaparte ponvoit se troubler quand un autre danger que celui de la tjuerre etoit en face de lui ; et quelque.i personnes en ont conclu bien ridiculemeiu qu'il manquoii de courage. Ceries on ne peut nier son audace ; mais, comme il n'est rien, pa« memo brave, d'une fa^on genereuse, il s'ensuit qu'il ne s'cxpose jamais que quand cela peut etre utile. II seroit tre.-:-fachc d'etre tue. parce que c'est un re- vers, el qu'il veut en tout du succes. ^ II en seroit aus-ii Inche, parce que la morl deplait a son im- agination : ' M iis il n'hesiie pas a hasardor «a vi#t, lorsque, siiivnnt sa muniere de voir, la partie vaui le risque de I'enjeu, s'il est permis de B'expriincr ainsi."— Vol. ii. pp. 240-242. Although he failed thus strangely in the theatrical pait of the business, tlie subslauUai U 230 HISTORY AND HISTORICAL MEMOIRS. part was effectually done. He sent in a column of grenadiers with fixed bayonets at one end of the hall of the great council, and made them advance steadily to the other : driving the unhappy senators, in their fine classical draperies, before them, anil forcing thern to leap out of the windows, and scam- per through the gardens in these strange habiliraciits ! Colonel Pride's purge itself was not half so rough in its operation. There was now an end, not only of liberty, but of republican tyranny: and the empire of the sword in the hand of one man. was sub- stantially established. It is melancholy to think, but history shows it to be true, that the most abject servitude is usually established at the close of a long, and even generous struggle for freedom ; partly, no doubt, be- cause despotism offers an imaire of repose to those who are worn out with contention, but chiefly because that military force to which all parties had in their extremity appealed, naturally lends itself to the bad ambition of a fortunate commander. This it was which made the fortune of Bonaparte. His answer to all remonstrances was — •• A^oulez-vous que je vous livre au.x Jacobins V' But his true answer was, that the army was at his de- votion, and that he defied the opinion of the nation. He began by setting up the Consulate : But from the very first, says Madame de Stael, assumed the airs and the tone of royalty. " 11 prit les Tuileries pour sa dnmcure ; et ce fui iin coup de pariiu que le choix de cetie lialiitalioii. On avoit vu la le roi de France ; les habitudes mon- archiques y etoieiit encore preseiite.'; a tons les yeux, et il suffisoit, pour ainsi dire, de laisser taire les niurs pour tout rciablir. Vers les derniers jours du dernier sicde. je vis entrer le premier consul dans ce palais bati par les rois ; et quoique Bonaparte Ait bien loin encore de la niafrnifieence qu'il a develop- pee depuis, Ton voyoit deja dans tout ce qui I'en- touroit un empressement de se faire couriisan a rorieniale, qui dut lui persuader que gouverner la lerre etoit chose bien facile. Quand sa voi'ure fui arrivee dans la cour des Tuileries, sc* valets ouvri- rent la portiere et precipiterent le marchepied avec une violence qui sembloit dire qu'^ les nhoses phy- siques elles-memes eloient insolentes quand elles retardoient un instant la niarche de leur niaitre I Lui ne regardoit ni ne remercioit personne; coninie s'll avoit craint qu'on piit le croire sensible au.x hom- mages rneme qu'il exigeoit. En montant I'escalier au milieu de la foule qui se pressoit pour le siiivre. ses yeux ne se portoieni ni sur aiicun objet. ni sur aucune personne en particulier. II y avoit quelque chose de vague et d'insouciani dans sa physionomie, ei ses regards n'exprinioient que co qu'il lui con- vient toujours de montrer, — rindifTerence pour le sort, et le dedain pour les hommes." Vol. ii. pp. 258, 259. He had some reason, indeed, to despise men, from the specimens he had mostly about him: For his adheients were chiefly desert- ers from the royalist or the reijublican party; — the first willing to transfer their servility to a new dynasty. — the latter to fake the names and emoluments of republican offices from tlif hand of a plebeian u.surper. For a Avhile he thoucht it prudent tn dissemble with each : and. with that utter contempt of truth which belonged to his scorn of mankind, held, in the same day, the most edifying discourses of citizenship and equality to one set of hearer^ and of the sacred rights of sovereigns to an- other. He extended the same unprincipled dissimulation to the subject of religion. To the prelates with whom he arranged his cele- brated Concordat, he spoke in the most seri- ous maimer of the truth and the awfulnessof the Go.spel; and to Cabanis and the philoso- phers, he said, the same evening, — •• Savez- vons ce que c'est la Concordat ] C'est la Vacanc de la Religion — dans cinquante ans il n'y aura plus en France!"' He resolved., however, to profit by it while it lasted ; ana i had the blasphemous audacity to put this, ; among other things, into the national cate-ii chism, approved of by the whole Gallicaai' chuj-ch: — '• Q«. Que doit-on penser de ceui.; qui manqueroient a leur devoir envers TEm- pereur Napoleon ? Reponse. Qu'ils resiste- roient a Pordre etabli de Dieu lui-mcme — et se reiidroient dignes de la damnation etanclle!" With the actual tyranny of the sword bega; the more pitiful persecution of the slavisi journals — the wanton and merciless iiiriict;o of exile on women and men of letters — ai; the perpetual, restless, insatiable hiteiferenci. in the whole life and conversation of every one of the slightest note or importance. Th«i following passages are written, perhaps, witt; more bitterness than any other in the book but they appear to us to be substantially just; '"Bonaparte, lorsqn'il disposoit d'un niillioi d'homnies armes, n'en attachoit pas moins d'im poriance a I'art de guider Tesprit public par le gazettes; il dicioit souvent lui-meme des arnclesd journaux qu'on pouvoit reconnoitre aux saccadt violenies du style. On voyoit qu'il auroit voul nieiire dans ce qu'il ecrivoit, des coups au lieu d mois I II a dans tout son eire nn fond de vulgarii que le giganiesque de son ambition meme ne sauro tonjours cacher. Ce n'est pas qu'il nc sache trei' bien, un jour donne. se montrer avec beaucoup c convenance ; mais il n'est a son aise que dans mepris pour les auires, el. des-qu'il pout y rentre il s'y complait. 'I'ouiefois ce n'eloit pas uniqu' ment par goiit qu'il se livroit a faire servir. dansB' | notes du Moniteiir, le cynisnie de la rcvohiiion ( mainiicn de sa puissance. II ne pernietioit qu'a I d'etre jacobin en Prance. — Vol. ii. p. 2G4. " Je fus la premiere femme que Bonaparte exil; Mais bientot aprrs il en bannit un grand nombi d'opinionsopposces. D'ow venoit ce luxe en fait' mechancete, si ce n'est d'une sorie de haine coni tous les etresindopendans ? Kt comme les temmr d"une part, ne pouvoieni servir en rien ses dessei pohtiqurs, et que, de I'auire, dies eioient moinss' cessibles que les hommes aux craintes et aux esf. ranees dont le pouvoir est dispensateiir, dies doiinoient de I'humeur comme dts rebelles, el il plaisoii a leur dire des choses blessantes et y gnires. II hiiTssoit auiant Tesprit di' chevalerieqi recherchoii I'etiquette : c'etoit faire un mauv choix parmi leS' ancirnnes mreurs. II lui res» aussi de ses premieres habitudes pendant la revo lion, une ceriaiiie aniipathie jacobine contre la ' cieie brillanie de Paris; sur laquelle les femii, exer9oient beaucoup d'ascendaiit. II redoutoit ' dies I'ari de la plaLsanterie. qui. Ton doit en p' vcnir, appariient pariictilierement aux Francois Si Bonaparte avoit voulu s'en tenir au supeiber de gratid general et de premier magistral de la pul)liqiie, il auroit piano de toute la hauteur genie au-dessiis des petiis trails acere.« dr- I'et (le salon. Mais quand il avoit le dessein dc se f»' nn roi pnrvf^nu. un bourL'fis ffcniilliotnmo sui irone, il s'exposoit preciseuient a la nioquerif • DE STAEL'S FRENCH PxEVOLUTION. 231 on ton, et il ne pouvoit la cornprimer, comme il a fait, que par I'espionage ct la terreur." Vol. ii. pp. 30(!, 307. I The thin mask of the Consulate was soon itirown off — and the Ernjioror appeared in his , roper habits. The following remarks, thouch lot all applicable to the same period, appear [3 us to be admirable. I " Bfinaparie avoit lu I'histoire d'une maniiMe bnfuse. Peu aecouiume a I'etude, il se rendoit •eaucoup inoiiis compte de c.e qu'il avoii appris ans les livres, que de ce qu'il avoit recneilli par lObservaiiori des hoinmes. II n'eii etoit p.is inoiiis ^;sie dans sa iiue un oeriaiu respect pour Attila et 3ur Charlemagne, pour les lois feod;iles et pour le sspoiisme de I' Orient, qu'il appliquoit a tort et a •avers, ne se tronipaiit jamais, loutefois, sur ce kii servoit iiisiantancmem il son pouvoir ; mais du |)Ste, ciumt, blamant, louant et raisonnant conime ( hasard le conduisoii. II parloit ainsi des heures ;ilieres avec d'auiant plus d'avantage, que per- jnne ne rinterrompoii, si ce u'esi par les applau- ssemens involontaires qui echappent toujours iins des occasions semblables. Une chose siuffu- >)re, c'esi que, dans la conversation, plu^icurs jHciers Bonapartisies out emprunte de leur chei it heroique galimatias, qui veritabloment ne sisr- fie rien qu' a la tete de iiuit cent niille hommes?' Vol. ii. pp. 332, 333. *' II fit occuper la phipari des charges de sa mai- in par des Nobles de Tancien reeime ; il aimoit s flatteries des courUsajis d' autrefois, parce qu'ils leniendoifint mieux a cet an que les hommes nou- jiaux, inenie les plus empresses. Chaque fois ii'un gentilhomme de ranuienne cour rappeloil letiqueiie du temps jadis, proposoit une reverence • b plus, uue ceriaine inqon de frapper a la porte ■ 1} quelque anii-chambre, une maniere plus cere- ■ jonieuse de presenter une depeche, de plier une ' itre, de la terminer pnr telle ou telle formule. il ' |oit accueilli comme s'il avoit fait faire des progres ' ji bonheur de I'espece humaine ! Le code de I'eii- J lette imperiale est le document le phis remarqu- '■ Me de la hassesse a laquelle on pent reduire ' '^spece humaine." — Vol. ii. pp. 334, 335. " Quand il y avoit quatre cents personnes dans m salon, un aveugle auroit pu s'y croire seul, lant sijence qu'on observoit etoit profond ! Les arecliaux de France, au milieu des fatigues de la lerre, au monjent de la crise d'une liaiaille, en- oient dans la lenle de rempercur pour lui de- ander ses ordres, — et il ne leur etoit pas permis ! s'y asseoir ! Sa famille ne souffroil pas moins 18 ies etrangers de son despotisme et de sa hau- Lucieri a mieux aime vivre prisonnier en ngleterre que regner sous les ordres de son frere. ouifi Bonaparte, dont le caraciere est generale- ent esiime, se vit constraint par sa probiie meme. renoncer a la coiironne de Hollande ; et, le croi- it-on? quand il causoit avec son frere pendant mx heures icie-a-ieie, force par sa niauvaise same I s'appuyer poniblement conire la muraille. Na- ileon ne lui ofTroii pas une chaise ! il demeuroii i-meute debout, de crainie que quelqu'un n'eiii dee de se faiuiliariserassez avec lui, pour s' asseoir I sa presence. "Le peur qu'il causoit dans les derniers temps lit telle, que personne ne lui adressoit le premier parole sur rieit. Quclquefois il s'cntreienoit ec la plus grande simpliciie. au milieu de sa cour, dans son conseil d'eiat. II souffroit la conlra- L-lion, il y encoiirageoit meme, quand il s'ngis.soii questions administratives ou judiciaires sans re- 'ioM nvec son pouvoir. II falloii voir alurs I'atien- issement de ceux auxqnels il avoit rendu pour un omeni la respiration libre; mais, quand le tnaiire parois.soit, on demandoit en vain aux miiiistres de fisenter un rapport a I'empereur contre une me- re injusie. — II aimoit moins les louanges vraiee que les flatteries servilcs ; parce que, dans les unes, on n'auroit vu que son mrriie, tandis que les auires atiestoient son autoriie. Hn general, il a prelere la puissance a la gloire ; car Paction de la force lui pliiisoii irop pour (pi'il s'occupa de la posn'rite, sur laqucllc on ne peut I'exercer." Vol. ii. pp. 399—401. There are some fnie reiKarks on the base- ness of those who solicited employment and favonrsuniier Bonaparte, and have'since join- ed the party of the Ullras, and treated the whole Rcvoiutioii as an atiucious rebellioit — and a very clear ;ind masterly view of the policy by which that yreat commander- sub- dued the irrcater part of Continental Europe. But we can atibrd no room now for any further account of them. As a general, she says, he was prodig-.il of the lives of his soldiers — haughty aiul domineering to his officers — and utterly regardless of the miseries he inflicted on the countries which were the scenes of his operations. The following anecdote is curious — and to us original. " On I'a vu dans la guerre d'Auiriche, en 1309, quitter I'lle de Lobau. quand i! jugeoit la baiailU perdue. 11 traversa le Daiml)e, seul avec M. de Czernitchef, I'un des inirepides aides de camp de I'empereur de Russie, et le marechal Berthier. L'empereur leur dit as.sez tranquilleinent qn'apns avoir srairne (luaratile bataillen, il 7i' etoit pns ejclra- ordinaire d'aiperdre une; et lorsqu'il fut arrive de Tautre cote du fleuve, il se concha et dormit JH!:qu''aii lendemain matin ! sanss'inforiner du sort de Tarmce fran5oise. que ses gcncraux sauverent pendant son sommcil." — Vol. ii. p. 35S. Madame de Stael mentions several other instances of this faculty of sleeping in mo- ments of great apparent anxiety. The most remarkable is, that he fell fast asleep before taking the field in 1814, while endeavouring to persuade one of his ministers that he hiid no chance of success in the approaching cam- paign, but must inevitably be ruined ! She has extracted from the INlouiteur of July 1810, a verv singular proof of the au- dacity with vvhicK he very early proclaimed his own selfish and ambitious views. It is a public letter addressed by him to his nephew, the young Duke of Berg, in which he says, in so many words, ''N'oubliez ja- mais, (pie vos premiers devoirs sqnt envers Mt)i — vos seconds envers la France — ceux envers les peuples que je pourrois vous con- fier, ne vieniient qu'apres." This was at least candid — and in his disdain for mankind, a sort of audacious candour was sometimes alternated with his duplicity. " Un principe general, quel qu'il fut, deplaisoic a Bonaparte ; comme une niaiserie, ou comme un ennemi. II n'etoit point sanguinaire, mais indilfe- reni a la vie dee hommes. II ne la consideroit que comme un moyen d'arriver a son but, ou coiinne un obstacle a ecarler de sa route. II n'etoit pas meme aussi colere qu'il a soiivcnt paru I'eire : il vouloii efFrayer avec ses paroles, afin de s'epargner le fait par la menace. Tout etoit chez lui nioyen on but; I'involontaire ne se trouvoit iiulle part, ni dans le bien. ni dans le nial. On pretend qu'il a cfit : J'ai linit de ronnrril.t o dvjieimrr jnir an. Ce propos est vraisemblable ; car Bonaparte a oouveni assez meprise ses audilcnrs pour se coinpluire ilans un genre de sincerite qui n'eai que de rimpndeure. — Jamais il n'a cru aux sentimensexalles, suit dans 232 fflSTORV AND HISTORICAL MEMOIRS. lea individus, soit dans lc3 nations ; il a pris I'ex- prtssion de ces seniiinens pour de Thypocnsie." — Vol. ii. pp. 391, 392. Bonaparte, Madame de Stael thinks, had no alternative but to give the French nation a free constitution ; or to occupy them in war. and to dazzle them with military glory. He had not magnanimity to do the one. and he finally overdid the latter. His first great error was the war with Spain ; his last, the campaign in Russia. All that followed was put upon him, and could not be avoided. She rather admires his rejection of the terms otfei'ed at Chatillon ; and is moved with his farewell to his legions and their eagles at Fontainebleau. She feels like a French- woman on the occupation of Paris by foreign conquerors ; but gives the Emperor Ale.xan- der full credit, both for the magnanimity of his conduct as a conqueror, and the gene- rosity of his sentiments on the subject of French liberty and independence. She is quite satisfied with the declaration made by the King at St. Ouen, and even with the charter that followed — though she allows that many further provisions were necessary to consolidate the constitution. All this part of the book is written with great temperance and reconciling wisdom. She laughs at the doctrine of legitimacy, as it is now main- tained ; but gives excellent reasons for pre- ferring an ancient line of princes, and a fixed order of succession. Of the Ultras, or trnconstitutional royalists, as she calls them, she speaks with a sort of mixed anger and pity; although an unrepressed scorn takes the place of both, when she has occasion to mention those members of the party who were the abject flatterers of Bonaparte du- ring the period of his power, and have but transferred, to the new occujiant of the throne, the servility to which they had been trained under its late possessor. " Mais ceu.x dont on avoit le plus de peine a contenir rindi^nation vertueuse conire le parti de I'usiirpateur, c utoient ies nobles ou leurs adherens, qui avoient demande des places a ce nieme u?ur- pateur pendant sa puissance, et qui s'en etoient separes bien nettement le jour de sa chute. L'en- thousiasme pour la legitimite de lel chainbellan de Madame mere, ou de telle dame d'atour de Madame sffiur, ne connois^oit point de homes ; et certes, nous auires que Bonapane avoit proscrit.e pendant tout le conrs de son rcgne, nous nous examinions pour savoir si nous n'avions pas ete ses favoris, quand uiie certaine df'liiaiesse d'ame nous obhgeoit a le d6fendre conire Ips invectives de ceux qu'il avoit conibies de bienfaits." — Vol. jii. p. 107. Our Charles II. was recalled to the throne of his ancestors by the voice of his peojile : and yet that throne was shaken, and. within twenty-five years, overturned by the arbitrary conduct of the restored sovereigns. Louis XVIII. was not recalled by his people, but brought in and set up by foreign contjuerors. It must therefore be still more necessary for him to guard against arbitrary measures, and to take all possible steps to secure the attach- ment of that people whose hostility had so lately proved fatal. If he like domestic ex- amples better, he has that of his own Hen: IV. before him. That great and popula prince at last found it necessary to adopt tht religious creed of the great majority of hi? people. In the present day, it is at least a.- necessary for a less popular monarch to stud\ and adopt their political one. Some of those about him, we have heard, rather recoimueiu the example of Ferdinand VII. ! But even the Ultras, we think, cannot really forget thai Ferdinand, instead of having been restorer by a foreign force, was dethroned b)' one that there had been no popular insurrectioii and no struggle for liberty in Spain : and that besides the army, he had the priesthood oi his side, which, in that country, is as omnip I otent. as in France it is insignificant an. powerless, for any political purposes. Wi cannot now follow Madame de Stael into th- profound and instixictive criticism she make on the management of affairs during Bona parte's stay at Elba : — though much of it i applicable to a later period — and though W' do not remember to have met any where wit) so much truth told in so ours in their exquisite assemblies 1 In all this part of the work; too, we think we can perceive the traces rather of ingenious theory, than of correct observation : and suspect that a good part of the tableau of English .society is rather a sort of conjectural sketch, than a copy from real life ; or at least that it is a generalization from a very few, and not very common ex- amples. May we be pardoned too for hinting, that a person of Madame de Stael's great talents and celebrity, is by no means "well qualified for discovering the true tone and character of English society from her own ob- servation ; both because she was not likely to see it in those smaller and more familiar as- semblages in which it is seen to the mo.st ad- vantage, and because her presence must have had the unluckv effect of imposing silence on the modest, and tempting the vain and ambi- tious to unnatural display and ostentation. With all its faults, however, the portion of her book which we have been obliged to pass" over in silence, is well worthy of as ample a notice as we have bestowed on the other parts of it; and would of itself be sufficient to justify us in ascribing to its lamented author that perfection of masculine understanding, and female grace and acuteness, which are so rarely to be met with apart, and never, we believe, were before united. u2 SM fflSTORV AND HISTORICAL MEMOIRS. (fcbruaru, ISIG.) Memoires de Madame la Marquise de Larochejaquelein ; avec deux Cartes du Theatre de / Guerre de La Vendee. 2 tomeS; 8vo. pp. 500. Paris: 1815. This is a book to be placed by the side of Mrs. Hutchinson's delightful Memoirs of her heroic husband and his chivalrous Independ- ents. Both are pictures, by a female hand, of tumultuary and almost private -wars, car- ried on by conscientious individuals against the actual government of their country: — and both bring to light, not only innumerable traits of the most romantic daring and devoted ftdeJity ni particular persons, but a general character of domestic virtue and social gen- tleness among those who would otherwise have figured to our imaginations as adventur- ous desperadoes or ferocious bigots. There is less talent, perhaps, and less loftiness, either of style or of character, in the French than the English heroine. Yet she also has done and suffered enough to entitle her to that appellation ; and, while her narrative acquires an additional interest and a truer tone of nature, from the occasional recurrence of female fears and anxieties, it is conversant with still more extraordinary incidents and characters, and reveals still more of what had been previously malignantly misrepresented, or entirely unknown. Our readers will understand, from the title- page which we have tran.scribed, that the work relates to the unhappy and sanguinary wars which were waged against the insur- {.cents in La Vendee during the first and mad- dest years of the French Republic : But it is proper for us to add. that it is confined almost entire!}- to the ti-ansuctions of two years; and that the detailed narrative ends with the dis- solution of the first Vendean army, before the proper formation of the Chouan force in Brit- tany, or the second insurrection of Poitou : though there are some brief and imperfect notices of these, and subsequent occurrences. The details also extend only to the proceed- ings of the Royalist or Insurgent party, to which the author belonged ; and do not affect to embrace any general history of the war. This hard-fated woman was very young, and newly married, when she was thrown, by the adverse circumstances of the time, into the very heart of those deplorable con- tests; — and. without pretending to any other information than she could draw from her own experience, and scarcely presuming to pass any judgment ui^on the merits or de^ book of a clear and dramatic description of acts in which .she was a sharer, or scenes of which she was an eyewitness, — and of the characters and histories of the many distin- guished individuals who partook with her of their glories or sufferiiiirs. The irregular and undisciplined wars which it is her business to describe, are naturally far more prolific of I extraordinary incidents, unexpected turns > ! fortune, and striking displays of individu; I talent, and vice and virtue, tii.tn the more st j lemn movements of national hostility ; whei ; everj- thing is in a great measure provide ; and foreseen, and where the intlexible sul j oidination of rank, and the severe exactior I of a limited duty, not only take away the ii i ducement. but the opportunity, for those e: ' altations of personal feeling and adventu ! which produce the most lively interest, a; ! lead to the most animating results. In t. I uncoucerted proceedings of an insurgi-nt poj ! lation, all is experiment, and all is passu 1 The heroic daring of a simple peasant li: him at once to the rank of a leader : and k. , dies a general enthusiasm to which all ihii , become possible. Generous and gentle fet I uigs are speedily generated by this lais. state of mind and of destination ; and the pt ; petual iiiteiTnixture of domestic cares a: I rustic occupations, with the exploits of troi serving without pay, and utterly ullprovi^l• ! with magazines, produces a contrast wh. \ enhances the eflects of both parts of the < ! scription, and gives an air of moral picti j esqueness to the scene, which is both pathe I and delightful. It becomes much more attra [ ive also, in this representation, by the sin;, lar candour and moderation — not the iik I usual virtue of belligerent females — w ; which Madame de L. has told the story her friends and her enemies — the liberal I with which she has praised the instances heroism or compassion which occur in ! conduct of the republicans, and the simplic with which she confesses the jealousies a e.vcesses which sometimes disgraced the surgents. There is not only no ie\alist antirevolutiouary rant in these volumes,!' scarcely any of the bitterness or exaggerat of a party to civil dissensions : and it is rat wonderful that an actor and a suffeier in . most cruel and outrageous warfare by wh' modern times have been disgraced, sho' have set an example of temperance and partiality which its remote spectators h: found it"so difficult to follow. The truth we believe, that thost; who have liad ir occasion to see the mutval madness of c tending factions, and to be aware of the tr ■ of individual generosity by which the \\\- cause is occasionally redeemed, and of bn' outi-age by which the best is sometimes • based, are both more indulgent to hur ' nature, and more distrustful of its immacu ' purity, than the fine declaimers who ag; • vate "all that is had on the side to which t : are opposed, and refuse to admit its existe ' in that to which they belong. The gen,l of an adverse army has always more tol.* f MEMOIRS OF MADAIME DE LAROCHEJAQUELEIN. 235 tin for the severities and even the miscou- ( ct of his opponents, and the herd of ignorant leculatois at home \ — in the same way as the i'Aers of political parties have uniformly far hs rancour and animosity towards their an- tTonists, than the vulgar followers in their ijiin. It is no small proof, however, of an (ivated and generous character, to be able (make those allowances; and Madame de ] would have had every apology for falling i';o the opposite error, — both on account of ]t sex, the natural prejudices of her rank sId education, the extraordinary suflerings to •■iiich she was subjected, and the singularly illd and unolfending character of the be- lied associates of whom she was so cruelly h the roar of the midtitude, and occasional discharges of cannon and musketry, were heard from the front of the Tuilleries, \\here the conflagration of the barracks was still visible in the sky. While they were wandering in these horriii shades, a woman came flying up to them, followed by a drunken patriot, with his musket presented at her : head. All he had to say was. that she was I an aristocrat, and that he must /ini.sh his day's work l>y killing her. M. Lescure a]>iM'ased him with admirable presence of mind, by profes.sing to enter entirely into his sentiments, I and proposing that they should go back to- i gether to the attack of the jialace — adding : only, "But you see what state my wile is m ; — she is a poor timid creature — and I must ■ first take her to her sister's, and then I .'■hall I return here to you."' Tlie savage at last ' agre(;d to this, though before he weiit oil, he I presented his piece several times at lliem, swearing that he believed they were Jirislo- crats after all, and that he had a mind to liuvo 236 HISTORY AND HISTORICAL MEMOIRS. a shot at them. This rencontre drove them from the lonely way ; and they returned to the public streets, all blazing with illumina- tions, and crowded with dranken and infuri- ated wretches, armed with pikes, and in many instances stained with blood. The tumult and terror of the scene inspired Madame de L. with a kind of s^^npathetic frenzy; and, without knowing what she did, she screamed out. Vive les Sanscidotfes ! a bos les tyrans ! as outrageously as any of them. They glided unhurt, however, through this horrible assem- blage ; and crossing tlie river b}' the Pont Neuf, found the opposite shore dark, silent, and deserted, and speedily gained the numble refuge in search of which they had ventured. The domestic relations between the great and their dependants were certainly more cordial in old France, than in any other coun- try — and a revolution, which aimed profess- edly at levelling all distinction of ranks, and avenging the crimes of the- wealthy, armed the hands of but few servants against the lives or liberties of their masters. M. de Lescure and his family were saved in this extremity by the prudent and heroic fidelity of some old waiting-women and laundresses — and ulti- mately effected their retreat to the country by the zealous and devoted services of a former tutor in the family, who had taken a very conspicuous part on the side of the Revolution. This M. Thomasin, who had superintended the education of M. Lescure, and retained the warmest affection for him and the whole family, was an active, bold, and good-humour- ed man — a great fencer, and a considerable orator at the meetings of his section. He was eager, of course, for a revolution that was to give every thing to talents and courage : and had been made a captain in one of the mu- nicipal regiments of Paris. This kind-hearted patriot took the proscribed family of M. de Lescure under his immediate protection, and by a thou.sand little stratagems and contriv- ances, not only procured passports and con- vevances to take them out of Paris, but actually escorted them himself, in hi.s national uniform, till they were safely settled in a roy- alist district in the suburbs of Tours. When any tumult or obstruction arose on the journey, M. Thomasin leaped from the carriage, and assuming the tone of zeal and authority that belonged to a Parisian officer, he harangued, reprimanded, and enchanted the provincial patriots,. till the whole party went olT again in the midst of their acclamations. From Tours, after a cautious and encouraging exploration of the neighbouring country, they at length j)roceeded to M. Lescure's chateau of Clisson. in the heart of the district afterwards but too well known by the name of La Vendee, of which the author has here introduced a very clear and interesting description. A tract of about one hundred and fifty miles .square, at the mouth and on the southern bank of the Loire, comprehends the scene of those deplorable hostilities. The most inland part of the district, and that in which the in- surrection first broke out. is called Le Socage; and seems to have been almost as singular in its physical conformation, as in the state and condition of its population. A series of de- tached eminences, of no great elevation, rose over the whole face of the country, with little rills trickling in the hollows and occasional cliffs by their sides. The whole space was divided into small euclosurei*, each surround- ed with tall wild hedges, and rows o1" pollan! trees ; so that, though there were few large woods, the whole region had a sylvan ami impenetrable appearance. The ground was mostly in pasturage ; and the landscape had. for the most part, an aspect of wild verdure except that in the autumn some patches ot yellow corn appeared here and there athwart the green enclosures. Only two great road.- traversed this sequestered region, running nearly parallel, at a distance of more thaii seventy miles from each other. In the Inter- mediate space, there was nothing but a laby- rinth of wild and devious paths, crossing each other at the extremity of almost every field — often serving, at the same time, as channels for the winter torrents, and winding so ca- priciously among the innumerable hillocks, and beneath the meeting hedgerows, that the natives themselves were always in dianger ot losing their way when they went a league or two from their own habitations. The coun- try, though rather thickly peopled, contained, as may be supposed, few large towns; and the inhabitants, devoted almost entirely to rural occupations, enjoyed a great deal of leisure. The noblesse or gentry of the coun- try were very generally resident on their estates ; where they lived in a style of sim- plicity and homeliness which had long disap- peared from every other part of the kingdom. . No grand parks, fine gardens, or ornamented j villas : but spacious clumsy chateaus, sur- < rounded with farm offices and cottages for the i labourers. Their manners and way of life, | too. partook of the same primitive rusticity. !j There was great cordiality, and even much j familiarity, in the intercourse of the seigneurs ! with their dependants. They were followed by large trains of them in their hunting expe- ditioi;?. which occupied a great part of their time. Everyman had his fowlingpiece, and was a marksman of fame or pretensions They v/ere posted in various quarters, to in- tercept or drive back the game; and werei thus trained, by anticipation, to that sort of, discipline and concert in which their whole j art of war was afterwards found to consist.. Nor was their intimacy confined to theirj sports. The peasants resorted familiarly tO| their landlords for advice, both legul andj medical : and thev repaid the visits in their, daily rambles, and entered with hiterest into, all the details of their agricultural opera-' tions. They came to the weddings of their, children, drank with their guests, and made^ little presents to the young people. On Sun-j days and holidays, "all the retainers of the family a.ssembled'at the chateau, and danced' in the barn or the court-yard, according to tht ; season. The ladies of the house joined in th(, festivity, and that without any airs of conde | scension or of mockery ; for, in their own life MEMOIRS OF MADAME DE LAROCHEJAQUELEIN. 237 ere was little spJentlour or luxurious re/iue- I resident gentry, no doubt, for the most jiart, ent. They travelled on horseback, or in favoured'lhat cause; and the peasiin try fell '■' almost universally with their masters ; — but 'avy carriages drawn by oxen ; and had lit i other amusement than in the care of their spendants, and the familiar intercourse of ;;ighbours among whom there was no rivalry • principle of ostentation. i From all this there resulted, as Madame de assures us, a certain innocence and kindli- •ssof character, joined with great hardihnoil iid gaiety, — which reminds us of Henry IV. ; d his Bearnois, — iind carries with it, per- !.ps, on account of that association, an idea I' something more chivalrous and romantic — )3re honest and unsophisticated, than any ting we now e.xpect to meet with in this ijdern world of artifice and derision. Theie iis great purity of morals accordingly. Ma- •ime de L. informs us, and general cheerful- iss and content throughout the whole dis- tct ; — crimes were never heard of, and law- sits ahnost unknown. Though not very well fucated, the population was exceediuirly < vout ; — thoyo:h theirs was a kind of super- cilious and tratlitioiial devotion, it must be ady committed deterred the insurgents j recruits to a neighbouring village, repealed his fm submitting, the standard was no sooner , eloquent exhortations, and instantly found liiied between the republican government on | himself at th(" head of more than a hundred tl one hand and the discontented peasantry I enthusiasts. VVithont .stopping a moment, he oiithe other, than the mass of that united anil ' led this new army to the attack of a military al'Tned population declared itself for their ' po.st guarded by four score soldiers and a a-ociates: and a great tract of conntrv was : piece of cannon. The post was .'•urpiisi'd. — Ills arrayed in open rebellion, without" con- I the soldiers dispersed or made ])risoners. — cpirai;y j)ieces of cannon : and si surprise and intrepid.'.s . !.<.l. Th( ino: I hi- -ame :\u^ alVr, oflie leading royalists in the country. The, while prepstring for other entcrjtrise.s, he is ess HISTORY AND HISTORICAL MEMOIRS. joined by another band of insurgents, ^vho had associated to protect one of their friends, for whose arrest a military order had been issued. The united force, now amounting to a thou- sand men. tnen directed its attack on Chollet. a considerable town, occupied by at least live hundred of the republican anny; and again bears down all resistance by the suddenness and impetuosity of its onset. The rioters find here a considerable supply of arms, money, and ammunition : — and thus a country is lost and won. in which, but two days before, no- body thought or spoke of insurrection ! If there was something astonishing in the sudden breaking out of this rebellion, its first apparent suppression was not less extraordi- nary. These events took place just before Lent ; and, upon the a])proach of that holy season, the religious rebels all dispersed to their homes, and betook themselves to their prayers and their rustic occupations, just as if they had never quitted them. A column of the republican army, which advanced from Angers to bear down the insurrection, found no insurrection to quell. They marched from one end of the country to the other, and met everj-where with the most satisfactory appearances of submission and tranquUlity. These appearances, however, it will readily be understood, were altogether deceitful ; and as soon as Easter Sunday was over, the peas- ants began again to assemble in arms, — and now, for the first time, to apply to the gentry to head them. All this time Madame Lescure and her family remained quietly at Clisson; and, in that profound retreat, were ignorant of the singular events to which we have alluded, for long after they occurred. The first intelli- gence they obtaineil was from the indefatiga- ble M. Thomasin, who passed his time partly at their chateau, and partly in scampering about the country, and haranguing the con- stituted authorities — always in his national imiforra, and with tho authority of a Parisian patriot. One day this intrepid person came home, with a strange story of the neighbouring town of Herbiers having been taken either by a party of insurgents, or by an English army suddenly landed on the coast ; and, at seven O'clock the next morning, the chateau was in- vested by two hundred soldiers, — and a party of dragoons rode into the court yard. Their business was to demand all the horses, anus, and ammunition, and also the person of an old cowardly chevalier, some of whose foolish letters had been carried to the municipality. M. de L. received this deputation with his characteristic composure — made the apology of the poor chevalier, and a few jokes at his expense — gave up some bad horses — and sent away the jmrty in great good humour. For a few days they were agitated with contradic- tory rumours: But at last it appeared that the government had determined on vigorous measures; and it was announced, that all the gentry would be required to arm themselves and their retainers against the insurgents. This brought thijigs to a crisis ; — a council was held in the chateau, when it was speedily determined, that no consideration of prudenr or of safety could induce men of honour i desert their dependants, or the party to whicii in their hearts, they wished well ;, — and that when the alternative came, they would rathei fight with the insurgents than against them " Henri de Larochejaquelein — of whom thefaij' writer gives so engaging a picture, and upot^ whose acts of heroism she dwells throughoui with so visible a delight, that it is quite a dis. appointment to find that it is not his name shf bears when she comes to change her owi — had been particularly inquired after arji threatened ; and upon an order being sei; to his peasantry to attend and ballot for th. militia, he takes horse in the middle of th night, and sets out to place himself at tht . head for resistance. The rest of the par* remained a few days longer in consideral: perplexity. — M. Thomasin having becom suspected; on account of his frequent resort t them, had been put in prison;. and they wer almost entirely without intelligence as to wh: was going on ; when one morning, when the were at breakfast, a party of horse gallops r to the gate, and presents an order for the in mediate arrest of the whole company. M. < L. takes this with perfect calmness — a ten of oxen is yoked to the old coach: and tl prisoners are jolted alona, under escort of ll National dragoons, to the town of Bressuir By the time they had reached this place, tht' mdd and steady deportment had made favourable an impression on their conductor that they were very near taking them ba to their homes; — and the municipal office before whom I\I. de L. was brought, had ht j else to urge for the arrest, but that it did r seem advisable to leave him at large, when had been found necessary to secure all I other gentry of the district. They were i. sent, however, to the common prison, I lodged in the house of a worthy republic;, who had formerly supplied the family w groceries, and now treated them with I greatest kindness and civility. Here they mained for several days, closely shut up two little rooms: and were not a little startl when ihey saw from their windows two, three thousand of the National guard ma • fiercely out to repulse a party of the ins gents, who were advancing, it was report under the command of Henri de Larocht- ([uelein. Next day. however, these \'ali,: warriors came living back in great confusi- They had met and been defeated by the • surgents: and the town was filled with • rors — and with the cruellies to which te f always gives birth. Some hundreds of A • ! seillois arrived at this crisis to reinforce .3 I republican army; and proposed. asamca.'J I of intimidation and security, that they shf'l I immediately massacre all the prisoners. — '" native leaders all expressed the greatest ;• lor at this proposal — but it was neverthe 6 carried into effect ! The author saw hundi s of those unfortunate creatures marched oi t the town, under a guard of their butch'- They were then drawn up in a neighbou g field, and were cut down with the sab;- MEMOmS OF MADAME DF. I.AROCIIF.JAQrKI.FIX. 2.1 «» lost of them quietly kneelinif and exclaiin- lig, Vive le Roi ! It was natural for Madame ^~^L. and her party to think that their turn ias to coine next : and the alarms of their )mpa5sionate jailor did not help to aUay leir apprehensions. Their fate Imnj; indeeil wn the slightest accident. One day they ceived a letter from an emigrant, congratu- ting them on the progress of the counter- volution, and exhorting them not to remit eir efforts in the cause. The very day after, |.eir letters were all opened at the munici- iility, and sent to them unsealed ! The [itriots, however, it turned out, were too Inch occupied with apjirehensions of their jni, to attend to any thing else. The Xa- bnal guards of the place were not much icustomed to war. and trembled at the re- ftiation which the excesses of their Mar- lillois auxiliaries might so well justify. A 'rt of panic took possession even of their (•St corps ; nor could the general prevail on Is cavalry to reconnoitre beyond the walls i the town. A few hoisemen. indeed, once ■ntured half a mile farther; but speedily •jme galloping back in alarm, with a report jat a great troop of the enemy were at their >els. It turned out to be only a single ijuntry-man at work in his field, with a team «t six oxen ! JThere was no waiting an assault with such llces; and, in the beginning of May 1793, i^M-as resolved to evacuate the place, and fall lick on Thouars. The aristocratic captives ■ere fortunately forgotten in the hurry of ijis ingbrious movement ; and though they ijtened through their closed shutters, with i ireat tranquillity, to the parting clamours fid imprecations of the Marseillois, they soon ibeived assurance of their deliverance, in the jbplications of their keeper, and many others ([the municipality, to be allowed to retire ^ih them to Clisson, and to seek shelter t|'-> from the vengeance of the advancing iliiists. M. de Lescure, with his usual h.\ nature, granted all these requests; and tpy soon set off, with a grateful escort, for teir deserted chateau. Irhe dangers he had already incurred by l\ inaction — the successes of his less prudent Ihids, and the apparent weakness and ir- rhlution of their opponents, now decided M. a Lescure to dissemble no longer with those wo seemed entitled to his protection; and 1| resolved instantly to cast in his lot with t ( insurgents, and .support the efforts of his a venturous cousin. He accordingly sent r;nd without the delay of an instant, to inti- Tito his pui-pose to all the parishes where he H inlhience: and busied himself and his hjsehold in preparing hor.ses and arms, Uile his wife and her women were engaged i; manufacturing white cockades. In the r 1st of these preparations. Henri de Laroche- j;uelein arrived, flushed with victory and h)e. and aimounced his seizure of Bressuire, a i all the story of his brief and busy campaign, 'pon his first arrival in the revolted district ohis own domains, he found the peasants Haer disheartened for want of a leader — .some setting olf for the annv of Aiijcn. and others lueditatin"' a return to t)icir own iioruert. His appcaraiice. however, and llir heart iiie.ts: The lesl wer(> ecpiipped with scythes, or blades of knives stuck upon poles — with spits, or with good heavj' ciuigels of knotty wood. In pre.sentini; himself to thi.s romantic anny, their youthtui leader made the following truly eloquent and characteristic .speech — "My good friends, if my father were here to leadyou, we should allproceed with greater confidence. For my part. I know I am but a child — but I hope' I have courage enough not to he quite unworthy oi' snjiplving his place to you — Follow me when I advance ai>-ainst the enemy — kill me when I turn my back upon them — and revenge me, if they bring me down !" That very day he led them into action. A strong post of the repub- licans were stationed at Aubiers : — Henri, with a dozen or two of his best marksmen, glided silently behind the hedge which sur- rounded the field in which they were, and immediately began to fire — some of the un- armed peasants handing forward loaded mus- kets to them in quick succession. He himself fired near two hundred shots that day; and a gamekeeper, who stood beside him, almost as many. The soldiers, though at first astonished at this assault from an invisible enemy, soon collected themselves, and made a movement to gain a small height that was near. Henri chose this moment to make a general assault ; and calling out to his men, that they were running, burst through the hedge at their head, and threw them instantly into flight and irretrievable confusion ; got pos.scs.sion of their 2^uns and stores, and pursued them to within a few miles of the walls of Bressuire. Such, almost universally, was the tactic of those formidable insurgents. Their whole art of war consisted in creeping round the hedges which separated them from their enemies, and firing there till they began to waver or move — and then rushinir forward with shouts and impetuosity, but without any regard to order; jxis-sessing themselves first of the artil- lery, and rushing into the heart of their op- ponents with prodigious fierceness and activity. In the.se assaults they s<>ldom lost so much as one man for every five that fell of the regu- lars. They were scarcely ever discovered soon enouL'h to sutler from the musketry — and .seldom gave tho artillery an o])i>ortunily of firing more than once. When llicy saw the flash of the pieces, they iiislanllv threw themselves flat on the ground till the shot flew over, then started up. and nished on the gunners before they could r'-lund. Jf ili'-y were finally repulsed, they retreated and dju- 240 HISTORY AND HISTORICAL MEMOIRS. jwrsed with the same magical rapidity, dart- ing through the hedges, and scattering among the defiles in a waj- that ehided all pursuit, and exposed those who attempted it to mur- derous ambuscades at every turning. As soon as it was known that M. de Les- cure had declared for the white cockade, forty parishes assumed that badge of hos- tility : and he and his cousin found themselves at the head of near twenty thousand men ! The day after, they brought eighty horsemen to the diateau. These gallant knights, how- ever, were not very gorgeously caparisoned. Their steeds were of all sizes and colours — many of them with packs instead of saddles, and loops of rope for stinups — pistols and sabres of all shapes ti(>d on with cords — white or black cockades in their hats — and tricoloured ones — with bits of epaulettes taken from the vanquished republicans, dangling in ridicule at the tails of their horses ! Such as they were, however, they filled the chateau with tumult and exultation, a)id frightened the hearts out of some unhappy republicans who came to look after their wives who had taken refuge in that asylum. They did them no other harm, however, than compelling them to spit on their tricoloured cockades, and to call Vive le Roi! — which the poor people, being '-'des gens hounetes et paisi- bles,-' very readily perfonmcHl. In the afternoon, Madame de L., with a troop of her triumphant attendants, paid a visit to her late prison at Bressuire. The j)lace was now occupied by near twenty thou- SiUid insurgents — all as remarkable, she as- sures us, for their simple piety, and the innocence and purity of their morals, as for the valour and enthusiasm which had banded them together. Even in a town so obnoxious as this had become, from the massacre of the prisoners, there were no executions, and no pillage. Some of the men were expressing a great desire for some tobacco; and upon being asked whether there was none in the place, answered, quite simply, that there was plenty, but they had no money to buy it ! Iti giving a short view of the whole in.«ur- iXHUl force, which she estimates at about eighty thousand men, Madame de L. here introduces a short account of its principal leaders, whose characters are drawn with a (lelicatf^ though probably too favourable hand. M. d'Elbee. M. de Bonchamp. and M. de Marigny, were almost the otily ones who had formerly exercised the profession of arms, and were therefore invested with the formal com- mand. Stofflet, a native of Alsace, had form- erly served in a Swiss regiment, but had long bet^n a gamekeeper in Poitou. Of Cathelineau we have spoken already. Henri de Laroche- jjKluelein. and M. de Lescure. were undnubt- f'dly the most jiopidar and important members of the a.s.sflciatioii, aufl are paititc-d with th- greatest livdines^i and di.scriminallon. The former, tall, fair, and graceful — with a shy, affectionate, an»l indolent matnier in private life, had, in the field, all the gaifty, anima- tion, and love of adveiifnre, that he used to display in the cha.'-e. Utterly utdifferent to danger, and ignorant of th*^ very name of fe^ his great faults as a leader were rashness [ attack, and undue exposure of his perst. He knew little, and cared less, for the sci«;. tific details of war; and could not alwsi maintaai the gravity that was required in U councils of the leaders. Sometimes • af • bluntly giving his opinion, he would quic lay himself to sleep till the end of the delil. rations: and, when reproacheil with ti neglect of his higher duties, would answ, '•'What business had they to make me aG*.. eral ? — I would much rather have beer;i private light-horseman, and taken the spi as it came.'" With all this Ijght-heartednt;, however, he was full not only of kindness i his soldiers, but of compassion for his priv ers. He would sometinies oiler, indet^' fight them fairly hand to hand, before acct ing their surrender ; but never refused to g i quarter, nor ever treated them with insultii severity. M. de Lescure was in many respects ot' i opposite character. His courage, though i the most heroic temper, was invariably ui. i with perfect cocjlness and de]ib(Mation. had a great theoretical knowledge of \ having diligently studied all that was wri' on the subject j and was the onh man in i party who knew any thing of fortiticai His temper was luialterably sweet and p],i' and his never-failing humanity, in the mendous scenes he had to jwss throuiih, d something in it of an angelical charatT. Though constantly enga'jed at the head oiiiB troops, and often leadiuir them on to the> sault. lie never could persuade himself to lie the life of a fellow-creature with his in hand, or to show the .smallest severity tciJB captives. One day a soldier, who he ihot'lt had surrendered, fired at him. almost atw muzzle of his piece. He put aside the rjs* ket with his sword, and said, with peiiBt composure. --Take that prisoner to the re," His attendants, enraged at the p<'rtidy of le assault, cut him down behind his back. le turned round at the noise, and flew into le most violent passion in which he had ft been seen. This was the only time inii* life in which he was known to utter an eh. There was no .spirit of vengeance in .«ho ill his nature; and he frequently saved i:re lives after a battle, than had been lost in 'aft course of it. ( The discipline of the aimy. thus comm.d- ed, has been already spoken of. It was r er even divided into regiments or compaiiii — When the chiefs had agreed on a plf»t operations, they announced to their follov>i — M. Lescure goes to take sncli a bridj;)-* who will follow him ? M. Man^Dy keepjhi I passes in such a valley — w lio will go m I him ? — and so on. They were i;ever tcH» march to the right or the left, but to thalj^t or to that steeple. They were gmeially iijf ill supplied vvith amniunition. aiid were !•« obliged to attack a post of artillery wilh'ji' jrels. On one occasion, while rushing (W On one occasion, while rustling this purpose, they sudder.ly di.scovered f crucilix i]i a recess uf the woods oii their MEMOIRS OF MADAME DE T,ARO{ HE.IAQITEI.KIX. Ill id immecliately every man of them slopjipd lort, and knelt quietly down, under tlie (ire }' the enemy. They then r- thouirh not before Htnui had climbed i)ne to the top of the wall by the help of a end's shoulders, and thrown several stones the flying inhabitants within. The repub- Ijan ireneral Qnetiiieau, who had defended limself with cieat valour, obtained honour- le terms in this capitulation, and was treated th the ureatest kindness bv the in.^uraent fs. He had commanded at Bressuiie \\hen iLvas finally abandoned, and told iM. Lescure, •iicn he was brouaht before him, that he saw tji closed window-shutters of his family well tpuiih as he marched out; and that it was lit out of foraretfulness that he had left them i[molested. ^I. Lescure expressed his o-rati- le for his jrenerosity, and pressed him to main with them. — •• You do not asree in our nions, I know : — and I do not ask you to e any share in our proceeding's, '^'ou shnll Ija prisoner at larixe amonc us: But if you dback to the republicans, they will say jou 4'e up the place out of treachery, and you I be rewardeil by the executioner for the lant defence you have made." — The cap- ? answered in terms equally firm and spir- ji|l. — "I must do my duty at all hazards. — Itiould be dishonoured, if I remained vol- arily amon2f enemies: and I am ready to wer for all I have hitherto done."* — It will prise some violent royalists among our- es, we believe, to find that this frankness fidelity to his ])ar1y secured for him the tihidship and esteem of all the Vendean i4lers. The peasants, indeed, felt a little e like the liberal persons just alluded to. 1/ were not a little scandalized to find a J r«|iiblican treated with respect and courtesy: d. abovo all. were in horror when they him admitted into the private society of lljir chiefs, and discovered that M. de Bon- 'Jmp actually trusted himself in the same '■fimber with him at hijrht! For the first Iv or three niirhts. indeed, several of them k|t watch at the outside of the door, to de- Ml him against the assassination they ap- pipended ; and once or twice he found m ' 31 thi^ morning, that one more dislruslful than the rest had <;li(led into the room, and laid himself down across the fe«'t of his com- mander. From Thouars they proceeded to Fontenav, where they had a .o.s(>d alone to the fire of six pieces of can- non charge charged I with the rxt'cntioii nf thes<> atrocious orders; and bei^-.ui. in Seiitembt-r 1793. to obey them with a detestable fidelity. A multitude of .sjingtiinary conflicts ensu«'d ; and the insur- gents succeeded in repulsing this desolating invasion at almost all the jxiints of attack. Among the slain in one of these engagements, the republicans found the bodv of a young j w Oman, w liich Madame de L. informs us gave occasion to a number of iille rejwrt.s ; many j giving out that it was she herself, or a sister of M. de L. (who had no sister), or a new •loan of Arc, who had kept up the spirit of the peasantry by her enthusiastic jireflictions. The truth was, that it was the body of an in- nocent peasant girl, who had always lived a remarkably quiet and pious life, till recently before this action, w hen she had been seized With an irresistible desire to take a pait in the conflict. She had discovered herself some time before to Madame de L. ; and begged from her a shift of a peculiar fabric. The night before the battle, she also revealed her secret to M. de L. : — asked him to cive her a pair of shoes — and promised to behave her- self in such a manner in the morrow's fight, that he should never think of partini,' with her. Accordingly, she kept near his person through the whole of the battle, and conduct- ed herself with the most heroic bravery. Two or three times, in the very heat of the flight, she said to him. "No. mon. General, you shall not get before me — I shall alw ays be closer lip to the enemy even than you."' Early in the day, she was hurt pretty seriously in the hand, but held it up laughing to her general, and said, '-It is nothing at all." In the end of the battle she was surrounded in a charge, and fell fighting like a desperado. There I were about ten other women, who took up I arms, Madame de L. pays, in this cause; — I two si.sters, under fifteen — and a tall beauty, who wore the dress of an olficer. The prie.s'ts attended the soldiers in the field, and rallied and exhorted them; but took no part in the combat, nor ever excited them to any acts of inhumanity. There were many boys of the most tender age amonj: the combatants, — some scarcely more than nine or ten years of aire. M. Piron gained a decided victory over the most numerous army of the republic ; but their ranks being recruited by the whole gar- rison of Mentz, w hich had been liberated on parole, presented airain a mo.«t formidable ! front to the insurgents. A great battle was fought in the middle of September at Chollet, where the government army was completely broken, and would have been finally routerf, but for the skill and firmness of the cele- brated Kleber who commanded it, and suc- cessfully maintained a position which covered 244 HISTORY AND HISTORICAL MEMOIRS. its retreat. In the middle of the battle one I of the peasants look a flageolet from his poctet, and, in derision, begun to play ga ira, [ as he advanced a cottage, till JMadame de L. had obtained live of the proprietor. Vl. de Bonchamp died as they were taking hi out of the boat ; and it became necessaiy tc^lect another commander. M. de L. roused hiself to recommend Henri de Larocheja- q'lein: and he was immediately ap|X)inted. \'ien the election was announced to him, M. dl L. desired to see and congratulate his v'iarit cousin. He was already weeping 0;r him in a dark corner of the room ; and nil- came to e.xpress his hopes that he should Bch be superseded by his recovery. "No," s;'l M. de L., " that I believe is out of the q 'Stion : But even if I were to recover. I hould never take the place you have my obtained, and should be proud to serve a; your aid-de-camp." — The day after, tfv advanced towards Reiines. M. de L. ccld find no other conveyance than a bair- giie-waggon : at ever)' jolt of which he si'ered such anguish, as to draw forth the m;t piercing shrieks even from his manly b(jm. After some time, an okl chaise was di'overed: a piece of artillery was thrown av.y to supply it with horses, and the Wfinded general was laid in it. — his heatl buir supported in the lap of Agatha, his mher"s faithful waitiiiir-woman, and now th only attendant of his wiie and infant, la'iree painful days they reached Laval ; — Mlame de L. frequently suflfering from abilute want, and sometimes getting noth- inAo eat the whole day, but one or two sour apies. M. de L. was nearly insensible du- rii- the whole journey. He was roused but on-, when there was a report that a party of le enemy were in sicrht. He then called foiiis musket, and attempted to get out of thi-arriage ; — addressed exhortations and re- pn,ches to the troops that were flyinir around nit; and would not rest till an ofhcer in whom hoiad confidence came up and restored some order to the detachment. — The alarm turned out to be a false one. ' At Laval they halted tor several days; and j he was so nuich recruiteil by the rep)se, that I he was able to :^et for half an hour on horse- I back, and .seemetl to be fairly in the way I of recovery ; when his e.vcissive /lal. and an.xiety lor the good behaviour of the troops, templed him to i)remature exertions, from tni- consequences ot which he never afterwards recovered. 'Jhe troops being all collected and i-efreshed at Laval, it was resolved to turn upon their pursuers, and give battle to the advancing ariny of the republic. The conllict was sanguinary ; but eiuled most decidedly in favour ot the Vendeans. 'I'he fii-st encounter was in the night. — and was characterized with more than the usual con- fusion of night attacks. The two armies crossed each other in so extraordinary a manner, that the artillery of each was sup- plied, for a part of the battle, from the ecus- .so».s- of the enemy ; and one of the Vendean leaders, after exposing himself to great hazard in helping a brother ofhcer, as he took him to be, out of a ditch, discovered, by the next flash of the cannon, that he was an enemy — and immediately cut him down. After daj break, the battle became more orderly, and ended in a complete victory. This was the last grand crisis of tlie insurrection. The way to La Vendee was once more open ; and the fugi- tives had it in their power to return triumphant to their fastnesses and their homes, after rous- uig Brittany by the example of tneir valour and success. M . de L. and Henri both inclined to this course: but other counsels prevailed. Some w^ere for marching on to Nantes — others for proceeding to Rennes — and some, more sanguine than the rest, for pushing directly for Paris Time was irretrievably lost in these deliberations : and the republicans had leisure to rallv. and bring up their reinforcements, before any thing was definitively settled. In the meantime. M. de L. became visibly worse ; and oiie morniner, when his wife alone was in the room, he called her to him, and told her that he felt his death was at hand ; — that his only regret was for leaving her in the midst of such a war, with a helpless child, and in a state of pregnancy. For nim- self, he added, he died happy, and with humble reliance on the Divine mercy ; — but her sorrow he coulil not bear to think of: — and he entreated her pardon for any neglect or unkindness he might ever have shown her. He added many other expressions of tender- ness and consolation : and seeing her over- whelmed with anguish at the despairing tone in which he spoke, concluded by .saying, that he might perhaps be mistaken in his prog- nosis: — and hoped still to live lor her. Next dav they were under the necessity of moving forward : and, on the journey, he learned accidentally from one of the officers, the dreadful details of the Queeifs execution, which his w ife had been at great pains to keep from his knowledge. This intelligence seemed to bririir back his fever — ihougfi he still spoke of living to avenge her — " If 1 do v2 246 fflSTORY AND HISTORICAL MEMOIRS. live," he said, •' it shall now be for vengeance •nly — no more mercy from me!" — That eyeuing, Madame de L., entirely overcome with anxiety and fatigue, had fallen into a deep sleep on a mat before liis bed : — And soon after, his condition became altogether desperate. He was now speechless, and nearly insensible ; — the sacraments were ad- ministered, and various applications made without awaking the unhappy sleeper by his side. Soon after midnight, however, she started up, and instantly became aware of i the full extent of her misery. To fill up ' its measure, it was ainiounced in the course of the morning, that they must immediately resume their march with the last division of the army. The thing appeared altogether impossible; Madame de L. declared she would rather die by the hands of the re- publicans, than permit her husband to be moved in the condition in which he then was. When she recollected, however, that these barbarous enemies hail of late not only butchered the wounded that fell into their power, but mutilated and insulted their re- mains, she submitted to the alternative, and prepared for this miserable journey with a heart bursting with angui.sh. The dying man was roused only to heavy moanings by the pain of lifting him into the carriage, — where his faithful Agutha again supported his head, and a surgeon watched all the changes in his condition. Madame de L. was placed on horseback ; and, surrounded by her father and mother, and a number of otficers. went forward, scarcely conscious of any thing that was passing — only that sometimes, in the bitterness of her heart, when she saw the dead bodies of the republican soldiers on the road, she made her horse trample upon them, as if in vengeance for the slaughter of her husband. In the course of little more than an hour, she thought she heard some little stir in the carriage, ami insisted on stop- ping to inquire into the cause. The otficers, however, crowded around her ; and then her march had carried her ahead ; but the faitJ ful Agatha, fearful lest her appearance migl alarm her mistress in the midst of the jou ney, had remained alone with the dead boi for all the rest of the day ! Fatigue, grit and anguish of mind, now threatened ^ladaii de L. with consequences which it seems t together miraculous that she should ha escaped. She was seized with violent paii and was threatened with a miscarriage in j room which served as a common passage the crowded and miserable lodging she h procured. It was thought necessary to ble her — and; after some difhculty, a surge was procured. She can never forget, g says, the formidable apparition of thiswarli phlebotomist. A figure six feet high, w ferocious whiskers, a great sabre at his sii and four huge pistols in his belt, stalked with a fierce and careless air to her beil-sii and when she said she was timid about l operation, answered harshlv, "So am not ; I have killed three hundred men and upwa in the field in my time — one of them only t morning — I think then I may venture : bleed a woman — Come, come, let us see y arm."' • She was bled accordingly — and, c trary to all expectation, was pretty well ag! in the moraiiiir. She insisted for a long ti ill carrying the body of her husband in carriage along with her : — but her fall- after indulging her for a few days, contri i to fall behind with this precious deposit, 1 informed her when he came np again, th; t had been found necessary to bury it priva i in a spot which he would not specify. This abstract has grown to such a bulk I we find we cannot afibrd to continue iton^i same scale. Nor is this very necessary :'r though there is more than a third part of ;e book, of which we have given no accou - and that, to those who have a taste forts of sorrow, the most interesting portion of - we believe that most readers will think ■ have had enough of La Vendee ; ami ihii will now be in a condition to judge of »■ decree of interest or amusement which* h-' that it was dreadful to feel the lilii! wheels, aiul the cracking o! the hen' heavy carriage passed over them, — li of the Vendeans succeeded in rent : father came up and said that ]\I. de L. wa in the same state as before, but that he suf- j work is likely to atinrd them. We shall J, fered dreadfully from the cold, and would | however, a brief sketch of the rest (H its ,!• be very much distressed if the door was again ', tents. — After a series of murderous lattit lo to be opened. Obliged to be satisfied with this i which the mutual refusal of (]uarle answer, she went on in sullen ami irloomy | exasperation uuknowTi in any otht silence for some hours longer in a dark and and which left the field so cunil rainy day of November. It was night when dead bodies that Madame de L. :< they reached the town of Fouireres; and, when lifted from her horse at the gate, she was unable either to stand or walk ; — she was carried into a wretched house, crowded with troops of all des<;riptions, where she | crers upon the Loire, and tru.sted to a waited two hours in agony till she heard that i assault upon that place for the meai;* the carriage with M. de L. was come up. } passing the river, and regaining their b She was left alone for a dreadful moment | country. The garrison, however, with her mother: and then M. de Keauvol- stronger and more resolute than thf liers c^ime in, bathed in tears, — and taking | expected. Their own gay and enilni both her hands, told her she must now think ' courage had sunk under a long cou o.'dy of savins,' the child .she carried within hi-r ! Her husband had expired when she heard the noise in the carriaire, soon after their setting out — and the surgeon had ac- cordingly left it as soon as the order of the sntlering and disaster: and. after l>i> * great number of men before the wall-, f' \\ere obliged to turn back in oonfu-" ni. <•} did not well know wlnfher. but (ai'lic ■ farther from the land to uhich all their i ^ MEMOIRS OF MADA^IE DE LAROCHEJAQUELEIN. 247 *1 wishes were directed. In the tumult of Is retreat, Madame de L. lost sight of her ineral)le aunt, who had hitherto been the jld and patient companion of their wander- \>:s: and learned afterwards that she had jlen into the hands of the enemy, and, at ;? age of eighty, been publicly executed at Innes, for the crime of rebellion ! At Fou- fes, at Laval, at Dol, and Savenay, the indled force of the insurgents had to sus- jn new attacks from their indefatigable pur- !rs. in which the othcers and most of the llery gave still more extraordinary proofs, u any we have yet reconled, of undaunted ^our, "and constancy worthy of belter for- je. The weather was now, in tli(> latter i)l of November, extremely cold and rainy ; 'ij roads almost impassable ; and provisions rh- scarce. Often, after a march of ten i^rs, Madame de L. has been obliged to ^i for a tew cold potatoes in the bottom of liirty cauldron, tilled with greasy water, and )jluted by the hands of half the army. Her ;|ld sickened from its teething, and insuffi- nt nourishment- and every day she wit- 1 sed th'J death of some of those gallant rlers whoiTi the spring had seen assembled ri^r halls in all the Hush of youthful confi- 1 ce and glory. After many a weary march, I] desperate struggle, about ten thousand a survivors got again to the banks of that E.l Loire, which now seemed to divide them 'rn hope and protection. Henri, who had Liiiiged the whole opeiation with consum- r:e judiirnent, found the shores on both sides 'r- of the enemy: — But all the boats had )(jn removed ; and, after leaving orders to Hstruct rafts with all possible despatch, he li.self, with a few attendants, ventured over n( little wherry, which he had brought with li on a cart, to make arrangements for Jferins their landing. But they never saw ndaring Henri again ! The vigilant enemy wie down upon them at this critical moment -itercepted his return — and. stationing seve- irmed vessels in the stream, rendered the ige of the army altogether impossible, y fell back in despair upon Savenay ; and e the brave and indefatigable Marigiiy Madame de L. that all was now over — it was altogether impossible to resist the H)pk that would be made next day — and ed her to seek her safety in flight and uise, without the loss of an instant. She out accordingly, with her mother, in a my day of December, under the conduct Iru'.iken peasant ; and, after being out nilt of the ni;;ht; at length obtained shelter dirty farm hons", — fiom which, in the a of the day. she had the misery of see- n>^er unfortunate countrvmeu scattered over vhole open country, chased and butchered A'i[.''ut mercy by the republicans, who now a final vengeance for all the losses thpy sustained. She had long been clothed iredsand patches, and needed no disguise o mceal her ([uality. She was sometimes li^ came aguin formidable it. the ^ceues 1^ first successes :-till one day. n.lins a l.M front of his party, he fell in Willi two ..ub lican soldiers, upon whom his ioUowei: e« about to fire, when he said '-iNo, no fij shall have quarter;" and pi^shmg up to en ; called upon them to surrender ^\ithm JJ ing a word, one of them '^ised his piec <^^ shot him right through the forehead. 1 MEMOIRS OF MARURAVINK OF BAKF.ITIi 2-f9 once dead before them, and was buried here he fell. Ainsi peril, a vingt et un ans, Henri dc la ocliejaqiieiein. Encore a present, quand Ics piiy- ns se rappellent I'urdeur et Techit de son courage, niodesue, sa laciliie, et ce caracicre de giierrur, de l)on eiit'ant, ils parlent de lui avec licrte ei avec iiour. 11 n'esi pas un Veiuieen done on ne voic [regard s'aninier, quand il racoiite coninieni il a [rvi sous M. Henri." — Vol. ii. pp. 187, 188. I The fate of the gallant INIarigny was still ore deplorable. He joined Charrette and otiiet ; but some misunderstanding having isen among them upon a point of discipline, ley took the rash and violent step of briiig- g him to a court-martial, and sentencing him death for disobedience. To the horror of 1 the Vendeans, and the great joy of the re- iblicans. this unjust and imprudent sentence as carried into execution ; and the cause de- rived of the ablest of ils surviving champions. When they had gratiiied their curiosity with lese melancholy details, jNIadame de L. and er mother set out for Bourdeaux, and from lence to Spain, where they remained for early two years — but were at last permitted ( return; — and, upon Bonaparte's accession ) the sovereignty, were even restored to a rear part of their possessions. On the earnest utreaty of her mother, she was induced at list to give her hand to Louis de Larochejaque- jsin. brother to the gallant Henri — and tne in- jeritor of his principles and character. This latch took place in 1802, and they lived in eaceful retirement till the late movements )r the restoration of the house of Bourbon, 'he notice of this new alliance terminates the riginal INIemoiis ; but there is a supplement, ontainmg rather a curious account of the in- gues and communications of the royalist rty in Bourdeaux and the South, through e whole course of the Revolution, — and of e proceedings by which they conceive that bey accelerated the restoration of the King in 1814. It may not be uninteresting to add, ^t since the book w-as published, the second ibaud of the unfortunate writer fell in bat- tle in the s;ime cause which proved fatal ti. the lirst, during the short pirioil of BonaparlfN last reign, and but a few da) s betbn" (he di-- cisive battle of Waterloo. We have nut left room now for any general observations — and lliere is no need «)l tin ni. The book is, beyond all (juestion, e.vtreniely curious and interesting — and wi- reall) have no idea that any relleelions of ours could ap- pear half so mneli so as the abstiact w r have now given in their stead. One remark, how- ever, we shall venture to make, now that mtr abstract is tlone. If all Fr.ince wt-re like I.a Vendee in 1793, we should anticipate nothing but happiness from the restoration of the Bourbons and of the old government. But the very fact that the Vendeans were crushed by the rest of the country, proves that this is not the case ; And indeed it reipiires but a mo- ment's reflection to perceive, that the rest of France could not well resemble La Vendee in its royalisin, unless it had res( mbled it in the olner peculiarities upon w hich that royal- ism was founded — unless it hail all its no- blesse resident on their estates: and living in their old feudal relations with a "dimple and agricultural vassalage. The book indee(l shows two things very plaiidy, — and both of them well worth remembering. In the first place, that there may be a great deal of kind- ness and good affection among a people ot insurgents against an established governinent ; — and, secondly, that where there is such an aversion to a government, as to break out iu spontaneous insurrection, it is impossible en- tirely to subdue that aversion, either by severity or forbearance — although the differ- ence of the two courses of policy is, that severity, even when carried to the savage ex- tremity of devastation and indiscriminate slaughter, leads only to the adoption of sirnilar atrocities in return — while forbearance is at least rewarded by the acquiescence of those who are conscious of weaknes.S; and gives time and opportunity for those mutual conces- sions by w hich alone contending factions or principles can ever be permanently reconciled. ilemoires de Frederique Sophie Wilhelmi.ne de Prusse, Margrave de Bareilh, Saur dr Fr deric le Grand. Ecrits de sa Main. 8vo. 2 tomes. Brunswick, Paris, et Londres : \XV2. (NoDcmbcr, 1812.) Philosophers have long considered it as j irobable, that the private manners of absolute | overeigns are vulgar, their pleasures low, and heir dispositions sellish;— that the two e.\- 1 reniesof life, in short, approach pretty closely o each other; and that the Masters of man- ' :ind, when stripped of the artificial pomp and , nagnificence which invests them in public, j eseinble nothing so nearly as the meanest of he multitude. "The ground of this oninion s, that the very highest and the very lowest if mankind are equally beyond the influence •f that wholesome control, to which all the 32 intennediate classes are subjected, by their mutual dependence, and the need they have for the good will and esteem of tht-ir fellows. Those w ho are at the very ])otlom of the sca!»? are below the sphere of this inllueiice; and tho.se at the very top are above it. The one have no chance of distinction by any effort they are capable of making: and the other are secure of the hiahe.sl deiiree of it, without any. Both therefore are indifferent, or very nearly so, to the opinion of mankind : the for- mer, because the naked subsistence which they earn by their labour will not be aflccted HISTORY AND HISTORICAL MEMOIRS. by that opinion ; and the latter, because their lega.l power and preeminence are equally in- dependent of it. Those who have nothing to lose, in short, are not ver}- far from the condi- tion of those who have nothing more to gain; and the maxim of reckoning oiie's-self last, which is the basis of all politeness, and leads, insensibly, from the mere practice of dissimu- lation, to habits of kindness and sentiments of generous indepiMulence. is equally inapplica- ble to the case of those who are obviously and in reality the last of their kind, and those who are quite indisputably the first. Both there- fore are deprived of the checks and of the ti-ainina, which restrain the selfishness, and call out the sensibilities of other men : And. remote and contrasted as their actual situa- tion must be allowed to be. are alike liable to exhibit that disregard for the feelings of others, and that undisguised preference for their own gratification, which it is the boast of modern refinement to have subdued, or at least effectually concealed, among the happier or- ders of society. In a free country, indeed, the monarch, if he share at all in "the spirit of liberty, may escape this degradation ; because he will then feel for how much he is depend- ent on the good opinion of his countrymen : and, in general, where there is a great ambi- tion for popularity, this pernicious effect of high fortune will be in a great degree avoided. But the ordinary class of arbitrary rulers, who found their whole claim to distinction upon the accident 6f their birth and station, maybe expected to realize all that we have intimated as to the peculiar manners and dispositions of the Caste ; to sink, like their brethren of the theatre, when their hour of representation is over, into gross sensuality, paltry intrigues, and dishonourable squabbles; and, in short, to be fully more likely to beat their wives and cheat their benefactors, than any other set of persons — out of the condition of tinkers. But though these opinions have long seem- ed pretty reasonable to those who presumed to reason at all on such subjects, and even appeared to be tolerably well confirmed by the few indications that could be obtained as to the state of the fact, there was but little prospect of the world at large getting at the exact truth, either by actual observation or by credible report. The tone of adulation and outrageous compliment is so firmly establish- ed, and as it were positively pr(>gcribed. for all authorized communications from the inte- rior of a palace, that it would be ridiculous even to form a iruess. as to its actual condi- tion, from such materials: And, with regard to the ca.sual observers who rnight furnish lrs« suspected information, a great part are too vain, and too grateful for the opportunities they have enjoyed, to do any thing which might prevent their recurrence : while others are kept silent by a virtuous shame : and the remainder are discredited, and perhaps not always without reason, as the instruments of faction or envy. There seemed great reason to fear, therefore, that this curious branch of Natural History would be left to mere theory and conjecture, and never be elucidated by the testimony of any competent observer when the volumes before us made their ap pearance, to set theory and conjecture at rest and make the private character of such sove reigns a matter of historical record. They bear to be Memoirs of a Princess ol Prussia, written by herself; and are in fac memoirs of the private life of most of tht princes of Germany, written by one of thei: own number — with great freedom indeed— but with an evident partiality to the fraterni- ty ; and unmasking more of ilie domestic manners and individual habits of persons ii that lofty station, than any other work witl which we are acquainted. It is ushered inti the world without any voucher for its auther. tichy, or even any satisfactory account of tht manner in which the manuscript was obtain ed: But its genuineness, we understand,!: ailmitted even by those whose inclination- would lead them to deny it, and appears to U; indeed to be irresistibly established by inter nal evidence.* It is written in the vulga gossiping style of a chambemiaid ; but at ihi same time with very considerable clevcrnes: and sasracity, as to the conception and delinea tion of character. It is full of events and por tiaits — and also of rgoti.«m. detraction, aiii inconsistency ; but all delivered with an airoi good faith that leaves us little room to doul of the facts that are reported on the writer' own authority, or, in any case, of her own be lief in the justness of her opinions. Indefd half the edification of the book consists in tin lights it aflbrds as to the character of th' writer, and consequently as to the effects o the circumstances in which she was placed nor is there any thing, in the very curiou picture it presents, more .striking than the pa; she unintentionally contributes, in the peci; liarity of her own taste in the colouring ain delineation The heartfelt ennui, and th' affected contempt of greatness, so strangel; combined with her tenacity of all its priv, leires, and her perpetual intrimiesand quane! about precedence — the splendiil encomium on her own inflexible integrity, intermiiei. with the complacent narrative of perpetnai trick and duplicity — her bitter complaints o| the want of zeaj and devotedness in hei friends, and the desolating display of her OWli utter heartlessness in every page of the hif; tory — and, — finally, her outrageous abuse o' almost every one with whom she is conned ed; alternating with professions of the greatef* regard, and occasional apologies for the mosl atrocious among them, when they happen t ; conduct themselves in conformity to her ov I little views at the moment — are all, we thin! not only irrefragable proofs of the authei. ] licit y of the singular work before us, bn; • T have not rerpnily made any enriiiirie9 onlhJj ' snbjcrt : and it is pns?ihle tliat itie anilii-nncity 0) i this s'ranrre book may have Iteen (li.ecrediied, einO; I the now remote period wlien I last heard it disciur ! ed. It is obvious at first sight that it is full ofeilj I affsreratinns : Bui that is too roiiimon a characteriBiN I of trenuine memoirs written in the trnnrhanl 9lj]- I to \KW\ch it beloncs, to deiraei nnu-h from ihecrerf. j to which the minuteness and ••onfidence of lis d«' I tails may otherwise be thought to entitle it. MEMOIRS OF MARGRAVINE OF BAREITH. •gether with the lownessof its style and dic- ; Ion, are features — and pretty prominent ones !-in that portraiture of royal manners and dis- bsitions which we conceive it to be its chief ihee and chief merit to display. In this oint of view, we conceive the publication to t te equally curious and instructive ; and there ) |i a vivacity in the style, and a rapidity in the larrative, which renders it at all events very iitertaining, though little adapted for abstract t abridgment. — We must endeavour, how- Ver, to give our readers some notion of its -ontents. : What is now before us is but a frag-mont, Lxtending from the birth of the author in 1707 to the year 1742. and is chiefly occupied I'ith the court of Berlin, down till her mar- I iage with the Prince of Bareith in 1731. She * lets off with a portrait of her father Frederic ' IV^illiam, whose peculiarities are already pret- y well known by the dutiful commentaries |f his son, and Voltaire. His daughter begins I kith him a little more handsomely; and as- I lures us, that he had •• talents of the first or- ler" — '-an excellent heart"' — and, in short, tail the qualities which go to the constitution |f great men "' Such is the flattering outline: ,1ut candour required some shading ; and we fiust confess that it is laid on freely, and with food effect. His temper, she admits, was un- 'overuable, and often hurried him ijito ex- esses altogether unworthy of his rank anil ituation. Then it must also be allowed that i.e was somewhat hard-hearted ; and through- jut his whole life gave a decided preference b the cardinal virtue of Justice over the l-eaker attribute of Mercy. Moreover, '■ his ixcessive love of money exposed him"' (her (ioyal Highness seems to think very unjustly) ; to the unputation of avarice." And, finally, Ihe informs us. without any circumlocution, Ihat he was a crazy bigot in religion — suspi- cious, jealous, and deceitful — and entertained I profound contempt for the whole sex to ivhich his dutiful biographer belongs. i This ■■great and amiable" prince was mar- lied, as every body knows, to a princess of lianover, a daughter of our George the First ; if whom he was outrageously jealous, and Vhom he trt^ated with a degree of brutality jhat would almost have justified any form of levenge. The princess, however, seems to Slave been irreproachably chaste : But had, iiotwithstandninf, some of the usual vices of [laves; and tormented her tyrant to very good purpose by an interminable system of the inost crooked and provoking intrigues, chiefly ^bout the marriages of her family, but occa- | iiionally upon other subjects, carried on \fy, j ihe basest tools and instruments, and for a 1 long time in confederacy with the daughter ,.vho has here recorded their history. But | .hough she had thus the satisfaction of fre- \ juently enraging her husband, we cannot help ' .hitikiiig that she had herself by far the worst I )f the game ; and indeed it is impossible to \ lead, without a mixed feeling of pity and con- \ I empt, the catalogue of miserable shifts which ; -his poor creature was perpetually forced to |?mploy to avoid detection, and escape the 1 beatings with which it was frequently accom- paiiieil ! — feigned sicknesses — midnight con- sultations — hidings bi'hind screens anil uiuiei beds — spies at her husband's drunken orgies — burning of letters, pocketing of inkstands, and all the paltry apparatus of boarding-school imposture; — together with the more revolting criminality of lies told in the midst of caresses, and lessons of falsehood anxiously inculcated on the minds of her children. — It is edifying to know, that, with all this low cunniiig.'and practice in deceiving, this poor lady was her- self the dupe of a preposterous aiul unworthy confidence. Shi* told every thing to a favour- ite chambermaid — who told it over again to one of the ministers — who told it to the King: And though the treachery of her confidante was perfectly notorious, and she herself was reduced privately to borrow money from the King of England in order to bribe her to se- crecy, she never could keep from her any one thing that it was of importance to conceal. The ingenious Princess before us had for many years no other brother than the Great Frederic, who afterwards succeeded to the throne, but whose extreme ill health in his childhood seemed to render her accession a matter of considerable probability. Her al- liance conseiiuently became an early object of ambition to most of the Prott slant princes of her time: and before she was fully eight years old, her father and mother had had fifty quarrels about her marriage. About the same time, she assures us that a Swedish ofiicer, who was a great conjurer, informed hi>r, after inspecting her hand, " that she would be sought in marriage by the Kings of Sweden, England, Russia, and Poland, but would not be united to any of them :" — a prediction, the good Princess declares, that was afterwards verified in a very remarkable manner. The Swedish proposition indeed follows hard upon the prophecy; for the very next year engage- ments are taken for that match, which are afterwards abandoned on account of the ten- der age of the parties. — The Princess here reg-ales us with an account of her own vivac- ity and angelic memory at this period, and with a copious interlude of all the court scan- dal during the first days of her existence. But as we scarcely imagine that the scandal- ous chronicle of Berlin for the year 1712, would excite much interest in this country in the year 1812, we shall take the liberty to pass over the g-allantries of Madame de Blas- pil and the treasons of M. Clement; merely noticinii', that after the execution of the latter, the King ordered every letter that came to his capital to be opened, and never slept with- out drawn swords and cocked pistols at his side. But while he was thus trembling at imajrinary dangers, he was. if we can believe his infant dauL'hter. upon th" very brink of others sufTtcieiitly serious. His chief favour- ites were the Prince of Anball. who is briefly characterized in these Memoirs as brutal, cruel and deceitful, and the ministi-r Grurn- kow, who is represented, on the .s;ime author- ity, as a mere concentration nf all the vices. Tnese worthy persons had .set their hearts HISTORY AND HISTORICAL MEMOIRS. upon our author's marriage with, the nephew of the former, and her ultimate elevation to the throne by the death of her sickly brother. But wliPii that brother begins to improve in health, aiui the old King not oidy makes his will without consulting them, but threatens to hve to an unreasonable age. they naturally become impatient for the accomplishment of their wishes, and resolve to cut off both father and son, the first lime they can catch them together at an exhibition of ropedancing. — with which elegant entertainment it seems the worthy monarch was in the habit of re- creating' himself almost every evening. The whole of this dreadful plot, we are assured, was revealed to the King, with all its particu- larites. by a lady in the confidence of tne con- spirators : but they contrive, somehow or other, to play their parts so adroitly, that, after a long investigation, they are reinstated in favour, and their fair accuser sent to pine, on bread and water, in a damp dungeon at Spandau. In the year 1717, Peter the Great came with his Empress and court to pay a visit at Berlin : — and as the whole scene is described with great vivacity in the work before us, and serves to illustrate its great theme of the pri- vate manners of sovereigns, we shall make rather a fuller abstract of it than we can aflbrd for most parts of the narrative. The degrees of grossness and pretension are infinite — and the court of Prussia, where the Sovereign got drunk and kicked his counsellors, and beat the ladies of his family, thought itself en- titled to treat Peter and his train as a set of Barbarians! — On his first presentation, the Czar took Frederjc firmly by the hand, and said, he was glad to see him : he then offered to kiss the Queen — but she- declined the hon- our. He next presented his son and daughter, and four hundred ladies in waiting — the greater part of whom, our Princess assures us, were washerwomen and scullions pro- moted to that nominal diimity. Almost every one of them, however, she adds, had a baby richly dressed in her amis — and when any one asked whose it was, answered with great coolness and complacency, that •' the Czar had done her the honour to make her the mother of it.'' — The Czarine was very short, tawny, and ungraceful — dressed like a provincial German player, in an old fashioned robe, covered with dirt and silver, and with some dozens of medals and pictures of saints strung down the front, which clattered every time she moved, like the bells of a packhorse. She spoke little German, and no French ; and finding that she got on but ill with the Queen and her l)arty, she called her fool into a corner to come and entertain her in Ru.'^sian — which she did with such effect, that she kept her in a continual roar of laughter before all the court. The Czar himself is described as tall and rather handsome, though with something intolerably harsh in his physiognomy. On first seeing our royal author he took her up in his arms, and rubbed the skin off her face in kissing her with his rough beard; laughing very heartily at the air's with which she re- sented this familiarity. He was liable at I times to convulsive starts and spasms, and' I being seized with one of them when at table, I with his knife in his hand, put his hosts into I no little bodily terror. He told the Queen, however, that he would do her no harm, and' took her hand in token of his good humours; but squeezed it so unmercifully that she was' forced to cry out — at which he laughed agajni with great violence, and said, "her bones were not so well knit as his Catherine's.'' There was to be a grand ball in the evening: but as soon as he had done eating, he got up, and trudged home by himself to his lodging? in the suburbs. Next day they went to see the curiosities of the place. — What pleased him most was a piece of antique sculpture, most grossly indecent. Nothing, nowever. would serve him but that his wife should kiss this figure; and when she hesitated, he toid her he would cut off' her head if she refused. He then asked this piece and several other things of value from the King, and packed them ofT for Petersburgh, without ceremony. In a few days after he took his departure; leaving the palace in Avhich he had been lodged in such a state of filth and dilapidation as to remind one. says the princess, of the desolation of Jerusalem. We now come to a long chapter of the au- thor's personal sufferings, from a sort of half governess, half chambeiTnaid, of the name of Letti, who employed herself all day in beat- ing and scratching her. for refusing to repeat all that the King and the Queen said in her hearing, and kept her awake all night by snoring like fifty troopers. This accomplishedi person also invented ingenious nicknames,: which seem to have had much currency, for' all the leading persons about the court. The Queen she always called La grandc dnesse, and her two favourites respectively ia grosac rachc. and La sotle bete. Sometimes she only kicked the Princess" shins — at other time.'^ she pummelled her on the nose till '' she bled like a calf:"' and occasionally excoriated her face by rubbing it with acrid substances. Such, however, was the magiianimitv of her: royal pupil, that she never made the leastj complaint of this dreadful usaire; but an old. lady found it out, and told the Queen, that ••her daughter was beaten every day like plaster." and that she would be brought toj her one morning with her bones broken, if sLe, did not get another attendant. So La Letti la dismissed, though with infinite dilTiculty, and' after a world of intrigue ; because she had been recommended by my Lady Arlington, who had a great deal to say with the court of England, with which it was. at that time, a. main object to keep well ! But she is got rid of at last, and decamps with all the Princes.-^'' wardrobt^ who is left without a lag to covei her nakedness. Soon after this, the King is', taken with a colic one very hot June, and is judiciously shut up in a close room with a large comfortable fire ; by the side of which he commands his daughter to sit, and watch like a vestal, till her eyes are ready to start from her head ; and she falls into a dysentery, ' of which she gives a long history. MEMOIRS OF MARGRAVINE OF BARKITH. 2y3 Being now at the vipe age of twelve, lier other takes her into her coiiliiieiice. and be- ais with telhng her, that there are certain (jople who are liev enemies, to whom she j)ramand.s her never to show any kindness or ivihty. She then proceeds to name •■ three .urths of all Berlin."' But her great obji'ct ' to train her daughter to be a spy on her ,ther, and at tlie same time to keep every ing secret from liim aiul his counsellors; id to arrange measures for a matcli between it and her nephew the Duke of (Jlouoester (-afterwards Prince of Wales, on the acces- an of his father George II. In 1723, George comes to visit his daughter at Berlui, and is laracterised. we cannot say very favourably, ,• his grandchild. He was very stupid, she .ys, with great airs of wisdom — had no gen- losity but for his favourites, and the inis- ps.ses by whom he let himself be governed ,-spoke little, anil took no pleasure in hearing jy thing but niaiseries: — since his accession ; the English throne he had also become in- [pportably haughty and impeiious. When jB fair author was presented to him, he took \^ a candle, held it close to her face, and ex- jnined her all over without saying a word : table he preserved the same magnificent jlence ; judging wisely, the Princess observes, |at it was better to say uothiiiii than to e.\- [ise himself by talking. Before the end of je repast he was taken ill : and tumbled down ,1 the floor, his hat falling off on one siile. lid his wig on the other. It was a full hour ■"fore he came to himself: and it was whis- ?red that it was a sort of ajwplexy : How- j'er, he was well enough next day; and jranged every thing for the marriage of the 'ithor with his grandson, and of her brother jith the Princess Amelia. Obstacles arose, |)\vever, to the consummation of this double iliance ; and althouirh the two Sovereigns had iiother meeting on the subject the year after, jill the necessity of obtainini; the consent of jirliament occasioned an obstruction ; and in e mean time Frederic having thought fit to jize several tall Hanoverians, and enrol them !,• force in his regiment of iriants, the Endish ,.onarch resented this outraire. and died of 'lother attack of apo))lexy before matters !)uld be restored to a v'lisht "footing. I Soon after this catastrophe, Frederic takes j drinking witli the Imperial ambassador : |id, when his stomach gets into disonler, ecomes outrageously pious; orders his valet [■ sing p.salms before him, and preaches him- I'lf to his family every afternoon. The jrincess and her brother aie ready to snfTo- iite with lauahter at these discourses; but hypochondria sains ground: and at last e Ki talks riously of resisning hi? '.own, and retiring with his family to a small >nise in the country; where hi.s daughter lould take care of the linen, his son of the [ovisions, and his wife of the kitchen. To jvert these melancholv thoi'irhis. he is per- laded to payavisiifo the Elector of Sa.voii v. [u:rustu3 Kina of Polan mandate arrives just as his I!o\al IliL'h- ness j.; takinir post with bridal inipatieice jor Berlin : and, as it isaddres.sed to him lliroviL'li the public olhces. re(piin s his iniplicit obe- dience. The truth of the matter is. the I'rin- ceRi? assures up. that (Jeoiye II. wan Imncdf W 254 HISTORY AND HISTORICAL MEMOIRS. desirous that the match should be concluded without waituig for the uncertain sanction of his Parliament, and had suggested this device of a seeming ctourdcrie on the part of his son ; but the indiscretion of her mother, in blabbing the matter to the ambassador, and his com- munication to the ministry, left the monarch no choice, but to dissemble his mortification, and lend his authority to prevent the execu- tion of a project which had originated with himself. But. whatever may be the true theory of this di.saster, it seems to be certain, that the disappointment put the King of Prussia into exceeding bad humour, and. concurring with an untimc^ly fit of the gout, made the lives of his family still more uncomfortable than he took care at all times to render them. The account indeed which is here given of the domestic habits of this worthy sovereign, though humiliating in some degree to human nature, has yet something in it so extrava- gant, as to be actually ludicrous and farcical. He ordered his children to come to his apart- ment at nine o'clock every morning, and kept them close prisoners there the whole day. not letthig them once out of his sight, '•'•four quelquc raison que ce fut.'^ His employment was to curse and abuse them with every coarse term of reproach, — his daughter getting no other name than la Canaille Anglaise, and his son, le Coquin de Fritz. He had always been in the practice of famishing them ; partly out of avarice, and partly from the love of tormenting ; but now even the soup made of bare bones and salt was retrenched . He often refused to let them have any thing whatso- ever ; and spit into the dishes out of which he had helped himself, in order to prevent their touching them ! At other times he would insist upon their eating all sorts of unwhole- some and disgusting compositions — " ce qui nous obligeait quelquefois de rendre, en sa presence, tout ce que nous avions dans corps , Even this, however, was not the worst of it. He very frequently threw the plates at their heads ; and scarcely ever let his daughter go out of the room, without aim- ins a sly blow at her with the end of his crutch. The unhappy Frederic he employed himself almost every morning in caning and kicking for a long time together ; and was actual!}', upon one occasion, in the act of strangling him with the cord of a window- curtain, when he was interrupted by one of his domestics. To make amends, however, he once hung up himself; when the Queen, by a ran; act of folly, was induced to cut him down. When free from gout, he was still more dangerous ; for then he could pursue his dauiihters with considerable agility when they ran away from his blows ; and once caught the author, after a chase of this kind, when he clutched her by the hair, and pushed her into the fireplace, fill her clothes began to burn. During the heats of summer, he fre- quently carried his family to a country-house, called Vouslerhauscn, which was an old ruin- ous mansion, surrounded with a putrid ditch : and there they dined every day, in a tent pitched orr a terrace, with scarcely any thing to eat. and their feet up to the ancles in mud. if the weather happenetl to be rainy. After dinner, which was served exactly at noon, the good king set himself down to sleep for two hours, in a great chair placed in the full glare of the sun, and compelled all his family to lie on the ground around him, exposed to the same intolerable scorching. After some little time. England sends an- other ambassador, who renews ;n due form the proposal of the double marriage, and (^tiers such baits to the avarice or the King that mat- ters appear once more to be finally adjusted, and the princess is saluted by her household with the title of Princess of Wales. This, however, was not her destiny. Grumkow intrigues with the Imperial ambassador to break off the match — and between them they contrive to persuade the King that he is made a tool of by the Queen and her brother ol England : and inflame him to such a rage by producing specimens of their secret corre- spondence, that when the English ambassador appears next day with decisive proofs of Grumkow's treachery and insolence, the Kirj; throws the papers in his face, and actually lifts his foot, as if to give him the family salute of a kick. The blood of the Englishman rous(>s at this insult : and he puts himself in a posture to return the compliment with inter- est, when the King makes a rapid retreat— and the ambassador, in sj)ite of theentreatie.« of the Queen and her children, and various overtures of apology from the King himself, shakes the dust of Berlin from his feet, and; sets off in high dudgeon for London. The; King then swears that his daughter shall havei no husband at all, but that he will make her] abbess in the monastery of Herford ; — andl her brother Frederic, to her great mortifica- tion, tells her it is the best tiring she can do; and that he sees no other way to restore peace in the family. We now proceed to the adventures of thi.' brother, which, as their outline is alreadj generally known, need not be fully narratec in this place. Tired of being beaten ant kicked and n^viled all day long, he resolve:' to withdraw from his country, and make some movements to that efiect in confederac with an oflicer of the name of Katt, who wii . to have been the companion of his llight Both, however, are arrested by the Kins'' order, who makes several attempts upon thi life of his son, vrhen he is brought as a prisone] before him — and comes home foaming an< black with passion, crying out to the Quee th;it her accursed son was dead at last; ar.c felling his daughter to the earth with h:s fis'! as he tells her to go and bear her brother conij pany. He then gets hold of a box of his son| papers, which had been surprised at Katt' lodgings, and goes out with it in great spiriti' exclaiming that he was sure he should fin in it enough to justify him in cutting off th heads both of Ic Coqtnn de Fritz, and la Ci naillc dr Wilhchninc. Wilhelmine, howeve and her ])olitic mother h.ui been beforehan, with him— for they had got hold of this earn MEMOIRS OF .AIARGRAVIXF, OF RAREITH. 259 the clay preceding, and by false keys and Is had taken all the papers out of "it, and laced them by harmless and insignilicant liters, vvhieh they had (abricated in the cjirse of one day. to the amount of near gi-eu hundred. The King, therefore, found ilhing to justify immediate e.xecution ; but iiil^t the Prince a close prisoner at Custrin. n 1 shut the Princess up in her own chamber. \ii son and Katt were afterwards tried for c(}ciiioii. before a court-martial composed of tielve officers: Two were for sparing the Ih of the Prince, but all the rest were base ejjugh to gratify the sanguinary insanity of tKr master by condemning them both to thth. All Germany, however, e.\claimed |i|dly aL>ain«t this sentence ; and made such r!)resentations to the King, that he was at l;jt constrained to spare his son. But the iiiaappy Kalt wrfs sacrificed. His scafToltl vjs erected immediately before the window Djiis unhappy master, who was dressed by fcjpe in the same funeral garment with his fhid, and was held up at the window by tJD soldiers, w^hile the executioner struck ofT : head of his companion. There is no ord of such brutal barbarity in the history o\ero or Dornitian. \fter this, the family feuds about his daugh- li's mari'iage revive with double fury. The Deen, whose whole heart is set on the Eng- lii alliance, continues her petty intrig-ues to ei?ct that object : while the King, rendered fi|ious by the haughty language adopted by tl! English ministry on the subject of the in- ?!t offered to their ambassador, determines ((•have her m.arried without a moment's [liay ; and after threatening the Queen with hi cane, sends to otTer her the hand of the Fjdce of Bareith ; which she dutifully ac- cks. in spite of the bitter lamentations and olrageous fury of the Queen. That in- tifuing princess, however, does not cease to iiiigue, though deserted by her daughter — bi sends again in greater urgency than ever tfEiiglaud : — and that court, if we are to be- lire the statement before us, at last seriously akid of losing a match every way desir- ajj, sends off despatches, containing an en- ti| and unijualified accjuiescence hi all | F deric's stipulations as to the marriage — j vuch arrive at Berlin the very morning of ill day on which the Princess was to be so- lijinly betrothed to M. de Bareith, but are j kedly kept back by Grumkow and the iperial Envoy, till after the ceremony had j 1 publicly and irrevocably completed, j ir disclo.sure then throws all parties into ti and despair : and the intriguers are made ridiculous victims of their own ba.seness a) duplicity. The indefatigable Queen, how- 1 e jr. docs not despair even yet ; but sends off ' alther courier to Enirland, and sets all her eiiissaries to jjrepare the King to break off tlj match in the event of the answer being | f^purahle ;— nay, the very night before the ' njrringe, she takes her daughter apart, and tps h'ir to live witli her husband as a sister w4i her brother, for a few days, till the result j [.he embassage is known. But her usual i ilestiny pursues her. The fatal evening ar- rives : ami llu' Princess, with a train forl\-(ive feet in length, ami the spousal « lown plact tl oil twenty-four twisted locks of false hair, each thicker than her ami, enters the grand saloon, and takes the irri>v(icable vow ! — and her mother has just put her to bed, when she hears that her courier lias arrived, ami leaves her in rage and anguish. The humours of the rest of the family ap- pear to no great advantage during the bridal festivities. In the first place, the Priiice8.s' sister, Charlotte, falls hi love with the bride- groom, and does her jxissihle to stnluce him. Then old Frederic cheats the bride in her settlements, which amount to a gross sum of near 500/. a year: — and. tinally. her brother- in-law. the Margrave of Aiispach. rallies her husband so rudely upon his mother's ir.illan- tries. that \hc latter irivt>s him a brave defi- ance in the face of the whole court : at which the poor JMargrave is so dreadfully frightened, that he bursts out into screams and tears, and runs for refuge into the Queen's apartment, whert^ he hides himself behind the arnis, from which he is taken in a filthy condition, and carried to his apartments, -oil il exhala sa colere par des vomissemens et un diarrhee qui pensa I'envoyer a Tautre monde." — Yet the good Princess assures us, that this reptile had " a good heart and a good understanding," — with no fault but being a little passionate ; and then, in the very next page, she records a maliarnant and detected falsehood which he had vented against her husband, and which rendered him odious in the eyes of the whole court. Being dissatisfied with her settle- ments, she puts the King in a good humour by giving a grand dinner to him and his officers, at which they are all - ivres morts;" but having mentioned her distresses through the Queen, he is .so much moved with them, that he calls for the settlements, and strikes off about one fourth of her allowance. All this happened in autumn 1731 ; and in January 1732, the Princess being far advanced in pregnancy, and the roads almost impassa- ble, it was tnou;;ht advisable for her to set out for her husband's court at Bareith. She i? overturned of course several times, and obliged to walk half the way : — But we pass overjhe disasters of the journey, to commemorate her arrival in this ancient princijiality. The firft village she reached was Hoff, which is on the frontier — and has also the convenience of being within three miles of the centre of the territory : and here the grand marshal, and all the nobility of the province, are mustered to receive her at the bottom of the stnircase, or, in other words, of the wooden ladiler which led to her apartments. However, various guns were fired off very successfully, and the chief nobility were invited to dinner. The Pnnce.'is' description of lhe.se personages is really very edifying. They had all faces, she says, which a child could not look on without screaming; — huge masses of hair on their heads, filled with a race of vermin as ancieni as their pedigrees: — clothed in old l;iced suits that had descended through many gcneratious 256 HISTORY AND HISTORICAL MEIMOIRS. the most part in rags, and no way fitting their present wearers ; — the greater part of them covered with itch ; — and their conversation, of oxen. Initnediately after dinner they began with the Princess' lieaUh in a huge bumper, and proceeded regularly in the same gallant manner lluough the whole of her genealogy • — so that in less than half an hour she found herself in the middle of thirty-four monsters, so drunk that none of them could articulate, '■et rendant les boyaux ii lous ces desastrenx visages.'" Next day being Sunday, there was a sermon in honour of the occasion, in which the preacher gave an exact account of all the marriages that had happened in the world, from the days of Adam down to the last of the patriarchs — illustrated with so many cir- cumstantial details as to the antecedents and consequents in each, that the male part of the audience laughed outright, and the female pretended to blush throughout the whole dis- course. The dinner scene was the same as on the day preceding; with the addition of the female nobility who came in the evening, with their heads enveloped in greasy wigs like swallows' nests, and ancient embroidered dresses, stuck all over with knots of faded ribands. The day following, the Margrave, her father- in-law, came himself to meet her. This worthy prince was nearly as amiable, and not «iuite so wise, as the royal parent she had left. He had read but two books in the world, Telemaqne, and Amelot's Roman history, and discoursed out of them so very tediously, that the poor Princess fainted from mere ennui at the very first interview; — Then he drank night and day — and occasionally took his cane to the prince his son, and his other favourites. Though livinir in poverty and absolute dis- comfort, he gave himself airs of the utmost magiii licence — went to dinner with three flourishes of cracked trumpets — received his court, leaning with one hand on a table, in imitation of the Emperor — and conferred his little dignities in haranarues so pompous, and so awkwardly delivered, that his daughter-in- law at once laughed and was ashamed of him. He was awkward, too, and embarrassed in the society of strangers of good breeding — but made amends by chattering without end, about himself and his two books, to those who w(.'r(? bomid to bear with him. Under the escort of this great potentate the Princess made her triumphal entry into the city of Ba- reith the next morning: the whole procession cfflisistina' of one coach, containing the con- stituted authorities who had comt^ out to meet hf^r, her own carriage drawn by six carrion |)ost-horses, that containing her attendants, and six or siwcn wairons loaded with furni- ture. The Margrave then conducted tier from the palace gate in gr«'at state to her apart- ments, through a lonL' passage, hung with cobwidts. and so abominably lilthy as to turn her stomach in hurrying through it. This opened into an antechamber, adorned with r>l,l tapestry, so tern and failed that the figures or. it lookeil like somany i-'hosts; and through that into a cabinet furniehcd with green damask all in tatters. Her bedchamber wai also furnished vvith the same stufl' — but ii such a condition, that the curtains fell ii ' pieces whenever they were touched. Hah of the windows were broken, and there Mat no fue; though it was midwinter. The diij.; ners were not eatable : and lasteil three hoursij vvith thirty flourishes of the old trumpets fos* the bumper toasts with which they weie en-' livened : Add to all this, that the poor Priii-;! cess was very much indisposed — that the Margrave came and talked to her out of Teli maque and Amelot, five or six hours every da\ — and that she could not mustei cash enougl to buy herself a gown : and it will not appeal wonderful, that in the very midst of the wed.] iling revelries, she spent half her time in bedj| weeping over the vanity of human grandenrl By and by, however, she found occupB' tion in quarrelling with her sisters-in-law, am in making and appeasing disputes betweer her husband and his father. She airrets so ill, indeed, with all the family, thai he proposal of returning to lie-in at Berlin is n- ceived with great joy: — but while they an deliberating about raising money for thi journey of two hundred miles, she becomi too ill to move. Her sister of Anspacli. aiii her husband, come, and quarrel with hi upon points of etiquette : the lMari>rave fall in love with one of her attendants; and ilj the midst of all manner of perj.lexjtics shi is delivered of a daughter. The Margrave who was in the country, not happi niiig l\ hear the cannon which iuoclainiecl this giea event, conceives that he is treated with gi-ea disrespect, and gives oiders for having hi son imprisoned in one of his fortresses. H relents, however, at the christening; and i put in good humour by a visit iiom anothe son and a brother — the first of wliom is det cribed as a kind of dwarf and natuial foo who could never take seriously to any en ployment but catching flies ; aiul the others a furious madman, in whose company noon was sure of his life. This annable fainili party is broken up, by an order on the Prill cess' husband to join his regiment at Berlii and another order from her father for her i pay a visit to her sister at Anspach. On hi way she visits an ancient beauty, with a iiOf like a beetroot, and two maids of honour .' excessively fat that they could not sit dowr and, in .stooping to kiss the Princess' ham fell over, and rolled like balls of flesh on \\ carpet. At Anspach. she finds the Mai-grai deep in an intrigue with the housen:aid; nr consoles her sister under this af^iction. SI then makes a great eflort. and raises mone enough to carry her to Berlin : wheie she received with'coldness and ridicule by t) Queen, and neglect and iisult by all h sisters. Her brother's marriage with tl Princess of Brunswick was just about fake place, and we choose to 'jwe in her OV words her account of the manner in whit she was talked over in this royiil circle. " I,a reine, ii table, fii loniber In rorvfr.''aM sur 1h prinrt'i^sf roynlc liiiiirf. ' ^'nirr (rc've.^^ I dii-tllcen Ic regardant, ' est an c'(.'s<'5'iH»irilc I'^V MEMOIRS OF MARGRAVINE OF BAREITH m •, et n'a pas tort : c'cst unevraibete; elle rt'pond out ce qu'on Uii dit par uu oui et un noii, ;u-- npagne d'uii rire niais qui fait nial ati cceur.' ih!' dit ina sccur Charlotte, 'voire Majesto no inoit pas encore tout son merite. J'ai en' un lin a sa toilette ; j'ai era y suflbquer ; elle exha- : une odeur insupportable ! Je crois qu'elle a ir le moins dix ou douze fistules — car cela n'esi 1 naturel. J'ai reinarque aussi qu'elle est con- faite ; son corps de jupe est renibourre d"un 'e, et elle a une haiicfie plus hauie que I'au- .' Je fus tort etonnoe de ces propos, qui so lo- ent en presence des domesiiques — et surtout de n Ire re I- Je in'aper^us qu'ils lui t'aisoient de peine et qu'il changeoit de coiileur. II se ra aussitot apres souper. J'en fis autant. II I me voir un moment apres. Je lui demandai ' etoit satisfait du roi ? II me repondit que sa laiion changeoit i\ tout moment; que tanioi il ■dt en faveur et tantot en disgrace ; que son plus :nd lionheur consistoit dans I'absence ; gu'il me- lt une vie douce et tranquille a son regiment ; I I'eiude et la musique y taisoieiit ses principales lupations ; qu'il avoit fait baiir une maison et tail re un jardin charmant ou il pouvoit lire et se Mtiener. Je le pria de me dire si le portrait que [cine et ma sosur m'avoient fait de ta Princesse I Brunswick eioit veritable ? ' Nous sommes (Is/ repartit-il, ' et je n'ar rien de cache pour ' s. Je vous parlerai avec sincerite. La reine, » ses miserabies inirigues, est la seule source Inos malhenrs A peine avez-vous ete partie lil\e a renouo avec I'Angleterre ; elle a vonlu '■9su'>stituer ma scenr Cliarlofe, et luifaire epon- i( le Prince de Galles, Vous jugez bien qu'elle I nploye tous ses efToris pour faire r^ussir son plan !ioiir me marier avec la Princesse Amelie.' " "■he poor Prince, however, confesses that 1 cannot say much for the mtellect of his r-nded bride: — and really does not use a r;ch nobler language than the rest of the ";:iily. even \Yhen speaking in her presence ; "lou her first presentation to his sister, find- i: that she made no answer to the compli- rits that were addressed to her, the enam- )i?d youth encourages her bridal timidity 3 this polite exclamation, "Peste soit de la ?(i? ! — remercie done ma sa-ur!" The ac- cent of the festivities which accompanied ^ marriage really excites our compassion : HI is well calculated to disabuse any iiiex- p(|ieiiced person of the mistake of suppo- M-(. that there can be either comfort or en- io;nent in the cumbrous splendours of a crrt. Scanty and crowded dinners at mid- M. — and formal balls and minuets imnie- iijely after, in June, followed up with dull 2r<:jiing in the evening; — the necessity of bt;ig up in full dress by three o'clock in the m;ning to see a review — and the pleasure ofuMng stifled in a crowded tent without spii? any thinp:, or getting any refreshment fo,-(>ven or eight hours, and then to return faishing to a dinner of eighty covers; — iitthcr times to travel ten miles at a foot- pal; in an open carriage during a heavy rain, an! afterwards to stand shivering ou the wet gr's to see fireworks — to pay twenty visits of eremony every morning, and to present an be presented in stately silence to persons w.in you hate and despise. Such were the gc'ial delights of the whole court; — and ou Princess had the additional gratification if'oeing forced from a sick-bed to enjoy ih^, and of undergoiiur the sneers of her 33' mother, and the slights of her whole genora- tion. Their domestic life, when these galas were over, was nearly as fatiguing, and still more lugubrious. The good old custom of famishing was kept up at table ; and imme- diately after diiuier the King had his great chair placed right before the fire, and snored in it for three hours, during all which th»'V were obliged to keep silence, for fear of dis- turbing him. When he awoke, he set to smoking tobacco; — and then .sate four hours at supper, h.^tening to long stories of his ancestors, in the taste of those sermons which are prescribed to pensons afilioted with iusomnolencv. Then the troops began their exercise under the windows before four o'clock every morning, — and not only kept the whole household awake from that hour by their firing, but sometimes sent a ram- rod through the glass to assist at the Prin- cess' toilette. One afternoon the King was seized with a sort of apoplexy in his sleep, which, as he al\\-ays snored extremely loud, might have carried him off without much observation, had not his daughter observed him grow black in the face, and restoretl him by timely applications. She is equally un- fortunate about the same time in her father- in-law the Maigrave, who is mischievous enough to recover, after breaking a blood- vessel by falling down stairs in a fit of drunkenness. At last she gets away with great difficulty, and takes her second leave of the parental roof, with even less regard for its inhabitants than she had felt on first quitting its shelter. On her return to Bareith, she finds the old Margrave quite broken in health, but extrava- aantly and honourably in love with a lame, dwarfish, middle-aged lady, the sister of her , ancient governess, whom he proposes to ' marry, to the great discomfiture of the Prin- ■ cess and his son. They remonstrate with the lady, however, on the absurdity of .such an union ; and she promises to be cruel, and live single. In the mean time, one of the Mar- grave's daughters is taken with a kind ot madness of a very indecorous character ; which indicates itself by frequent impro- prieties of speech, and a habit of giving invi- tations, of no equivocal sort, to every man that comes near ner. The worthy Margrave, at first undertakes to cure this very trouble- some complaint by a brisk course of beating ; but this not being found to answer, it is thought expedient to try the efTect of mar- riage ; and, that there may he no harm done to any body, they look out a certain Duke of Weimar, who is as mad as the lady — though somewhat in a difTercnt way. This prince's ' malady consisted chiefly in great unsteadi- I ness of purpose, and a trick of outrageous and inventive boasting. Both the Princess [ and her husband, however, take great pains [ to bring about this well-assorted match : and, i by dint of flattery and intnnidation, it i(» I actually carried through — though the bride- I groom sends a piteous mesbjige on the morn- j ing of his wedding day. begging to be let ofl I and keeps them from twelve till four o'clock w2 258 HISTORY AND fflSTORICAL MOIOIRS in the morning before he can be persuaded to go to bed. In the mean time, the Princess gives great offence to the populace and tlie preachers of Bareith, by giving a sort of masked ball, and riding occasionally on horseback. Her husband goes to the wars; and returns very much out of humour with her brother Frederic, who talks contemptu- ously of little courts and little princes. The old Margrave falls into a contirmed hectic, and writes billcts- \ paroiire. L'Iniperatrice est d'unc taille au-desso I de la petiie, et si puissanie qu'elle senible u boule ; elle est laide au possible, sans air et sa I grace. Son esprit repond a sa figure ; elle ( j bigotte a I'exces, et passe les niiitsei les jours da son oratoire : les vieilles et les laides sont ordinair nient le partage du bon Dieu ! Elle me re^ut iromblant et d'un air si dccontenance qu'elle put me dire un mot. Nous nous assiines. Apr avoir garde quelque temps le silence, je commen' la conversation en fran9ais. Elle me repondit, da son jargon auirichien. qu'elle n'entendoit pas bi cctie langue. et qu'elle me prioit de lui parler allemand. Cet entreiien ne iut pas long. Led lecie autrichien et le bas-saxon sont si difl'erer qu'a moins d'y etre accouiume on ne se compre point. C'est aussi ce qui nous arriva. IN'oiis aurii prepare a rire a un tiers par les eoq-a-rane c nousfaisions. n'entendant que par-ci par-la un m qui nous faisoit deviner le reste. Cetie prince ctoit si fort esciave de son etiquette qu'elle aui cru fairo un crime de lese-grandeur en m'entre' natu dans une langue eirangore ; car elle savoiil irnn^ais ! L'Empereur devoit se irouver n «: vie ite ; mais il eioit tombe si malade qu'on craigr , nienie pour ses jonrs." — pu. 345, 346. Alter this .-h" comes home in a very I humour: and the Memoirs break off abruf; with her detection of an iiilrigiie between husband ai:d her favourite attendant, and dissiUisfactioii with the dull formal ily of • court of Stutgard. We hope the se<)nel \ soon find its way to the public. Some readers may think we have dwelt • long on such a tissue of impertinencies: : others may think an apology requisite for ' tone of levity in which we have spoken ot,' many atrocities. The truth is. that we th : this book of no trilling importance ; and t ! we could not be serious upon the subject f 1 without being both sad and angry. BeJJ concluding, however, we shall add onewl in seriousness — to avoid the misconstructi.l to which we might otherwise be liable. We are decidedly of opinion, that ]\IonarC) and Hereditary Monarchyj is by far the I* IRVING'S COUhMBUS. 28» fen of govprnmpiit that human wisdom has y|dev!S;'d foi' the nclniiiiistralion of eonsider- afe iialious; and thai it will alwajscomiiuic 3e the most perfect which human virtue admit of. We are not readily to be sus- p|ted, therefore, of any wish to produce a di'aste or coiitemjit for th's form of iiovern- niit; and beg leave to say. that though the fafs we have now collected are certainly eifh as to give no favourable impression of thi private manners or personal dispositions of'bsolute sovereigns, we conceive that good, ralier than evil, is likely to result from their dj-emination. This we hold, in the first pte. on the strenath of the general ma\im, th". all truth must be ultimately s;ilutary, and al'deception pernicious. But we think we c see a little how this maxim applies to the p; icular case before us. 1 the first place, then, we think it of ser- vi;'> to the cause of royalty, in an age of vio- le[ }^)assions and i"ash experiments, to show th most of the vices and defects which such tiJes are apt to bring to light in particular fscreigns. are owing, not so much to any par- tidar unworthiness or unfitness in the indi- viial. as to the natural operation of the cir- ciistances in which he is placed : and are sua, in short, as those circumstances have il|ays generated in a certain degree in those ivi) have been exposed to them. Such con- 5i<^ rations, it appears to us, when taken along rt;i the strong and irresistible arguments for miarchical government in general, are well :'aulated to allay that great impatience and irgerous resentment with which nations inurbulent times are apt to consider the of their sovereigns; and to unite with ieady attachment and entire respect for otfice. a v(»ry great degree of indulgence he personal defects of the individual who happen to fill it. Monarch?, upon this fl\r of things, are to be considered as per- !o| who are placed, for the public good, in ;it[uions where, not oidy their comfort, but hf moral qualities, are liable to be greatly nriiired : and who are poorly paid in empty >pindour. and anxious power, for the sacri- idof their affections, and of the many en- raing qualities which might have blossomed n Slower region. If we look with indulgence ipji the roughness of sailors, the pedantry of 'ctolmasters. and the frivolousness of bean- ie! we should learn to regard, with some- hL' of the same feelings, the selfishness and hcunning of kings. ^a|t: In the second place, we pre?umo to think that the genem! ailoplion of these opinions as to the personal defects that are likely to result . from the posses.sion of sovereign power, may 'be of use to the sovereigns lliemsclves, lidni ' whom the knowledge of their prevalence can- not be very long concealed. Such knowledge, it is evident, will natundl\ stimulate tin; bette-r ' sort of them to counteract the can.ses which tend to their personal dcirradation : and enable them more gt-nenilly to surmount their per- nicious operation, by such eflorts and reliec- tions, as have every now and then rescued some powerful spirits from their dominion, under all the dis;idvanlages of the delusions with which they were surrounded. Finally, if ihe geneial prevalence of these sentiments as to the private manners and dis- jx)sitions of sovereigns should have iho effect of rendering the bulk of their subject8 less prone to blind admiration, and what may be called personal altadmienl to them, we rjo not imagine that any great harm will be done. The less the public knows or cares about the private wishes of their monarch, and the more his individual will is actually consubstantiated with the deliberate sanctionsof his resiwnsible counsellors, the more perfectly will th«; prac- tice of government correspond with its aeeu given wiili uiore amplitude and Jidelity than any other ; and Mr. Irving, accoriUni:ly. has been able to add but few adititiouiil liaits of any consiilenible importance. Hut it is not liiere, we think, that the great niteri st or the tiue character of the work is lo be found. 'J"lie mere geo- graphical discovery, sublime as it undoubtedly IS, IS far less impre.«sive, to our minds, than the moral emotions to which it opens the scene. The whole history of the settlement of Hispaniola, and the suUenngs of its gentle people — the ilaring progress ot the great dis- coverer, through iinlieard-of forms of jieril, and the overwhelming disjisters that seem at last to weigh him down, constitute the real business of the piece, and are what truly bring out. not only the character of the man. but that of the events with which his memory ib identified. It is here, too. that both the rower and the beauty of the author's style chiefly display themselves — in his account of the innocence and gentleness of the simple races that were then first iiUroducetl to their elder brethren of Europe, and his glowing pictures of the lovely land, which ministered to their primitive luxury — or hi his many sketches of the great commander himself, now towering in paternal majesty in the midst of his newly- found children — now invested with the dark gorgeousiiess of deep and superstitious devo- tion, and burning ihirsl of fame — or, still more sublime, in his silent struggles w^ith malevo- lence and misfortune, and his steadfast reli- ance on the justice of posterity. The work before us embodies all these, and many other touchhig representations : ami in the vivacity of its colouring, and the novelty of its scene, possesses all the interests of a novel of invention, with the startling and thrilling assurance of its actual tnith and exactness — a sentiment which enhances and every moment presses home to our hearts the deep pity and resentment inspired by the sul- ferinirs of the confiding beings it introduces to our knowledge — mingled witli a feeling of something like envy and delighted wonder, at the story of their child-like innocence, and humble api aratus of enjoyment. No savatres certainly ever were so engaging and loveable as those savages. Aflectionate, .sociable, and without cunning, suilenness, inconstancy, or any of the savage vices, but an aversion irom toil, which their happy climate at once in- spired and renderecl innoxious, they seem to have pass«d their days in blisslul ipiorance of all that human intellect has contnved for human misery ; and almost to have enjoyeil an exemption from the doom that followed man's first unhallowed appetite for knowledye of good and evil. It is appalling to think with what tremendous rapidity the whole of thew; ha[)py races were swept away ! Mow soon, after the feet of civilized Christians liad touch- ed their shores, those shores were desolate, or filled only with mourning! How soon, how frightfully soon, the ewamiing myriads ot idle 262 HISTORY AND HISTORICAL MEMOIRS. and light-hearted creatures, who came troop- ing from their fragrant woods to receive them with smiles of welcome and gestures of wor- ship, and whose songs and shoutings first hailed ihera so sweetly over their fresh and Buniiy bays, were plunged, by the hands of those fatal visitants, into all the agonies of despair! — how soon released from them by a bloody extermination ! It humbles and al- most crushes the heart, even at this distance of time, to think of such a catastrophe, brought about by such uislruments. The learned, the educated, the refined, the champions of chiv- alry, the messengers of the gospel of peace, come to the land of the ignorant, the savage, the heathen. They find them docile in their ignorance, submissive in their rudeness, and grateful and affectionate in their darkness : — And the result of the mission is mutual cor- ruption, misery, desolation ! The experience or remorse of four centuries has not yet been able to expiate the crime, or to reverse the spell. Those once smiling and swarming shores are still silent and mournful ; or re- sound only to the groans of the slave and the lash of the slave-driver — or to the strange industry of another race, di-agged by a yet deeper guilt from a distant land, and now cahnly establishing themselves on the graves of their oppressors. We do not propose to give any thing like an abstract of a story, the abstract of which is already familiar to every one ; while the details, like most other details, would lose half their interest, and all their character, by being disjoined from the narrative on which they depend. We shall content ourselves, therefore, by running over .some of the par- ticulars that are less generally known, and exhibiting a few specimens of the author's manner of writing and thmking. Rlr. Irving has settled, we think satisfacto- rily, that Columbus was born in Genoa, about the year 1435. It was fitting that the hemi- sphere of republics should have been dis- covered by a republican. His proper name was Colombo, though he is chielly known among his contemporaries by the Spanish synonyme of Colon. He was well educated, but passed his youth chiefiy at sea, and had his full share of the hardships and hazards incident to that vocation. From the travels of Marco Polo he seems first to have imbibed his taste for geographical discovery, and to have derived his grand idea of reaching the eastern shores of India by sailing straight to the west. The spirit of maritime enterprise was chiefiy fostered ui that age by the mag- nanimous patronage of Prince Henry of Portu- gal, and it was to that court, accordingly, that Columbus first offered his services in the year 1470. We will not withhold from our reader? the following brief but graphic sketch of Ins character and appearance at that period : " He wa.s at that time in the full vigour of mnnhooH, and of an enga<;in£r presence. Mitnite do.scriptions are given of his person hv his son l''ernando, by Las Casas, and oihers of his con- temporaries. According to these accounts, he was tall, well-formed, muscular, and of an elevaiedand dignified demeanour. His visage was long, and neither full nor meagre ; his complexion fair a j freckled, and inclined to ruddy ; his nose aquilin his cheek-bones were rather high ; his eyes lig grey, and apt to enkindle ; his whole countenan , had an air of authority. His hair, in his youth j days, was of a li^'ht colour; but care and troub according to Las Casas, soon turned it grey, and j thirty years ol age it was quite white. He w moderate and simple in diet and apparel, eloque in discourse, engaging and affable with strange ai\d of an amiableness and suavity in domestic i\ that strongly attached his household to his persf His temper was naturally irritable ; but he subduw by the magnanimity of his spirit ; comporting bi self with a courteous and gentle gravity, and never i diilging iti any intemperance ot language. Throuf out his liie he was noted for a strict attention to t| (iffires of religion, observing rigorously the ft! and ceremonies of the church; nor did his pi consist in mere forms, but partook of that lofty i solemn enthusiasm with which his whole charao was strongly tinctured." For eighteen long years did the proud a ardent spirit of Columbns urge his heroic c at the courts of most of the European m archs; and it was not till after encounter in every form the discouragements of with ing poverty, insulthig neglect, and taunt ridicule, that, in his fifty-sixth year, he at 1 prevailed with Ferdinand and Isabella, tos ■ ply him with three little ships, to achieve ■ them the dominion of a world ! Mr. Irv.; very strikingly remarks, "After the great difficulties made by varji courts in furtiishing this expedition, it is surprUji how inconsiderable an armament svas required. ( is evident that Columbus had reduced his re,'- silions to the narrowest limits, lest any great:- pense should cause impediment. Three small .;• sels were apparently all that he had requested. 'U of them were light barques, called caravals, -i superior to river and coasting craft of more mot « days. Representations of this class of vessels i,< in old prints and paintings, 'i'hey are delineate,! open, and without deck in the centre, but buil'p hiiih at the prow and stern, with forecastles d cabins for the accoinmodation of the crew. Yt Martyr, the learned contemporary of Columl^ says that only one of the three vessels was dec! 'I'he smallness of the vessels was considere< ■ advaotage by Columbus, in a voyage of discof 'i enabling him to run close to the shores, and to« if shallow rivers and harbours. In his third voy i| when coasting the gulf of Paria, he complsinel the size of his ship, being nearly a hundred i* burden. But that such long and perilous ex| !• tions into unknown seas, should be undrrtak. .u vessels without decks, and that they should 't through the violent tempests by which they •« frequently assailed, remain among the sinj.tf circumstances of these daring voyages." It was on Friday, the 3d of August, 12, that the bold adventurer sailed forth, will le earliest dawn, from the little port of P ? on his magnificent expedition ; and imn '■ ately began a regular journal, address*' lo the sovereigns, from the exo-rdivm of wl li- as lately printed by Navarette, we recei'a strong impression both of the gravity "• dignity of his character, and of the im "t- ance he attached to his undertaking. .J^ subjoin a short specimen. " Therefore your highnesses, as Ca:hoIic ( »• tians and princes, lovers and promoters of ilif 'V Christian faiih, snd enemies of the sect of,l«* hornet, and of all idol.itiies and heiei^ies. < *r- mined to send me, Christopher Columbus, i M reVING-S COLUMBUS. id pnrts of India, to see the said princes, and the opie, ami lands, and discover tlie nature and fsposiiion ot liiein all, and the means to be taken r llie conversion ot them to our iioly faiiii ; and (iered iliai 1 sliould not go by land to the East, hiuli 11 is the cusioin go, but by a voyai^e to 3 Wesi, by which course, unto the present time, do iioi knoNV for certain thai any one hath ssed; and for this purpose bestowed great favours on me, ennobling nie, that tlieiicelbrward 1 might >le inysi II Don, appointing ine high admiral of Ocean Sea, and perpetual viceroy and governor i all the islands and continents I should discover iid gain, and which henceforward may be dis- cfvered and gained, in the Ocean Sea; and that i' eldest son should succeed me, and so on, from jncration to generation, for ever. I departed, prefore, from the city of Granada on yaturday ife 12ih of May, of the same year, 1-492, to Falos, isea-pori, where I armed three ships well calcu- fied for such service, and sailed from that port ■?11 furnished with provisions, and with many iitnen, on Friday the 3d of August of the same ;'ar, half an hour before sunrise, and took thf rite for the Canary Islands of your highnesses, to iter my course thence, and navigate until 1 should ^ive at the Indies, and deliver the embassy of jxiT highnesses to those princes, and accomplish i^it which you had comiiianded. For this purpose. Intend to write during this voyage very punctu- :v, from day to day. all that I may do, and sec, ;H experience, as will iiereafter be seen. Also, A- iovereign princes, besides describing each night d hit has occurred in the day, and in the day the i\ gallon of the night, I propose to make a chart, 11 which I will set down the waters and lands ot the wean Sea, in their proper situations, under ilieir rarings; and, fiirther to compose a book, and il- ititrate the whole in picture by latitude from the (juinociial. and longitude from the West ; and upon If whole it will be essential that I should lorget fjep, and attend closely to the navigatit)n, to acconi- {sh these things, which will be a great labour." [As a guide by which to sail, Mr. Irving also imrms u.s. he had prepared "a map, or chart, i proved upon that sent him by Paolo Tos- (jnelli. Neither of these now exist ; but the t distance up the river, more and more enchaid with the beauty of the country. The forests w h covered each bank were of high and wide-spres' ; trees; some bearing fruits, others flowers, whil some both fruits and flowers were mingled, speaking a perpetual round of fertility : among t u were many palms, but differing from those of S :i and Africa ; with the great leaves of these the ,- lives thatched their cabins. '■ The continual eulogies made by Columbu n the beauty of the scenery were warranted b\ e kind of scenery he was behulding. There a wonderful splendour, variety, and luxuriance ii > vegetation of those quick and ardent climates, verdure of the groves, and the colours of the flo • and blossoms, derive a vividness to the eye fron k transparent purity of the air, and the deep sen y of the azure heavens. The forests, too, are fu >i life, swarming wiih birds of brilliant plun^e. Painted varieties of parrots, and wood-pecl'g, create a glitter amidst the verdure of the grove lid humming-birds rove from flower to flower, ren- bling, as has well been said, animated panicles;* rainbow, 'i'he scarlet flamingos, too, seen 8i.B» times through an opening oi' a forest in a dint savannah, have the appearance of soldiers drawjip in battalion, with an advanced scout on the alelto give notice of approachins; danger. Nor is the <8l beautiful part of animated nature the various in of insects that people every plant, displaying 'il- liant coats of mail, which sparkle to the eye'te precious gems. " From his continual remarks on the beau ■ the scenery, and irom the pleasure which he . dently derived from rural sounds and object M apfiears to have been extremely open to those Ii- cious influences, exercised over some spirits b :Im graces and wonders of nature. He gives iitieijc* to these fi-elings with characteristic entliu.''ia8m nd at the same lime with the artlessness and simp ly of diction of a child. When speaking of some 1' Ijr scene among the groves, or along the flowery sle, of this favoured island, he says, ' one could,v« there for ever.' — Cuba broke upon him like at jr* siuin. ' It is tHe most beautiful island,' he 'i, ' that eyes ever beheld, full oi excellent port: no profound rivers.' The climate was more tetriFi" here than in the other islands, the nights [ng neither hot nor cold, while the birds and gras tp- pers sang all night long. Indeed there isabujf in a tropical iiiyht, in the dcpih ot the darkm sky, the lambient purity of ihe siars, and ih/e* splendent clearness of the moon, that spreads 'el the rich landscape and the balmy groves a ci'* more touching than the splendour of the day. i " In the sweet smell of the woods, and the ''itt of the flowers, which loaded every breeze, C( (it- bus fancied he perceived ihe iiagrance of or ;«! spices; and along the shores he iound shells (M kind of oyster which produces pearls. Frof M grass growing to the very edge of the water, 1 ">• terred the peacefulness of the ocean which b ie« these islands, never lashing the shore with i i'lf IRVING'S COLUMBUS. 26S irges. Ever since his arrival among these An- tes, he had experienced notliiiifj but solt nnd j,ntle weather, and he concluded that a perpetual • eiiiiy reiyncd over these happy seas. He was lie suspicions of the occasional bursts of fury to \iich they are liable." Hispaniola was still more enchanting. i' In the transparent atmosphere of the tropics, elects are descried at a gre.it distance, and the j)-iiy of the air and serenity of the deep blue sky ge a magical efiect to the scenery. Under tiiese. aaintages, the beautiful island of Ilayii revealed iflf to the eye as tiicy appruached. It's mountains v|re higher and more rocky than those of the oilier i:-.nds ; but tiie rocks reared themselves from iiong rich Ibrests. The mountains swept down ii) luxuriant plains and green savannahs; while t appearance of cultivated fields, with the numer- oi' tires at night, and the columns of smoke which rie in various parts by day, all showed it to be pntlous. It rose before them in all the splendour 11 tropical vegetation, one of the most beautiful hiuis in the world, and doomed to be one of the list unfortunate." jrhe first interview with the friendly cacique Cacanagari, as well as his generous atteii- tis on the wreck of one of their vessels, are (ikribed with great beauty. But we can oy find room for the concluding part of it. j The extreme kindness of ihe cacique, the gen- tliess of his people, the quantities of gold which ue daily brought to be exchanged for the veriest Ites, and the information coniinually received of B(rces of wealth in the bosom of this beautiful isiid, all contributed to console the admiral ti^r the n firtune he had suffered. The shipwrecked crew also, living on shore, a( mingling freely with the natives, became fas- nliied with their easy and idle mode of life. Ex- c'ned by their simplicity from the painful cares ai' toils which civilized man inflicts upon himself li'iis many artificial wants, the existence of these isliders seemed to the Spaniards like a pleasant d:jm). They disquieted themselves aiiout nothing. A[iw fields, cultivated almost without labour, fur- ni[ed the roots and vegetables which formed a Cttt part of their diet. Their rivers and coasts a'unded with fish; their trees were laden with If'S of golden or blushing hue, and heightened bi tropical sun to delicious flavour and fragrance. Sjened by the indulgence of nature, a great part ol|lieir day was passed in indolent repose — in that hfiry of sensation inspired by a serene sky and a vc'.piuous climate ; and in the evenings they danced in'ieir fragrant groves, to their national songs, or thjrude sounds of their sylvan drums. .'^uch was the indolent and holiday life of these ihAe people ; which, if it had not the great scope of ijoyment, nor the high-seasoned poignancy of pi sure, which attend civilization, was certainly dciiuteof most of its artificial miseries." was from this scene of enchantment and pinise, unclouded as yet by any shadow of arnosity or distrust, that Columbus, without or drop of blood on his hands, or one stain of crj'lty or oppression on his conscience, set sajon his return to Europe, with the proud liings of his discovery. In the early y.ni of Kij/oyage he fell in with the Carribee Islands, ari had .some striking encounters with the brjTe but ferocious tribes who possessed thjn. The distresses which beset him on his hae passage are well known ; but we wil- lir ly pass these over, to treat our readers with M Irving's splendid description of his mag- niient reception by the court at Barcelona. 34 " It was about the middle of .\pril that rolunibus arrived at Barcelona, where cviry pnpiiraimii hnrs. First, were paraded the Indians, painted according lo their snv- ai:e I'ashion, and d»'corated with their national orna- tiients of gold. After these were fxtrne various kinds of live parrots, together wiili sniffed birds and animals of unknown species and rare plants, sup- posed to be of precious qualities ; wfiile great rare was taken to make a conspicuous display of Indian coronets, bracelets, and other decorations of gold, which might give an idea of ihe wealth of the newly- discovered regions. After this, followed Colunihus on horseback, surrounded by a brilliant cavalcade of Spanish chivalry. The streets were almost im- passable from the countless multitude ; the win- dows and balconies were crowded with the fair ; the very roofs were covered with spectators. It seemed as if the public eye couhl not be sated with gazing on these trophies of an unknown world : or on the remarkable man by whom it had been discovered. There was a sublimity in this event that mingled a solemn feeling with the public joy. It was looked upon as a vast and signal dispensation of Provi- dence, in reward for the piety of the monarchs ; and the majestic and venerable appearance of the dis covercr, so different from the youih and buoyancy that are generally expected from roving enterprise, seemed in harmony with the grandeur and dignity of his achievement- " To receive him with suitable pomp and dis- tinction, the sovereigns had ordered their throne to be placed in public, under a rich canopy of brocade of gold, in a vast and splendid saloon. Mere the king and queen awaited his arrival, seated in state, with the prince Juan beside them, and attended by the dignitaries of iheir court, and the principal no- bility of Castile, Valeniia, Catalonia, and Arragon, all impatient to behold the man who had conlerred so incalculable a benefit upon the nation. At lencih Columbus entered the hall, surrounded by a bril- liant crowd of cavaliers, among whom, says Las Ca^as, he was conspicuous for his stately aud com- manding person, which, with his countenance, rendered venerable by his grey hairs, gave him the august appearance of a senator of Rome ; a modest smile lighted up his features, showing that he en- joyed the state and glory in which he came ; and certainly nothing could be more deeply moving to a mind inflamed by noble ambition, and conscious of having greatly aeserved, than these testimonials of the aamiralion and gratitude of a nation, or rather of a world. As Columbus approached, the sover- eigns rose, as if receiving a person of the highest rank. Bending his knees, he requested to kiss their hands; but there was some hesitation on the part of their majesties to permit this act of vassal- age. Raising him in the most gracious manner, they ordered him to seat himself in their presence ; a rare honour in this proud and punctilious court." In his second voyage he falls in again with the Caribs, of whost? courai:e and c^iiinilal l)ropf[isiti{'s he had now sufficient assurance. Mr. Irvingri remarks uj)on this energetic but untameable race are striking, and we think original. " The warlike and unyielding character of thc»e people, so different from that of the pusillanimouB nations around them, and the wide scope of their enterprises and wanderings, like those of the 266 HISTORY AND HISTORICAL MEMOIRS. Nomade tribes of the Old World, entitle tliem to dis- tinguished aitention. They were trained to war Irom their iiifancy. As soon as ihey could walk, their intrepid rnoihers put in their hands the bow and arrow, and prepared them to lake an early part ill the hardy enterprises ot" their fathers. Their distant roainings by sea made iheni observant and intelligent. Tlie natives of the other islands only knew how to divide time by day and night, by the sun and moon ; wiiereas these had acquired some knowledge of the stars, by which to calculate the times and seasons. " The traditional accounts of their origin, though of course extremely vague, are yet capable of being verified to a great degree by geographical (acts, and open one ol the rich veins of curious inquiry and speculation which aliound in the New World. They are said to have migrated from the remote valleys embosomed in the Apalachian mountains. The earliest accounts we have of them represent them with their weapons in their hands, continually en- gaged in war--, winning their way and shifting their abode, until, in the course of time, they found them- selves at the e.xtremity of Florida. Here, abandon- ing the northern continent, they passed over to the Lucayos, and from thence gradually, in the pro- cess of years, from island to island oi that vast and verdant chain, which links, as it were, the end of Florida to the coast of Paria, on the southern con- tiiient. The Archipelago, extending trom Porto Rico to Tobairo, was their strong hold, and the island of Guadaloupe in a manner their citadel. Hence they made their expeditions, and spread the terror of their name through all the surrounding countries. Swarms of them landed upon the south- ern continent, and overran some parts of Terra Firma. ^I'races of ihem have been discovered far in the interior of the country througii which flows the Oroonoko. The Dutch'found colotiies of them on the banks of the Ikouteka, whicli empties into the Surinam, along the Esquibi, the Maroni, and Other rivers of Giiayana, and in the country watered by the windings of the Cayenne ; and it would ap- pear that they have extended their wanderings to the shores of the southern ocean, where, among the aboriginals of Brazil, were some who called them- selves Caribs, distinguished from the surrounding Indians by their superior hardihood subtlety, and enterprise. " Vo trace the footsteps of this roving tribe throughout its wide migrations from the Apalachian mountains of the northern continent, along the clusters of islands which siud the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean sea to the shores of Paria, and soacross the vast regions of Guayana and Amazonia to the reiiioie coast of Brazil, would be one of the most curious researches in aboriginal history, and might throw imuh light upon the mysterious ques- tion of the population of the New VV'orld." We pass over the melancholy story of the ruined fort; and murdered irtiiiisoii, to which our adventurer relurned on his .second voyage ; and of the first dissensions that broke out in his now increasing colony ; but mu.st pause for a moment to accomjiany him on his first march, at the head of four hnndictl armed followers, into the interior of the country, and to the mountain resjion of expected gold. For two days xha party proceeded up the banks of a stream, which seemed at last to lose itself in a narrow and rocky recess. " On the following day, the army toiled up this eteep defile, and arrived where the gorge of the mountain opened into the interior. Here a land of promise suddcnlv burst upon their view. It was the same glorious prospect which bad delighted Oje- da and his companions. Below lay a vast and de- liciou.=! plain, p;iinled and enamelled, ns it were, with all the rich variety of tropical vegetation. The J magnificent forests presented that mingled bea 1 and majesty of vegetable forms known only to th ' generous climates. Palms of prodigious heig I and spreading mahogany trees, towered from ai J a wilderness of variegated foliage. Universal fre ness and verdure were maintained by nuiner'. streams, which meandered gleaming through deep bosom of the woodland ; while various villa: i and hamlets, peeping from among the trees, i the smoke of others rising out of thp midst o'f i forests, gave signsof a numerous population. 'J. luxuriant landscape extended as far as the eye co I reach, until it appeared to melt away and min , with the horizon. The Spaniards L';>zed wiih i . ture upon this soft voluptuous country, wl i seemed to realise their ideas of a icnesiial paradi; and Columbus, struck with its va.st extent, gav: the name of the Vega Real, or Royal Plain. ; " Having descended the rugged pass, the at • issued upon the plain, in military array, with gi; clangour of warlike instruments. When the . dians beheld this shining band of warriors, glit,. ing ill steel, emero;ing from the mountains y\ prancin2 steeds and flaunting banners, and he , for the first time, their rocks and forests echoin ) the din of drum and trumpet, they might welllit taken such a wonderful pageant for a supernatr'J vision. ' " On the next morning they resumed their m:'|i up a narrow and steep glen, winding antongcrsif rocks, where they were obliged to lead the hoi'. Arrived at the summit, they once more enjui prospect of the delicious Vega, which here presi a still grander appearance, stretching far and on either hand, like a vast verdant lake, noble plain, according to Las Casas, is i leagues in length, an'd from twenty to thir, breadth, and of incomparable beauty." " The natives appeared to them a singularh and improvident race, indifferent to most of tli' jects of human anxiety and toil. They were i- patient of all kinds of labour, scarcely g.ig themselves the trouble to cultivate the yuca ,'«, the maize, and the potatoe, which formed the in articles of subsistence. For the rest, their sir • abounded with fish ; they caught the ulia or ci the guana, and various birds; and they had s : petual banquet trom the fruits spontaneously |o- duced by their groves. Though the air wa8 8;^ times cold among the mountains, yet ihey prei'ed submitting to a little temporary suffering, rier than take the trouble to weave garments tror.Tn gossampine cotton which abounded in their fc li Thus they loitered away exisience in vacant «• tivity, under the shade of their trees, or arr ng themselves occasionally with various garnet no dances." [ " Having accomplished the purposes of his.ii- dence in the Vega, Columbus, at the end of sw days, took leave of its hospitable inhabitant: nd resumed his march for the harbour, reiurnin/.ilh his little army througii the lofty and rugged 'Hi of the mountains called the Pass of the Hid,**. As we accompany him in imagination ovi ifc* rocky height, trom whence the Vega first ik* upon the eye of the Europeans, we canno'«lp pau.^ing to cast back a look of mingled pity a »i- miration over this beautiful but devoted i <■'' The dream of natural liberty, of ignorant ci i and loitering idleness, was as yet uidiroken, I " fiat had Mne forth ; the white man had pen( '" into the land ; avarice, and pride, and ainbitic »' pining care, and sordid labour, were soon to : J« iind the indolent paradise of the Indian to dis ^^ forever!" There is something to us inexprt^t' pleasing in these passages : hut we are '">' that there are readers to whom the; "i* seem tedious — and believe, at all even! Ifi' we have now eiven a laiire enough spt n* of the kind of beauty they present. Ffti IRVING'S COLUMBUS. 267 [ons of a different taste we oiicrht to have t».\- ^■acted some account ofthe incredible daiinj:;s. |nd romantic adventures, of Alonzo de Oieila ; Irof the ruder prowess and wild magiraniniity [f the cacique Caonabo, who alone of the ^land cliieftains dared to offer any resistance ■) the invaders. When made prisoner, and jarried off from the centre of his dominions. iy one of the unima be a repetition of the name toil and siiirering. Or it they occasionally indulged in their national daiici's, iho ballads to which they kept time were of a melan- choly and plaintive character. Tliey spoke of iho times that were past before the while men liiid in- troduced sorrow and slavery, and weary labour ainon« them ; and they rehearsed pretended proniie- cies. handed down Irom their ancestors, luretellinu the invasion ol the Spaniards ; that strangers should come into iheir island, clothed in apparel, with swords capable uf cleaving a man asunder at a blow, under whose yoke their posterity should be sulidued. These ballads, or areytos, they suiir with mournful tunes and doleful voices, bewailing the loss of their lilierty and their painful serviiujo. There is an interest of another kind in fol- lowing the daring route of Columbus along the shores of Cuba and Jamaica, and ihiough the turbulent seas that Ih>iI amoiii: lite kt-vs in the gulf of Paria. The shor.-s still aliorded the same beauty of aspect — tlie people the same marks of submission and delighted wonder. " It is impossible to resist noticing the striking contrasts which are sometimes forced upon the mind. The coast here described as so populous and animated, rejoiciiiir in the visit of the discoverers, is the same that extends westward of the city of 'rrinidad, along the gulf of Xagua. .All is now silent and deserted. Civilization, which has covered some pans of Cuba with glittering cities, has ren- dered this a solitude. The whole race of Indians has long since passed away, pining and perishing beneath the dominaiion of the strangers whom they welcomed so joyfully to their shores. Before me lies the account of a night recentiv passed on this very coast, by a celebrated traveller, (Humboldt,) but with what different feelings from those of Co- liimbus ! ' I passed.' says he, ' a great part of the nisht upon the deck. What deserted coasts ! not a light to announce the cabin of a fisherman. From Batabano to Trinidad, a distance ol fifty leagues, there does not exist a village. Yet in the time of Columbus this land was inhabitnd even along the margin of the sea. When pits arc digged in the soil, or the torrents plough open the surface of the eanh. there are often found hatchets of stone and vessels of copper, relics of the ancient inhabitants ofthe island.' " We cannot resist the temptation of adding the following full-length picture; which has all the splendour of a romance, with the ad- ditional charm of being true. " One morning, as the ships were standing along the coast, with a light wind and easy sail, they bc- li»'ld three canoes issuing from among ihe islands of the bay. They approacliid in regular order; one, whi( h was very large and handsomely carved and painted, was in' ihe centre, a little in advance ot the two others, which appeared to aiiend and guard it. In this w« re .seated the cncKjue and his family, consisting of his wife, twn diiiighiers, two sons, and five brothers. One of the daiighicrs w.as eighteen years of age, beautiful in tir>rm and counte- nance ; her sister was somewhat younger ; both were naked, according lo the custom of these islands, but were of modest dcinennour. In the prow of the canoe stood the siandaril-bearer of the cacique, clad in a kind of mantle of variegated feathers, with a tuft of gay plumes on \un head, and bearing in his hand a tluiiering white banner. Two Indians, with caps or helmets of feathers nf uniform shape and colour, and their faces painted in u simi- lar manner, beat upon labors ; two others, with 268 HISTORY AND HISTORICAL MEMOIRS. hats curiously wrought ol green feathers, held trumpets of a fine black wood, ingeniously carved ; and iliere were six others, in large hats and white leathers, who appeared to be guests to the cacique. This gallant little artnada having arrived alongside of the admiral's ship, the cacique entered on board with all his train. He appeared in his full regalia. Around his head was a band of small stones of various colours, but principally green, symmetri- cally arraneed, with large white stones at intervals, and connected in front by a large jewel of gold. Two plates of gold were suspended to his ears by rings of small green stones. 'I'o a necklace of white beads, of a kind deemed precious by them, was suspended a large plate, in the form of a fleur-de- lys, of guanin, an inlierior species of gold; and a girdle ot variegated stones, similar to those round his head, completed his regal decorations. His wife was adorned in a similar manner, having also a very small apron of cotton, and bands of ihe same round her arms and legs. The daughters were without ornaments, excepting the eldest and hand- somest, who had a girdle of small stones, from which was suspended a tablet, the size of an ivy leaf, composed of various-coloured stones, em- broided on net- work of cotton. " When the cacique entered on board the ship, he distributed presents of the productions of his island among the officers and men. The admiral was at this time in his cabin, engaged in his morn- ing devotions. When he appeared on deck, ihe chieftain hastened to meet him with an animated countenance. ' My friend,' said he, ' I have de- termined to leave my country, and to accompany thee. I have heard from these Indians who are with thee, of the irresistible power of thy sovereigns, and of the many nations thou hast subdued in their name. Whoever refuses obedience to thee is sure to suffer. Thou hast destroyed the canoes and dwellings of the Caribs, slaying their warriors, and carrying into captivity their wives and children. All the islands are in dread of thee; for who can withstand thee now, that thou knowest the secrets of the land, and the weakness of the people ? Rather, therefore, ihan thou shouldst take away my dominions; I will embark with all my house- hold in thy ships, and will go to do homage to thy king and queen, and to behold their marvellous country, of which the Indians relate such wonders.' When this speech was explained to Columbus, and he beheld the wife, the sons and daughters of the cacique, and thought upon the snares to which their ignorance and simplicity would be exposed, he was touched with compassion, and determined not to take them front their native land. He replied to the cacique, therefore, that he received him under his protection as a vassal of his sovereigns : but having many lands yet to visit before he re- lumed to his country, he would at some lutnre time fulfil his desire. Then, taking leave wiih many expressions of amity, (he cacique, wiih his wife and daughters, and all his retinue, re-embarked in the canoes, returning relucianily to their island, and the ships continued on their course." But we must turn from these bright le- gends; and hurry onward to the end of our extracts. It is impossible to give an}- abstract of the rapid succession of plots, tumults, and desertions, which blighted the infancy of this great settlement ; or of the disgraceful calum- nies, jealousies, and intrigues, which gradu- ally undermined the credit of Columbus with his sovereign, and ended at last in the mission of Bobadilla, with power to supersede him in command — and in the incredible catastroph^' of his being sent home in chains by this arro- gant and precipitate adventurer ! When he arrived on board the caravel which was to carry him to Spain, the master treated him I with the most profound respect, and offered I instantly to release him from his fetters. ' " But to this he would not consent. ' No,' said he proudly, 'their majesties commanded me by letter to submit to whatever Bodadilla should order in their name ; by their authority he has put upon me these chains — I will wear them until they shall order them to be taken off", and I will preserve ilieni afterwards as relics and memorials of the reward of my services.' " " ' He did so,' adds his son Fernando ; ' I saw them always hanging in his cabinet, and he re- quested that when he died they might be buried with him I' " If there is something in this memorable brutality which stirs the blood with intense inilignation, there is something soothing and still more touching in the instant retribution. " The arrival," says Mr. Irving, " of Columbus at Cadiz, a prisoner and in chains, produced aliiioft as great a sensation as his triumphant return from his tirst voyage. It was one of tliose striking and obvious facts, which speak to the feelings of the multitude, and preclude the necessity of reflection. No one stopped to inquire into the case. It wag sufficient to be told that Columbus was brought home in irons from the world he had discovered! A general burst of indignation arose in Cadiz, and in the powerful and opulent Seville, which was im- mediately echoed throughout all Spain." " Ferdinand joined with his generous queen in her reprobation of the treatment of the admiral, and both sovereigns hastened to give evidence to the world that his imprisonment had been without their authority, and contrary to their wishes. \\'ithoul , waiting to receive any documents that might arrives from Bobadilla, they sent orders to Cadiz that the J prisoners should be instantly set at liberty, andi| treated with all distinction. They wrote a letter to^ Columbus couched in terms of gratitude and affec-il tion, expressing their grief at all he had suffered.ij and inviting him to court. They ordered, at theij same time, that two thousand ducats should be ad-ij vanced to defray his expenses. t '• The loyal heart of Columbus was again cheered J by this declaration of his sovereigns. He felt coo- j scious of his integrity, and anticipated an immediate^ restitution of all his rights and dignities. He ap-j peared at court in Granada on the 17th of Decem-i ber, not as a man ruined and disgraced, but richly : dressed, and attended by an honourable retinue.^ He was received by their majesties with unqualifiedij favour and distinction. When the queen beheld] this venerable man approach, and thought on all bej had deserved and all that he had suffered, she wag) moved to lears. Columbus had borne up firmly against the stern conflicts of the world, — he had; endured with lofty scorn the injuries and insults of i ignoble men, but he possessed strong and quick' sensibility. When he found himself thus kindlyl received by his sovereigns, and beheld tears in thei benign eyes of Isabella, his lonor.supi)ressed feel-, ings burst forth ; he threw himself upon his knees, and for some time could not utter a word for the violence of his tears and sobbings !" i In the year 1502, and in the sixty-sixth^ year of his age, the indefatigable discoverenj set out on liis fourth and last vo}"age. In thif* he reached the coast of Honduras; and fel in with a race somewhat more advanced ii civilization than any he had yet encounterei' in these remote regions. They had mantlet of wov(Mi cotton and some small utensils ot native copper. He then ran down the short of Veragua, and came through tremendoiu tempests to Portobello, in .search, it appears of a strait or inlet, by which he had per IRVINGS COLUMBUS. 26» jiJed himself he should find a ready way t the shores of the Gan^jes : The extreme s/eritvof the seasoii, and the miserable con- ( ion of his ships, compelknl him. however, t abandon this great enterprise ; the account c which j\Ir. Irving winds up with the fol- I'.iiiir quaint and not very feUcitousobsewa- in : If he was disappointed in his expec- t ion of finding a strait through the Isthmus c Darien, it was because nature herself had len disappointed — for she appears to have ?,empted to make one, but to have attempted in vain."" After this he returned to the coast of Vera- ,1. where he landed, and formed a tempo- 1 V st'ttlement, with a view of searching for t lain gold mines which he had been told v^re in the neighbourhood. This, however. Vs but the source of new disasters. The rtives, who were of a fierce and warlike ciracter, attacked and betrayed him — and 1, vessels were prevented from getting to SI. by the formation of a formidable bar at ti^ mouth of the river. At last, b)' prodigious exertions, and the Iroic spirit of some of his officers, he was e'lbled to get away. But his altered fortune si pursued him. He was harassed b)'^ per- fual storms, and after having beat up nearly tHispaniola, was assailed by i' A sudden tempest, of such violence, that, ac- Ciding to the strong expression of Columbus, it simed a.s if the svorld would dissolve. 'I'liey lost tiee of their anchors almost immediately, and the cavel Bermuda was driven with such violence wn the ship of the admiral, that the bow of the Of. and the stern of the other, were greatly shat- t'jd. The sea running high, and the wind being bsterous. the vessels chafed and injured each other dadfnlly, and it was with great difficulty that they vre separated. One anchor only remained to the aniral's ship, and this saved him from being driven urn the rocks ; but at daylight the cable was found nrlv worn asunder. Had the darkness continued a. hour longer, he could scarcely have escaped s iwreck. 'At the end of six days, the weather having nderated, he resumed his course, standing east- v|-d for Hispaniola: ' his people,' as he says, ' dis- nyed and down-hearted, almost all his anchors 1< , and his vessels bored as full of holes as a hiieycomb." 'iis proud career seemed now to be hasten- ii! to a miserable end. Incapable of strug- gig longer with the elements, he was obliged tifun before the wind to Jamaica, where he vs not even in a condition to attempt to njke any harbour. ■ His ships, reduced to mere wrecks, could no I' Ter keep the sea, and were ready to sink even ir.iort. He ordered them, tlierefore, to be run a'aund, within a bow-shot of the shore, and fast- e-'d together, side by side. They soon filled with wer to the decks. Thatched cabins were then cned at the prow and stern for the accomnioda- ti. of the crews, and the wreck was placed in the bt pnssilile state of defence. Thus castled in the K', Columbus trusted to be able to repel any siid- a' attack ol the naiivea, and at the same liine to kip his men from rovuig about tlie neighbourhood n| indulging in their usiinl excesses. .\'o one was a'jwed to go on shore v.-i'lioul especial lirence. and tl] utmost precaution was taken to prevent any ijiice from being given lo the Indians. Any ex- asperation of them might be fatal to the .^paniarda ill their present forlorn situation. A (iielirand thrown iiiio their wooden fortress might wrap it iii flames, and leave tlicin dufeiu'cless amidst hosiilu thousands." " The envv," .says Mr. Irving, " whicii had once sickened at tlie glory and prosperity of Cohimbu.s, could scarcely have devised for him a nunc forlorn heritage in the world he had discovered ; the leiiani of a wreck on a savage coast, in an untravcrsed ocean, at ihe mercy ol barbarous hordes, who, in u moment, from precarious friends, might be trans- formed into lerocious enemies ; afflicted, too, by excruciating maladies which confined him to his bed, and by the pains and infirmities which hard- ship and anxiety had heaped upon his advancing age. But Columbus had not yet exhausted his cup of biiieriiess. He had yet to experience an evil worse than storm, or shipwreck, or bodily aiijiuish. or the violence of savage hordes, in the perhdy of those in whom he confided." The account of his sufferings during the twelve long months he was allowed to remain in this miserable condition, is full of the deep- est interest, and the strangest variety of ad- venture. But we can now only refer to it. — Two of his brave and devoted adherents un- dertook to cross to Hispaniola in a slender Indian canoe, and after incredible miseries, at length accomplished this desperate under- taking — but from the cold-hearted indecision, or paltiy jealousy, of tlie new Governor Ovando. it was not till the late period we have mentioned, that a vessel was at length des- patched to the relief of the illustrious .>^nfferer. But he was not the only, or even the most memorable sufferer. From the time he was superseded in command, the misery and op- pression of the natives of Hispaniola had in- creased beyond all ^oportion or belief. By the miserable policy of the newv governor, their services were allotted to the Spanish settlers, who compelled them to work by the cruel infliction of the scourge ; and. with- holding from them the nourishment necessary for health, exacted a degree of labour which could not have been sustained by the most vigorous men. " If they fled from this incessant toil and barba- rous coercion, and took refuse in the mountains, they were hunted out like wild beasts, scourged in the most inhuman manner, and laden with chains to prevent a second escape. Many perished long before their term of labour had expired. 'J'hose who survived their term ot six or eight months, were permitted to return to their homes, until the next term commenced. But their homes were often I'orty. sixty, and eighty leagues distant. They had nothing to sustain them throuah the journey but a few roots or agi peppers, or a little cassava- bread. Worn down by long toil and cruel hard ships, which their feeble consiiiuiioiis were incapa- ble of sustaining, many had not sireimth to perform the journey, but sunk down and died by the way ; some by the side of a brook, others under the shado of a tree, where they had crawled for shelter from the sun. ' I have found many dead in the road,' says Las Cnsas, 'others gasping under the irees, and others in the pangs of death, laintly cryinj}, Hunger; hunger I' 'Those who reaclud their homo most conimonly found iheiii dcsoln'c Du ring (he fight inonilia that ihey had been iibseni, ilieir wives and children had riiher peri.- wrapped them in dry straw, and setting fire toil, terminated their existence by the frercesl agony. " These are horrible details; yet a veil is drawi over others still more detestable. They are relaiec by the venerable Las Casas, who was an eyt-witne>: of the sce^ies he describes. He was voung at tin time, but records them in his advanced years. ' Al these things.' says he, ' and others revolting t., human nature, my own eyes beheld ! and now almost fear to repeat ihem. scarce believing mysell or whether 1 have not dreamt them.' " The system of Columbus may have borne bar upon the Indians, born and brought up in untaske' freedoin ; but it was never cruel nor sanguinar\ He inflicted no wanton massacres nor vindictiv punishments ; his desire was to cherish and civilis' the Indians, and to render them useful subjects, nc to oppress, and persecute, and destroy them. Whe he beheld the desolation that had swept them frot the land during his suspension from authority, h could not restrain the strong expression of his fee ings. In a letter written to the king after his retur to Spain, he thus expresses himself on the subject ' The Indians of Hispaniola were and are the rich' of the island ; for it is they who cultivate and mak the bread and the provisions for the Christians, wl diff the jrold from the mines, and perform all tl offices and labours both of men and beasts. 1 ai informed that, since I left this island, (that is, in le 1 than three years,) .•!(> partsoul of sfV(?iofthenafw art dvad. all throuirli ill treatment and inliuinanm some by the sword, others by blows and cm usage, and others through hunger. The great part have pcrishcil in the mountains and gler whither they had fled, from not being able to su port the labour imposed upon them.' " The story now draws to a close. Columb returned to Spain, broken down with a, and affliction — and after two years spent unav-ailing solicitations at the court of t cold-blooded and ungrateful Ferdinand (Y generous patroness, Isabella, having died i', mediately on his return), terminated w characteristic magnanimity a life of singu' energy, splendour, and endurance. Iiidep dent of his actual achievements, he wast doubtedly a great and remarkable man; a Mr. Irving has summed up his general ch acter in a very eloquent and judicious waj "His ambition." he observes, "was lofly '■ noble. He was full of high thoughts, and aiui 1 IRVING'S COLUMBUS. 271 listinguish himself by great achicvemenis. It been said that a mercenaiy I'ocling niii;|pled 1 his views, and liiat his siipulations wi;h the iiish Court were selfish and avaricious. The :ge is inconsiiierate and unjust. He aimed at jity and wealth in the same lofty spirit in which rouglii renown; and the gains tliat promised to t! from his discoveries, he intended to appropriate ue same princely and pious spirit in which they 10 demanded. He contemplated works and evemems of benevolence and religion : vast con- ations for the relief of the poor of his native ;; the foundation of churches, where masses lid be said for the souls of the departed ; and (69 for ilie recovery of the holy sepulchre in I'stine. In his testament, he enjoined on his son Diego, iiwhoever after him should inherit his estates. llever dignities and titles might afterwards he ted by the king, always to sign himself simply Admiral,' by way of perpetuating in the family i?al source of greatness." He was devoutly pious; religion mingled with irt hole course of his thoughts and actions, and i?s forth in all his most private and unstudied 1 ngs. Whenever he made any great discovery, ;i-elebrated it by solemn thanks to God. The ti of prayer and melody of praise rose from hi.^ i; when he first beheld the New World, and Mrsi action on landing was to prostrate himself iu the earth and return thanksgivings. Every r'ing, the Salve Regiita, andother vesper hymns, £< clianted by his crew, and masses were per- red in the beautiful groves that bordered the i shores of this heathen land. The religion I deeply seated in the soul, diflTused a sober dic- tind benign composure over his whole demean- I- His language was pure and guarded, free all imprecations, oaths, and otlier irreverent ipssions. But his piety was darkened by the ,c)ry of the age. He evidently concurred in the lijon that all the nations who did not acknowledge itChrisiian faith were destitute of natural rights; lilihe sternest measures might be used for their )iprsion, and the severest punishments inflicted jij their obstinacy in unbelief. In this spirit ' gotry he considered himself justified in making ifves of the Indians, and transporting them to ph to have them taught the doctrines of Chris- any. and in selling them for slaves if they r€|nded to resist his invasions. He was counte- ii\fd in these views, no doubt, by the general pipn of the age. But it is not the intention of lejuthor to justify Columbus on a point where it ijjxcusable to err. Let it remain a blot on his luj-inus name, — and let others derive a lesson olit." 1^ was a man, too, undoubtedly, as all M\ great men have been, of an imaginative ntj sensitive temperament — somethinc:, as Iifrving has well remarked, even of a vis- )niv — but a \'isionary of a high and lofty n\: controlling his ardent imagination by a oxfrful judgment and great practical sa- acy, and deriving not only a noble delight uDiirnal accessions of knowledge from this igir and activity of his fancy. "I'et. with all this fervour of imagination," as IrCrvine has strikingly observed, "its fondest reijis fell short of the reality. He died in igno- infof the real grandeur of his discovery. Until is ht breath he entertained the idea that he had icity opened a new way to the old resorts of opu- ^nifommerce, and had discovered some of the ■ib'pgions of the east. He supposed Hispaniola "> lihe ancient Ophir which haa been visited by ae'iips of Solomon, and that Cuba and Terra 'irtii were but remote parts of Asia. What visions upon hiH mind coi iidfid discovered have known that iu' had iiiaeiu uiscovireu a new ciintinciit, fijujl to the whole of the nld '.vorld in mag- nitude, and .separated by two vast oceans from nil the earth hitherto known liy civihsed ninii I And how would his miiKuanimous spirit hnve been consoled, amidst the alHiciionstof age and the lurfs of penury, the neglect of a tickle public, and the injustice of an ungrateful king, could he have annctpntrd the splendid empires whii-h were to spread over the beautiful world he had discovered ; iiiid the nations, and tongues, and languages* whh h weni to till its lands with his renown^ iiiitl to revere mid bless his name to the latest po.-iterity I" The appendix to Mr. Irving's work, which occupies the greater jxirl of llie hist volume, contains most of the original niiitter which his learning and research htivc »'ii;iLiled him to bring to bear on the princijxd tiiilgect, and constitutes indeed a miscellany of a singularly curious and interesting description. It con- sists, besides very copious atui eiiiborate ac- counts of the family and descendatits of Co- lumbus, principally of e.xtracts and criti(|ucs of the discoveries of earlier or contemporary navigators — the voyages of the Carthaginians and the Scandinavians.— of Bchem. the l*in- zons, Amerigo Vespucci, and olhers — with some very curious remarks on the travels of Marco Polo, and Mandeville — a dissertation on the .ships used by Columbus ami his con- temporaries — on the Atalantis of Plato — the imaginary island of St. Brandaii. ;ind of the Seven Cities — together with renitirks on the writings of Peter Martyr, Ovieilo, Herrera, LasCasas. and the other contemporary chroni- clers of those great discoveries. The whole drawn up, we think, a^i singular judgment, dilii»'rvilU(le, for the first time extended to the bulk of the jHjpula- tion those higher capacities and enjoyments which were formerly engro!»sed by a lew. By the invention of printing, they have made all knowledge, not oidy acct^ssibje. but imperish- able : and by their imnrovemeiits in the art of war, have eUeclually secured themselves against the overwhelming calamity of bar- barous invasion — the risk of subjugation by mere mmierical or animal force : Whilst the alternations of coii(|uest and defeat amongst civilised communities, who alone can now be formidable to each other, though productive of great local and temporary evils, may be rejjanled on the whole as one of the means of promoting and ecpialising the general civili- sation. Rome polished and enlightened all the barbarous nations she subdued — anil was herself polished and enlightened by her con- quest of (deii-ant Greece. If the European parts of Ru.o(I that wc .«nfak, not of the land, l«ut of iho pfople — and include, therefore, all the settleincnis and colonics of that favoured race, io wliaicTcr quarter of the giohe they may now be esialilihlied. .Some situations seem more, and some Ica.^. favour- alile to the prenervation of the orieinal character. The .Spaniards certainly depenerated in Peru — and the Dutch perhaps in IJiiuvin; — but the English remain, we (rust, unimpaired in America. 274 HISTORY AND fflSTORICAL MEMOIRS. and prosperity is owing to our greater freedom, we are immediately tempted to ask, by what that freedom has itself been produced ? In the same way we might ascribe the superior mildness and humanity of our manners, the abated ferocity of our wars, and generallj- our respect for human life, to the influence of a Religion which teaches that all men are equal in the sight of God, and inculcates peace and charity as the' first of our duties. But. besides the startling contrast between the profligac)', treachery, and cruelty of the Eastern Empire after its conversion to the true faith, and the simple and heroic virtues of the heathen re- public, it would still occur to inquire, how it has happened that the nations of European descent have alone embraced the sublime truths, and adopted into their practice the mild precepts, of Christianity, while the peo- ple of the East have unifonnly rejected and disclaimed them, as alien to their character and habits — in spite of all the efforts of the apostles, fathers, and martyrs, in the primitive and most effective periods of their preaching? How. in short, it has happened that the sensual and sanguinary creed of Mahomet has super- seded the pure and pacific doctrines of Chris- tianity in most of those very regions where it was first revealed to mankind, and first es- tablished by the greatest of existing govern- ments ? The Christian revelation is no doubt the most precious of all Heaven's gifts to the benighted world. But it is plain, that there was a greater aptitude to embrace and to profit by it in the European than in the Asiatic race. A free government, in like manner, is unquestionably the most valuable of all human inventions — the great safeguard of all other temporal blessings, and the mainspring of all intellectual and moral improvement : — But such a government is not the re.sult of a lucky thought or happy casualty ; and could only be established among men who had previously learned both to relish the benefits it secures, and to understand the connection between the means it employs and the ends at which it aims. We come then, though a little reluctantly, | to the conclusion, that there is a natural and in- herent difference in the character and temper- ament of 'tire European and the Asiatic races — consistinjr, perhaps, chiefly in a superior capacity q£ patient and persevering thought in the former — and displaying itself, for the most part, in a more sober and robust understanding, and a more reasonable, principled, and inflexi- ble morality. It is this which has led us. at once to temper our political institutions with prospective checks and suspicious provisions against abuses, and, in our different orders and degrees, to submit without unpatience to those checks and restrictions ; — to extend our reasonings by repeated observation and ex- periment, to larger and larger conclusions — and thus gradually to discover the paramount importance of discipline and unity of purpose in war, and of absolute security to person and property in all peaceful pursuits — the folly of all passionate and vindictive assertion of sup- posed rights and jjretensions, and the certain jecoil of long-continued injustice on the heads of its authors — the substantial advantages ( honesty and fair dealing over the most ing nious systems of trickery and fraud ; — ai even — though this is the last and hardest. . well as the most precious, of all the lesso: of reason and experience — that the tolerati. even of religious errors is not only prude and merciful in itself, and most becoming fallible and erring being, but is the sure and speediest way to compose religious difft ences, and to extinguish that most formidab bigotry, and those most pernicious erro? which are fed and nourished by persecutic It is the want of this knowledge, or rather i the capacity for attaining it. that constitut' the palpable inferiority of the Eastern race and, in spite of their fancy, ingenuity, a restless activity, condemns them, it wov appear irretrievably, to vices and sufferini: from which nations in a far ruder conditi are comparatively free. But we are wand' mg too far from the magnificent Baber a his commentators. — and must now leave thf ' vague and general speculations for the fa and details that lie before us. Zehir-ed-din Muhammed, sumamed Bab' or the Tiger, was one of the descendants Zengiskhan and of Tamerlane ; and thoi inheriting only the small kingdom of Fe hana in Bucharia, ultimately extended dominions by conquest to Delhi and greater part of Hindostan : and transmittec his famous descendants. Akber and Aure • zebe, the magnificent empire of the Mogi', He was born in 1482, and died in Ifi. Though passing the greater part of his tu in desperate military expeditions, he wasi educated and accomplished man; an elegil poet : a minute and fastidious critic in all 3 niceties and elegances of diction ; a curi's and exact observer of the statistical phtj- mena of every region he entered ; a great .• mirer of beautiful prospects and fine flow*'; and, though a devoted Mahometan in - Avay, a very resolute and jovial drinke: wine. Gk)od-humoured, brave, munific , sagacious, and frank in his character, e might have been a Henry IV. if his trail ^ had been in Europe: — and even as he i.9 less stained, perhaps, by the Asiatic viwtf cruelty and perfidy than any other in the >t of her conquerors. The work before us .a faithful translation of his own account ofw life and transactions; written, with some d- siderable blanks, up to the year 1508, in,i« form of a narrative — and continued At" wards, as a journal, till 1529. It is « illustrated by the most intelligent, learl, and least pedantic notes we have ever '0 annexed to such a performance ; and by '0 or three introductor}- dissertations, morec i, masterly, and full of instruction than a: 'it has ever been our lot to peruse on the his;7 or geography of the East. The transliiW was begun by the late very learned am 0- terprising Dr. Leyden. ft has been lO* pleted, and the whole of the valuable ■ n- mentary added by ]Mr. W. Erskine, on « solicitation of the Hon. INIountstewart EI] n- stone and Sir John Malcolm, the two 1»- MEMOIRS OF BABER. 275- ikials in the worlil best qualified to judije ( the value or exeeiitioii of sm-h a work. The j.-ater part of the traiislatioii was finished tl transmitted to this country in 1817: but \.s ouly committed to the press in the course dast year. The preface contains a learned account of t» Turki language, (in which these memoirs \'re written.) the prevailing tongue of Cen- tjl Asia, and of which the Constantinopolitan Trkish is one of the most corrupted dialects, -some valuable corrections of Sir William Jhes' notices of the Institutes of Taimur. — al a very clear explanation of the method e ployed in the translation, and the various nps by which the great difficulties of the tjic were relieved. The first Introduction, hvever, contains much more valuable niat- t(? : It is devoted to an account of the great Irtar tribes, who. under the denomination o;he Turki. the Mnghul. and the Mandshnr nes, may be said to occupy the whole vast eentof Asia, north of Hindostan and part of Persia, .and westward from China. Of tlse, the Mandshurs, who have long been ll sovereigns of China, possess the countries uiiediately to the north and east of that a lent empire — the Turki, the regions imme- dtelyto the north and westward of India a. Persia Proper, stretching round the Cas- pn, and advancing, by the Constanfinopoli- tr tribes, considerably to the southeast of E.ope. The Moghuls lie principally be- tMen the other two. These three tribes s]ak, it would appear, totally different lan- gges— the name of Tartar or Tatar, by wich they are generally designated in Eu- rce. not being acknowledged by any of them, ai appearing to have been appropriated only U small clan of Moghuls. The Huns, who diolated the declining empire under Attila*, ai ti\ought by Mr. Erskine to have been ollhe Moghul race; and Zengiskhan, the mhty conqueror of the thirteenth century. w; certainly of that family. Their princes, hi .-ever, were afterwards blended, by family aiinces, with those of the Turki ; and sev- ei of them, reigning exclusively over con- Qired tribes of that descent, came gradually trigh of proper Moghul ancestry, to reckon tliTiselves as Turki sovereigns. Of this de- scption was Taimur Beg, or Tamerlane, W)se family, though descended from Zengis, h; long been settled in the Turki kingdom ofaraarkand ; and from him the illustrious B;er, the hero of the work before us, a dfided Turki in language, character, and prudices. was lineally sprung. The relative edition of these enterprising nations, and thr more peaceful brethren iji the south, caiot be more clearly or accurately described thi in the words of Mr. Erskine : — The learned translator conceives that the snp- poH name of this famous barbarian was truly only th^lenomination of his office. Ii is known that he subeded his \inrle in the government, thouch ihif were children of his nlive. It is probable, th^fore, that lie originally assumed auihonty in ihftharacter of their guardian ; and the word Atn- lH^a Tartar, signifies guardian, or quasi jmnns. " Tke whole of Asia may be considcrrd bh divi- ded into two p»rls by the iTont chain of mounciina which run" from (^hinn and the Hirinnn Kmpirc on the insi, lo liic Hlnck Sea and the iVleditorrniuon on the west. From the eastward, wiierc it i.^ of great bnudih, it keeps a iioriliwesterly course, rising in lieijiht as it advances, and formiiig iJir Inll countries ol Assam, Bi)otnn, Nepal, f>irinnffnr, 'lUiet, and Lndhk. Ii encloses ttie valley of Knsh- mtr, near which it seemii to have gained I's preiiiest height, and thence proceeds westward, piissin',' to the north of I'esluiwer and Kiibul, alter which it appeals to break into a variety of smaller ranges ol lulls that proceed in a westerly and sniith-wcHl- erlv direction, generiillv lerminatiii)^ in the province of khornsan. Near Hiirai. m tlmt province, the mountains sink away ; but the ran^e appears to rise again near Meshhed, and is by some consid- ered as resuinint; its course, runninc to the south of the Ciispian and l)ounding .Mazcncfisran, whence it proceeds on through Armenia, and thence into Asia Minor, finding its termination in the moun- tains of ancient Lycia. This immense ranre, which some consider as terminating at Herat, while it di- vides Bengal, Hindustan, the Penjab, Afghanistan, Persia, and part of the Turkish territory, from the counirv of the Moghul and 'I'nrki tribes, which, with few exceptions, occupy the whole extent of country from the borders of China to the sea of Azof, may also be considered as separating in its whole course, nations of comparative civilisation, from uncivilised tribes. To the south of this range, if we perhaps except some part of the Afghan ter- ritory, which, indeed, may rather be held as part of the range it.self than as south of it, there is no nation which, at some period or other of its history, has not been the seat of a powerful empire, and of all those arts and refinements of life which attend a numerous and wealthy population, when pro- tected by a government that permits the fancies and energiesof the human mind to fiijiow their natural bias. The decrees of civilisation and of happine.-is possessed in these various regions may have been extremely different ; but many of the comforts of wealth and abundance, and no small share of the higher treasures of cultivated judgment and imagi- nation, must have been enjoyed by nations that could produce the various systems of Indian phi- losophy and science, a drama so polished as the Sakontnla, a poet like Ferdousi. or a moralist like Sadi. While to the south of this range we every where see flourishing cities, cultivated fields, ani all the forms of a regular government and policy, to the north of it, if we except China and the coun- tries to the south of the Sirr or Jaxartcs, and along its hanks, we find tribes who, down to the present day, wander over their extensive regions as their forefathers did, little if at all more refined than they appear to have been at the very dawn of history. Their flocks are still their wealth, their camp their city, and the same government exists of separate chiefs, who arc not much exalted in luxury or information above the commonest of their subjects around them." These general remarks are followed up by an exact and most luminous geographical enumeration of all the branches of this gnat northern family, — accompanied with histori- cal notices, and very interi-sting elucidations of various jKissages both in ancient and modern writers. The following observations are of more extensive application : — " The general state of society which prevailed in the age of Haber, within the countries that h»vo been de8cribc:d, will be much better undiistKod from a perusal of the followinR Meinmrs than (nun any prefatory observationt that could be ofiend. It IS evident that, in consequence of the pniteciion which had been afforded to the people of Mawcrol- 276 HISTORY AND HISTORICAL MEMOIRS. naher by their regular governments, a considerable degree of comforc, and perhaj)s still more of ele- gance and civility, prevailed in the towns. The whole age of Babcr, however, was one of great confusion. Nothing contributed so much to pro- duce the constant wars, and eventual devastation of the country, which the Memoirs exhibit, as the want oi strme fixed ride of Success iuti to the Throne. The ideas of regal descent, according to primogeni- ture, were very indistinct, as is the case in all Ori- ental, and. in general, in all purely despotic king- doms. When the succession to the crowti, like everything else, is subject to the will of the prince, on his death it necessarily becomes the subject of contention; — since the will of a dead king is of much less consequence than the intrigues of an able minister, or the sword of a successful com- mander. It is the privilege of litierty and of law alone to bestow equal security on the rights of the monarch and of the people. The death of the ablest sovereign was only the signal lur a general war. The different parlies at conri, or in the harem of the prince, espoused the cause of different com- petitors, and every npit;hboMring potentate believed himself to be perfectly justified in inarching to seize his portion of the spoil. In the course of the Me- moirs, we shall find that the grandees of the court, while they take their place by the side of the candi- date of their choice, do not appear to believe that fidelity to him is any very necessary virtue. The nobility, unable to predict the events of one twelve- month, degenerate iiuo a set of selfish, calculating, though pernaps brave partizaiis. Rank, and wealth, and |)resent enjoyment, become their idols. The prince leels the intlueiue of the general want of stability, and is himself educated in the loose princi- ples ot an adventurer. In all about him he sees merely the instruments of his power. The subject, seeing the prince consult only Ins pleasures, learns on his part to consult only his private convenience. In such societies, the steadiness of principle that flows from the love of right and of our country can have no place. It may be questioned whether the prevalence of the Malionunedan religion, by swallowing up civil in religious distinctions, has not a tendency to increase this indifference to country, wherever it is established." "That the fashions of the East are unchanged, is, in general, certainly true; because the cliiuaie and the despotism, from the one or other of which a very large proportion of them arises, have con- tinued the same. Yet one who observes the way in which a Mussulman of rank spends his day, will be led to suspect that the ma.xim has sometimes been adopted with too little limitation. Take the example of his pipe and his coffee. The Kalliiin, or Hukka, is seldom out of his hand ; while the coffee-cup makes its appearance every hour, as if it contained a necessary of life. Perhaps there are no enjoyments the loss of which he would feei more severely ; or which, were we to judge only by the frequency of the call for them, we should suppose to have entered from a more remote pe- riod into the system of Asiatic life. Yet we know that the one (which has indeed become a necessary of life to every class of Mussulmans) could not have been enjoyed before the discovery of America; and there is every reason to believe that the other was not introduced into Arabia from Africa, where coffee is indigenous, previously to the sixteenth century ;' and what marks the circumstance more strongly, both of these habits have forced their way, m spite of the remonstrances of the rigorists in religion. Perhaps it would have been lorTunaie lor Baber had they prevailed in his acre, as they might have diverted him from the immoderate use first of wine, and afterwards of deleterious drugs, which ruined his constitution, and hastened on his end." * La Roque, Traite Historique de i'Origine et dn Progres du Cafe, &c Paris. 1716, 12mo. The Fas?, or institutions of Chengiz, ai often mentioned. "They seem," says Mr. Erskine, "to have bee a collection of the old usages of the Moghul tribe comprehending some rules of state and cereinon and some injunctions for the punishment of parii ular crimes. The punishments were only two- death and the bastinado* ; the numherol blows e tending from seven to seven hundred. There something very Chinese in the whole oi the M ghul system of punishment, even princes advanc« in years, and in command of large armies, beit punished by bastinado with a stick, by their faibei orders. t Whether they received their usage in if respect from the Chinese, or communicated it them, is not very certain. As the whole body.; their laws or customs was formed before the ioiri duction of the Mussulman religion, and was probi biy in many respects inconsistent with the Kon' as. for instance, in allowing the use of ihe blood '^ animals, and in the extent of toleration granted ' other religions, it gradually fell into decay." | The present jNIoghul tribes, it is addej punish most offences by fines of cattle. Tl art of war in the days of Baber had iiot bej very greatly matured ; and though matcUoc' and unwieldy cannon had been recently ' troduced from the West, the arms chiej relied on weie still the bow and the spe. the sabre ami the battle-a.\e. Mining v practised in sieges, and cavalry seems to k- formed Ihe least considerable part of i army. There is a second Introduction, contain a clear and brief abstract of the history those regions from the time of Tamerlant that of 13aber, — together with an e.\cell Memoir on the annexed map, and an acco of the hills and rivers of Bokara, of whic' . would be idle to attempt any abstract. As to the IVIemoirs themselves, we h < already said that we think it in vain to'^ commend them as a portion of History v,i which our readers should be acquaints • or consequently to aim at presenting tl i with any thing in the nature of an abstr or connected account of the events the\ < minutely detail. All that we propose to therefore, is, to extract a few of the ti s which appear to us the most striking i characteristic, and to endeavour, in a \J short compass, to give an idea of whatt.r curiosity or interest the work possesses, e most remarkable tiling about it, or at 1 it that which first strikes us. is the simpliy of the style, and the good sense, varied kr- ledge, and extraordinary industry of the r il author. It is difficult, indeed, to believe it it is the work of an Asiatic, and a sovert i- Though copiously, and rather diflusely ^ t- ten, it is perfectly free from the ornani( »1 verbosity, the eternal metaphor, and pule e.vaggeralions of most Oriental compositifi and though savouring so far of royalty :'lo abound in descriptions of dresses and i.e* monies, is yet occupied in the main with lO* cents greatly too rational and humble !')• much in favour with monarchs. As a s '^ men of the adventurous life of the chietiini * D'Herbelot, Biblioth. Orient, art. Turk. I t Hist, de Timur Bee, vol. iii. pp. 227. 26?;». &c. i MEMOIRS OF PABER. 277 those days, and of Baber"s manner of de- iribing it, we may pass at once to his account , his being besiegeil in Samarkand, and the rliculars of his liight after he was obliged i abandon it : — y During the continuance of the siege, the rounds •Jthe rampart were regularly gone, onco every );ht, sonutinics by Kasan Bfg, and somtMimes by (K-r Begs and captains. From the Firozeh gate iilie Slioikh-Zadeh gate, we were able to go along t' laniparis on horseback ; everywhere else we \re obliged to go on foot. Setting out in the Irjnning of the night, it was morning before we 1] completed our rounds. ' One day Sheibani Ivhan made an aiiack be- teen the Iron gate and that of the Sheikh-Zudeh. J. I was with the reverse, I immediniely led ihein tthe quarter that, was attacked, without attending l,Lhe Washing-green gate or the Needlemakers' pe. That same day, from the top of the Sheikh- ideh's gateway, I struck a palish white coloured h se an e.xcellent shot with my cross-bow : it iell d.d the moment my arrow touched it; but in the ran while they had made such a vigorous attack, n.r the Camel's Neck, that they eflecied a lodg- mit close under the rampart. Being holly engaged iiepelling the enemy where I was, I had enier- taed no apprehensionsof danger on the other side, vere they had prepared and brought with them t'luy-live or twenty-six scaling-ladders, each of tlni so broad that two and three men could mount areasi. He had placed in ambush, opposite to tl city-wall, seven or eight hundred chosen men wh these ladders, between the Ironsmilhs' and >L^dlemakers' gates, while he himself moved to tl; other side, and made a false attack. Our atten- ti was entirely drawn off to this attack ; and the m in ambush no sooner saw the works opposite t( hem empty of defenders, by the watch having Ici them, than they rose from the place where they h lain in ambush, advanced with e.\treme speed, ai applied their scaling-laddt-rs all at once between tftwo gates that have been mentioned, exactly oij)site to Muhammed Mazid 'I'erkhan's house. '!}. Begs who were on guard had only two or tlie of their servants and attendants a!)Out them. Nienheless Kuch Beg, Muhannned Kiili Kochin, S'h Sufi, and another brave cavalier, boldly assail- e(|heni, and displayed signal heroism. Some of if', enemy had already mounted the wall, and sfral others were in the act of scaling it, when tirlojr persons vvho have been mentioned arrived otjhe spot, fell upon them sword in hand, with the gi'.iest bravery, and dealinir out furious blows ar'nd them, drove the as.«ailanis back over the w;, and put them to flight. Kuch Beg dit-tin- gijhed himself above all the rest ; and this was anixploit for ever to be cited to his honour. He twje during this siege performed excellent service byiis valour. 'It was now the season of the ripening of the gr',1, and nobody had brought in any new corn. A^he siege had drawn out to great length, the in- haiiants were reduced to extreme distress, and thjjs came to such a pass, that the poor and meaner soiwere forced to feed on dogs' and asses' flesh. Gijn for the horses becoming scarce, they were obi;ed to be fed on the leaves of trees ; and it was osirtained from experience, that the leaves of the m!J)erry and bbickwood answered best. Many US, the shavings and raspings of wood, which ih' soaked in water, and gave to their horses. F<' three or four months .'^hfibani Khan did not np'oach the fortress, but blockaded it at some dis- •atp on all sides, changing his ground from lime tome. jThe ancients have said, that in order to main- taia fortress, a head, two hands, and two feet are nejssary. The head is a captain, the two handH nrcwo friendly forces that must advance from op- puie sides ; the two feet are water and stores of I provision within the fort. I looked for aid and as- sistance from the princes my neighbours ; but each of them had his ntlciition fixed on some oilier ob- ject, p'or example. Sultan liussain Mir/u was un- I doubtedly a brave and experienced moiinrch, yet I neither did he give me assistance, nor oven send I an ambassador to encourage me." I He is obliged, in consequence, to evacuate the citv. and moves olf privately in the night. I The tollowiiig account of his liight, we think, is e.vtrcmely picturesipie and interesling. " Having entangled ourselves among liie great branches of the canals of the Soghd, during the darkness of the night, we lost our way, and after encininiering many diirieulties we passed Khwiijch Didar about dawn. By the time of early mormnf prayers, we arrived at the hillock of Karbogh, and passing it on ihe north below the villiigc of Kherdek, we made tor Ilaniui. (In the road. I had a race with Kamber Ali and Kasim Beg. My horse got the lead. As I turned round on my seal to see how far I had leit iheiii behind, my saddle-girth being slack, the .saddle turned round, and I came to the ground right on my head. Although I im- mediaiely sprang up and mounted, yet I did not recover ihe full possession of my faculties till the evening, and the world, and all that occurred at the time, passed before my eyes and apprehension like a dream, or a phantasy, and disappeared. The lime of afternoon prayers was past ere we reached Ilan-titi, where we alighted, and having killed a horse, cut him up, and dressed slices of his ilesh ; we stayed a little time to rest our horses, then mounting again, before dav-break we alighted at the village of Khalileh. ?Vom Khalih'h we pro- ceeded to Dizak. At that time Tiiher Duldai, the son of Hafez Muhammed Beg Duldai, was governor of Dizak. Here we found nice fat flesh, bipad ot fine flour well baked, sweet melons, and excellent grapes in great abundance; thus jiassing from ihe extreme of famine to phmty, and from an estate of danger and calamity to peace and ease. " In my whole life, I never enjoyed myself so much, nor at any period of it felt so sensibly the pleasures of peace and plenty. Enjoyment after suffering, abundance after want, come with in- creased relish, and afford more exquisite delight. I have four or live limes, in the course of my life, passed in a similar manner from distress to ease, and from a state of suflcring to enjoyment : but this was the first time that I had ever been delivered at once from the injuries of my enemy, and the pres- sure of hunger, and pa.>ised to the ease of security, and the [pleasures of plenty. Having rested and enjoyed ourselves two or three days in Dizak, we proceeded on to Uraiippa. " Dekhat is one of the liill-districts of Uraiippa. It lies on the skirls of a very high mountain, imme- diately on passing which you come on the country of Masikha. 'Ihe iiihabiiants, though Sarts, have large flocks of sheep, and herds of mnres, like llie Turks. The sheep lieioniring to Dekhat may amount to forty thousand. We took up our lodg- ings in the peasants' houses. I lived at the hou.«c of one of ihe head men of the place. He was an aged man, seventy or eighty years old. His mother was still alive, and had attained an extreme old age, being at this time a hundred and eleven years old. (-)ne of ihirt lady's relations had accompanied the army of 'F'aimur Beg. when it invaded Hin- dustan. The circuiiisiancfs remained frefh in hiT rnemorv, and she often told us stories on that sub- ject. In the district of Dekhat alone, there still were of this lady's children, grandchildren, great- grandchildren, and great-great-grandcliildnn, to the number of ninety-six persons; and including ihope deceased, the whole amounted lo two huri- drcd. One uf her greai-grundcliildn-n was at this tune a young man of twenty-live or iw<.'iity-HU years of age, with a tine block beard. Wlule I Y 278 HISTORY AND HISTORICAL MEMOIRS. Temained in Dekhat, I was accustomed to walk on foot all about the hills in the neighbourhood. I generally went out barefoot, and, from this habit of walking barefoot, I soon found that our feet be- came so hardened that wc did not mind rock or stone in the least. In one of these walks, between afternoon and evening prayers, we met a man who was going with a cow in a narrow road. I asked him the way. He answered, Keep your eye fi.ved on the cow ; and do not lose sight of her till you come to the issue of the road, when you will know J'our ground. Khwajeh Asedulla, who was with me, enjoyed the joke, observing. What would become of U8 wise men, were the cow to lose her way? " It was wonderfully cold, and the wind of Ha- derv/Tsh had here lost none of its violence, and blew keen. So excessive was the cold, that in the course of two or three days we lost two or three persons from its severity. I required to bathe on account of my religious purifications ; and went down for that purpose to a rivulet, which was frozen on the banks, but not in the middle, i'rom the ra- pidity of the current. I plunged myself into the water, and dived sixteen times. The extreme chilliness of the water quite penetrated ine." " It was now spring, and intelligence was brought that Sheibani Khan was advancing against Uratippa. As Dekhat was in the low country, I passed by Abburd^en and Amani, and came to the hill country of Mastkha. Abburden is a village which lies at the footof Masikha. Beneath Abbtlrden is a spring, and close by the spring is a tomb. From this spring, towards the upland, the country belongs to Masikha, but downwards from the spring it de- pends on Yclghar. On a stone which is on the brink of this spring, on one of its sides, I cansed the following verses* to be inscribed : — I have lieard that the exalted Jemshid lnscrit)ed on a stone beside a fountain, 'Many a man like us has rested by this fountain. And disappeared in the twinkling of an eye ! Should we conquer the whole world by our manhood and strength. Yet could we not carry it with us to the grave." In this hill-country, the practice of cutting verses and other inscriptions on the rocks is extremely common." After this, he contrives partly to retrieve his affairs, by uniting himself with a warlike Khan of his family, and takes the field with a considerable force against Tambol. The following account of a night skirmish reminds us of the chivalrous doings of the heroes of Froissart : — " Just before the dawn, while o"' men were still enjoying themselves in sleep, Kamber Ali Beg galloped up, exclaiming, ' The enemy are upon us — rouse up!' Having spoken these words, without halting a moment, he passed on. I had gone to sleep, as was my custom even in times of .-^ciurity, •without taking off my ;V/77i«, or frock, and instantly arose, girt on my sabre and quiver, and mounted my horse. My standard-bearer seized ihe standard, but without having time to lie on the horse-tail and colours; but, taking the banner-staff in his hand just as it was, leaped on horseback, and we pro- ceeded towards the quarter from which the enemy were advancing. When I first mounted there were ten or fifteen men with me. By the time I had advanced a bowshot, we fell in with the enemy's skirmishers. At this moment there might be about ten men with me. Riding quick up to them, and giving a discharge of our arrows, we came upon the most advanced of them, attacked and drove them back, and continued to advance, pursuing them for the distance of another bowshot, when we fell in with the main body of the enemy, yultan Ahmed Tambol was standing, with about a From the Boslan of Sadi. — Leyden. hundred men. Tambol was speaking with anotht, person in the front of the line, and in the act o saying, ' 8miie them ! Smite them !' but his me were sideling in a hesitating way, as if sayin; ' Shall we flee? Let us flee!' but yet standii" sidl. At this instant there were left with me onl three persons: one of these was Dost Nasi anoiher Mirza Kfili Gokultash, and Kerimdad Kli4 daidad, the Turkoman, the third. One arrov which was then on the notch, I discharged on tl helmit of Tambol, and again applied my hand my quiver, and brought out a green- tipped barb* arrow, which my uncle, the Khan, had given m Unwilling to throw it away, I returned it to tl quiver, and thus lost as much time as would ha> allr)wed of shooting two arrows. I then plac« anoiher arrow on the string, and advanced, while ili other ihree lagged a little behind me. Twopereoii came right on to meet me; oneof them was Tambc who preceded the other. There was a highwi between us. He mounting on one side of it as mounted on the other, we encountered on itinsui' a manner, that my right hand was towards i»' enemy, and Tambol's right hand towards nil Except the mail for liis horse. Tambol had ail ||i armour and accoutrements complete. I had or( my sabre and bow and arrows. I drew up to r' lar. and sent right for him the arrow whichi! had in my hand. At that very inomeiu, an ami! of the kind called Sheibah struck me on the rig' thigh, and pierced through and through. I hat' steel cap on my head. Tambol, rushing on, snu me such a blow on it with his sword as to stun n though not a thread of the cap was penetrated. my head was severely wounded. I had neglec to clean my sword, so that it was rusty, and I ! time in drawing it. I was alone and single in midst of a multitude of enemies. It was no sea- for standing still ; so I turned my bridle round, ceiving anoiher sabre stroke on ihe arrows in quiver. I had gone back seven or eight pac when three fooT soldiers came up and joined Tambol now attacked Dost Nasir sword in ha; They followed us about a bowshot. Arigh-Jak: shah is a large and deep stream, which is not fc able everywhere ; but God directed us right that we came exactly upon one of the fords of river. Immediately on crossing the river, the he of Dost Nasir fell from weakness. We haliei remount him. and passing among the hillocks i are between Khirabiik and Feraghineh. and gc from one hillock to another, we proceeded by L roads towards Ush." We shall conclude our warlike exlnJ with the following graphic and lively accot of the author's attack on Akhsi, and his si- sequent repulse : — " Sheikh Bayezid had just been released, \ was entering the gale, when I met him. I im • diately drew to the head the arrow which wsiii my notch, and discharged it full at him. It J grazed his neck, but it was a fine shot. The • meni he had entered the gale, he turned shot o the right, and lied by a narrow street in great • turbaiion. I pursued him. Mirza Kuli Goku! h struck down one foot-soldier wiih his mace, d had passed another, when the fellow aimed ai '• row at Ibrahim Beg, who startled him by excl i- ing, Hai ! Hai ! and went forward ; after whicln man, being about as far off as ilie porch of a li i« is from the hall, let fly at me an arrow, which si » me under the arm. I had on a Kalmuk mail;;'" plates of it were pierced and broken from the I* After shooting the arrow, he fled, and I dische,« an arrow after him. At that very moment a »■ soldier happened to be flying along the rain'', and my arrow pinned his cap to :he wall, wh i' remained shot through and through, and dan ig from the parapet. Me look off bis tiirlian, v -'h he twisted round his .•nin, and ran away. A >'' on horseback passed close by me, fleeing uj n* MEMOIRS OF BABER. tfrow lane by which Sheikh Bayezid had escaped. l;truck him such a blow on ihe temples with the pnt of n)y sword, that he bent over as if ready to i from his horse; but supporting himsell on' the yll of the lane, he did not lose his seat, but es- ced with the utmost hazard. Having dispersed a,the horse and foot that were at the gate, we took psessioii of it. There was now no reasonable cmce of success ; for they had two or three thou- Sid well-armed men in the citadel, while I had dy a handled, or two hundred at most, in the Oicr stone lort : and, besides, JehannTr Mirza, a ut as loiii; before as milk lakes to boil, had been bi'en and driven out, and half of mv men were wjli him." [^oon after this there is an unlucky hiatus ii|i]l the manuscripts of the Meinoirsj so that its to this day unknown by what means the h'oic prince escaped from his treacherous abciates, only that we find him, the year an; warritig prosperously against a new set o;nemies. Of his military e.xploits and ad- v^tures, however, we think we have now gen a sufficient specimen. 'n these we have said he resembles the pudins of Europe, in her days of chivalric e'erprise. But we doubt greatly whether af of her knightly adventiuers could have gen so exact an account of the qualities and pductions of the countries they visited as tl Asiatic Sovereign has here put on record. 0; Kabul, for example, after describing its bjndaries, rivers, and mountains, he says — This country lies between Hindustan and Kho- rcin. It is an excellent and profitable market for cctinodities. Were the merchanis to carry their gcjis as far as Khita or Riiin,* they would scarcely gijihe same profit on them. Every year, seven, ei't, or ten ihouj^aiid horses arrive in Kabul. From Hdustan, every year, fifteen or twenty thousand piifisof ci^li are brought by caravans. The com- mliiies ot Hindustan are slaves, white cloths, Siiir-candy, refined and common sugar, drugs, atj spices. There are many merchanis that are niisatisfied wiih getting thirty or forty for ten.t T': produ'-iions of Khorasan, Riim, Irak, and Cjat, may all be found in Kabul, wiiich is the very etiorium of Hindustan. lis warm and cold dis- trjs are close by each other. From Kabul you ni| in a single day go to a place where snow never faj. and in the space of two astronomical hours, yi-imay reach a spot where .snow lies always, ex- ec' now and then when the summer happens to boRculiariy hot. In the districts dependant on Klul, there is great abundance of the fruits both otjot and cold climates, and they are found in iis injediate vicinity. The fruits of the cold dis- tris in Kabul are grapes, pomegranates, apricots, pejhes, pears, apples, quinces, jnjiibes, damsons, al.j)nds, and walnuts; all of wiiicli are found in grit abundance. I caused the sour-cherry-tree ^ to|e bronglii here and planted ; it produced ex- ccint fruit, and continues thriving. The fruits it pojesses peculiar to a warm climate are the orange, citjn.il the amlnk, and sugar-cane, which are br|ghtfrom ihe Lam^hanat. I caused the susar- cai to be brous^ht, andplanted it here. They bring thiJelghuxek^ from Nijrow. They have num- _1 ( season ; but then the north wind always blows, i there is an excessive quantity of earth and dust • ing about. When the rains are at hand, this v 1 blows five or six times with excessive violence, I * This praclicp Baber viewed with disgust, the hog being an impure animal in the Muhammedan law. t "The lis and Uhiscs." t In Persia there are few rivers, but numbers of artifical canals or water-runs for irrigation, anrf ■ the supply of water to towns and villages, same is the case in the valley of Soghd, and 5 richer parts of Maweralnalier. * " 'I'his is the wiiha or walsa, so well descr,! by Colonel Wilks in his Historical Sketches, V'A p. 309. note : ' On the approach of an hostile ar , the unfortunate inhabitants of India bury u r ground their most cuinbrous effects, and each i- vidual, man, woman, and child ai)ove six yeni'i age, (the infant children being carried by i' mothers,) with a load of grain proportioned to I strength, issue from their beloved lnunes, and '« the direction of a country (if such can be fo D exempt from the miseries of war ; sunietimes • strong fortress, but more generally of the mos' i- frequented hills and woods, where tliey prolo i miserable existence until the departure o( the .'• my ; and if this should be protracted beyonc •• time for which they have provided food, a /• portion necessarily dies of hunger.' .'^ee thfe '• itself. The Historical Sketches should be reaij every one who desires to have an accurate idij" the South of India. It is to be regretted llu* do not possess the history of any other part o * dia, written with the same knowledge or reseafc t Babcr's opinions regarding India are nearl* same with those of most Europeans of the »'*' class, even at the present day. t Grapes and musk-melons, particularly th it* ter, are now common all over India. MEMOmS OF RARFTx. 281 iijh a quantity of dust flies about that you cannot ;< one another. They call this an Audlii.* It r.i warm during Taurus and Gemini, but not so vjm as to become intolerable. The heat cannot )^;ompared to the heats ol' Balkh and Kandaliiir. Is not above halt so warm as in these places. \')iher convenience of Hindustan is, that the V kmen of every profession and trade are inmi- nable and without end. For any work, or any mloyment, there is always a set ready, to whom 1: same employment and trade have descended r 1 father to son for^ages. In the Zefer-Nameh ifl'illa Sherif-ed-din Ali Yezdi, it is mentioned is. surprising fact, that when Taimur Reg was n.iing the Sangin (or stone) mosque, there were tie-cutters of Azerbaejan, Fars, Hindustan, and it^r countries, to the number of two hundi;ed, v'king every day on the mosque. In Agra alone, ii'of stone-cutters belonging to that place only, I Vy day employed on my palaces si.\ hundred and ijjt'y persons ; and in Agra, Sikri, Biana, Dhulpiir, Jlliar, and Koel, there were every day employed iroy works one thousand tour hundred and ninety- mstone-cutiers. In the same way, men of every Tij and occupation are numberless and without ti' in Hindustiin. |The countries from Behreh to Behar, which iffnow under my dominion, yield a revenue of ifl-two krors,+ as will appear from the particular iri detailed statement. t Of this amount, Per- jajiahs to the value of eight or nine krors"5i arc in nJDOssrssion of some Rais and Rajas, who t>om il(;imes have been submissive, and have received he Pergannahs for the purpose of confirming ha in their obedience." ihese Memoirs contain many hundred char- icirs and portraits of individuals; and it nlld not be fair not to give our readers one invo specimens of the royal author's minute itjs of execution on such subjects. We may )ein with that of Omer-Sheikh Mirza, his ;r,.dfather, and immediate predecessor in hithrone of Ferghana : — jOmer-Sheikh Mirza was of losv stature, had a hi; bushy beard, brownish hair, and was very .oijlent. He used to wear his tunic extremely ig{; insomuch, that as he was wont to contract iiselly while he tied the strings, when he let him- eljout again the strings often burst. He was not ui|us in either his food or dress. He tied his urkn in the fashion called Deslar-pich (or plaited urin). At that time, all turbans were worn in m-har-pech (or four-plaii) style. He wore his Wput folds, and allowed the end to hang down. )i!ng the heats, when out of the Divan, he gene- al' wore the .Moghnl cap. "i le read elegantly : his general reading was hei^hamsahs.ll the Mesnevis.lT and books of bis- on; and he was in partifular fond of reading the Jhjnameh.** 'I'hough he had a turn for poetry, e|j not cultivate it. He was so strictly jusi, that the caravan from Khita+t had once reached the his is still the Hindustani term for a storm, or enfjst. bout a million and a half sterling, or rather (mi. his statement unfortunately has not been ircfrved. out 225,000Z. sterling. Several Persian poets wrote Khamsahs. or s, on tive different given subjects. The most elijrated is Nezaini. '['he most celebrated of these Mesnevis is the ny cal poem of Moulavi Jiliileddin Muhammed. Hi Sufis consider it as equal to the Koran. *The Shahn/imeh, or Book of Kings, is the fa- ao poem of the great Persian poet Ferdausi, ndjoniains the romantic history of ancient Persia. +iNorth China ; but often applied to the whole 36 hill country to the east of Andejnn, and iho snow fell so deep as to burv if, so that of the whole only two persons escaped, he no sooner rcicivcd m- formaiion of tlio occurrence, llian he di Hpaichcd overseers to collect and take charRc of nil tin- prop- erty and ertbcis of the pt'ople of uio cninvoii ; and, wherever the heirs were not nt hand, though him- self in great want, his resources being e.xliniistcd, he placed the property under soqucst ration, and pro- served it uniouchod; till, m the coiirsr of one or two years, the heirs, cotning from Khor.isiui and Samarkand, in consciiuence of the intimation whidj they received, he delivered back the good.s sate and uninjured into their hands.* Hi^ generosity was large, and so was his whole soul ; ln' was ol nn excellent temper, affable, eloquent, and sweet in his conversation, yet brave wiihnl, and niniily. On two occasions he advanced in Imnt of the troops, and exhibited distinguished prowess; once, at the gales of Akhsi, and once ni the gates of Shahrokhia. He was a middling shot with the bow ; he had uncommon force in his fisis, and never hit a man whom he did not knock down. From his excessive ambition tor conqin'si, he often exchanged peace for war. and friendship tor hosiilitv. In the earlier part of his life he wns greatly ad- dicted to drinking biizeh and lalar.t I.,aiierlv, once or twice in the week, he indultred in a lirink. iitg party. He was a pleasant companion, and in the course of conversation used often to cite, with great felicity, appropriate verses from the poets. In his latter days he was much addicted to the use of Maajiin,t while under the influence of which he was subject to a feverish irritabilitv- He was a humane man. He played a great deal at backgammon, and someiiiiies at games of chance wiiii the dice.' The following is the memorial of Hussain Mirza. king of Khorasan, vrho died in 1506: "He had straight narrow eyes, his body was robust and firm ; from the waist downwards he was of a slenderer make. Although he was advanced in years, and had a white beard, he dressed in gay-co- loured red and green woollen clothes. He usually wore a cap of black lamb's skin, or a kilpak. Now and then, on festival days, he put on a small (urban tied in three folds, broad and showy, and having placed a plume nodding over it, went in this style to prayers. "On first mounting the throne, he took it into his head that he would cause the names of the twelve Imams to be recited in the Klmtbeh. .Many used their endeavours to prevent him. F'inally, however, he directed and arranoed everv thing ac- cording to the orthodo.x Sunni faith. From a dis- order in his joints, he was unable to perform his prayers, nor could he oliserve the stated fasts. He was a lively, pleasant man. His temper was rather hasty, and his language took after his temper. In many instances he displayed a prolound reverence for the faith ; on one occasion, one of tiis sons hav- ing slain a man, he delivered him up to the avengers of blood to be carried before the judgment-seat of the Kazi. For about six or seven years after he first ascended the throne, he was very iiiiarded in abstaining from such things as were iorbiddcn by country from China to Terfan, and now even west to the Ala-iagh Mountains. * This anecdote is erroneously related of Daber himsrlf by Feriehta and others. — Sec Dow's Hitt. of Ilindogtan, vol. ii. p. 218. t Bnzoh is a sort of intoxicating liquor somewhat resembling beer, made from millet. Tulnr I do not know, but understand it to be a preparation from the poppy. There is, however, nothing about bi'izeh or lalar in the Por.sian, which only specifics fhernh, wine or strong drink. t Any medical mixture is called a ninnjim ; hut in common speech the term is chiefly ninilii'd to in- toxicaiing comfits, and especially those prti)ared with bang. t2 fflSTORY AND HISTORICAL MEMOIRS. 282 the law : afterwards he became addicted to drinking wine. During nearlv forty years that '"^ wa« l^'''g Of Khorasan, not a day P^^^ed in wh.ca c d.d ■ ot drink afier mid-day prayers; but he ne er drank wine in the morning. ^ II.s ^«"«i f ^pi hfs rxa n soldiery, and ihe town's-people, follou ed hi^ exam- ple in th.s resp.,ct. and seemed to v,e ^y>.h each other in debauchery and lasciviousnesb. He was a b ave and vahant man. He olien engaged sword in hand in iigl.t. nay, frequently distinguished h.s prowess hand'to han^ several times in the course of thp <;ame fi^ht. No person oi the race of I aimui BeVe^r equalled Sultan Hussain Mirza in the use of tlie scym.tar. He had a turn for poetry, and com- nosed a Diwin. He wrote in the Turk,. His poet- fcalname was Hussaini. Many of his verses are far from bdng bad, but the whole of ,he Mirza s D.wan is in the same measure. Although a prmceoi dignity, both as to years and e.xieut of terruory, he was as fond as a child of keeping butting rams, and of amu- sing himself with flying pigeons and cock-hghiing. One of the most striking passages in the work is the royal author's account of the mag- nificence of the court and city of Herat, when he visited it in 1506; and especially his im- posinc^ catalogue of the illustrious authors, art- ists, and men of genius, by whom it was then adorned . " The a to chronicle all his subsequent and ve^lre- * No moral poet ever had a higher reputation than Jami. His poems are written with sreat beauty of lansuage and versification, in acaptivat strain of reli-ioiis and philosophic mysticism. is not merely admired ijjr his subhmity as a poet but venerated as a saint." He quent excesses. The Eastern votary toxication has a pleasant way ot varyi, Ji eniovments, which was never taken W West . When the fluid el.mients of dr ten- ness begin to pall on him, he betakes n w what is learnedly called a vmioj-oi, bein joj of electuary or confection, made ui^m pleasant spices, and rendered poten,oy» large admixture of opium, bang, am U»er narcotic ingredients ; producing a sohd Utt • cation of a very delightful and desira.'^J ; scription. One of the first dnnking r:^^ that is described makes honourable r noof' of this variety :— , "The maajun-takers and ^pi>-"-''7"''.^i;^i£ hive different tastes, are very apt !" f/^ij'ji,, with each other. I said, ' P«" \«P'V • f 'w let of the party; whoever wishes to druiksf". MEMOIRS OF BABER. 2S3 jim drink spirits ; and let him that prefers ninnjun, like tr.anjun ; and let not the one party give any Jle or provoking language to the other.' Some sat jown to spirits, some to niaajiln. The panv went |n for some time tolerably well. Baba Jiin knbnzi ad not been in the boat ; we had sent for him when I'e reached the royal tents. He chose to drink liirits. Terdi Mahammed Kipchfik, loo, was sent j)r, and joined the spirit-drinkers. As the spirit- drinkers and maajiin-takers never can agree in one [arty, the spirit-bibing party began to indulge in polish and idle conversation, and to make provok- \ig remarks on maajiin and maajim-takers. Biiba An, too, getting drunk, talked very absurdly. The pplers, tilling up glass afier glass for 'i'crdi Mii- [■iinnied, made him drink them off. so that in a ery short time he was mad drunk. Whatevor ^eriions I could make to preserve peace, were all unavailing ; there was much uproar and wrangling, i'he party became quite burdensome and unplea- jint, and soon broke up." I The second day after, we find the roj-al acchanal still more grievously overtaken : " We continued drinking spirits in the boai till »d-iime pr.'iyers, when, being completely drunk, le mounted, and taking torches in our hands came > full gallop back to the camp from the river-side, lling sometimes on one side of the horse, and Miieiimes on the other. I was miserably drunk, id next morning, when they told me of our having illoped into the camp with lighted torches in our mds. r had not the slighle.'t recollection nf the rciiinsiance. After coming home, I vomited entifally." Even in the middle of a harassing and des- IfoiT campaign, there is no intermission of lis e.vcessive jollity, though it sometimes puts le parties into jeopardy, — for example : — ' We cominued at this place drinking till the sun as on the decline, when we set out. Those who !id been of the party were completely drunk. I,'ed Kasim was so drunk, that two of his servants lere obliged to put him on horseback, ami brought m to the camp with great difficulty. Dost Mu- mmed Bakir was so far gone, that A nun Mu- mmed Terkhan. Masti Chehreh, and those who ere along with him, were unable, with all their iertions, to get him on horseback. They poured fc;reat quantity of water over him, but all to no jirpose. At this moment a body of Afghans ap- |ared m sight. Amin Muhammed I'erkhaii, |ing very drunk, gravely gave it as his opinion, ai rather than leave him. in the condition in which I was, to fall into the hands of the enemy, it was filer at once to cut ofT his head, and carry it ^av. iVIaking another e.xertion, however, with fich difficulty, ihey contrived to throw him upon horse, which they led along, and so brought pi ofT." I On some occasions they contrive to be |unk four times in twenty-four hours. The fliant prince c.ontents himself with a strong jjun one day : but Next morning we had a drinking pariy in the e tent. We continued drinking till night. On i; following morning we again had an early eup. id. getting intoxicated, went to sleep. About ijon-day prayers, we left Isialif. and I took a liajiin on the road. It was about afternoon prayers Hbre I reached Bthziidi. TIk- crops were ex- tmely good. While I was riding round the har- 'Ht-fields, such of my companions an were fond '•wine began to contrive onotlicr drinking- bout ■jihough I had taken a manjun. yet. ax the crop^ W^e uncommonly fine ! we sat down under sonio t«8 thai had yielded a pleniiful load of fruit and iRan to drink. We kept up the parly in the same place till bed-lime prayers. Mull MNhmtid Khnlifi-h having arrived, we invited him to join \\%. .M.dnlln, who hnd got vi-ry drunk, iniuie an ol.srrvii lui whiih ntr-cted Khalileh. Without rei-olb riiTiu ih:it Mulla .Muhmud was present, he repeated the *rr»r. l/Vr»ioii.) Kxamino whle pcriur!>n- tion, and conversed iii n wonderfully smuolh and sweet strain all the rest of ilie evening." In a year or two after this, whi'ii h«! wema to be in a conr.se of uiui.'«iial iiidulgenre, wm meet with the following edifying remark : " As I intend, when forty years old, to nbnlain from wine ; and as I now want somewhat less ihan one year of being forty, / drink utiic most copiously'.'' When forty comes, how- ever, we hear nothing of tiiis sji^e rrsoluliou — but have a regular record of the wine and maajiin parties as before, uptotht! year l.'>27. In that year, however, he is seized with rather a sudden fit of penitence, and has the resolu- tion to beijin a course of riijorous relonn. There is somelhing rather pictnre»ii«. •Some vows of a bimilor nature may be louml m Scripiure." 284 HISTORY AND HISTORICAL MEMOIRS. jured for ever. There is something abso- lutely pathetic, as well as amiablej in the following candid avowal in a letter written the very year before his death to one of his old drinking companions : — •' In a leiier which I wrote to Abdalla, I men- tioned that I had much difficulty in reconcihng my- self to the desert of penitence ; but that I had resolution enough to persevere, — (.Turki verse) I am distressed since I renounced wine ; I am confounded and unfit for business, — Regret leads me to penitence. Penitence leads me to regret. Indeed, last year, my desire and longing for wine and social parties were beyond measure excessive. It even came to such a length that I have found myself shedding tears from vexation and disappoint- ment. In the present year, praise be to God, these troubles are over, and I ascribe them chiefly to the occupation afforded to my mind by a poetical trans- lation, on which I have employed myself Let niP advise you too, to adopt a life of abstinence. Social parties and wine are pleasant, in company with our jolly friends and old boon companions. But with whom can you enjoy the social cup ? With whom can you indulge in the pleasures of wine? If you have' only Shir Ahmed, and Haider Kulli, for the companions of your gay hours and jovial goblet, you can surely find no great difficulty in consenting to the sacrifice. I conclude with every good wish." We have mentioned already that Baber ap- pears to have been of a frank and generous character — and there are, throughout the Me- moirs, various traits of clemency and tender- ness of heart, scarcely to have been expected in an Eastern monarch and professional war- rior. He weeps ten whole days for the loss of a friend who fell over a precipice after one of their drinking parties ; and spares the lives, and even restores the domains of various chieftains, who had betrayed his confidence, and afterwards fallen into his power. Yet there are traces of Asiatic ferocity, and of a hard-hearted wastefulness of life, which re- mind us that we are beyond the pale of Eu- ropean gallant rv and Christian compassion. In his wars in Afghan and India, the prisoners are commonly butchered in cold blood after the action — and pretty uniformly a triumphal pjTamid is erected of their skulls. These horrible executions, too, are performed with much solemnity before the royal pavilion : and on one occasion, it is incidentally record- ed, that such was the number of prisoners brouuht forward for this infamous butchery, that the sovereign's tent had three times to be removed to a different station — the ground before it being so drenched with blood and encumbered with quivering carcasses ! On one occasion, and on one only, an attempt was made to poison him — the mother of one of the sovereierns whom he had dethroned having bribed his cooks and tasters to mix death in his repast. L^pon the detection of the plot, the taster was cut to pieces, the cook flayed alive, and the scullions trampled to death by elephants. Such, however, was the respect paid to rank, or the indulgence to maternal resentment, that the prime mover of the whole conspiracy, the queen dowager, is merely put tmder restraint, and has a con- tribution levied on her private foitune. The ■ following brief anecdote speaks volumes as to the difference of European and Asiatic man- ners and tempers : — " Another of his wives was Katak Begum, who was the foster-sister of this same Terkiian Begum. Sultan Ahmed Mirza married her for love. He was prodigiously attached to her, and she governed him with absolute sway. She drank wine. During her life, the Sultan durst not venture to frequent any other of his ladies. At last, however, he put her to death, and delivered himself from this reproach." In several of the passages we have cited, there are indications of this ambitious war- rior's ardent love for fine flowers, beautiful irardens, and bright waters. But the work abounds with traits of this amiable and, with reference to some of these anecdotes, appar- ently ill-sorted propensity. In one place he says — " In the warm season they are covered with the chekin-laleh grass in a very beautiful manner, and the Aimaks and Tiirks resort to them. In ihe skirts of these mountains the ground is richly di- versified by various kinds of tulips. I once directed them to be counted, and they brought in thirty-two or thirty-three different sorts of tulips. There is one species which has a scent in some degree like the rose, and which I termed laleh-aul-hui (the rose- scented tulip). This species is found only in tLc Desht-e-Sheikh (the Sheikh's plain), in a small spi ■ of ground, and nowhere else. In the skirts of iht same hills below Perwan, is produced the laleh-ttd- herg (or hundred-leaved tulip), which is likewi.'t found only in one narrow spot of ground, as w( emerge from the straits of Ghiirbena." And a little after — " Few quarters possess a district that can riva Istalif A large river runs through it, and on eithe. side of it are gardens, green, gay, and beautiful. It: water is so cold, that there is no need of icing it and it is particularly pure. In this district is a gar den, called Bash-e-Kilan (or the Great Garden' which Uliigh Beg Mirza seized upon. I paid ih price of the garden to the proprietors, and receive from them a grant of it. On the outside of th garden are large and beautiful spreading plan trees, under the shade of which there are agreeabl spots finely sheltered. A perennial stream, larg I enough to turn a mill, runs through the garden i and on its banks are planted planes and other tree; Formerly this stream flowed in a winding an crooked course, but I ordered its course to be a lered according to a regular plan, which adde trreatly to the beauty of the place. Lower dow than these villages, and about a koss or a koss at ! a half above the level plain, on the lower skirls ' 1 tlie hills, is a tbuntain, named Khwiijeh-seh-yart (Kwiijeh three friends), around which there a.'j three species of trees ; above the fountain are mar| beautiful plane-trees, which yield a pleasant shad On the two sides of the fountain, on small en nences at the bottom of the hills, there are a nut' ber of oak trees; except on these two spots, whe there are groves of oak, there is not an oak to ' met with on the hills to the west of Kabul. In fro of this fountain, towards the plain, there are mat spots covered with the flowery Arghwan* tree, a .' besides these Arghwan plots, there are none el, in the whole country." We shall add but one other notice of tl " The name Arghwan is generally applied to t anemone ; but in Afghanistan it is given to a be! tiful flowering shrub, which grows nearly to t size of a tree." MEMOIRS OF RARKR. 285 egant taste — thoiiijh on the occasion there leiitionecl, the tiowers were aided by a less >Iicate soit ot excitement. I" This day I ate a maajun. Wiiile under its in- lence, I visited some beautiful gardens. In dit- -ent beds, the ground was covered with purple ild yellow Arghwan flowers. On one hand were ds of yellow flowers in bloom ; on the other hand, li flowers were in blossom. In many places ihi'v /rung up in the same bed, mingled together as il 6y had been flung and scattered abroad. I took 1/ seat on a rising ground near the camp, to enjoy li view of all the tlowcr-pois. On the si.v sides 1 ihis eminence they were formed as into regular Ids. On one side were yellow flowers : on another t! purple, laid out in triangular beds. On two ucr sides, there were ft-wer flowers; but, as far i|the eye could reach, there were flower-gardens (,a similar kind. In the neighbourhood of Per- f'lwer, during the spring, the flower-plots are e.\- dsitely beautiful.'' VVe have, now enabled our readers, we tuk, to judge pretty fairly of the nature of ts very curious volume: and shall only j!sent them with a few passages from two Iters written by the valiant author in the l;t year of his life. The first is addressed t,his favourite son and successor Humaiiin. v.om he had settled in the goverimient of Siiarcand. and who was at this time a sover- e'n of approved valour and prudence. There i;i very diverting mixture of sound political cinsel and minute criticism on writing and cn}X)sition. in this paternal effusion. We a give but a small part of it. ': In many of your letters you complain of sepa- nbn from your friends. It is wrong for a prince Knduige in such a complaint. There is certainly no greater bondage than that irVhich a king is placed ; but it ill becomes him to C'lplain of inevitable separation. , In compliance with my wishes, you have in- diil written me letters, bin you certainly never ul thein over ; for had you attempted to read thin, you must have found it absolutely impossible, ai| would then undoubtedly have put them by. I Cf:rived indeed to decipher and comprehend the mining of your last letter, but with much diffi- ci'y. his excessively confused and crabbed. Who eV" 3aw a Moiimma (a riddle or a charade) in pije? Your spelling is not bad, yet not quite ccect. You have written iltafat with a toe (in- stid of a te), and hid'mg with a he (instead of a hn. Your letter may indeed be read ; but in coicquence of the far-fetched words you have er loyed, the meaning is by no means very intel- iie'le. You certainly do not excel in letter-wriiing, anfail chiefly because you have too great a di;sire to low your acquirements. For the future, you shld write unaffectedly, with clearness, using plii words, which would cost less trouble both to thi'Ariter and reader." he other letter is to one of his old com- paions in arms: — and considering that it is wilten by an ardent and ambitious conqueror, frf|i the capital of his new empire of Hin- dujan, it seems to us a very striking proof, no'only of the nothingness of high fortune, but of the native simplicity and amiableness of this Eastern highlander! '■ I\Iy solicitude to visit my wcHtern dommionw in boundless, and great beyond expression. The afliiirs of Hindustan have at length, however, been reduced into n certain degree of order; and I trust in Almiahty (Jod that the time is near at liuiid, when, through the grace of the Most High, every thing will be roinpleiely settled in this couinry. .\s soon ns matters are' brought into that state, I shall. (Jod willing, set out lor your quarter, with- out losing a moment's time. How is it possible that the delights of tho.ie lands should ever bo erased from the heart ? .Vbove all. how is it possi- ble for one like mc, who have made n vow those of all its competitors. Like the V itljos or leaders of other sects, successful ii'iij. have been but too apt to establish ex- , I'lnji-e and arbitrary creeds; and to invent I'-li's of faith, the slightest violation of h effaces the merit of all other virtues. .ting themselves, as they are apt to do. • exclusive cultivation of that style to T the bent of their own genius naturally I'S them, they look everywhere for those ' ■A\\es of which it is peculiarly susceptible, i:ied to represent their own little field of ■ on as occupying all the sunny part of ' Missus, and to exhibit the adjoining regions "11 terrible shadows and most unmerciful ■'"jortenings. ^Vh those impressions of the almost in- - le partiality of poetical judirments in Hil, we could'not recollect that Mr. Camp- hn bell was himself a Ma.Mer in a distinct scnool of |X)etry, and distinguished by a very pecu- liar and fastidious .style of coinpcsilion, with- out being anprelien.sive that tlie cdt ctnof ihif bias would be apparent in his work ; and that, with all his lalent and di.'H-ernmeiil. he would now and then be guilty of gnat. lliou;jli un- intended injustice, to some of those whose manner was mo.st op|X).site to his own. We are happy to say that those ajjprehensions have jirovetl entirely irroundless ; and that nothing; in the volumes before us is more ad- mirable, or to us more .surprising, than the perfect candour and undeviating fairness with which the learned author pas,mix'rance and brevity and firmness with whidi lie reproves the excessive severity of critics l«ss entitled to be severe. No one indeed, w«> w ill venture to affirm, ever placed himself in the .seat of judirment with more of a judicial temper — though, to obviate invidious conqiarisons, we must beg leave just to add, that being called on to pass judgment only on ihc (had, who.«ie faults were no longer corrigible, or had already been e.vpiated by appropriate pains, his tem- per was less tried, and his severities less pro- voked, than in the case of living od'enders, — and that the very number and variety of the errors that called for animadversion, in the course of his wide survey, mu.st have made each particular case ajipear ciinij)aratively insignificant, and mitigated the si'iitence of mdividual condemnation. It is to this last circumstance, of the large and compreliensive range which he was ob- liged to take, and thejrreat extent and variety of the .society in which he was compelled to mingle, that we are inclined to ascribe, not only the general mildness and indulgence of his judirments, but his happy emancii'atiou from those narrow and limitary maxims by which we have already said tliat poets are so peculiarly apt to be entangled. As a large ajid familiar intercourse with men of" different habits and dispositions never fails, in charac- ters of any force or generosity, to dispel the prejudices with which we at first reirard them, and to lower our estimate of our own superior happine.ss and wisdom, so. a very ample and extensive course of reading in any depart- ment of letters, tends naturally to enlari,'e onr narrow principles of jud^mient ; and not only to cast down the idols before which we had formerly aba.sed oursclv<'s, but to disclo.se to us the might and the majesty of mnch that we had mi.staken and conlr-rnned. In this point of view, we think such a work as is now b<'fore us, likely to be of great use to ordinary readers of poetrv — not only as unlockinir to them innumerable new springs of enjoyment and admiration, but as havinjg a tendency to correct and libfrali/i- their judtrments of their old fr.vouril'S, and to strengthen and enliven all those faculties ly POETRY. which they derive pleasure from such studies. Nor would the benefit, if it once e.xtended so far, by any means stop there. The character of our poetry depends not a little on the taste of our poetical readers : — and though some bards have always been before their age, and some behind it. the greater part must be pretty nearly on its level. Present popularity, whatever disappointed writers may say, is, after all, the only .safe pas.sage of future glory ; — and it is really as unlikely that good poetry should be produced in any quantity where it is not relished, as that cloth should be manu- factured and thrust into the market, of a pattern and fashion for which there was no demand. A shallow and uninstructed taste is indeed the most fle.vible and inconstant — and is tossed about by every breath of doc- trine, and every wind of authority ; so as neither to derive any permanent delight from the same works, nor to assurt> any permanent fame to their authors : — while a taste that is fonned upon a wide and large survey of en- during models, not only affords a secure basis for all future jutlgments, but must compel, whenever it is general in any society, a salu- tary conformity to its great principles from all who depend on its suffrage. — To accomplish such an object, the general study of a work like this certainly is not enough : — But it would form an excellent preparation for more extensive reading — and would, of it.self, do much to open the eyes of many self-satisfied persons, and startle them into a .sense of their own ignorance, and the poverty and paltriness of many of their ephemeral favourites. Con- sidered as a nation, we are yet but very im- perfectly recovered from that strange" and ungrateful forgetfulness of our older poets, which began with the Restoration, and con- tinued almost unbroken till after the middle of the last century. — Nor can the works which have chiefly tended to dispel it among the instructed orders, be ranked in a higher class than this which is before us. — Percy's Relics of Antient Poetry produced, we believe, the first revulsion — and this was followed up by Wharton's History of Poetry. — Johnson's Lives of the Poets did something : — and the great effect has been produced by the modern com- mentators on Shakespeare. Those various works recommended the older writers, and reinstated them in some of their honours : — but still the works themselves were not placed before the eyes of ordinary readers. This was done in part, perhaps overdone, by the entire republication of some of our older dra- matists—and with better effect by Mr. Ellis's Specimens. If the former, however, was rather too copious a supply for the returning appetite of the public, the latter was too .scanty ; and both were confined to too narrow a perio.l of lime to enable the reader to enjoy the variety, and to draw the comparisons, by which he might be mo^t pleased and instruct- ed. — Soulhey's continuation of Ellis did harm rather than good ; for though there is some cleverness in the introduction, the work itself is executed in a crude petulant, and super- ficial manner, — and bears all the marks of being a mere bookseller's speculation.—,; we have heard nothing of it from the time .■ its first publication, we suppose it has had t success it deserved. There was great room therefore. — and, \ will even say. great occasion, for such a wo as this of Mr. Campbell's, in the present sta' of our literature ; — and we are persuaded, lb' all who care about poetry, and are not alrea( acquainted with the authors of v.hora ittrei — and even all who are — cannot possibly better than read it fairly through, from L- first page to the last — without skipping tj extracts which they know, or those which ni' not at first seem very attractive. There is I reader, we will venture to say. who will ri' from the perusal even of these partial a] scanty fragments, without a fresh and de- sense of the matchless richness, variety, aj originality of English Poetry : while the ji taposition and arrangement of the pieces i only gives room for endless comparisons a contrasts. — but displays, as it were in miJ ture, the whole of its wonderful progress ; 3 .sets before us, as in a great gallery of pictu; the whole course and liistory of "the art, fi its first rude and infant beginnings, to maturity, and perhaps its decline. Whil- has all the grandeur and instruction that longs to such a gallery, it is free from perplexity and distraction which is geuen complained of in such exhibitions; as e; piece is necessarily considered separately . in succession, and the mind cannot warn like the eye, through the splendid labyr, in which it is enchanted. Nothing, we ih can be more delightful, than thus at our t • to trace, through all its periods, vicissituii, and aspects, the progress of this hiiihest i most intellectual of all the arts — coloureil it is in every age by the manners of the ti ■ which produce it. and embodying, be^ ■ those flights of fancy and touches of pa - that con.stitute its more immediate esse;, much of the wisdom and much of the raonf that was then current among the people ; 9 thus presenting us. not merely with ali'jl all that genius has ever created for deljj, but with a brief chronicle and abstract o«l that was once interesting to the generai^i* which have gone by. The steps of the progress of such an t- and the circumstances by which they 'i been efll'ected. would fonn, of them.'^elvMa large and interesting theme of sjiei'i;!:! " Conversant as poetry necessarily is w 1; I' that touches human feelings, concenps, >i occupations, its character must have bet-ija- pressed by every change in the mora! w political condition of society, and must iJ" retain the lighter traces of their succe,'* follies, amusements, and pursuits: whi 1° the course of ages, the very multiplicj* and increasing business of the people ;« forced it through a progress nol wholl."*- similar to that which the same causes « produced on the agriculture and landsca « ihe country ; — whoieat first we had nui jw dreary wastes, thinly sprinkled with fflj spots of simple cultivation — then vast f !* CAMPBELL'S SPECIMENS OF THE POETS. a I chases, stretching far around feudal cas- ! i and piitnacleil abbeys — then woodland hnlets. and pjoodly mansions, and gorj^ffiuis l: liens, and parks rich with waste fertility, ai lax habitations — and, finally, crowded id road-side villas, and brick-walled ens, and turnip-fields, and canals, and cial ruins, and ornamented farms, and . ajres trellised over ^vith e.\ofic jilants ! !ut. to escape from those metaphors and Liiiias to the business before us, we must iUirk. that in order to give any tolerable li of the poetry which was thus to be rep- uted, it was necessary that the specimens ■ exhibited should be of some compa.ss extent. We have heard their length jilaiiied of — but we think with very little ice. Considering the extent of the works which they are taken, thej- are almost t inconsiderable fragments; and where riginal w^s of an Epic or Tragic charac- 'greater abridgment would have been mutilation, — and would have given only a specimen of the whole, as a brick t do of a building. From the earlier and familiar authors, we rather think the cita- are too short ; and, even from those that V ^rilmore generally known, we do not well ^ 8e'|how they could have been shorter, with r: ■ Jtoisafety to the professed object, and oidy r.. .iWof the publication. That object, we con- j JKb, . was to give specimens of English ';, po|ry, from its earliest to its latest periods; ; an'|it would be a strange rule to have fol- loVd, in making stich a selection, to leave lihe best and most popular. The work iinly neither is, nor professes to be, a col- pn from obscure and forgotten authors — I ipecimens of all who have merit enough Ipserve our remembrance ; — and if some lave such redundant merit or good for- a^to be in the hands and the minds of \ le world, it was necessary, even then, to some extracts from them, — that the might be complete, and that there it be room for comjurison with others, or tracing the progress of the art in the IS of its best models and their various >iiK%iltors. 1 one in.sfance, and one only, Mr. C. has ■(. led doing this duty : and left the place .c[? great luminary to be filled up by recoi- ls that he must have presumed would [iiversal. He has given but two pages to ■:sPE.\RE — and not a line from any of his Perhaps he has done rightly. A iiledge of Shakespeare may be safely pre- Bd, we believe, in every reader ; and, if |d begun to cite his Beauties, there is no ^Ig vvhere he would have ended. A little ! calling itself Beauties of Shake.'speare, ^mblished some years ago, and shown, as ive heard, to Mr. Sheridan. He turned oveihe leaves for some time with apparent satijiction, and then said, "This is very welibut where are the other s<>ven volumes?" rhri' is no other author, however, who.se famlis such as to justify a similar ellipsis, 3r V|ose works can be thus elegantly under- ''Wr, in a collection of good poetry. Mr. C. 37 has complied perhaps too far with the puiMilur prejuiiice, in confining his citations fioiu .Mil- ton to the Comus and the smaller pi('i(>. and leaving the Paradise Lost lo the ineninry o| his readers. But though we do not think liie extracts by any means loo long on the uliole, we are certanily of opinion llml Mmw art' tod long and others loo short ; and that n anv, especially in the latter case, nr»' imt vi ry well select<>d. There is far too little ol Mar- lowe for instanc*!, and too much of Sim ley, ami even of IMa,Hsin<;er. We should have liked more of Warner, Fairfax. J'lmieas Fletcher, and Henry More — all jjott- nl no scanty dimensions — ;irid could havr .-j'an'd several pages of Hnller. Mason. Whili Inad. Roberts. Meston, ami Amhurst Seldin We do not think the specimens from Hnrns very well selected ; nor those from Prior — nor can we see any good reason forc|uoling the whole Castle of Indolence, and 7uitkin^ else, for Thomson — and the whole Kape ot the Lock, and nolhinij; else, for Pope. Next to the im])ressi()n of the vast fertility, compass, and beauty of our English poetry, the reflection that recurs most fre(|uently and forcibly to us, in accompanying Mr. C. through his wide survey, is that of the perishalijc na- ture of poetical fame, and the si>ee(ly utilivion that has overtaken so many of the promised heirs of immortality ! Of near two hundred and fifty authors, whose* works are cited in these volumes, by far the greater part of whom were celebrated in their generation, there are not thirty who now enjoy any thing that can be called popularity — whose works are to be found in the hands of ordinary readers — in the shops of ordinary booksellers — or in the press for republication. About fifty more may be tolerably familiar to men of taste or litera- ture : — the rest slumber on the shelves of col- lectors, and are partially known to a few anti- quaries and .'scholars. Now, the fame of a. Poet is popular, or nothinir. He does not ad- dress himself, like the man of .science, to the learned, or those who desire to learn, but to all mankind ; and his purpose being to delight and be ])raised. nece.>'d to make u.se of them all, or even to talv at pres- ent — bat there will stand between them and that generation nearly ten times as much fresh and fashionable poetry as is now interposed between us and those writers : — and if Scott and Byron and Campbell have already cast Pope and Swift a good deal into the shade, in what form and dimensions are they themselves likely to be presented to the eyes of our great -^r:' hildren? The thought, we own, is a littlr opalling; — and we confess we see noth- ing )'■ ter to imagine than that they may find CO "'ortable place in some new collection ' s,M 'umens — the centenary of the present 'bi . tion. There — if the future editor have V ng like the indulgence and veneration for antiquity of his predecessor — there slj posterity still hang with rapture on the hall Campbell — and the fourth part of Byron — { [ the si.xth of Scntt — anil the scattered tyt]) of Crabbe — and the three per cent, of South — while some good-natured critic shall sil| our mouldering chair, and more than half r , fer them to those by whom they have bi superseded ! — It is an hypeibole of good . ture, however, we fear, to ascribe to theme^ i those dimensions at the end of a century. . ter a lapse of two hundred and fifty years, i are afraid to think of the space they may hs i shrunk into. We have no Shakes])eare, all to shed a never-setting light on his contf ■. poraries: — and if we continue to write ;| rhyme at the present rate for two hund 1 years longer, there. must be some new art short-hand rcadin>x invented — or all readlj will be given up in despair. We need i distress ourselves, however, with these afi'< tions of our posterity: — and it is quite til that the reader should know a little of i work before us. j The Essay on English Poetry is very cli» erly, and, in many places, very finely wril'( ■i— but it is not equal, and it is not compi . There is a good deal of the poet's wayw: ness even in Mr. C."s prose. His histor : Muse is as disdainful of drudgery and pi work as any of her more tuneful sisterS'*^ and so we have things begun and abandn j — passages of great eloquence and be; followed up by others not a little careless . disorderly — a large outline rather meag f filled up, but with some morsels of e.xquiil finishing scattered irregularly up and di its expanse — little fragments of detail :d controversy — and abrupt and impatient 'ji« elusions. Altogether, however, the wor « I ven-y spirited ; and abounds with the im tions of a powerful and fine understJ\in . and of a delicate and original taste. We :• not now afford to give any abstract of thi i- formation it contains — but shall make a .v extracts, to show the tone and manner of e composition. The following sketch of Chaucer, foil- stance, and of the long interregnum il succeeded his demise, is given with { it grace and spirit. " His first, and long-continued predilection, 'U attracted by the new and allegorical style ct" mance, which had spriins up in France, ir » thirteenth century, under VViUiam de Lorris. '• find him, accnfdingly, during a great part ( U» poetical career, engaged among the dreams n- hicms, flower- worshippings, and aniaiory p «• nients, of liiat visionary school. This, we "7 siiy, was a nymnusium of raiher too light and f* ful e.xercise for so strong a genius ; and it niu j* owned, that his allegorical poeiry is often p ,iw and proli.x. Vet, even in this walk of ficlio « never entirely lose sight of that peculiar giac no gaiety, which distinguish the Muse of <'iin ti and no one who remembers his produciinns ( n« House oi Fame, and the Flower and the Lea' 'i" regret that he sported, for a season, in ilic lii o' allegory. Even his pieces of this descripno be most fantastic in design, and tedious in cmt "1i are generally interspersed wiih fresh and j 'W descriptions of external nature. In this new s vM of romance, we perceive the youthful Muse • IW CAMPBELL'S SPECIMENS OF THE POETS. Ml I gyage, in love with mystical meanings and forms t fancy, more remote, if possible from renliiy, in those of the chivalrous fable iiselt ; and \vc ciid, sometimes, wish her back front her eni- binatic castUs, to the more solid ones of the elder f-le ; but still she moves in pursuit of those shad- s with an impulse ol novelty, and an exnber- ■f of spirit, that is not wbolly without its aitrac- II and delight. Chaucer was, afterwards, happily li wn t(#the more natural style of Boccaccio ; and fin him he derived the hint of a subject, in which, bides his own original portraits of coniemporary li, he could introduce stories of every description, tin the. most heroic to the most familiar." — pp.71— 73. ' Warton, with great beauty and justice, com- pes the a^ipearatioe of Chaucer in our lan<;uai;e, tia premature day in an English spring; after Vjich the gloom of winter returns, and the buds a blossoms, which have been called forth by a tihsient sunshine, are nipped by frosts, and scat- icrd by storms. The causes of the' relapse of our ptry, after Chaucer, seem but too apparent in the a als of English history ; which, during five reigns o he fifteenth century, continue to display but a ti ic of conspiracies, proscriptions, and bloodshed. Ii'rior even to France in literary progress, Eng- lai displays in the fifteenth century a still more ntifying contrast with Italy. Italy, too, had her rtfzious schisms and public distractions ; but her ail and literature had always a sheltering place. li'V were even cherished by the rivalship of inde- I pfdent communities, and received encouragement ' fni the opposite sources of commercial and eccle- siiical wealth. But we had no Nicholas the I- h, nor House of .Medicis. In England, the evils I ivil war agitated soc-iety as one mass. There \v no refuge iroin them — no enclosure to lence line field of improvement — no mound to sletn the u\ent of public troubles. Before the death of Hiry VI. it is said that one half of the nobility and g(i:ry in the kingdom had perished in the field, or 01; he scafibid I" ' 'he colden age of Elizabeth has often been e;:)l]ecl, and the genius of Spenser delineated, wa feeling and eloquence. But all that has b(!n written, leaves the following striking pillages as original as they are eloquent. In the reign of Elizabeth, the English mind pi'forih its energies in every direction. e.\alied by a frer religion, and enlarged by new views of truth. Ti was 9n age of loyalty, adventure, and gcner- IV emulation. The chivalrous character was soli- 1 by intellectual pursuits, while the genius of iialry itself still lingered, as if unwilling to de- pa; and paid his last homage to a Warlike and Fuale reign. A desrree ol romantic fancy ro- ni led, too, in the manners and superstitions of ihieople; and Allegory might be said to parade, thjitreets in their public pajreants and fesiiviiies. Qjint and pedantic as those allegorical exhibitions m It often be, they were nevertheless more ex- prt^ive of erudition, ingenuity,and moral meaning, thi thev had been in former limes. The philoso- phof the highest minds, on the other hand, still pa;>ok of a visionary character. A poetical spirit ini(ed itself into the praciical heroism of the nee; aniSr.me of the worthies of ihat period seem less liklordinary men, than like beings called forth out of!ction, and arrayed in the brightnesH of her dr">• bate spirit*. But how poor and squalid ir '•»' parison of the Miltonic Pandaemonium siM Scyllas, the Cyclopses, and the Chimeras t» Inlernal Council of the Jerusalem ! Tasso •«• clave of fiends is a den of ugly incongruous i* sters. The powers of Milton's hell areiU" shapes and forms. Their appearance dwarfi 'OT other poetical conception, when we turn our »••» eyes from contemplating them. It is not tl .«*• ternal attributes alone which expand the in '*■ lion, but their souls, which are as colossal £ ^ stature— their ' thoughts that wander thrmt **" CAMPBELL'S SPECIMENS OF THE POETS. 29t ny' — the pride that burns amidst the ruins of their i dune natures, and ihcir gonuis, thai I'cels witli ilie | auur and debates wiin tne eloiiueiii-e ot hfuven." i pp. 242, 247. I Ve have already said, that we think Shir- . I. overpraieed — but he is praised with great / . e [uence. There is but little siiid of Dryileii ,, jiiiie Essay — but it i^ said with force and \vh judgment. In speaking of Pope and his ' ciitemporanes, Mr. C. touches on debatoable uuiid: And we shall close our quotations ! I a this part of his work, with the passage ,1. hichhe announces his own indulgent, and, n lips, latitudinarian opinions. There are e.xclusionists in taste, who tiiink that liii cannot speak wnh snHicient disparagement of ihiBnglish poets of the lirst part of tiie eighteenth ceiury ; and ihej' are arnieii with a noble provoca- livjto Knglishconieiupt, wiien ihey have it to say th[ihose poets belong to a t-'reiieh school. Indeed Dien himself is generally included in that school; th^ijh more genuine English is to be found in no in^'s pages. But in poetry ' there are many man- ; siqj.' I am free to conless, thai I can pass from ;, ibielder writers, and still tind a charm in the cor- rejand equable sweetness of Parnell. ConScious mH,„j,|th3hi3 diction has not the freedom and volubility J of le better strains of the elder time, I cannot but " ■ reotrk his exemption from the quaintness and false nufphor which so ot'ien disligure the style of the ' prtkling a^e ; nor deny tny respect to the select -h^e ol his e.Kpression, the clearness and keeping ! li imagery, and the pensive dignity of his moral e-ig. ■'ope gave our heroic couplet its strictest nie- idand tersest e.xpression. \0'un mot mis en so place it enseigne le pouvoir. If \i contemporaries forgot other poets in admiring hinjlet him not be robbed of his just fame on pre- ten| that a part of it was superfluous. The public ircas lorig fatigued with repetitions of his man- but if we place ourselves in the situation of to whom his brilliancy, succinctness and ani- n were wholly new, we cannot wonder at being captivated to the fondist admiration. — ief to do justice to Pope, we should forget litators, if that were possible ; but it is easier member than to forijet by an effort — to acquire aiions than to .shake them ofT. Every one ecoUect how often the most beauiiiul air has upon his ear, and grown insipid, from l)eing ■W DoriaiW .jassf. „ . IHMliittla; j or sung by* vulgar musicians. It is the same ifUJOfliW!' lit with reL'ard«o Pope's versification. That hii ^nilbtil K ar rhythm and manner are the very best PjBteifaiif •* hole range of our poetry need not he asserted. , |]iiiiii{ii [e s H gracefully peculiar manner, though it is Lp-^lkfliil 01 Iculaied to be an universal one ; and when-, '' , shall we find the style of poetry that could ^0fi^ » finounced an exclusive model for every com ^^[i Mpect and afTection among the nobiliiy and goniry ; nor X 2 294 POETRY. was the romantic scenery of the country lost upon ' his fancy. From the poem svhich he meditated on ' Lochlomond, it is seen that lie looked on it wiih a [ poet's eye. But, unhappily, the meagre anecdotes 1 of Drummond have made this event of liis life too ! prominent, by the over-^mportani'e which has been aiiaclied to them. Drummond, a smooth and sober gentleman, seems to have disliked Jonson's indul- gence in I hat conviviality which Ben had shared with his Fletcher and Shakespeare at the Mermaid. In consequence of those anecdotes, Jonson's mem- ory has been damned for brutality, and Drum- mond's for perfidy. Jonson drank freely at Haw- thornden, and talked big — things neither incredibJe nor unpardonable. Drummond's perfidy amounted to writing a letter, beginning Sir, wiih one very kind .-sentence in it. to the man whom he had de- scribed unfavourably in a private memorandum, which he never meant for publication. As to Drum- mond's decoying Jonson under his roof with any premeditated design on his reputation, no one can seriously believe it." — Vol. iii. pp. 150, 151. The notice of Cotton may be quoted, as a perfect model for such slight memorials of writers of the middle order. " There is a careless and happy humour in this fftiet's Voyage to Ireland, which seems to anticipate the manner "f Anstey. in the^th Guide. The tasteless indelicacy of his parody of the iEneid has found but too many admirers. His imitations of Lucian betray the grossest misconception of humor- ous effect, when he attempts to burlesque that which is ludicrous already. He was acquainted with French and Italian ; and among several works from the former language, Iranslated the Horace of Corneille. and Montaigne's Essays. " The father of Cotton is described by Lord Cla- rendon as an accomplished and honourable man. who was driven by domestic afflictions to habits which rendered his age less reverenced tlian his youth, and made his best friends wish that he had not lived so long. From him our poet inherited an incumbered estate, with a disposition to e.xirava- gance liitle calculated to improve it. After having studied at Cambridnre, and returned from his travels abroad, he married the daughter of Sir Thomas Owihnrji. in Nottinghamshire. He went to Ireland as a captain in the army ; but of his military pro- gress nothing is recorded. Having embraced the soldier's life merely as a shift in distress, he was not likely to pursue it with much ambition. It was probably in Ireland that he met with his second wile, Mary, Countess Dowager of .^rdglasa. the widow of Lord Cornwall. She had a jointure of 1500/. a year, secured from his imprudent- management. He died insolvent, at Westminster. One of his favourite recreations was' angling ; and his house, which was situated on the Do-^ , a fine trout stream which divides the counties of Derby and Stafford, was the frequent resort of his friend Isaac Walton There he built a fishing house, ' Piscatoribus sa- crum.' with the initials of honest Isaac's name and his own uniied in ciphers over the door. The walls were painted with fishing-scenes, and the portraits of Cotton and Walton were upon ihe beanfet. — pp. 293, 294. There is a very betiutiful and affectionate account of Parnell. — But there is more power of writing, and more depth and delicacy of feeling, in the following masterly account and estimate of Lillo. " George Lillo. was the son of a Dutch jeweller, who married an F.Mglishwoman. and settled in Lon- don. (~)iir poet was born near Moorfield*. was bred to his father's business, and followed it for many years. The story of his dying in distress was a fiction of Hammond, the poet ; for ho bequeathed a considerable property to his nephew, whom he made his heir. It has been said, that this bet k was in consequence of his finding the young uj disposed to lend him a sum of money at a i* when he thought proper to feign pecuniary dist s, in order that he might discover the sinceri jf those calling themselves his Iriends. Thomas |. vies, his biographer and editor, professes to fe got this anecdote from a surviving partner of o. It bears, however, an intrinsic air ol improbal y' It is^not usual for sensible tradesmen to affec e^ ing on the verge of bankruptcy ; and Lillo's j. acter was that of an uncommonly sensible n. Fielding, his intimate friend, ascribes to h i manly simplicity of mind, that is extremely i,^ such a stratagem. '• LiUo is the tragic poet of middling and fai itt life. Instead of heroes from romance and hi 7, he gives the merchant and his apprentice ; at be Macbeth of his ' Fatal Curiosity' is a privati -a- tleman, who has been reduced by his pove to dispose of his copy of Seneca for a morsel of 1 ij. The mind will be apt, alter reading his wor to suggest to itself the question, how tar the ; rer drama would gain or lose by a more general jp. tion of this plebeian principle. The cares, i in be said, that are most familiar to our exisienc ind the distresses of those nearest to ourselves in u. tion, ought to lay the strongest hold upon oui m- pathies; and the general mass of society ou lo furnisli a more express image of man than a d^ tached or elevated portion of the species, liil, notwithstanding the power of Lillo's worl wt entirely miss in them that romantic attraction licb invites to repeated perusal of them. They ; iw life in a close and dreadful semblance of 1 iiy, but not arrayed in the magic illusion of poetj Ebi strength lies in conception of situations, ; b beauty of dialogue, or in the eloquence of tl nt- sions. Yet the effect of his plain and home mb- jects was so strikingly superior to that of th' ipid and heroic productions of the day, as to ln' some of his contemporary admirers to proi that he had reached the acme of dramatv lence, and struck into the best and most ; path of tragedy. George Barnwell, it was ob vea. 1 drew more tears than ihe rants of Alexande This j might be true; but it did not bring the com i«': of huinble and heroic subjects to a fair test ; tragedy of Alexander is bad, not from its but from the incapacity of the poet who d it. It does not prove that heroes, drawn ^ tory or romance, are not at least as suscei high and poetical effect, as a wicked apprei a distressed gentleman pawning his inoveai >• ■■ | is a different question whether Lillo has givi oii» subjects from private Me, the degree ofbi lyol which they are susceptible. He 'is a maste I Ui- rific. but "not of tender impressions. Wi'eel » harshness and gloom in his genius, even \ lew* are compelled ro admire its force and origii ty. i " The peculiar choice of his subjects w; v events, happy and commendable, as far ; " garded himself; for his talents never succ N well whetj he ventured out of them. I another question, whether the familiar cas subjects was fitted to constitute a more - or»nly a sjibordinaie walk in tragedy. ' *' edly the genuine delineation of the hun will please us, from whatever station 01 '< stances of life it is derived: and, in tl; -i pathos of tragedy, probably very little '' will be fell from the choice of charact. pitched above or below the line of met r station. But something more than patl '■ quired in tragedy ; and the very pain th: '■ our sympathy, wouj^ seem to require ' and romantic associations of the lancx ' with its poignancy. Whatever an 1 importance, publicity, and elevatioi' • ■ of pity, forms a brightening and ailurin.' '=', to the imagination. Athens herself, wi »■ simplicity and democracy, delighted on tl sw^ •• Neaj, '.BC!ill«» CAMPBELLS SPECLMENS OF THE POE'lc. i»S 'Let gorgeous Trapedy In scepter'd pall come swi-eping l>y.' Even siiuaiions far depressed beneuih ilu- fiiinil- r mediocrity of life, are more pieiuresnue unJ )elical than iia ordinary level. It is reriuiiily on e viriiies of the middling rank'ol lile, that the rength and comforts of soeieiv chicHy d»-pfiid. le same way as we look for the harvest, not on if&atid precipices, but on the easy slope and the liform plain. But the painter does not in genernl fon level countries tor the subjouls of his noblest idscapes. There is an analogy, I conceive, to sin the moral painting of tragedy. Disparities station give it boldness of outline. The com- Iuiding situations of life are iis mountain sienery the reijion where its storm and sunshine may be rtrayed ill their strongest contrast and colouring." Vol. v. pp. 5S— G2.. Nothing, we think, can be more exquisite tniliil; 1^1 i,iiow(ii4 preover of opinion, that the merits of Lillo. a poet at least, aie consiileiably overrateil. Here is a llatiiess and a weakness in his dir- in, that we think must have struck Mr. C. Dre than he has acknowletlged, — and a tone, casionally, both of vuliiurity and of paltry "ectatioii, that counteracts the pathetic etlect . his conceptions, and does injustice to the periment of domestic trajjedy. The critique on Thomson is distinguished J: the same fine tact, candour, and concise- iss. mddliiigiii' tomannul •nly'isijn k. Ttew II loom ea mo orate iwtiolilijiji iiaoltowii I', of mil . oi the i[ii :r ik' Lih'n an this criticism. — though we are far from iuig entire converts to its doctrines; and are rillosiotiollt aemii "Habits of early admiration teach us all to look iJfliiniiMBi |;k upon this poet as the favouriie comiianion of ;ifmiiolkilii <-9olitai7 walks, and as the author who has first .( lie day, «! | tweniy-six. Those works will abide conipariguii with whatever Milton wrote under the age ol thirty. It they have rather less exubcrniit wealth ol ^vnuia, they e.\hil>it more exiiuisito touches ol pathos. Like Milton, he leads us into the haunti-d ground ol imaginniioii ; like him, he has the rich ecmioniy of expression holoed with thought, which by itingle or lew words often hints entire pictures to the imagi- naiion. In what short and Bim|)le terms, lor in- stance, does he open a wide and majestic lundtcapc to the mind, sucii as we might view Irom Uvnlu- mond or Snowden — when he speaks ol the hut 'That from nonie niountnin'* Kiile Views wilUH and swvlling Hoods' .\nd in the line, ' Where faint and sickly winds for ever howl around.' lie does not seem merely to describe the sultry desert, but brings it home to the senses. •■ A cloud of obscurity sometimes rests on hia highest conceptions, arising from the fincnes.s ol hia associations, and the daring sweep ol Ms illusions ; but the shadow is transitory, and inierlere.H little with the light of hia iinasery, or the of his feelings. 'I'he absence ol even this speck of mysticism from his Ode on the Passions is perhaps the happy circumstance that secured its unbounded popularity. Nothing, however, is common-place in Collinsi The pastoral eclogue, which is insipid in all other English hands, assumes in Ins a touch- ing interest, and a picturesque air of novelty. It seems that he himself uliimaiely undervalued those eclogues, as deficient in characteristic manners ; but surely no just reader ol them cares any more about this circumstance than about the authenticity of the tale of Troy. "In his Ode to Fear he hints at his dramatic ambition ; and he planned several tragedies. Had he lived to enjoy and adorn existence, it is not easy to conceive his sensitive spirit and harmonious tar descending to mediocrity in any path ol poetry ; yet it may be doubted if his mind had not a pas- sion for the visionary and niiiote forms of imngnm- tion, too strong ana exclusive for the general pur- po.ses of the drama. His genius loved to breathe rather in the preternatural and ideal element of poetrv, than in the atmosphere of imitotioii, which lies closest to real lile ; and his notions of potiical excellence, whatever vows he might address to ' the manners,' were still tending to the vast, the iindefinable, and the absirnci. Certainly, how- ever, he carried sensibility and tenderness into the hmhest reiiioiiB of abstracted thought : His cnihu- viirmtn iliision of homely objects. It is but justice to say, j gin.sni spreads a glow even amongst ' the shadowy tIJ! amidst the feeling and fancy of the .Seasons wjmeet with interruptions of declamation, heavy n rative. and unhappy digression — with a parhelion e (uence that throws a counterfeit glow of expres- 811 on common-place ideas — as when he treats us t| rriii- cism. We should think the painter had fimshrd the likeneaa of a mother very ijidiffvrcnily, if il 296 POETRY. did not bring home to her children trails of unde- finable expre-^sion which had escaped every eye but thai of fainiliar-nfTfiiion. Ramsay had n»t ihe force of Burns; but, iieiilier. in jus; proportion to his merits, is he hkeiy to be felt by aii English reader. The fire of Burns' wit and passion glows through an obscure dialect by its confinement to short and concentrated bursts. The interest which Ramsay e.xcites is spread over a long poem, deline- ating manners more than passions, and the mind must be at home both in the language and manners, to appreciate the skill and comic archness with which he iias heightened the display of rustic character without giving it vulgarity, and refined the view of peasant life by situations of sweetness and ten- derness, without departing in the least degree from its simplicity. The Gentle Shepherd stands quite apart from the general pastoral poetry of modern Europe. It has no satyrs, nor featureless simple- tons, nor drowsy and still landscapes ol nature, but distinct characters and amusing incidents. The principal shepherd never speaks out of consistency with the habits of a peasant ; but he moves in that sphere with such a manly spirit, with so much cheerful sensibility to its humble joys, with max- ims of life so rational and independent, and with an ascendency over his fellow swains so well main- tained by his force of character, that if we could suppose the pacific scenes of the drama to be sud- denly changed into situations ot trouble and danger, we should, in exact consistency wiih our former idea of him, expect him to become the leader of the peasants,' and the Tell of his native hamlet. Nor is the character of his mistress less beautifully conceived. She is repr€sented, like himself, as elevated, by a fortunate discovery, from obscure to opulent life, yet as equally capable of being the ornament of either. A Richardson or a D'Arblay, had they continued her history, might have height- ened the portrait, but they would not have altered its ouiline. Like the poetry of Tasso and Ariosto, that of the Gentle Shepherd is engraven on the memory, and has sunk into the heart, of its native country. Its verses have passed into proverbs, and it continues to be the delijiht and solace of the peasantry whom it describes." — pp. 344 — 346. We think the merits of Akeiiside under- rated, and those of Churchill exagsrerated : But we have found no passage in which the amiable but equitable and reasonable indulg- ence of Mr. Campbell's mind is so conspicu- ous, as in his account of Chattcrton — and it is no slight thing for a poet to have kept him- self cool and temperate, on a them^^ which has hurried so many inferior spirits into pas- sion and extravagance. "When we conceive," says Mr. C, "the in- spired boy transporting himself in imagination back to the days of his fictitious Rowley, embodying his ideal character, and giving to airy nothing a ' local habitation and a name,' w(^ may forget the im- postor in the enthusiast, and forgive the lalsehood of his reverie for its beauty and ingenuiiv. One oi' his companions has described the air of rapture and inspiration with which he used to repeat his passages from Rowley, and the delight which lie took to contemplate the church of St. Mary Red- cliffe, while it awoke the associations of aniiqu^iy in his romantic mind. There was one spot in particular, full in view of the chiirrh, where he would often lay himself down, and fix his eyes, as it were, in a trance. On Sundays, as long as day- light lasted, he would walk alone in ihe counti-y around Bristol, taking drawings of churches, or other objects that struck his imnginaiinn. " During the few monih.t of his existence in London, his letters to his mother and sister, which were always accompanied with presents, expressed the most joyous anticipations. But suddenly all the flush of his gay hopes and busy projects t( tninaied in despair. Tlie particular causes whi led to his catastrophe have not been disiinci traced. His own descriptions of his prospec are but little to be trusted ; for while appareni exchanging his shadowy visions of Rowley for t real adventures of lite, he was still moving und the spell of an imagination that saw every thing exaggerated colours. Out of this dream he w at length awakened, when he found that he li miscalculated the chances of patronage and ti profits of literary labour. " The heart which can peruse the fate of Ch; tcrton without being moved, is little to be envi for iis tranquillity; but the intellects of ib.ose m must be as deficient as their hearts are uncharitab who, confounding all shades of moral disiiuciio have ranked his literary fiction of Rowley in i same class of crimes with pecuniary forgery; a have calculated that if he had not died by his o\ hand he would have probably ended his days up a gallows! This disgusting semence has be pronounced upon a youth who was exemplary severe study, temperance, and natural affectic His Rowleian forgery must indeed be pronounc improper by the general law which condemns serious and deliberate falsifications; but it depri\ no man of his fame; it had no sacrilegious inierf. ence with the memory of departed genius ; it \- not, like Lauder's imposture, any malignant mot to rob a party, or a country, of a naiiie which « its pride and ornament. " Setting aside the opinion of those unctiarital biographers, whose imaginations have coiiduci him to the gibbet, it may be ojvned thai his i formed character exhibited strong and coiiflicti elements of good and evil. Even the monienn' project of the infidel boy to become a 3Iethot preacher, betrays an obliquity of design and a C( tempt of human credulity that is not very amial But had he been spared, his pride and ambit would probaltly have come to flow in their proi channels. His understanding would have taui him the practical value of truth and the dignity virtue, and he would have despised artifice, wl he had felt the strength and security of wi&doi In estimating the promises of his genius. I wo, rather lean to the utmost enthusiasm of his adnr' ers, than to the cold opinion of those who are air of being blinded to the defects of the poems alti utcd to Rowley, by the veil of obsolete phraseolc which is thrown over them. "The inequality of Chatterion's various p ductions may be compared to the disproporiions the ungrown giant. His works had nothing of definite neatness of that precocious talent wl. Slops short in early maturity. His thirst for knf , ledge was that of a being taught by instinct to . up materials for the exercise of great and un veloped powers. Even in his favourite max pushed it might be to hyperbole, that a man absiinence and perseverance m\"\\\. accomp!' whatever he pleased, may be traced the indicati , of a genius which nature had meant to achieve wo of immortality. Tasso alone can be compared to I as a juvenile prodigy. No English poet ever eqi led him at the same age." — Vol. vi. pp. 1J(")— It The account of Gray is excellent; and t of Goldsmith delightful. We can afford.' give but an inconsiderable part of it. " Goldsmith's poetry enjoys a calm and 8le ' popul;nity. It inspires us, indeed, with no adm ' lion of daring design, or of fertile invention; bir'. presonis. wiiliin its narrow limits, adisiinct and broken view of poetical deliipidity. Perhaps there is an iniellec 1 composure in his manner, which may. in some i; sages, be said to approach to the reserved and { • CAMPBELL'S SPECIMEN'S OF THE POCTS. 297 lie; but he unbends from this grnvcr sirain t)f ■tloriion, lo lendernt'ss. and even lo |i|i)yriiliu>»i!>, nil !in cast' ami irrace aliiiosi exeliisivrly liisuwn: 111 coiinecis e.xiensive views of the hnppintss and ;ieresis ol society, wiih-piclures of lile, thai lourh le heart by their fainihariiy. • His h»iit;ii;ige is cer- iiiily simple, though it is not cast id a rugged or irt'less mould. He is no disciple oltlic gaunt and rnished school of simplicity. Dclihoraitly as he rote, he cannot be accused of wanting natural atid loinaiic e.\f ression ; but still it is select and re- :cd e.\pressiori. He uses the ornatnonis which lUst always distinguish true poetry from prose; id when he adopts colloquial plainness, jt is with 10 utmost care and skill, to avoid a vulgar humility, here is more of this elegant simplicity, of this laste economyand choice of words, in Goidsmiih, an in any modern poet, or periiaps than would he lainable or desirable as a standard for every writer rhytne. In extensive narrative poems such a vie would be too diflicult. There is a noble pro- icty even in the careless streniiih of great poems in the roughness of castle walls; and. generally leaking, where there is a long course of story, or 'servaiion of life to be pursued, such exquisite uches as those of Goldsmith would be too costly atcrials for sustaining it. The tendency towards istracted observation in his poetry agrees peculiarly ith the compendious form of expression which he [udied; whilst the homefelt joys, on which his mcy loved to repose, required at once the chastest [id sweetest colours of language, to make them irmonize with the dignity of a pliilosophical poem. i- whole manner has a still depth of feeling and ilection, which gives back the image of nature iruffled and minutely. He has no redundant oughts, or false transports ; but seetns on every oasion to have weigheii the impulse to which he rrendered hiinself. Whatever ardour or casual icities he may have thus sacrificed, he gained a jh degree of purity and self-possession. His aste pathos makes him an insinuaiing moralist ; d throws a charm of Claude-like softness over his scripiions of homely objects, that would seem ly fit to be the subjects of Dutch painting. But I quiet enthusiasm leads the affections to humble ings without a vulgar association ; and he inspires with a fondness to irace the simplest recollections Auburn, till we count the furniture of its ale- use, and listen to the ' varnished clock that eked behind the door.' " — pp.261 — 263. Tliere is too much of William Whitehead, id almost too much of Richard Glover, — and 'irreat deal too much of Arahurst Selden, amstou, and jNIesloii. Indeed the ne quid mis seems to have been more forgotten by '• learned editor in the last, than in any of e other volumes. Yet there is by no means I much of BuniS; or Cowper, or even of the artons. The abstract of Burns" life is beau- ul ; and we are most willing to acknowledge ■It the defence of the poet, ayjiijust some of <• severities of tliis Journal, is substantially ccessful. No one Avho reads all that we Lve written of Bums, will doubt of the sin- |rity'of our admiration for his genius, or of depth of our veneration and sympathy for lofty character and his untimely fate. )e still think he had a vuli»r taste in letter- ritinp; and too frequently patronized the lief of a connection between licentious in- igences and generosity of character. But. looking back on what we have paid on s»3 subjfcts, we are sensible that we ha»c jrcssed ourselves with too much bitter- ns, and made the words of our censure far >re compreheusive than our meaning. A certain tone of e.\aprreration is incident, we fear, lo the sort of wnting in winch we arw eiig-.Lgid. Kfikdiiing u iillle too uiiich, jht- haps, on the dulness of our reader.s, we are otlen li'd, unconsciously, lo ove-istate our sentiments, in order to make theni under- -stood ; ami, wlu-re n little controvrr.sial warmtji is adiled to a little love of iirect, an excess of colouring is apt lo steal over the C4invass which ultimately ylleiids no eye so much as our own. We gladly make this expiation lo the shade of our illustrious countryman. In his observations on Joseph Warton, Mr. C. resumes the coiitrover.-^y about the i>oeticai character of Pope, uixiii v.hich he had entered at the close oi his Essiy ; and as to which we hope to have some other ojiporlunily of giving our opinions. At pn-.sent. however, we must hasten to a conclusiou ; and shall make our last extracts from the notice of Cowper, w hich is drawn up on somew hat of a larger scale than any other in the work. The ab- stract of his life is given with great tenderness and beauty, and with consiilerabie fulness of detail. But the remarks on his poetry are the most precious, — and are all that we have now room to borrow. " The nature of Cowper's works makes us peculiarly identify the poet and the man in perusing tliem. As an individual, he was letired and wcanea Irom ihn vanities of the world ; and. as an original writer, he lelt the ambitious and iuxuriuni subjccta ol fiction and passion, for those of real lite and sim- ple nature, and for the development of his own earnest feeling.^, in behalf of moral and religious truth. His language has such a masculine idiom- atic strength, and his maninr, whether he rises into grace or falls into negligence, has so much plain and familiar freedom, that we read no poetry with a deeper conviction ol its sentiments having come Irom the author's heart ; and ol the enthu- siasm, in whatever he describes, having been un- feigned and unexaggeraied. He impresses us with the idea of a being, whose fine spirit had been long enough in the mixed society of the world to be polished by its intercourse, and yet withdrawn so soon as to retain an unworldly degree of purity and simplicity. He was advanced in years before he became an auihor; but his compositioiix disnlay a tenderness of feeling so youihlully preser^d, and even a vein <'f humour so tar Irom being extinguished by his ascftic habits, that we can scarcely regret his not having written them at an earlier pt nod of life. For he blends the dcterminanon uf nge with an exquisite and ingenuous sensibility; and though ho sports very much with his sulijecis. yet, w hen he is in earnest, there i.i a gravity ol long-felt conviction in his sentiments, which gives an unconimun ripe- ness ol character to his poetry. " It is due to Cowper to fix our regard on this unatl'ectedness and auiheniicitv of his works, con- sidered as represeniaiions uf liimstlf, because ho lorms a striking instance of cenius writing the his- tory ol its own recluded feelings, refiecnuna. and enjoy tncntii, in a shape so interesting as to engage tliif iniaginaiion like a work of fiction. He has ia- vented no character in fnlile, nor in the drama ; but lie lias left a record of hi.i own character, which lorms ni>i only an object of d< ep sympNihy, but ■ su' ject for the study ut human iintiire. His verse. It is true, I'diisidered as such u record, abounds with oppoKiie truiiH of scviriiy and g< ntlencwi, of play- liilneks niid Kupersntion, ol solemnity and nurlo, wliirh appear almost anomalnus ; and ihcre ■•• UO- duiibiedly, aomeiimes an air ol moody »rr««iiliiy in the extreme contrasts of his leclings. liui looluog 298 POETRY. to his poetry as an entire structure, it has a massive air of sincerity. It is founded in steadfast princi- ples of belief; and, if we may prolong the archi- tectural metaphor, though its arches may be some- times gloomy, its tracery sportive, and its lights and shadows grotesquely crossed, yet altogether it still forms a vast, various, and interesting monument of the builder's mind. Young's works are as devout, as satirical, sometimes as merry, as those of Cow- per; and, undoubtedly, more witty. But the melan- choly and wit ot Young do not make up to us the idea of a conceivable or natural being. He has sketched in his pages the ingenious, but incongruous form of a fictitious mind — Cowper's soul speaks from his volumes." " Considering the tenor and circumstances of his life, it is not much to be wondered at, that some asperities and peculiarities should have adhered to the strong stem of his genius, like the moss and fungus that cling to some noble oak of the forest, amidst the damps of its unsunned retirement. It is more sur- prising that he preserved, in such seclusion, so much genuine power of comic observation. There is much of the full distinctness of Theophrastus, and of the nervous and concise spirit of La Bruyere, in his piece entitled ' Conversation,' with a cast of humour superadded, which is peculiarly English, and not to be found o^it of England." — Vol. vii. pp. 357, 358. Of his greatest work, The Task, he after- wards observes, " His whimsical outset in a work, where he promises so little and performs so much, may be advantageously contrasted with those magnificenf commencement of poems, which pledge both the reader and the writer, in good earnest, to a task. Cowper's poem, on the contrary, is like a river, which rises from a playful little fountain, and gathers beauty and magnitude as it proceeds. He leads us abroad into his daily walks ; he exhibits the landscapes which he was accustomed to con- template, and the trains of thought in which he habitually indulged. No attempt is made to in- terest us in legendary fictions, or historical recol- lections connected with the ground over which he expatiates; all is plainness and reality: But we instantly recognise the true poet, in the clearness, sweetness, and fidelity of his scenic draughts ; in his power of giving novelty to what is common ; and in the high relish, the exquisite enjoyment of rural siglits and sounds, which he communicates to the spirit. ' His eyes drink the rivers with de- light.' He excites an idea, that almost amounts to sensation, of the I'reshness and delight of a rural walk, even when he leads us to the wasteful com- mon, flthich ' Overgrown with fern, and rough With prickly gorse, that, shapeless and delorni'd, And dang'rous to the touch, has yet its bloom, And decks itself with ornaments of gold, Yields no unpleasing ramble. There the turf Smells fresh, and, rich in odorif'rous herbs And fungous fruits of earth, regales the sense Witii luxuries of unexpected sweets.' " His rural prospects have far less variety and compass than those of Thomson ; but his graphic touches are *iore close and minute : not that Thomson was either deficient or undelightful in circumstantial traits of the beauty of nature, but he looked to her as a whole more than Cowper. His genius was more excursive and philosophical. The poet of Olney, on the contrary, regarded human philosophy with something of theological contempt. To liis eye, the great and little ihinas of this world were levelled into an equality, by his recollection of the power and purposes of Him who made thein. They are, in his view, only as toys spread on the lap and carpet of nature, for this childhood of our immortal being. This reli- gious indifference to the world is far, indeed, from blunting his sensibility to the genuine and simple beauties of creation ; but it gives his taste a c . tentinent and fellowship with humble things, i makes him careless of selecting and refinincr j views of nature beyond their actual appearan. . He contemplated the face of plain rural Eng \ lite, in moments of leisure and sensibility, til] g minutest features were impressed upon his fan ; and he sought not to embellish what he" lo' ;. Hence his landscapes have less of the ideally b( • tiful than Thomson's ; but they have an unriva 1 charm of truth and reality. " He is one of the few poets, who have indui d neither in descriptions nor acknowledgments f the passion of love ; but there is no poet who s given us a finer conception of the amenity f female influence. Of all the verses that have t a ever devoted to the subject of domestic happin i, those in his winter evening, at the opening of e fourth book of The Task, are perhaps the i it beautiful. In perusing that scene of ' intimate !• lights,' 'fireside enjoyments,' and 'home-In happiness,' we seem to recover a part of the •. gotten value of existence ; when we recognist e means of its blessedness so widely dispensed, d so cheaply attainable, and find them suscep le of description at once so enchanting and so fait j. " Though the scenes of The 'I'ask are lai q retirement, the poem affords an amusing pers ;• tive of human affairs. Remote as the poet u from the stir of the great Babel, from the ' i- /usa so/ius Urbis, et illatabile murmur,' he gla la at most of the subjects of public interest w h engaged the attention of his contemporaries, in those subjects, it is but faint praise to say th; le espoused the side of justice and humanity. Ab 1- ance of mediocrity of talent is to be found one same side, rather injuring than promotingie cause, by its officious declamation. But none can be further from the stale commonplace id cuckooism of sentiment, than the philanth lic eloquence of Cowper — he speaks ' like one hi ig authority.' Society is his debtor. Poeiical « o- sitions of the horrors of slavery may, indeed, m very unlikely agents in coniributing to destro I; and it is possible that the most refined plant io the West Indies, may look with neither si o« nor compunction on his own image in tlie ) ei of Cowper. But such appeals to the heart cm community are not lost! They fix thcinses silently in the popular memory ; and they bee le, at last, a part of that public opinion, which i St. sooner or later, wrench the lash from the hai of the oppressor." — pp.359 — 364. But we must now break away at once >ni this delightful occupation ; and take our lal farewell of a work, in which, what is orii al, is scarcely less valuable than what is rf ib- lished, and in which the genius of a 1 ng Poet has shed a fresh grace over the f: ng glories of so many of his departed brot rs. We Avish somebody would continue the ^ rk, by furnishing us with Specimens of our L'ng Poets. It would be more difficult, to be re, and more dangerous; but. in some resj its, it would also be more useful. The be; les of the unequal and voluminous writers ^ uW be more conspicuous in a selection; an the different styles and schools of poetry Mild be brought into fairer and nearer teiT,of comparison.- by the mere juxtaposition ol wn best productions ; while a better and c '.rei view would be obtained, both of the g( OTl progress and apparent tendencies of th art: than can easily be gathered from the se]:*!*" study of each important production, fhe mind of the critic, too, would be at onren- lightened and tranquillized by the very ,»t- ness of the horizon thus subjected ws FORDS DRAMATIC WORKS. survey; and he wouiJ orobably rt-jraril, l>olh with less enthusiasm aiiti less uirenee, tlioso contrasted and coinpensiitinj;; beauties and defects, when presented to<(t>ther, and aa it were in combination, than he can over do when they come upon him in distinct mass»"s, and without the relief and soflenin;; of so va- ried aji assembla;re. On the other hand, it caiHiot be dissembled, that such a work wi>uld be very tryniii to the uidiappy editor's pro- phetic reputation, as well as to his imprti- alily and temper ; and would, at all events, subject him to the most furioufl inipututiuiii« of unlairncMt nml malignity. In ]Miuit iil , courage luid cumlunr, we Jo not know any- ; bouis XIV., can come at all into comparison: For, in that short period. we shall find the nafnes of almost all the very great men that this nation has ever produccd,-:-the names of Shakespeare, and Bafon. and Spenser, and Sydney, — and Hooker, and Taylor, and Barrowj and Italeigh, — and Napier, and Milton, and Cudworth. and Hobbes, and many others; — men, all o| them, not merely of great talents and ac- comj)lishments, but of vast compass and reach of under.standing, and of minds truly creative and original; — not perfecting art by the delicacy of their taste, or digesting know- ledce by the justness of their reasonings ; but making vast and substantial additions to th»» materials upon which taste and reason must hi'reafter be employed. — and enlaririnv.'. to an incredible and unparalleled extent. Injlh the stores and the resources of the human facul- ties. Whether the brisk concussion which was given to men's minds by the force of the Reformation had much effect in producing this sudden development of Brilisn grmus, we cannot urnlerlake to determine. For our own part, we should be rather inclined to hold, that the Reformation it.^elf was but one symptom or < fiect of that great spirit ol pro- gression and improvement which had hnu set in operation by deeper and more yi 1 1 causes: and which afterwards blossomed out into this splendid harvest of authorship. But whatever may have been the causes that deteimined the appearance of tho.so great works, the fact is certain, not only that they appeared together in irreal numbers, but that they po.ssewsed a common character, which, in spite of the great diversity of their sub- jects aiiign author ties. But the Restoration brought in a Frciic, taste upon us, and what was called a cliisssic; and a polite taste; and the wingsof our Enj' lish IViuses were clipped and trimmed, aii; their fiights regulated at the e.vper.se of a; that was peculiar, and fnuch of what wi^ brightest in their beauty. The King and h courtiers during their long exile, had of coun imbibed the taste of their protectors; an; cominn" from the gay court of Prance, wi something of that additional pro(Jig:.'cy th' belonaed^ to their outcast and advcntur FORDS DR-\MATIC WORKS. 301 •haracter, were likely eijough to be revolted ly the peculiarities, and by the very'excel- eiices, ol our native literature. The grand iid sublime tone of oiu greater jxjets, ap- leareil to 7Tlt*!n dull, morose, and gloomy; nd tlie line play of their rich and unre- tiained fancy, mere childisimess and foil v : vhile their frequent lapses and perpetual ir- egularity were set liown as clear indications t barbarity and ignorance. Such sentiment?, 00, were natural, we must ailmit, for a few issipated and witty men, accustomed all lieir days to the regulated splendour of a Kurt — to the g-ay and heartless gidlantry of "lench manners — and to the imposing pomp lid bnllianl regularity of French poetry. lut, it may appear somewhat more unac- ountable that they should have been able to upose their sentiments upon the great btnly I the nation. A court, indeed, never has so luch iiiduence as at the moment of a resto- ition : but the influence of an English court as been but rarely discernible in the litera- ire of the country ; and had it not, been for le peculiar circumstances in which the nation as then placed, we believe it would have 'sisted this attempt to naturalise foreign no- uns, as sturdily as it was done on almost very other occasion. I At this particular moment, however, the ative hterature of the country had been sunk ptoa very low an.d feeble state byAe rigours if the usurpation, — the best of its recent odels laboured under the reproach of re- blicanisra, — and the courtiers were not only sposed to see all its peculiarities with an e of scorn and aversion, but had even a lod deal to say in favour of that very oppo- te style to which they had been habituated. I was a witty, and a grand, and a splendid Ule. It showed more scholarship and art, lan the luxuriant negligence of the old nglish school ; and was not only free from lauy of its hazards and some of its fault.*, at possessed merits of its own, of a charac- T mor^ikely to please those who had then le power of conferrinu celebrity, or con- smning to derision. Then it was a style hich it was peculiarly easy to justify by •^rument ; and in support of which great ithorities. as well as imposing reasons, were ways ready to be produced. It came upon ^ with the air and the pretension of being the vie of cultivated Europe, and a true copy the style of polished antiquity. Englanii, 1 the other hand, had had but little inter- 'urse with the rest of the world for a con- lerable period of time : Her language was )t at all studied on, the Continent, and her ilive authors had not been taken into account forming those ideal standards of excellence hich had been recently constructed in France id Italy nnon the authority of the Roman assies, and of their own most celebrated riters. When the comparison came to be ade, therefore, it is easy to imagine that it lould generally be thought to be very much our disadvantage, and to understand how le great multitude, even among ourselves. lOuld be dazzled with the pretensiona of the I fashionable style of writing, and actually feel/ ; ashamed of t^eir own richer and more \uried I productions. | I It would greatly exceed our limits' to «le- j .icribe accurately the ]mrticulaiR in wiinh this new Continental etyle diliered Inmi cui oM insular one : But. lor our prewnl j urj • m. it may lu- enough perhapfi to .siy. thut it \ui(* more worldly, and more townit*- ed more to the judgment than to the freliic-". , and somewhat ostentatiously accommoilal) d/ to the habits, or sujjposed liabito, ot pi isoni* in fashionable life. In.'»teadof lenderiiesp mil faia\v. we had satire and sophis((y — artiticial declamation, in place of the s|>ontaneous ani- mation of giMiius — and for the univerfml lan- guage of f^hakespeare. the personalities, the party politics, and the brutal obscenities of Drvden. Nothing, indeed. ran better charac- terize the change which had taken place in our national taste, than the alterations and ailditions which this eminent jR-r.^on ])resnmed — and thought it neces.s'iry — to make »in the productions of Shakespeare and Milton. The heaviness, the coarseness, and the l>oml>a»t of that abominable travestie, in which he has exhibitinl the Paradise Lost in the foini of an opera, and the atrocious indelicacy and com- passionable stupidity of the new characters with which he has polluted the enchanted solitude of Miranda and Prospero in the Tempest, are such instances ol digenemcy as we would be apt to impute rather to some transient hallucination in the author hims«'lf, than to the general prevalence of any sys- tematic bad taste in the public, did we not know that»Wycherly and his coadjutors -were in the habit of converting the neglected dramas of Beaumont and Fletcher into popular plays, merely by leaving out all the romantic swt et- ness of their characters — turning their melo- dious blank verse into vulgar pro.se — and apgravating the indelicacy of their Ipwer characters, by lending a more disgusting indecency to the whole dramatis penoiia. Dryden was, beyond all comparison, the greatest poet of his own day ; and. endued as he was with a vigorous and discursive mastery over his language which no later writer has at- imagination, and ix)sse.sllng a mastery over tained, if he had known nothing of foreign literature, and been left to form himself on the models of Shakespeare, Spenser, and ! Milton; or if he had lived in the country)| at a distance from the i)ollutioiis of courts, faction.*, and playhouses, there is reason to think that he woulil have built up the jairc and original school of English poetry so tirndy, as to have made it impossible for fashion, or caprice, or prejudice of any sort, ever to luive rendered any other jjopular amon;,' our own inhabitants. As it i.--, he has not written one • line that is reilhetic. and very few that can be considered a«"BTlT>Tjmscriptioiis. or glow- ing illustrations, he was led, by the restraintt^ and established taste of his age, to work itutj into strange and iantastical epigrams, or intti cold and revolting hyperboles. Instead of letting it flow gracefully on, in an easy anc sparkling current, he perpetually forces it ou in jets, or makes it stagnate in formal canals and thinking it necessary to write like Pope when the bent of hiis genius led him rathe to copy what was best in Cowloy and mo6 fantastic in Shakespeare, j he has producec something which excites wDnder instead oi admiration, and is felt by every one to beJ once ingenious, incongruous, and unnaturaU After Young, there was a plentiful lack oi poetical talent, down to a period comparalitel; recent. Akenside and Gray, indeed, in thi interval, discovered a new way of imitatim the ancieyts ] — and Collins and Goldsmith pro duced some small specimens of exquisite am original poetry. At last, Cowper threw off th whole trammels of French criticism and arti ficial refinement ; and, setting at defiance ai the imaginary requisites of poetical dictio and classical imager)- — dignity of style, ani politeness of phraseology — ventured to writ again with the force and the freedom whic! had characterised the old school of Eiiglisi literature, and been so unhappily sacriticec upwards of a century before. Cowper hav many faults, and some radical deficiencies — but this atoned for all. There was somt thing so delightfully refreshing, m seein natural phrases and natural images Kain dit playing their unforced graces, and waviii their unpruned heads in the enchanted gai dens of poetry, that no one complained of th- taste displayed in the selection ; — and Cow per is, and is likely to continue, the mof popular of all who have written for the preaer or the last generation. Of the poets who have come after him, w cannot, indeed, say that they have attache themselves to the school of Pope and Add son ; or that they have even failed to show- much stronger predilection for the naJJA'e beat ties of their great predecessors. £_Southei and Wordsworth, and Coleridge, and Mif Baillie, have all of them copied the niannt' of our older poets ; and, along with this ind cation of good taste, have given great proo of original genius. The misfortune is, thi their copies of those great originals are habl to the charge of extreme afiectation. The do* not write as those great poets would hav written : they merely mimic their.manner, an ■ ape their peculiarities; — and consequentl; though they profess to imitate the freest an FORD'S DRAMATIC WORKS. 303 ost careless of all versifiers, their style is ore remarkably and ofl'eiisively artificial in that of any other class ot writers. Thev ve mi.ved in, too, so much of the mawkish ne of pastoral innocence and babyi.^h sim-' icity, with a sort of pedantic emphasis and! ntatious glitter, that it is diliicult not to; diegusted with their perversity, ami with solemn self-complacency, and keen and dictive jealousy, with which ihey have put their claims on public admiration. But we ve said enough elsewhere of the fauUs of ose auiliors ; and sliall only add. at present, at, notwithstanding all these fault.s, there is fertility and a force, a wamith of feeling id an exaltation of imagination about them, hich classes them, in our estimation, with much higher order of poets than the fol- wers of Dryden and Addi.son ; and justifies . anxiety for their fame, in all the admirers Milton and Shakespeart^J Of Scott, or of Campbell, we need scarcely y any thmg, with reference to our present )ject, arfter the very copious accounts we ive given of them on former occasions. The rmer professes to copy something a good jal older than what we consider as the golden re of English poetry, — and, in reality, has •pied every style, and borrowed from every anner that has prevailed, from the times of laucer to his own : — illuminating and unit- g. if not harmonizing them all, by a force colouring, and a rapidity of succession, hich is not to be met with in any of his any models. The latter, we think, can arcely be said to have copied his pathos, or 8 energy, from any models whatever, either cent or early. The exquisite harmony of s versification is elaborated, perhaps, from e Castle of Indolence of Thomson, and the rious pieces of Goldsmith; — and it seems , be his misfortune, not to be able to reconcile mself to any thing which he cannot reduce 'ithin the limits of this elaborate harmony, liis e.vtreme fastidiousness, and the limila- 5n of his efforts to themes of unbroken ten- ''rness or sublimity, distinguish him from the ;.reless, prolific, and miscellaneous authors ; our primitive poetry ; — while the enchaiit- g softness of his pathetic passages, and the iwer and originality of his more sublime^ nceptions, place him at a still greater dis- nce from the wits, as they truly called emselves, of Charles II. and Queen Anne. We do not know what other apology to "er for this hasty, and, we fear, tedious etch of the history of our poetry, but that appeared to us to be necessary, in order to plain the peculiar merit of that class of ■iters to which the author before us belongs ; ;d that it will very greatly shorten what we ,ve still to say on the characteristics of our • ler dramatists. An opinion prevails very fnerally on the Continent, and with foreign- led scholars among ourselves, that our na- inal taste has been corrupted chiefly by our ijlatry of Shakespeare ; — and that it is our jtriotic and traditional admiration of that Hgular writer, that reconciles us to the mon- 1 0U8 compound of faults and beauties that occur in his performances, and must to all : impartial jutlgis aifjicar (|uite absurd and ! unnatural. Before entering upon the charac- ter of 'a contemporary dramatist, it was of i some importance, thi'refure, to show that ' there was a distinct, original, and indipendent school of literature in Kngland in the time of i Shakespeare ; to the general lone of whose ; ])roduct.ons his works were suliicienlly eon- j forniable ; and that it was owing to ci'rcum- j stances in a gnat measure accidental, that thia I native school was suiier.seded about the time I ot the Restoration, and a foreign standard of ex- cellence intruded on us, not in (he drama tudy, but in every other department of poetry. This new style of composition, however, though adorned and recommended by the s]>lendid talents of many of its followers, was never perfectly naturalisi-d, we think, in this coun- try ; and has ceased, in a ^reat measure, to be cultivated by those who have lately aimed with the greatest success at the higher hon- ours of poetry. Our love of Shakespeare, therefore, is not a viouoniantn anticpiateti, and artificial tastes passed away. In endeavouring, therelbre, to besp«'ak some* share of favour for such of his contemporaries as had fallen out of notice, during the preva- lence of an imported literature, we conceive that we are only enlarging that foundation of native genius on which alone any lasting superstructure can be raised, and invigorating that deep-rooted stock upon which all the perennial blossoms of our literature must still be engrafted. The notoriety of Shakespeare may seem to make it superfluous to speak of the peculiari- ties of those old dramatists, of whom he will be admitted to be so worthy a representative. Nor shall we venture to say any thing of the confusion of their plots, the disorders of their chronology, their contempt of the unities, or their imperfect discrimination between the provinces of Tragedy and Comedy. Yet there are characteristics which the lovers ol litera- ture may not be disph'ased to find enumerated, and which may constitute no dishonourable distinction for the whole fraternity, independ- ent of the splendid talents and incommuiiica- ble graces of their great chieftain. Of the old English dramatists, then, in- cluding under this name (besides Shake- speare), Beaumont and Fletcher, Massinger, Jonson, Ford, Shirley. Web.sler. Dekkar, Field, and Rowley, it may be said, in general, tlut they are more iK)etical, and more onginal in their diction, than the dramatists of any other age or country. Their Bc«'nrs abouiul more in varied images, and gratuitous e.Mursions of fancy. Their illustrations, and li^iures of speech, aretrore borrowed Irom ruial life, and from the simple^cupations or ui;iverHal feelings of mankincTZ They are i»ot cooiined 304 POETRY. to a certain range of dis^nified expressions, nor restricted to a particular assortment of imagery, beyond which it is not lawful to look for embeliishrnt.Mits. Let any one compare the prodiijious variety, and wide-ranging free- dom of Shakespeare, with the narrow round of fjames, tempests, treasons, victims, and tyrants, that scantily adorn the sententious pomp of the French drama, and he will not fail to recognise the vast superiority of the former, in the excitement of the imagination, and ali the diversities of poetical delight. That very mi.vlure of styles, of which the French critics have so' fastidiously complained, forms, when not carried to any height of ex- travagance, one of the greatest charms of our ancient dramatists. It is equally sweet and natural for personages toiling on the barren heights of life, to be occasionally recalled to some vision of pastoral innocence and tran- quillitj-. as for the victims or votaries of am- bition to cast a glance of envy and agony on the joys of humble content. Those charming old writers, however, have a still more striking peculiarity in their con- duct of the dialogue. On the modern stage, every scene js visibhj studied and digested beforehand, — and every thing from beginning to end, whether it be description, or argument, or vituperation, is very obviously and osten- tatiously set forth in the most advantageous light, and with all the decorations of the most elaborate rhetoric. Now, for mere rhetoric, and fine composition, this is very right; — but^ for an imitation of nature, it is not quite so well: And however we may admire the skill of the artist, we are not very likely to be moved with any very lively sympathy in the emotions of those very rhetorical interlocutors. When we come to any important part of the play, on the Continental or modern stage, we are sure to have a most complete, formal, and exhausting discussion of it, in long flourish- ing orations; — argurrient after argument pro- pounded and answered with infinite ingenuity, and topic after topic brought forward in well- digested method, wathout any deviation that the most industrious and practised pleader would not approve of, — till nothing more re- mains to be said, and a new scene introduces us to a new set of gladiators, as expert and persevering as the former. It is exactly the same when a story is to be told, — a tyrant to be bullied, — or a princess to be wooed. On the old English stage, however, the proceed- ings were by no means so regular. There the discussions always appear to be casual, and the argument quite artless and disorderly. The persons of the drama, in short, are made to sp6ak like men and women who meet without preparation, in real life. Their rea- sonings are perpetually broken by passion, or left imperfect for want of skill. They con- stantly wander from the point in hand, in the most unbusinesslike manner in the world ; — and after hitting upon a topic that would afibrd a judicious playwright room for a magnificent seesaw of pompous declamation, they have generally the awkwardness to let it slip, as if perfectly unconscious of its value ; and uni- 1 formly leave the scene. without exhaustinj the controversy, or stating half the plausibli things for themselves that any ordinary ad visers might have suggested — after a fev weeks' reflection. As specimens of eloquen argumentation, we must admit the signal-in feriority of our native favourites; but as tru' copies of nature, — as vehicles of passion, am representations of character, we confess w are tempted to give them the preference When a dramatist brings his chief charactet on the stage, we readily admit that he mus give them something to say, — and that thi something must be interesting and characlei istic ;-^but he should recollect also, that the are supposed to come there without havin anticipated all they were to hear, or med tated on all they were to deliver; and that : cannot be characteristic, therefore, because must be glaringly unfiaturalj that they .shoul proceed regularly through every possible \'ie\ of the subject, and exhaust, in set ortler* th whole magazine of reflections that can b brought to bear upon their situation. It would not be fair, however, to leave thi view of the matter, without observing, th; this unsteadiness and irregularity of dialogui which gives such an air of nature to ouroldt plays, and keeps the curiosity and atlentio so perpetually awake, is frequently carried 1 a most blameable excess; and that, indeper dent of their passion for verbal quibbles, thei is an inequality and a capricious uncertain! in the taste and judgment of these good ol writers, which excites at once our amazeraei and our compassion. If it be. true, that r other man has ever written so finely as Shak( speare has done in his happier passages, it no less true that there is not a scribbler no- alive who could possibly write worse than Y has sometimes written, — who could, on occ; sion, devise more contemptible ideas, or mi place them so abominably, by the side of sue incomparable excellence. That there wei no critics, and no critical readers in those day appears to us but an imperfect solution of tr ; difficulty. ' He who could write so adtnirabl must have been a critic to himself. Childre ■ indeed, may play with the most precioi gems, and the most worthless pebbles, witl out being aw-are of any difference in the value ; but the fiery powers which are nece sary to the production of intellectual excf lence, must enable the possessor to recognis it as excellence ; and he who knows when 1 succeeds, can scarcely be unconscious of h failures. Unaccountable, however, as it i the fact is certain, that almost all the dramat writers of this age appear to be alternate inspired, and bereft of understanding; ar pass, apparently without being conscious ( the change, from the most beautiful displa; of genius to the most melancholy exemph cations of stupidity.^ There is only one other peculiarity whi( we shall notice in those ancient dramas; ai, that is, the singular, though very beautif style, in which the greater part of them a composed, — a style which we think must felt as peculiar by all who peruse them, thou| FOKDS DRAMATIC WORKS. ityofti me to«i y and alt! : "-live ibeatti , - b}- no means easy to describe in Mhat itP ■nliarity consists. It is not. for the most I t. a lot'ty or sonorous style, — nor can it be - ! generally to be finical or afFecteil, — or lined, (juaint, or pedantic: — Bnt it is, at [ same time, a style full of turn and con- t ance, — with some little decrree of constraint a! involution. — very often characterised by atndied briefness and simplicity of diction, y relieved by a certain indirect and ti^ura- t ' cever. till 1629 : and thous:h he is supposecl t.iave written fourteen or fifteen pieces for t! theatres, only nine appear to have been phted, or to have found their way down to present times. He is known to have ■fen in conjunction with Rowley and Dek- . a:id is supposed to have died about 1640: : d this is the whole that the industry of 1 Weber, assisteil by the researches of Sfevcns and Malone, has been able to dis- C(^r of this author. I would be useless, and worse than use- ' ■ . to jrive our readers an abstract of the " and management of each of the nine :;. s contained in the volumes before us. A ;.■ few brief remarks upon their ireneral ^acter, will form a sufficient introduction he extracts, by which we propose to let readers jud^e for themselves of the merits o( heir execution. The comic parts are all 'Illy bad. With none of the richness of " kospeare's humour, the extravagant mer- •nt of Beaumont and Fletcher, or the ig colouring of Ben Johnson, they are as • y and as mdecent as those of Massinger, not more witty7 though a little more va- than the buffooneries of Wycherley or ■ len. Fortunately, however, the author's m ry vein is not displayed in very many p: s of his perfoiTTiances. His plots are not Vfr cunningly digested: nor developed, for Ih most part, by a train of probable incidents. H characters are drawn rather with occa- sii'al feliciH', than with gene ral^sagacity and ment.rTike those of Massin^geTTTTH*)- are "^-^^|)^o^!tartle the reader with sudden and "lA'pected transformations, and to tum out, inhe latter half of the play, verj- diflferently 39 rro of This kind of .surprise has been repro- senled by some as a niaster-slrt)ke of art in the author, and a great merit in the jx'rform- ance. We have no iloubl at all, however, that it is to be ascribed merely to the writer's carelessni',s.s, or change of punxise ; and have never failed to feel it a great t^ijcmish in every serious piece where it occurs. / The author has not mucliT^the oratorical stateliness and imposing (low of Massinger; nor a great deal r know ; A rd yet is here the comfort I nhall have f Must I not do whal all men else may, — love f 2 a2 306 POETRY. No, father ! in your eyes I see the change Of pity and compassion ; from your age, As from a sacred oracle, distils The hie of counsel. Tell me, holy man. What cure shall give me ease in these extremes ? Friar. Repentance, son, and sorrow for this sin : For thou hast mov'd a majesty above With thy unranged, almost, blasphemy. Gio. O do not speak of that, dear confessor. Friar. Then I have done, and in thy wilful flames Already see thy ruin ; Heaven is just. Yet hear my counsel I Gio. As a voice of life. Friar. Hie to thy father's house; there lock thee Alone within thy chamber ; then fall down [fast On both thy knees, and grovel on the ground; Cry to thy heart ; wash every word thou utter' st In tears (and if 't be possil)le) of blood: Beg Heaven to cleanse the leprosy of love That rots thy soul ; weep, sigh, pray Three times a day, and three times every night : For seven days' space do this; then, if thou find'st No change in thy desires, return to me ; ril think on remedy. Pray for thyself At home, whilst I pray for thee here. Away ! My blessing with thee ! We have need to pray." Vol. i. pp. 9—12. In a subsequent scene with the sister, the same holy person maintains the dignity of liis style. Friar. I am glad to see this penance ; for, believe You have unripp'd a soul so foul and guilty, [me As I must tell you true, I marvel how The earth hath borne you up ; but weep, weep on, These tears may do you good ; weep faster yet, Whilst I do read a lecture. A7in. Wretched creature ! Friar. Ay, you are wretched, miserably wretch- Almost condemned alive. There is a place, [ed. List, daughter,) in a black and hollow vault, Where day is never seen ; there shines no sun, But flaming horror of consuming fires; A lightless sulphttr, chok'd with smoky fogs Of an infected darkness; in this place Dwell many thousand thousand sundry sorts Of never-dying deaths. There damned souls Roar without pity ; there are gluttons fed With toads and adders ; there is burning oil Poiir'd down the drunkard's throat; the usurer Is forc'd to sup whole draughts of molten gold ; There is the murderer for ever stabb'd. Yet can he never die ; there lies the wanton On racks of burning steel, whilst in his soul He feels the torment of his raging lust. A?tn. Mercy ! oh mercy ! [things, Friar. There stand these wretched Who have dream'd out whole years in lawless sheets And secret incests, cursing one another," &c. Vol. i. pp. 63, 64. The most striking scene of the play, how- ever, is that which contains the catastrophe of the lady's fate. Her husband, after shut- ting her up for some time in gloomy privacy, invites her brother, and all his family, to a solemn banquet; and even introduces him, before it is served up, into her private cham- ber, where he finds her sitting on her mar- riage-bed, in splendid attire, but filled with boding terrors and agonising anxiety. He, though equally aware of the fate that was preparfHl for them, addresses her at first with a kind of wild and desperate gaiety, to which she tries for a while to answer with sober and earnest warnings, — and at last exclaims im- patiently, " .Ann. O let's not waste These precious hours in vain and useless speech. Alas, these gay attires were not put on But to some end ; this sudden solemn feast Was not ordain'd to riot in expense ; I that have now been chamber' d here alone, Barr'd of my guardian, or of any else. Am not for nothing at an instant freed To fresh access. Be not deceiv'd, my brother; This banquet is an harbinger of Death To you and me ! resolve yourself it is, And be prepar'd to welcome it. [fa( Gio. Look up, look here ; what see you in ; Ann. Distraction and a troubled countenance.i Gio. Death and a swift repining wrath ! ^ What see you in mine eyes ? [Ic Ann. Methinks yon weep. Gio. I do indeed. These are the funeral tear Shed on your grave ! These furrow'd up mychei When first I lov'd and knew not how to woo. Fair Annabella ! should I here repeat The story of my life, we might lose time ! Be record, all the spirits of tlie air. And all things else that are, that day and night, Early and late, the tribute which my heart Hath paid to Annabella's sacred love [no Hath been these tears, — which are her mourn Never till now did nature do her best To show a matchless beauty to the world, Which in an instant, ere it scarce was seen. The jealous destinies require again. Pray, Annabella, pray ! since we must part. Go thou, white in thy soul, to fill a throne Of innocence and sanctity in heaven. Pray, pray, my sister. Ann. Then I see your drift; Ye blessed angels, guard me ! Gio. So say I. Kiss me ! If ever after-times should hear Of our fast-knit aflfections, though perhaps The laws of conscience and of civil use May justly blame us, yet when they but know Our loves, that love will wipe away that rigour Which would in other incests be abhorr'd. Give me your hand. How sweetly life doth ru In these well-colour'd veins ! how constantly These palms do promise health ! but I could el i With nature for this cunning flattery. — Kiss me again ! — forgive me ! Ann. With my heart Gio. Farewell. Ann. Will you be gone ? Gio. Be dark, bright i , And make this mid-dny night, that thy gilt ray May not behold a deed will turn their splendou More sooty than the poets i'eign their Styx! One other kiss, my sister ! Ann. What means this? Gio. To save thy fame, and kill thee in a kis [Stabs ;. Thus die ! and die by me, and by my hand ! A7in. Oh brother, by your hand! Gio. When thou art de I'll ^ive my reasons for't ; for to dispute With thee, even in thy death, most lovely beau^ Would make me staaiger to perform this act Which I most glory in. Ann. Forgive him. Heaven — and me my s ! Farewell. Brother unkind, unkind, — mercy, great Heave ■ oh — oh. U '■ Gio. She's dead, alas, good soul! This mart e In ail her best, bore her alive and dead. [ l> Soranzo, thou hast miss'd thy aim in this; , I have prevented now thy reaching plots. And kill'd a love, for whose each drop of bloo I would have pawn'd my heart. Fair Annabe, How over-glorious art thou in thy wounds. Triumphing over infamy and hate ! Shrink not, courageous hand ; stand up, my hti And boldlv ac. my last, and greater part !" —Vol. i. pp. 98—101. [Exit with the if There are few things finer than thijiB Shakespeare . It bears an obvious resembli ^ ttttd ,^ FORD'S DIL\MATIC WORKS. 30. "GalijiBKed to the death of Desdemona ; and, *! talia: it as a detached scene, we think it Tj^rater the more beantifu! of the two. The ■ ' swiftness of the diction — the natnral tone of erness and passion — the strai pervt Mi;'''jioof kind and niai,niannnous natnies, and rrid c^ata«trophe by which their iruih is it lice consummated and aventred. have not ^Kfjwfti been rivaUed. m the jia^^es either of the ^^'ismqern or the ancient drama. '5™''' 'le play entitled -The Broken Heart," is ,„. n »r author's best maimer , ?■ 1 ! 'i»iiiipiij,.el npai ,f and woukl sup- nore beautiful quotations than we have Wm for insertiii";. The storv is a little flfoiiHcated ; but the fojlowin:: slight sketch will make our e.xtracts sntHciently ^*eU:ible. Penthea. a noble lady of Siiarta. L , valbetrothed, with her father's approbation nivkdr, ,\nJher own full consent, to Or^ihis ; but Prti. Not yri. heaven I do bcftecch thee ! fir«t, let some wild \itv» Srorch, noi coiiHUino il ! may ihc licui be cluuisli'd With dcsiffs iiitiiiiie, hut h«jM;8 impotwiblc ! 1th. Wrong'd twul, thy priiyerH aro luard. /Vn. H«ro, lo, I breathe, .\ niisernble creaiiirc, led lo rum By ail untiatiiral brother! Ith. I consume In lati);uishiii|< iitreclions of that treapau; Yet caiinul die. I'm. The handmaid lo the wnftcs, The iiniroul)led but otcouniry toil, driiiks sireaiin Wiih lenpiriR kids and with the bleaiinji lamlm, And so njlnys her ihirst perure ; whilst 1 Queneh my hot si^jihs with floeiinpi of my tears. Ilh. The labourer doth eat hi8 coarscHt bread, Enrii'd Willi his sweat, and lies hiin down lo sleep; Wnilst every bit 1 louch turns in digestion To gall, as bilier as Penthea's curse. Put me to any penance for my tyranny And I will call thco merciful. /'rf». Pray kill me! Rid nie from living wiih a jealous husband, 'I'hen we will jdin in friendship, be again Brother and sister.— Kill me, pray ! nay, will ye f Ith. Thou shall stand A deity, my sister, and be worshipp'd For thy resolved martyrdom: wrong'd maids And married wives shall to thy haliow'd shrine Oder iheir orisons, and sacrifice Pure luriles, crown'd with myrtle, if thy pity Unto a yielding brother's pressure, tend One finger but, lo ease it. Pen. Who is the saint you serve f (daughter ! Ith. Calaniha 'tis! — the princess! the king "a .^ole heir of Sparta. — Me, most miserable! — Do I now love thee I For my injuries Revenge thyself wiih bravery, and gossip .My treasons to the king's ears ! Do ! — Calantha Knows it not yet ; nor Prophilus, my nearest. Fen. We are reconcil'd ! — Alas, sir, being children, but two branches Of one stock, 'tis not 111 we should divide : Have comfort ; vou may find it. Ilh. Yes, in thee; Only in thee, Penthea mine! Pen. If sorrows Have not too much duU'd my inlecied bram, I'll cheer invention for an acrive strain. Ith. Mad man ! why have I wrong'd a maid so excellent T" Vol. i. pp. «73— 277. :ioie )eilf soliciftd, at the s;iiTie time, by Bass;ines. Kk» p'son of more splendid fortune, was, after '*J«i leiather's death, in a manner compelled by '"wUieibrolher Ithodes to violate her first en- |^J''*''|aament, and yield him her hand. In this rted alliance, thoncrh livinc: a life of un- she was harassed and ided by tlie perpetual jealousies of her irthy husband ; and pined away, like her ted lover, in sad and hitter recollections e happy pix)mise of their youth. Itho- in the meantime, had pursued the course mbition with a bold and command ins: , and had obtained the highest honours ikflii;l#'f s country; but too much occupied in the ifirtkiipuiiit to think of the misery to which he condemned the sister who was left to his ction : At last, however, in the midst of roud career, he is seized with a sudden Jason for Calantha, the heiress of the sover- Hai; and. after many strugjrles, is reduced to Wnkmlislijthe intercession and advice of his un- lajiy sister, who was much in favour with '?™'^iJieiirincess. The followinsr is the scene in ^ |Mivhp he makes this request ; — and to those .."jijljj^hj have learned, from the preceding jjas- ,il;jj,iii;!aep. ;he lofty and unbendins temper of the We cannot resist the temptation of addiii surfiant, and the rooted and bitter ansrnish | a part of the scene in which this sad ambas- )gm^{ pr whom he addresses, it cannot fail to | sadress acquits herself of the task she Jiad kW«»'ipjhr one of the most striking in the whole j undertaken. There is a tone of heart-struck sorrow and female gentleness and about it that is singularly engaging, an trasts strangely with the atrocious indecen- cies w ith which the author has polluted his paper in other parts of the same play. — The princess says, " f'al. Being alone, Penthea, you now have The opportunity you sought ; and might [granted At nil times have commanded. Pen. "V\» a benefit Which I shall owe your goodness even indeaili for: My gl.Tss of life, sweet princess, haih few niiiiuies Remaining lo run down ; the sands are spent ; For by an inward messenger 1 feel The summons of departure short and certain. f'al You feed ioe|entle show'r wets to fertility, Thepurlish storm makes mischief with his bounty. > F^nk. Now, your request Pr^gls Oij". yet will you leave me ? •>'„:tr; St- What? so churlishly ! You make me stay for ever, . Rati; than part with such a sound from you. , Fiik. Why, you almost anger me. — 'Pray you You ive no company, and 'tis very early ; [begone. , Pj^Somhurt may beiide you homewards. mti'cu,'^'; Tush! I fear none : , PjiToJ'jve you isthe greatest I can suffer. I Mi F^^k. So ! I shall have more trouble." *'2 H|e the dog rabs against him ; and, after !; ' • 6omi|more talk, he stabs her ! Why then I thank you ; .You jive done lovingly, leaving yourself, '♦j'YLThatiou would thus bestow me on another. Thou art my husband, Death ! I embrace theo With all the love I have. Forget the stain Of my unwitting sin: and then I come A crystal virgin to thee, ^ly soul's purity Shall, with bold wings, ascend the doors of mercy ; For innocence is ever her companion. Fnuik. Not yet mortal ? I would not linger you, , Or leave you a tongue to blub. [Sinhs her Ofiain. 1 Sus. Now heaven reward you ne'er the worse for I did not think that death had been so sweet, [me ! Nor I so apt to love him. I could ne'er die belter, Had I stay'd forty years for preparation: For I'm in charity with all the world. ; Let me for once be thine example, heaven ; I Do to this man as I, forgive him freely, I And may he better die, and sweeter live. [Dies.^' Vol. ii. pp. ■l.')2— 4 1."). I We cainiot afford any more space for Mr. I Ford ; and what we have stiiil, and what we have shown of him, will probably be thought enough, both by those who are disixjsed to scoff, and those who are inclined to admire. It is but fair, however, to intimate, that a thorough perusal of his works will afford more e.xercise to the former disposition than to the latter. His faults are glaring and abundant ; but we have not thought it neces.'yiry to pro- duce any specimens of them, bi;eause they are exactly the sort of faults which every one acquainted with the drama of that age reckons upon finding. No body tlonbts of the exist- ence of such faults : But there are many who doubt of the existence of any counterbalanc- ing beauties ; ami therefore it seemed worth while to say a word or two in their ex])lana- tion. There is a great treasure of poetry, we think, still to be brought to light in the neglect- ed writers of the age to which this author be- longs; and poetry of a kiiul which, if jnirified and improved, as the happier specimens show that it is capable of being, would be far more delightful to the generality of English readers thairany other species of poetry. We shall readily be excused for our tediousness by those who are of this opinion ; and should not have been forgiven, even if we had not been tedious, by those who look upon it as a heresy. I (::iugu5t, 1817.) C holders of Shakespeare- s Plays. By William Hazlitt. 8vo. pp.352. London: 1817.* ^iit V]-, is not a book of black-letter learning, !i. )rical elucidation : — neither is it a me- .ili ;,ical dissertation, full of wise perplexi- ea id elaborate reconcilements. It is, in J!, • Ilfiay be thought that enough had been said ^' *l>f ouiarly dramatists, in the immediately preced 0^ ng ar;-le; and it probably is so. But I could not resist e temptation of thus renewing, in my own lame hat vow of allegiance, which 1 had so often akenuionymously, to the only true and lawful v'ing " our English Poetry I and now venture, hereie, fondly to replace this slight and perish- ible v?ath on his august and undecaying shrine : vith I farther apology than that it presumes to "it ttention but to one, and that, as I think, a iipjiitively neglected, aspect of his universal I truth, rather an encomium on Shiikespeare. I than a commentary or crititjue on him — and j is written, more to show extraordinary love, I than extraordinary knowledge of his produc- ; tions. Nevertheless, it is a very pleasing ' book — and, we do not hesitate to say, a book ; of very considerable originality and genius. The author is not merely an admirer of our great dramatist, but an Idolater of him ; and openly professes his idolatry. We have our- selves too great a leaning to the sJime super- stition, to blame him very much for his error: and though we think, of course, that our own admiration is, on the whole, more disiriminat- ing and judiciou.s. there are not many points , on which, especially after reading his eloquent 310 POETRY. exposition of them, we should be much in- clined to disagree with him. The book, as we have already intimated, is written less to tell the reader what Mr. H. knows about Shakespeare or his writings, than to explain to them what he feels about them — and why he feels so — and thinks that all who profess to love poetry should feel so likewise. What vve chiefly look for in such a work, ac- cordingly, is a fine sense of the beauties of the author, and an eloquent exposition of them ; and all this, and more, we think, may be found in the volume before us. There is nothing niggardly in Mr. H.'s praises, and nothing affected in his raptures. He seems animated throughout with a full and hearty sympathy with the delight which his author should inspire, and pours himself gladly out in e.xplanation of it, with a fluency and ardour, obviously much more akin to enthusiasm than affectation. He seems pretty generally, in- deed, in a state of happy intoxication — and has borrowed from his great original, not in- deed the force or brilliancy of his fancy, but something of its playfulness, and a large share of his apparent joyousnessand self-indulgence in its exercise. It is evidently a great plea- sure to him to be fully possessed with the beauties of his author, and to follow the im- pulse of his unrestrained eagerness to impress them upon his readers. When we have said that his observations are generally right, we have said, in sub- stance, that they are not generally original ; for the beauties of Shakespeare are not of so dim or equivocal a nature as to be visible ordy to learned eyes — and undoubtedly his finest passages are those which please all classes of readers, and are admired for the same quali- ties by judges from every school of criticism. Even with regard to those passages, however, a skilful commentator will find something worth hearing to tell. Many persons are very sensible of the efiect of fine poetry on their feelings, who do not well know how to refer these feelings to their causes ; and it is always a delightful thing to be made to see clearly the sources from which our delight has pro- ceeded — and to trace back the mingled stream that has flowed upon our hearts, to the remo- ter fountains from which it has been gathered. And when this is done with warmth as well as precision, and embodied in an eloquent de- scription of the beauty which is explained, it forms one of the most attractive, and not the least instructive, of literary exercises. In all works of merit, however, and especially in all works of original genius, there are a thousand retiring and less obtrusive graces, which es- cape hasty and superficial observers, and ordy give out their beauties to fond and patient contemplation; — a thousand slight and har- monising touches, the merit and the effect of which are equally imperceptible to vulgar eyes ; and a thousand indications of the contin- ual presence of that poetical spirit, which can only be recognised by those who are in some measure under its influence, or have prepared themselves to receive it, by worshipping meekly at the shrines which it inhabits. In the exposition of these, there is iw enough for originality, — and more room th Mr. H. has yet filled. In many points, ho ever, he has acquitted himself excellently : partly in the development of the princi> characters with which Shakespeare has ft pled the fancies of all English reader*— t principally, we think, in the delicate sei; bility with which he has traced, and l( natural eloquence with which he has point out that fond familiarity with beautiful for ! and images — that eternal recurrence to yill is sweet or majestic in the simple aspectsi! nature — that indestructible love of flowij and odours, and dews and clear waters, ai soft airs and sounds, and bright skies, »l woodland solitudes, and moonlight bowel which are the Material elements of Poetry,' and that fine sense of their undefinable rt-t tion to mental emotion, which is its esse>i and vivifying Soul — and which, in the mi of Shakespeare's most busy and atroci scenes, falls like gleams of sunshine on ro and ruins — contrasting with all that is ruj; and repulsive, and reminding us of the v\ ence of purer and brighter elements! — wi HE ALONE has pourcd out from the rick of his own mind, without efibrt or restra:! and contrived to intermingle with the plaj' all the passions, and the vulgar course of j world's afiairs, without deserting for an ins j the proper business of the scene, or appen to pause or digress, from the love of ornai or need of repose ! — He alone, who, v the object requires it, is always keen worldly and practical — and who yet, wii changing his hand, or stopping his coi scatters around him, as he goes, all S(" and shapes of sweetness — and conjure landscapes of immortal fragrance and li ness, and peoples them with Spirits of ■• j rious aspect and attractive grace — and 'i ' thousand times more full of fancy and gery, and splendour, than those who, in suit of such enchantments, have shrunk • from the delineation of character or pas and declined the discussion of human il • and cares. More full of wisdom and rid ' and sagacity, than all the moralists an tirists that ever existed — he is more airy, and inventive, and more pathetic >i fantastic, than all the poets of all regions jd ages of the world : — and has all those ^ ments so happily mi.xed up in him, and 1 f his high faculties so temperately, iha if most severe reader cannot complain of IB for want of strength or of reason — nor the i* sensitive for defect of ornament or ingeif Every thing in him is in unmeasured alj^- ance, and unequalled perfection — but f|fj thing so balanced and kept in subordin "Hi as not to jostle or disturb or take the j<* of another. The most exquisite poetica!*!' ceptions, imager, and descriptions, are !« with such brevit}, and introduced with:* skill, as merely to adorn, without loadir * sense they accompany. Althoujih hisjJ* are purple and perfumed, and his pr' » beaten gold, they waft him on his voyag'i'?' less, but more rapidly and directly tl " HAZLITT'S CHARACTERS OF SHAKESPEARE. 811 > alnjil Mif ■jMBiIh injiaiRi tie jjiC' illofianT (iaiacim Kocofli! [lisiouB • jpijIiJi wpf«* tl y had been composed of baser materials. A his excellences, like those of Nature her- si". are throwti out together; and, instead of ii Mt'eringwith, support and recommend each er. His Howers are not tied up in garlands. ,n his fruits crushed into baskets — but spring li ng from the soil, in all the dew ami fresh- n s of youth 1 while the graceful foliage in wich they lurk, and the ample branches, the n i:h and vigorous stem, and the wide-spread- ii roots on which they depend, are present a iir with them, and share, in their places, tl equal care of their Creator. >Vhat other poet has put all the charm of a ftonlight landscape into a single line? — and tljt by an image so true to nature, and so si pie. as to seem obvious to the most com- nn observation ? — "ee how the Moonlight sleeps on yonder bank !" Vio else has expressed, in three lines, all tit is picturesque and lovely in a Summer's rwnl — lirst settiiur before our eyes, with n^iriail precision, the visible appearances of tl infant light, and then, by one graceful a ; glorious image, pouring on our souls all tl freshness, cheerfuhiess, and sublimity of nirning morning ? — : " See. love ! what envious streaks Djiace the severing clouds in yonder East I Nht's eaiidles'' are burnt out, — and jocund Day S ids tiptoe on the misty mountain tops'." Viiere shall we tind sweet sounds and odours 8(iu.\uriously blended and illustrated, as in tlse few words of sweetness and melody, were the author says of soft music — it came o'er my ear, like the sweet South That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour!" T s is still finer, we think, than the noble sjech on Music in the Merchant of Venice, a; only to be compared with the enchant- niits of Prospero"s island: where all the e cts of sweet sounds are expressed in mi- j nulous numbers, and traced in their opera- tii on all the gradations of being, from the j ducate Arial to the brutish Caliban, who, Siage as he is, is still touched with those silernatural harmonies; and thus exhorts his l(k poetical a.ssociates — e not afraid, the isle is full of noi.ses, junds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not. If the advocates for the grand style object to expression, we shall not slop to defend it : But t( 8, it seems equally beautiful, as it is obvious and j I jral, to n person coming out of a lighted chamber j the pale dawn. The word candle, we admit, iflither homely in modern language, while lamp is sincicnily dignified for poetry. The moon hangs hi silver lamp on high, in every echofjlboy's ropy n/ersf's; and she could not be called the candip ii'icaven without manifeot absurdity. .Such are til caprices of usage. Yet we like the passage b ire us much better as ii is. than if the candles we clianued into lamps. If we should read, ""be lamps of heaven are quenched," or " wax di," ii appears to us that the whole charm "I tl expression would be lost : asoiir fancies would n(longer be recalled to the privacy of that dim- lilned chamber which the lovers were so reluct- t^y leaving. Sometimes n thousand twanging instruments Will hum about mine ears, and sometimes voices, That if I then had waked after a lon^ slei p, Would make me siei'p again." Observe, ttx), that this and the oilier jMieti- cal sjX'eches oi" this incarnate dcinoii, arc not mere ornaments of the jxiet's fancy, but ex- plain his character, and describe his situalioii inoie briedy and elicctually, than any other words could have done. In tins play, indeeil, and in the Midsiimnier-Nighl's Dream, all Eden is unloiked before u.s, and the wholet trea.sury of natnial and supernatural beauty ix)ured out profu.sely, to the delight of all our faculties. We dare not trust ourselves with ijuotations ; but we refer to those play.s gen- erallv — to the forest scenes in As Vou Like It — llie rustic parts of the Winter's Tale — several entire sceiu's in Cymbeline, and in Romeo and Juliet — and many passages in all the other plays — ;is illustrating this love of nature and natural beauty of which we have been speaking — the power it had over the jioet.and the power it imjiarted to him. Who else woulil have thought, on the very thres- hold of treason and midnight murder, of bringing in so sweet and rural an ima^e as this, at the portal of that blood-stained castle of Macbeth ? " This ffuesi of summer. The temple-haunting martlet, does approve By his loved masonry that heaven's breath Smells wooingly here. No juiiing fiieze. Buttress, nor coijzne of vaniaiie, but this bird Has made his pendent bed, and procreant cradle." Nor is this brought in for the sake of an elaboiate contrast between the peaceful inno- cence of this extt;rior, and the guilt and hor- rors that are to be enacted within. There is no hint of any such suggestion — but it is set down from the pure love of nature and re- ality — because the kindled mind of the poet brought the whole scene before his eyes, and he painted all that he saw in his vision. The s:ime ta.ste predominate.s in that em- phatic exhortation to evil, where Lady Mac- beth says, " Look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under it." And in that proud boast of the bloody Richard — "But I was liorn so liii»h : Our aery btiildeih in the cedar's top. And dallies with the wind, and scorns the sun !" The same splendour of natural imagery, bronirht simply and directly to bear ujx)!! stern ami repulsive passions, is to be found in the cynic rebukes of Apemantus to Timon. " Will these moist trees That have out-liv'd the eagle, page thy heels, And skip when thou poini'st out 7 will the cold brook, Candied with ice, caudle thy morning taste To cure thine oer-night's surfeit I" No one but Shakespeare would have thoutrht of putting this noble picture into the launtinp address of a .snappish misiinthrope — any more than the following into the mouth of a mer- cenary murderer. 312 POETRY. Their lips were four red roses on a stalk, And in their stuttmer beauty kissed each other !" Or this delicious description of concealed love, mto that of a regretful and moralizing parent. " But he, his own affeciions Counsellor, Is to hiiTiselfso secret and so close, As is the bud bit wiih an envious worm Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air, Or dedicate his beauty to the sun." And yet all these are so far from being un- natural, that they are no sooner put where they are, than we feel at once their beauty and their effect : and acknowledge our obli- gations to that exuberant genius which alone could thus throw out graces and atractions where there seemed to be neither room nor call for them. In the same spirit of prodi- gality he puts this rapturous and passionate exaltation of the beauty of Imogen, into the mouth of one who is not even a lover. — " It is her breathing that Perfumes the chamber thus ! the flame o' th' taper Bows towards her ! and would under-peep her lids To see th' enclosed liglits, now canopied Under the windows, white and azure, laced With blue of Heaven's own tinct ! — on her left breast A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops r the bottom of a cowslip !" But we must break at once away from these manifold enchantments — and recollect that our business is with Mr. Hazlitt, and not with the great and gifted author on whom he is employed : And, to avoid the danger of any further preface, we shall now let him speak a little for himself. In his remarks on Cym- beline, which is the first play in his arrange- ment, he takes occasion to make the follow- ing olDservations on the female characters of his author. " It is the peculiar characteristic of Shakespeare's heroines, that they seem to exist only in their at- tachment to others. They are pure abstractions of the affections. We think as little of their persons as they do themselves ; because we are let into the secrets of their hearts, which are more important. We are too much interested in their affairs to stop to look at their faces, except by stealth and at inter- vals. No one ever hit the true perfection of the female character, the sense of weakness leaning on the strength of its affections for support, so well as Shakespeare — no one ever so well painted natu- ral tenderness free from affectation and disguise — no one else ever so well showed how delicacy and timidity, when driven to extremity, grow romantic and extravagant : For the romance of his heroines (in which they abound) is only an excess of the habitual prejudices of their sex ; scrupulous of being false to their vows or truant to their atTections, and taught by the force of feeling when to forego the forms of propriety for the essence of it. His women were in this respect exquisite logicians ; for there is noihing so logical as passion. Gibber, in speaking of the early English stage, accounts for the want of prominence and theatrical display in Shake- speare's female characters, from the circumstance, that women in those days were not allowed to play the parts of women, which made it necessary to keep them a good deal in the back around. Does not this state of manners itself, which prevented their exhibiting themselves in public, and confined thorn to the relations and charities of domestic life, afford a truer explanation of the matter ? His wo- men are certainly very unlike stage heroines." — pp.3, 4. His remarks on Macbeth are of a higji and bolder character. After noticing i wavering and perplexity of Macbeth's reso tion, '-driven on, as it were, by the violet of his Fate, and staggering under the weij', of his own purposes," he strikingly observi, " This part of his character is admirably set ' by being brought in coiineciion wiili thai of L; Macbeth, whose obdurate strength of will and n culine firmness give her the ascendancy over husband's faltering virtue. She at once seizes the opportunity that ofll-is for the accomplishm of their wished-for greatness; and never flincl from her object till all is over. The magnitude' her resolution almost covers the m;ignitude of j guilt. She is a great bad woman, whom we hi| but whom we fear more than we hate. Shed not excite our loathing and abhorrence like Re, and Gonnerill. She is only wicked lo gain agi end ; and is perhaps more distinguisht'd by commanding presence oi mind and inexorable s will, which do not suffer her to be diverted fror bad purpose, wheti once formed, by weak : womanly regrets, than by the hardness of her hi or want of natural affections." — pp. 18, 19. But the best part perhaps of this critiq is the comparison of the IMacbeth with Richard of the same author. " The leading features in the character of M beth are striking enough, and they forni what i^ be thought at first only a bold, rude, Gothic ouil By comparing it with other characters of the s; author we shall perceive the absolute truth ' identity which is observed in the midst of thegi whirl and rapid career of events. Thus he i i distinct a being from Richard III. as it is poss to imagine, though these two characters in conn hands, and indeed in the hands ol any other p would have been a repetiiion of the same gen idea, more or less exaggerated. For both tyrants, usurpers, murderers, — both aspiring ambitious, — both courageous, cruel, treachen But Richard is cruel from nature and constitui Macbeth becomes so froin accidental circtimstair Richard is from his birth deformed in body t mind, and naturally incapable of good. Maet, is full of " the milk of human kindiies.«," is Ira sociable, generous. He is tempted to the conn sion of guilt by golden opportunities, by the iiisi tions of his wife, and by prophetic warnii ' Fate and metaphysical aid' conspire against i virtue and his loyalty. Richard on the conii' needs no prompter ; but wades through a serie![ crimes to the height of his ambition, from the ,■ governable violence of his temper and a reck » love of mischief. He is never gay but in the p !• pect or in the success of his villanies : Macbetll full of horror at the thoughts of the murder! Duncan, which he is with difficulty prevailed o,) commit ; and of remorse alter its ptrpetrat . Richard has no mixture of common Ininianii} i his composition, no regard to kindred or po.iieiit ; he owns no fellowship with others ; he is ' him alone.' Macbeth is not destitute of h'elinL'S| sympathy, is accessible to pity, is even mad< I some measure the dupe of his uxoriou.^iiess; rail the loss of friends, of the cordial love ol his foil '• ers, and of his good name, among the causes wijl have made him weary of life; and regrets tha > has ever seized the Crown by unjust means, f\i he cannot transmit it to his posterity. There {J other decisive differences inherent in the two cli- acters. Ricluird may be regarded as a man of'( world, a plotting hardened knave, wholly reg ;• less of everything but his own ends, and the mi » to secure them. — Not so Macbeth. The supe • tions of the age, the rude state of society, 8 local scenery and customs, all give a wildneas i imaginary grandeur lo his character. From! HAZLITTS CHARACTKKS (»F SIIAKKSI'EARE. 313 lIicM;. ■' Uf^riess of (he events iliiit surround him, he i» t aiiiaz.'mi'iu and fear; and stands in douht on the world of reahty and the world of lie sees sights not shown to mortal eve, , ii^ars unearthly music. All is tumult and dis- .1 within and without his mind; his purposes reci! upon himself, are broken and disjointed ; he 'liaiiijie t;; double thrall of his passions and his destiny. ''^i;;; Ricjird is not a character either of imagitiation or r :. p.ii PS, but of pure selt-will. 'I'here is no confln-i ., Ill .posiie feelintrs in his breast. In the busy tur- bill cc of his projects he never loses his self-pos- s( siiii, and makes use of every circumstame that lia[ ns as an instrument of his long-reachinj( de- [iii»i; In his last e.xtreinily we regard him but as ;i \\;1 beast taken in the toils: But we never en- ure' lose our concern for .Macbeth; and he calls b;i>alloursympathy by that fine close of thought- ful 'elancholy. " My way of life Is I en into the sear, the yellow leaf; Aii:hai which should accompany old ape, . .Aspiiour, love, obedience, troops of Iriends, I iiv:t not look to have ! But in their stead, ... L'uk's not loud but deep; mouth-honour, breath, -pf.lj,liWl-h the poor heart would fum deny, and dares not!"— pp. 06— 30. f""^! I treating of the Julius Ca;sar, Mr. H. ex- traJ? the following short scene, and praises it » llhW, ami, in our opinion, so justly, that ■vplinnot resist the temptation of extracting t, — together with his brief commentary. ■■'rutus. The games are done, and Cassar is [ returning. [sleeve, Ci'fius. As they pass by, pluck Casca by the \iiiie will, after his sour tashion, tell you . • ; has proceeded worthy note to-day. Iittus. I will do so; but look you. Cassius — iiingry spot doth glow on Cesar's brow, ill the rest look like a chidden train. I urnia's cheek is pale ; and Cicero ' ,5 with such ferret and such fiery eyes, - f have seen him in the Capitol, crost in conference by some senator. ' [fius. Casca will tell us what the matter is. ( \<'ir. Aiiionius .i-ony. Csesar? ' l>ar. Let me have men about me that are fat, - 'l-htaded men, and such as sleep a-nights: • ' ■ Cassius has a lean and hungry look, .iiks too much; such men are dangerous. Ayiity. Fear him not, Caesar, he's not danger- ous: : ja noble Roman, and well given. [not: ' .ar. Would he were fatter ! But I fear him i ' 1,'my name were liable to fear, I (ii.iot know the man I should avoid n as that spare Cassius. He reads much ; a great observer; and he looks through the deeds of men. He loves no plays, )u dost, Antony ; he hears no music : 11 he smiles, and smiles in such a sort, le mock'd himself, and scorned his spirit, ha-ould be moved to smile at any thing, nen as he be never at heart's ease t thev behold a greater than themselves; iherefore are they very dangerous. ■ . ;r tell thee what is to be fear'd ■ jwhat I fear; for always I am Cnjsar. ' on my ri^ht hand, for this ear is deiif, I'jU me truly what thou think'si of him." i'e know hardly any paasace more expreosive i genius of Shakespeare than this. It is an if li|l been actually present, had known the dif- r'li characters and what they thought of one I'lilr, and had taken down what he heard and w.aieir looks, words, and gestures, just as they II led."— pp. 36, 37. \V may add the following as a specimen 1 40 of the moral and political n-flectioiis which this author has intermixed with his criliei.->ms. " Sliakrspcnrc has in ihin play and elsewhere shown the same pi'netrntii)n into poliiiiiil fharucier and the sprini;B of public events ns inio those of every-dnv hie. For instance, ilie whole design to liberate tlieir country lails from lb<' generous tem- per and dverwcening coiifideiue of Uru'us in the goodness of their cause and the ns.xistniire of others. I'hus it has always been. Those who inenn well themselves think well of others, and tail a prey to their security. The friends of librriy tnisi lo the professions of others, because they are themselves siiuere. and endeavour to secure the public good with the least possible hurl to its enemies, who have no regard to any thing bii; their own un- principled ends, and stick nt iiotliini; to uccumplish them. Cassius was better cut out fur a conspirator. His heart prompted his head. His habiiual jealousy made him lear the worst that might hnppen, and his irritability of temper added to his inveter.icy of pur- pose, and sharpened his patrioiism. The mixed nauire of his motives made him filter to contend with iind men. The vices arc never so well em- ployed as in combating one another. Tyranny and servility are to be dealt with after their own lashion : otherwise, they will triumph over those who spare them, and finally pronounce their funeral panegyric, as Antony did that of Brutus. " .411 the conspirators, save only he, Did that they did in envy ol great Ca-sar : He only in a general honest thought Of common good to all, made one of them. pp. 38, 39. The same strain is resumed in his remarks on Coriolanus. " Shakespeare seems to have had a leaning to the arbitrary side of the question; perhaps from some feeling of contempt for his own origin ; and to have spared no occasion of baiting the rabble. What he says of them is very true : what be says of their betters is also very true; Hut he dwells less upon it. — The cause of the people is indeed but little calculated as a subject for poetry : it admits of rhetoric, which goes into argument and explanation, but it presents no immediate or distinct images to the mind. The imasination is an exaugerating and exclusive faculty. The uiiderstandiri!,'ls a dividing and measuring faculty. 'Ihe one is an aristocrati- cal, the other a republican faculty. The principle of poetry is a very anti-levelling principle. It aims at efTeci, and exists by conirasi. It is every thing by excess. It puts the individual fcjr the species, the one above the infinite many, might before right. A lion hunting a flock of sheep is a mure poeiic&l object than they ; and we even take part with the lordly beast, because our vanity or some other feel- ing makes us disposed to place ourselves in the situation of the strongest party. There is nothing heroical in a multitude of miserable rogues not wishing to be starved, or coiiiplHinmg that they are like to be so : but when a sinulo man comes for- ward to brave their cries and to make them submit to the last indignities, from mere pride and sell-will, our admiration of his prowess is immediately con- verted into contempt for their pusillaniinity. We had rather, in short, be the oppressor than the op- pressed. The love of power in ourselves and the admiration of it in others are both natural to man: But the one makes him o tyrant, the other a slave." —pp. 69—72. There are many excellent remarks and several line quotations, in th(! di.-H'ussions on Troiliis and Crefwida. As this is no lonjer an acti'd j)lay, we venture to give one exlracl, with Mr. H.'s short obs«'rvation«, which per- fectly express our opinion of its merits. 2 B 114 POETRY. "It cannot be said of Shakespeare, as of some one, that he was ' without o'erflowing full. He was full, even lo o'erflowing. He save heaped measure, running over. This was his greatest fault. He was only in danger ' of losing distinction in his thoughts' (to borrow his own expression) " As doth a battle when they charge on heaps The enemy flying." " There is another passage, the speech of Ulysses to Achilles, showing him the thankless nature of popularity, which has a still greater depth of moral observation and richness of illustration than the former. "Ulyxfes. Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his Wherein he puts alms for Oblivion ; [back, A great-siz'd monster of ingratitudes ; Those scraps are good deeds past ; Which are devour'd as fast as they arc made, Forgot as soon as done : Persev'rance, dear my lord, Keeps Honour bright : to have done, is to hang Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail In monumental mockery. Take the instant way ; For Honour travels in a strait so narrow. That one but goes abreast ; keep then the path, For Emulation hath a thousand sons, That one by one pursue ; if you give way, Or hediie aside from the direct forih-right, Like to an entered tide they all rush by, And leave vim hindmost ; Or, hke a gallant horse fall'n in first rank, [present, O'er-run and trampled on: then what they do in Tho' less than yours in past, must o'ertop yours : For Time is like a fashionable host. That slightly shakes his parting guest by th' hand, And with his arms outstretch'd as he would fly. Grasps in the comer : thus Welcome ever smiles, And Farewel goes out sighing. O, lei not virtue seek Remuneration for the thing it was ; For beauty, wit, High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service. Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all To envious and calumniating lime: One touch of nature makes the whole world kin. That all. with one consent, praise new born gauds, Though they are made and mouldedof things past." " The throng of images in the above lines is pro- digious ; and though they sometimes josile against on'e another, they everywhere raise and carry on the feeling, which is meiaphsically true and pro- found." — pp. 85 — 87. This Chapter ends with an ingenious paral- lel between the genius of Chaucer anti that of Shakespeare, which we have not room to insert. The following observations on Hamlet are very characteristic of Mr. H.'s mamier of writing in the work now before us ; in which he continually appears acute, desultory, and capricious — with great occasional felicity of conception and expression — fre(}uent rashness and carelessness — constant warmth of admi- ration for his author — and some fits of extrav- agance and folly, into which he seems to be hurried, either" by the hasty kindling of his zeal as he proceeds, or by a selfwiljed deter- mination not to be balked or baffled in any thing he has taken it into his head he should say. " Hamlet is a name: his speeches and sayings but the idle coinage of the poet's brain. But are they not real ? They are as real as our own thoughts. Their reality is in the reader's mind. It is we who are Hamlet. This piny has a prophetic truth, which is above that of history. Whoever has become thoui^htful and melancholy through his own mis- hups or those of others ; whoever has borne about said I with him the clouded brow of reflection, and thoj himself ' too much i' ih' sun;' whoever has i the eolden lamp of day dimmed by envious n rising in his own breast, and could find in the » J before him only a dull blank, with nothing lef . markable in it ; whoever has known • the pangf despised love, the insolence of office, or the spi which patient merit of the unworthy takes ;' he o has felt his mind sink within him, and sadness i. to his heart like a malady ; who has had his h| blighted and his youth staggered by the appariii of strange things; who cannot be well at ease, vj he sees evil hovering near him like a spectre ; w ^ powers of action have been eaten up by thou ; he to whom the universe seems infinite, atid . self nothing; whose bitterness ol soul makes j careless of consequences, and who goes to ail', as his best resource to shove ofl', to a seconc'i. move, the evils of life, by a mock-representatit f them. This is the true Hamlet. " We have been so used to this tragedy, th: hardly know how to criticise it, any more tha should know how to describe our own faces, we must make such observations as we can the one of Shakespeare's plays that we thir oftenest because it abounds most in striking n. tions on human life, and because the distreasi Hamlet are transferred, by the turn of his mit t the general account of humanity. Whatever pens to him, we apply to ourselves; becau applies it so himself as a means of general n ing. He is a great moralizer, and w hat maku worth attending to is, that he moralizes on hi- feelings and experience. He is not a commnr pedant. If Zear shows the greatest depth ol • sion, Hami.et is the most remarkable for tlie i- nuity, originality, and unstudied developme'rf character. There is no attempt to force an intii: every thing is left for time and circumsiancli unfold. Tlie attention is excited without effor » incidents succeed each other as matters of co •; the characters think, and speak, and act, j !• they might do if left entirely to themselves, is no set purpose, no straining at a point. T. servaiions are suggested by the passing scent « gusts of passion come and go like sounds of M borne on the wind. The whole play is an IB transcript of what might be supposed to have >i place at the court of iJenmark, at the remote d of time fixed upon, before the modern refine w in morals and manners were heard of. It i<; have been interesting enough to have been : ted as a by-siander in such a scene, at such r to have heard and seen something of wh: eoing on. But here we are more than spec ri We have not only ' the outward pageants at ij signs of grief,' but ' we have that within a passes show.' We read the thoughts of the .m. we catch the passions living as they rise. »" dramatic writers give us very fine versior inJ paraphrases of nature ; but Shakespeare, to w with his own comment, gives us the originci'. that we may judge for ourselves. This is i* advantage. - " The character of Hamlet is itself a pur »• sion of genius. It is not a character marl *f strength of will, or even of passion, but by "•• ment of thought and sentiment. Hamlet is i '"• of the hero as a man can well be : but he is a iJC and princely novice, full of high enthusias.U' qui'-k sensibility, — the sport of circums * (luestioning with fortune, and refining on n,|« feelings; and forced from the natural bias » disposition by the strangeness of his situaii ■" pp. 104—107. His account of the Tempest is all plea glj written, especially his remarks on Ca M but we rather give oui readers his sf W" tions on Bottom and his associates. '■ Bottom ihe Weaver is a character that "^ had justice done him. He is the most rom «» HAZLITT'S CHARACTERS OF SHAKESPEARE. S18 L'chanics ; He follows a sedentary trade, and he is pordiiiirly represented as conceited, serious, and lliiastic.il. He is ready to undertake any thinp and ;ry tiling, as iJit was as nuu-li a matter ot course sjllie motion of his loom and shuttle. He is forplay- i' the tyrant, the lover, the lady, the lion. ' He will {it that it shall do any man's heart good to hear ki ;' and this being objected to as improper, he til has a resource in his good opinion of himself, jjd 'will roar you an 'twere any nightingale.' I'ug the Joiner is the moral man of the piece, MO proceeds by measurement and discretion in jj things. You see him with his rule and coin- IjSses in his hand. ' Have you the lion's part ytten f Pray you, if it be, give it me, for I am »w of study.' — ■ You may do it extempore,' says Uince, ■ for it is nothing but roaring.' Siarve- fg the Tailor keeps the peace, and objects to tlie l[n and the drawn sword. ' 1 believe we must live the killing out when all's done.' Starveling. Ijwever. does not start the objections himself, but jconds them when made by others, as if he had i spirit to e.xpress his fears without encourage - i^nt. It is too much to suppose all this intentional : k it very luckily falls out so." — pp. I'2t>, 127. Mr. H. admires Romeo and Juliet rather too lach — though his encomium on it is about IB most eloquent part of his performance: lit we really cannot sympathise with all the inceits and puerilities that occur in this play ; 1: instance, this exhortation to Night, which . H. has extracted for praise !— Give me my Romeo — and when he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, \.iid he will make the face of heaven so fine, I'hatallihe world will be in love with Night, "&c. We agree, however, with less reservation, his rapturous encomium on Lear — but can "ord no extracts. The following speculation the character of Falstaff is a striking, and, the whole, a favourable specimen of our i thor's manner. Wit is often a meagre substitute for pleaaure- ile sensation; an effusion of spleen and petty re at the comforts of others, from feeling none in ielf. FalsialFs wit is an emanation of a fine con- i'uiion; an exuberance of good-humour and good- I lure ; an overflowing of his love of laughter, and jod-fellowship ; a giving vent to his heart's ease id over-contentment with himsell and others. — would not be in character if he were not so fat he is; for there is the greatest keeping in the I undie^s iu.xury of his imagination and the pam- ired sell-indulgence of his physical appetites. He mures and nourishes his mind with jests, as he • es his body with sack and suoar. He carves out I jokes, as he would a capon, or a haunch of 'nison, where there is rut and come a^ahi: and ishly pours out upon them the oil of gladness. 8 tongue drops fatness, and in the chambers of I brain ' it snow^ of meat and drink.' He keeps perpetuil holiday and open house, and we live n him in a round of invitations to a rump and en. — Yet we are not left to suppose that he was lere sensualist. All this is as much in imagina- I as in reality. His sensuality does not engross Btupify his other faculties, but ' ascendu me I the brain, clears away all the dull, crude va- urs that environ it, and makes it lull of nimble, ry, and delectable shapes.' His imagination epa up the ball long after his senses have done ih it. He seems to have even a greater enjoy- ent of the freedom from restraint, of good cheer, his ease, of his vanity, in the ideal and exngge- ted descriptions which he gives of iheni. than fact. He never tails to enrich his discourse xh alluaioaa to eating and dnnkuig ; but we never see iiim at table. He carries his own larder about with liiin, and he is hiiiiselt ' a tun of muii ' His pulling out the botile in the tield of battle is a juke to show his coiilempt tor glory accompanied with danger, his syslemalic odherence to his Kpi- curean philosophy in the most trying circumstances. Again, such i.s his deliberate exaggeration of his own vices, that it does not seem (|uiie cerium wheiher the account of his hostess' bill, found iii his pocket, with such on out-of-the-way charge lor ciipons and sack with only one halt-penny-worth of bread, was not put there by himself, as a trick to humour the jest upon Ins favourite propensities, and as a conscious caricature of hiniBell. " The secret of Kalsiatf 's wii is lor the most part a masterly presence of mind, an absolute self-pos- session, which nothing can disturb. His reparicca are involuntary suggestions of his self-love ; iiistinc . live evasions of everv thing that threatens to inter- rupt the career of his triumphant jollity and self-complacency. His very size floats him out of all his dirtiiiiliies in a sea ol rich conceits ; and he turns round on the pivot of his convenience, with every occasion and at a moment's warniiu;. His natural repugnance to every unpleasant thought or circumstance, of itself makes light ot objeciiona, and provokes the most extravagant and licentious answers in his own justiticatioii. His iiiditfereiico to truth puts no check upon his invention ; and the more improbable and unexpected his contrivances are, the more happily does he seem to be delivered of them, the anticipation of their elfect acting as a stimulus to the gaiety of his fancy. The success of one adventurous sally giv.-s him spirits to undertake another: he deals always in round numbers, and his exaggerations and excuses are ' open, palpable, monstrous as the father that begets them.' " pp. 189—192. It is time, however, to make an end of this. We are not in the humour to discuss points of learning with this author; and our readers now gee well enough what sort of book he has written. We shall conclude with his re- marks on Shakespeare's style of Comedy, in- troduced in the account of the Twelfth Night. " This is justly considered as one of the most de- lightt'ul of .Shakespeare's comedies. It is lull of sweetness and pleasantry. It is perhaps too good- natured for comedy. It has little satire, and no I spleen. It aims at the ludicrous rather than the j ridiculous. It makes us laugh at the follies of mankind ; not despise them, and still less bear anjr I ill-will towards them. Shakespeare's comic gcniua I resembles the bee rather in its power of ex;raciing sweets Ironi weeds or poisons, than in leaving a ] sting behind it. He gives the most amusing exag- geration of the prevailing foibles of his characters, but in a way that they ihem.selvos, instead of being offended at, would almost join in to humour ; he I rather contrives opportunities tor them to show I tlieiiiHelves off in the happiest lights, than renders I them contemptible in the perverse construction of j the wit or malice of others. "There is a certain stage of societv, in which I people become conscious of their peculiarities and ! alisurdities, ulfect to disguise what they are, and set : up preieiiHioiiH to,se on us for what they are not, even the merit which they have. ' This is ifie comedy of nriificial life, of wit and »«- • lire, such as we see in ('ongreve, Wycherley, Van- brugh, &,c. Ijul there i« a period in the progrrss of manners anierior to this, in which iheluiblrH and I follies of individuiils are of nature's plaiiiini;. not the I growth uf art ur study ; in which lUey ore ihuivion 316 POETRY. uncoDscions of them themselves, or care not who knows ihem, if they can but have their whim out; and in which, as (here is no attempt at imposition, the speciaiors rather receive pleasure from humour- ing the inclinations of the persons they laugh at, than wish to give ihern pain by exposing their ab- surdity. This may be called the comedy of na- ture ; and it is the comedy which we generally find in Shakespeare. — Whether the analysis here given be just or not, the spirit of his comedies is evidently quite distinct from that of the authors above men- tioned; as it is in its essence the same with that of Cers-anies, and also very frequently of Moiiere, though he was more systematic in his e.\travagance than Shakespeare. Shakespeare's comedy is of a pastoral and poetical cast. Folly is indigenous to the soil, and shoots out with native, happy, un- checked luxuriance. Absurdity has every encour- agement afforded it ; and nonsense has room to flourish in. Nothing is stunted by the churlish, icy hand of indifference or severity. The poet runs riot in a conceit, and idolizes a quibble. His whole ob- ject is to turn the meanest or rudest objects to a pleasurable account. And yet the relish which he Las of a pun, or of the quaint humour of a low character, does not interfere with the dehght with wiiich he describes a beautiful image, or the most refined love. The clown's forced jests do not spoil the sweetness of the character of Viola. The same house is big enough to hold Malvoho, the Countess ; Maria, Sir Toby, and Sir Andrew Aguecheek For mstance, nothing can fall much lower than thii last character in intellect or morals: yet bow are hi; weaknesses nursed and dandled by Sir Toby inu something • high fantastical ;' when on Sir Andrew'; commendation of himself for dancing and fencine Sir Toby answers, — ' Wherefore are these ihino; hid? Wherefore have these gifts a curtain befori them ? Are they like to take dust, hke Mrs. Moll'i picture ? Why dost thou not go to church in j galliard, and come home in a coranto? My very walk should be a jig ! I would not so much as makj water but in a cinque-pace. What dost thou mean I Is this a world to hide virtues in ? I did think b\ ' the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was frame; under the star of a galliard I' — How Sir Toby, Sii j Andrew, and the Clown afterwards chirp over their I cups .' how they ' rouse the night-owl in a catch' ! able to draw three ouls out of one weaver !' VVha [ can be better than Sir Toby's unanswerable answei to Malvolio, ' Dost thou think, because thou ar virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and alef— ' In a word, the best turn is given to everything, in.; stead of the worst. There is a constant infusion o! the romantic and enthusiastic, in proportion as Ihi characters are natural and sincere : whereas, in tht more artrficial style of comedy, everything give' way to ridicule and indifference ; there being noth ing left but affectation on one side, and increduli- on the other." — pp. 255 — ^259. Sardanapalus, a Tragedy. (fcbrnarM, 1822.) The Two Foscari, a Trasedy. Cain, a Mystery. Bvo. pp. 440. Murray. London : 1822.* By Lord Byro It must be a more difficult thing to write a good play — or even a good dramatic poem — than we had imagined. Not that we should, a priori, have imagined it to be very easy : But it is impossible tiot to be struck with the fact, that, in comparatively rude times, when the resources of the art had been less care- fully considered, and Poetry certainly had not collected all her materials, success seems to have been more frequently, and far more easily obtained. From the middle of Eliza- beth's reign till the end of James', the drama formed by far the most brilliant and beautiful part of our poetry,— and indeed of our litera- ture in general. From that period to the Revolution, it lost a part of its splendour and originality; but still continued to occupy the most conspicuous and considerable place in our literary annals. For the last centur)-. it has been quite otherwise. Our poetry "has ceased almost entirely to be dramatic ; and, though men of great "name and great talent have occasionally adventured into this once fertile field, they have reaped no laurels, and left no trophies behind them. The genius of Dryden appears nowhere to so little advantage as in his tragedies: and the contrast is truly humiliating when, in a presumptuous attempt to heighten the colouring, or enrich the sim- plicity of Shakespeare, he bedaubs with ob- * I have thought it best to put all my Dramatiml criticisms in one series: and, therefore, I take the tragedies of Lord Byron in this place — and apart from his other poetry. I scenity, or deforms with rant, the genuim I passion and profligacy of Antony and Cleopatn [ — or intrudes on the enchanted sohtude o Prospero and his daughter, with the tones c worldly gallantry, orthe caricatures of affectei ! simplicity. Otway. with the sweet and reeJ low diction of the former age, had none of it force, variety, or invention. Its decajnng fire burst forth in some strong and irregular llashc- in the disorderly scenes of Lee ; and sank a I last in the ashes, and scarcely glowing embers ' of Rowe. Since his time — till very lately — the schoc of our ancient dramatists has been deserted and we can scarcely say that any new on has been established. Instead of the irregula and comprehensive plot — the rich discursiv* dialogue — the ramblings of fancy — the magi' I creations of poetry — the rapid succession o incidents and characters — the soft, fle.vibit and ever-varying diction — and the flowiiii. continuous, and easy versification, which chai acterised those masters of the golden tira( we have had tame, formal, elaborate, an stately compositions — meagre stories— fe> personages — characters decorous and consis ent, but without nature or spirit — a guardei timid, classical diction — ingenious and m j thodical disquisitions — turgid or sententioi declamations — and a solemn and monotonoi ' strain of versification. Nor can this be a. cribed, even plausibly, to any decay of genii among us : for the inost remarkable failun j have fallen on the highest talents. We ha> 1 already hinted at the miscarriages of Dr)dej LORD BYRON'S TRAGEDIES. 317 'ae exquisite taste and fine observation of Jldison, produced only the solemn niawkish- ijss of Cato. The beautiful fancy, the gor- ilous diction, and generous atfeciions of Tiomson, were chilled and withered as soon fjhe touched the verire of the Drama; where Ip name is associated with a mass of verbose IJerility, which it is difficult to conceive could 6(er have proceeded from the autlior of the fck.sons and the Castle of Indolence. Even tp mighty intellect, the eloijuent morality. m lofty style of Johnson, which g-ave loo tigic and magiuTicent^a'tone lo his ordinary Vjiting, failed altogether to support him in his alempt to write actual tragedy : and Irene is ni only unworthy of the imitator of Juvenal la^tniij, I *' *he author of Rasselas and the Lives of i«aBi|t| Poets, but is absolutely, and in itself. ' ^isKi I nihing better than a tissue of wearisome ""W-ilajl unimpassioned declamations. We have .. **![;• ^nAied the most celebrated names ui our t' 4m I'^ratu'"*^) since the decline of the drama, al- , nj^L ixkt to our own days ; and if they have neither ; lamifni 14 *")' "^^^' l^o'iours to the stage, nor bor- "i'. iulffl rcfed any from it. it is needless to s;iy, that tb'e who adventured with weaker [wwers h: no better fortune. The Mourning Bride of^ongreve, the Revenge of Young, and the Diglas of Home [we cannot add the Mys- tesus Mother of Walpole — even to ple;ise Loiit ■' Ivh life, Shakenpeare. and the mil.oical glu.iseH!" ~.'ld, in a more serious passajie, he ii\tr(>!ii glare and gloomy grandeur on the narrow scene which it irradiates. He has given us, in his other works, .some glorious pictures of nature — some magnificent reliections, and some in- imitable delineations of chanict»'r: But the s;ime feelings p#vail in them all ; and his portraits in particular, though a little varied in the drapery and attitude, seem all copied from the ."^ame orijjinal. His Childe Harold, his Giaour, Conrad, Lara, Manfred, Cain, and Lucifer — are all one individual. There is the same varnish of voluptuousness on the sur- face — the .same canker of mi.santhropy at the core, of all he touches. He cannot draw the changes of many-coloured life, nor transport himself into the condition of the inlinitely di- versified characters by whom a stage should I be peopled. The very intensity of his feel- ing.s — the loftiness of his views — the pride of his nature or his genius — withhold him from this identification ; so that in personating the heroes of the .scene, he does little but repeat himself. It would be better for him, we think, if it were otherwise. We are sure it ! would be better for his readers. He would 1 iret more fame, and thinirs of far more worth j than fame, if he would condescend to a more i e.xtended and cordial sympathy with his fel- ! low-creatures; and we should have more variety of fine poetry, and, at all events, bet- ter tnigedii'S. We have no business to read him a homily on the sinfulness of pride and uncharity ; but we have a right to sjiy, that it argues a poorness of irenius to keep alwavs to the same topics and persons ; and that the j world will weary at last of the mo.st energetic -lictures of misanthropes and madmen — out- aws and their mistres.ses ! A man gifted as he is, when he aspires at ' dramatic fame, should emulate the greatest of dnimatists. Let Lonl Byron then think of Shakesjieare — and consider what a noble raiiireof character, what a freedom from niai,- I nerism and egotism, there is in him ! How I much he seems to have studii'd nature; how j littltr to have thought about him.stdf ; how seldom to have repeated or glanced back at his own most successful inventions ! Why indeed should he ^ .Nature was still ofM-n ! beforr* him. and ine.vhaustible : and the fresh- I lies-; and variety that still delii'lil h'-* i''^" any given action ad libit inn may be ,■'""■'■ ed ; and accordingly may be shiftec u™ " LORD HVRON'-S TR.\(;EDIES 321 Ufi strike one as abst)lutely iiiciri ""■'^vi t so happens, however, that the ""•jMi t;l', and, in Inith, absurdity of 'arsjm hhci objects to a lormalitv'of th motmi ..'i-;.,„K- .r.o^io,.^.! ;,. ^ .V .i - soin imagination, as often a? llie action re- 5,7''** qres it. That ajiy writer should ever have *'ini '^L '■'^^^'^ ^" ''"^"^' ^" ""'*}■ "'" 1^1'**- DUist appear '^^^^^^ «i[iciently preiwsterouK; but. tliat iheiiefenee ,|-J'*j oit should be taken up by an author \\hoable, the practicable foundation of stu- i3?aii(liptdous sutTerings, would luive been, to have TsateiiipKenled him to the audience wearing out ni and ilia hi heart in e.vile — and forming his restilution aridpoetii, lo eturn, at a distance from his country, or ^niselTCiiihtering, in excruciating suspense, withui ladriwliiisiHt of its borders. We miglit then have [^■^leiiiliiifii! ca jhl some glimpse of the nature of his idaui jm ives, and of so evlraordinary a chai-acter. theifOtli'iBi as this would have been contrary to one tjoo. Hell! o* It* Unities, we Ih-st meet with him let! from Pacb*" e Question."' and afterwards taken back ifiilieisli«'o '» the Ducal Palace, or clinging to the «^I.toidit:eon-walisof his native city, and e.xpiring ^ucetlaiil,|fr«i his dread of leaving them: and ihere- ;|;efeisji',|fo feel more wonder than SMnpathy. when liiiisl k Ik ^^' ^'■'- *"'^' '" ^ Jeremiail of wilful lamenta- msniii*''^ that these agonising consequences have ii>l te'iti'"^ 't*'''! "''t '■■o'Ti guilt or disister. but merely „jjjLfni the intensity of his love for his country. ■Wi'aiill "^ ^^^ must now look at the other Trage- ■ 'pujjgdi : and on turning acain to Sardasapali ■itm oiu d lie IBS _y,(\V( ire half inclined to repent of the severity rv,of ome of our preceding n-marks. or to owii ast that they are not strictly applicable lis performance. It is a work beyond all jLtetion of creat beauty and power; and thiiL'h the heroine has many trails in com- with the Meiloras and CJulnares of Lord I us undramatic [xjclry, the hero nnist be jved to be a new cliaracter in his hands. [has. indeed, the scorn of war, and L'lopk-. I priestcraft, and regular morality, which j rmiiishes the rest of his Lordship's favour- i: but he lias no mis;iiithropy. and very (• pride — and may be regarded, on the jle. as one of the most truly good-hu- red. amiable, and respectable voluptuaries horn we have ever been prewnted. In conception of his character, the author! very wis»dy followed nature and fancy ?r than historv*. His Sardanapalus is not liie^fanireminate, worn-out debauchee, with shal- !iat«'tei|l nerves and exhausted .senses, the slave lolence and vicious habits ; but a san- > votary of pleasure, a nrinwiy epicure, ;l2iny^. revelling in Uiundless luxury while '■an, but with a sjiil s^i inured to volup- sness. so salunited Wilh delights, that i and dancer, when they come uncalled it'ive him neither concern nor dread; •tl aiul he goes forth, fiom the banquet to iha battle, as to a dance or measure, attire.l by the (Jnices. and wilh youlh. jov, and love tor his guides. He dallies with ftellona as her bruieiuoom — for his .siHjrl uiul luisliine; and the sjM'ar or fan, the shield or shining niirrorj U'conie his hands equally well. He enjojs life, in short, and triunqhs over death ; and whether in prusjM'rous or adverse circum- Ktances. his soul smiles out sujK'rior to evil. The Kpicunmi jihilosophy of S;irdanapalii» gives him a (ine oiij>ortunily, in his conler- ences with his stern and coniidential a(lvi.'«er, Siilemenes, to contra.st his own imputed aiid fatal vices of ea,•^! ami love of i)|ea.»ure with the boasted virtues of his predecc'.sors, War ami CoiKjiie.Kt ; and we may a.-* well La-gin wilh a short sixrimen of this eharacleriBtic discussion. S;ilemenes is bmther to the ne- glected ijueen ; and the controversy originates in the monarch's allusion to her. " San!, 'riiou ihink'st ihat I hnve wrong'ti the qiiceii : is't not «o f Sale. Thifik .' 'I'liou linni wrong'd hor ! Surd. Pnii»ncc. prinri', and hrar me. .''hp has all power and Bplc-i)diiiir of hiT siaiiun, Rcspi-ct, (he luiehigc o( Assyna's heira, The hiiniace and the appannj^e of sovircigniy. I iimrrifd bi-r, as nionarcho wed — for stale, .\nil loved her. as most husbands love iheir wives, n she or ilioii supposedsl I could link nic Like a Chaldean peosani lo his male, Ye knew nor me, nor monarrhs, nor mankind. Sale. 1 pray ihec, change the theme ; my blood disdains Complaint, and Salcmenea' sister seeks not nehiriaut love, even from Assyria's lord I Nor would she deicrn to accept divided passion \^ ith foreign strumpets and Ionian slaves. The queen is silint. Sard. And why not her brother? Salt: I only echo thee the voice of empires. Which he who long neclects not long will govern. Sard. The ungrateful and ungracious slaves! they murmur Because I have not shed their blood, nor led them To dry into the desert's dust by myriads. f)r whiten with their bones the banks ol Ganges ; Nor decimated them with savage laws, Nor sweated them to l>uild up pyramids, Or Hnliy Ionian walls. Siilr. Yet these are trophies More worthy of a people and their prince Than songs, and lutes, and leasts, and concubines, .■\n(l lavish'd treasures, and contemned virtues. Sard. ( )h ! for my trophies 1 have founded cities : Theri-'s Tarsus and AiM-hi.iius. both built In one day — what could that blood-luving beldame, My martml grundam. chanie .'^emiramis, Do more — except destroy them f Sdlr. 'Ti» most true ; I own ihy mirii in those founded cities. Built for a whim, recorded with averse Whii-h shames both them and thee locominx ages. Sard, .'^haine mc I By Baal, the cities, ttiuugh w. 11 built. .•\re not more goodly than the verse I Ray what 'I'hou wilt against the truth of that brief record, Why. those few lines contain the history or nil things human; hear — ' ."^ard.innpalus Tin- king, and Son of Anacyndnraxes, In one day built Anchialus and Tarsus. J^ut. drink, and love I the rest's not worth a fillip. Suit. A worthy moral, and a wise insrnpiion, For a king to put up before his subjects I Sard. Oh, thou wouldst have mc doubtless «et up cdicis — 322 POETRY. ' Obey the king — contribute to his treasure — Recruit his phalanx — spill your blood at bidding — Fall d)wn and worship, or get up and toil.' Or thus — ' Sardanapalus on this spot Slew fitly thousand of his enemies. These are iheir sepulchres, ami this his trophy.' I leave such things to conquerors ; enough For me, it I can mako niy subjects feel The weiglit of human misery less, and glide Ungroaniiig to the tomb ; I lake no licence Which I deny to them. We all are men. Sale. 'I'hy sires have been revered as gods — Sard. In dust And deaih — where ihey are neither gods nor men. Talk not of such to me ! the worms are gods; At h-ast I hey banqueted upon your gods. And died for lack of farther nutriment. '^I'hose gods were merely men ; look to their issue — I feel a thousand mortal things about me. But nothing godlike — unless it may be The thing which you condemn, a disposition To love and to be merciful ; to pardon The ft)llies of my species, and (that's human) To be indulgent to my own." — pp. 18 — 21. But the chief charm and vivifying angel of the piece is Myrrha, the Greek slave of Sar- danapalus — a beautiful, heroic, devoted, and ethereal being — in love with the generous and infatuated monarch — ashamed of loving a barbarian — and using all her influence over him to ennoble as well as to adorn his exist- ence, and to arm him against the terrors of "its close. Her voluptuousness is that of the heart — her heroism of the affections. If the pai t she takes in the dialogue be sometimes too subdued and submissive for the lofty daring of her character, it is still such as might become a Greek slave — a lovely Ionian girl, in whom the love of liberty and the scorn of death, was tempered by the con- sciousness of what she regarded as a degrading passion, and an inward sense of fitness and decorum with reference to her condition. The development of this character and its con- sequences form so material a part of the play, that most of the citations with which we shall illustrate our abstract of it will be found to bear upon it. Salemenes, in the interview to which we have just alluded, had driven --'the Ionian minion" from the royal presence by his re- proaches. After his departure, the Monarch again recalls his favourite, and reports to her the warning he had received. Her answer lets us at once into the nobleness and delicacy of her character. " 3Ii/r. He did well. Sard. And say' Si thou so 1. Thou whom he spurn'd so harshly, and now dared Drive from our presence with his savage jeers, And made thee weep and blush ? iliyr. / sJiouJd do holh More frequently ! and he did well to call me Back to my duty. But thou spakest of peril — Peril to thee — Sard. Ay, from dark plots and snares Froiri Medes — and' discontented troops and nations. I know not what — a labyrinth of things — A maze of mutter'd threats and mysteries : Thou know'st the man — it is his usual custom. But he is honest. Come, we'll think no more on't — But of the midnight festival. J\[iir. 'Tis time To liii'ik of an^ht save festivals. Thou hast not Spurn'd his sage cautions ? Sard. W hat ?— and dost thou fear ? Myr. Fear! — I'm a Greek, and how sh Id 1 fear death ? slave, and wherefore should I dread my frei imj Sard. Then wherefore dost thou turn so p? tiard Myr. Sard. And do not I I love thee far — fa: lore Than either the brief life or the wide realm, Which, it may be, are menaced: yot I blanf not. Blyr. When he who is thei ulgj Forgets himself, will they remember him? Sard. Myrrha ! Myr. Frown not upon me: you have smii Too often on me, not to make those frowns Bitterer to bear than any punishment Which they may augur. — King, I am your si ;ct! Master, I am your slave ! Man, I have loved ; i|— Loved you, I know not by what fatal weaki s, Although a Greek, and born a foe to monan — A slave, and hating tetters — an Ionian, And, theretbre, when I love a stranger, moi Degraded by that passion than by chains ! Still I have loved you. If that love were bi ig Enough to overcome all former nature. Shall it not claim the privilege to save you I Sard. Save me, my beauty ! Thou art v{ fair, And what I seek of thee is love — not safety, Myr. And without love where dwells sec tyt Sard. I speak of woman's love. 3Iyr. The vt first Of human life must spring from woman's b si; Your first small words are taught you from f lips. Your first tears quench'd by her, and yc last sighs Too often breathed out in a woman's hearii When men have shrunk from the ignoble c Of watching the last hour of him who ledtm. Sard. My eloquent Ionian ! thou speak'st ,»ic! The very chorus of the tragic song > I have heard thee talk of as the favourite p ime Of thy far father-land. Nay, weep not— callhee. 3Iyr. I weep not — But I pray thee, do nc pea,i About my fathers, or their land ! Sard. Yet oft T/wu speakcst of them. BIyr. True — tnie ! constant 'Ughl Willoverflow in words unconsciously ; i But wheii another apeaks of Greece, il woun'me. Sard. Well, then, how wouldst thou jau;ie,as thou saidst ? [fc der«. Myr. Look to the annal.s of thine tm> Sard. They are so blotted over with li)d, I cannot. [«!■ But what wouldst have ? the empire Aas beet'mi- 1 cannot go on multiplying empires. 3Iyr. Preserve thine own. Sard. At least I will oyii. Coiue, Myrrha, let na on to the Euphrates The hour invites, the galley is prepared, ■ And the pavilion, deck'd for our return, ' In fit adornment for the evenitig banquet, Shall blaze with beauty and with light, uni It seems unto the stars which are above ui. Itself an opposite star; and we will sit Crown'd with fresh flowers like 31t/r. Victims. , Sard. No. like sov .signs, The shepherd kino:s of patriarchal times, ; Who knew no brighter gems than summer sallis- And none but tearless triumphs. Let us c ' pp. 3-36. The second act, w^hich contains theBlails of the conspiracy of Arbaces, its dete'onbv the vigilance of Salamenes, and the 1; tarn and hasty forgiveness of the rebels ijr thu King. is. on the whole, heavy and uni crest- ing. ' Early in the third act, the ro> Dim- quet is disturbed by sudden tidings tre* son and revolt; and'then the revellei to^* out into the hero, and the Greek Iw ^' Myrrha mounts to its proper office The LOUD inuON-S Tli.VGEDlES. 323 bllowing passages are striking. A messenger ays, Priui-e Salenieiies doth inniloru the king To arm hinistlf. »l(lioiii;h t>iit lur n iiioiiumk, iud show htiiiuir uiiio the .sulJu rs : his ole presence in this instant inij;ht do ntore han hosts can do in Im b«hiilf. Sard. What, hoi rly armour there. M^r. Aiui wilt thou f 'Surd. Will I not r lo. there ! — But yeek not lor the huckU^r ; 'tis o.i hcavv : — a !ii:ht cuirass niid my sworJ. Mt/r. llow I do love ihit* ! Sard, I ne'er doubted it. ^lyr. But now I kixiw thee. Sard. (iirmiVrjr ki»iailf) ive me the cuirass — so: mybaldrii'! now ly sword : I had forgot the helm, where is it f 'hat's well — no, 'tis too hi-avy ; you mistake, too — i was not tills I ntoani, but that wliich bears diadem around it. S/rr(t. Sire. I decnt'd 'hat too conspicuous from the pit?cious stones 'o risk your sacred brow beneath — and, trust me. his is of better metal though less rich. Smrd. You deem'd '. Are you too lurn'd a rebel f Fellow ! 'our part is to obey: remrn, and — no — is loo late — I will go forth without it. Sfero. At least wear this. Sard. Wear Caucasus '. why, 'tis mountain on my tcinples. [^rrha. retire unto a place of safety. I hy went you not forth with the other damsels ? Mfr. Because my place is here. I dare all things xcept 9ur\Mve what I have loved, to be rebel's booty : forth, and do your bravest " pp. So— 89. The noise of the conflict now reaches her doubtful clamour; and a soldier comes in, " whom she asks how the King bears hira- :If — a/id is answered, " At'. Like a kin?. I must find i?fcro, nrl brinij him a new g;iear niid his own helmet. e tilths till now l«are-hiadtii. and by for oo much exposed. Tlie suldiets knew his fiice, nd the fue too : and in the moon's broad light, IS silk tiara and his flowing hair [ake him a mark too royal Every arrow pointed at the fair hair and fair features, nd the broad filiet which crowns both. he king! the knig (ighie as he revels. Myr. "lis no dishono spiracy, which had ju.st been organised" the overthrow of the government by cci « plebeian malecontents, who had more > LORD HVRONS TRAGEDIES. iintial wrongs and grievances to complain of. lie of the faction, nowever, had a friend in i!e Senate whom he wislied to preserve ; and «es to him. on the eve of the insurrection, "jth words of waniinsj, which h^ad to it.s tnely detection. The Doire and his asso- «ites are arrested and biou;:ht to trial : and fe former, after a vain intorcission from An- jnlina, who candidly admits the enomiity of \- iTuilt. and prays only for his life, is leil. in l^ ducal robes, to the j>lace where he was til constvrattnl a sovereiuse to enter more warmly into his resent- i 'nt. reminds her of the motives tliat had II him to seek her alliance, (her father's re- ( '.'sL and his own di'sire to allbrd her orphan Uplessness the highest and most nnsuspect- e protection.) though not jx^rfectly dramatic, tp great sweetness and dignity : and reminds t' in its rich verbosity, of the moral and 1 'llifluous parts of Massinger. l' Do^e- For love, romantic love, which in my I new 10 be illusion, and ne'er saw [youth Isting, but often fatal, it had been I, lure for me, in my most passionate^ays, -''id could not be so now, did such exist. It such respect, and mildly paid regard /.a true feeling for your wellare, and / ree compliance with all honest wishes ; .(';-iindness to your virtues, watchfulness ^.t shown, but shadowing o'er such little failings /i youth is apt in, so as not to check "pliiy. but win you from thtm ere you knew had been won. but thought the change your I choice ; -■^Sride not in your beauty, but your conduct — Arust in yoti — a patriarchal love, Al not a doting homage — friendship, faith — ?}-h estimation in your eyes as these P»ht claim, I hoped for." — " trusted to the blood of Loredano Pe in your veins; I trusted to the soul [you — Gl gave vou — to the truths your fitlier taught 1 your belief in heaven — to your mild virtues — ^ your own faith and honour, for my own. — Miere li^'h; thuughis are lurking, or the vanities Clworldlv pleasure rankle in the heart, rjsensual throbs convulse it, well I know " vere hopeless for humanity to dream I .honesty in such infected blood, .Aii.iuiih 'twere wed lo him it covets moat : ^ "! -irnation of the poet'.s god i lii '. •^ marble-chiseii'd l»cauty, or I M' 'lu-deiiv. Alcidcs. in ': f:' ■ . -'y of «nperhiiman manhood. ■•' ■:'■•> .It suffice to bind where virtue is not." pp, 50—53. h ■ f'lirth Act opens with the most pocti- ;i ! brilliantlv written scene in the play — = ;a::li it is a soliloquy, and altogether alien ;;!n the business of the j)iece. Lioni, a ylng nobleman, returns home from a splen- d( assembly, rather out of spirits; and, owning his palace window for air, a)ntra.sts tl| tranquillity of the night scene which lies ("Ore him, with the feverish turbulence and -' tering enchantments of that which he has Jul quitted. Nothing can be finer than this pjure in both its compartmentP. There is I I a truth and a luxuriance in the description of the rout, which mark at once the hand of a master, anil niise it to a vet\ hii;h nuik a.-* u piece of (xietical painting — while the niiKjri. Ii;;ht view from the window is tHjually ^rund and beautiful, aiid reminds tis of those ning- iiKiceiit and enchanting lookings forth in Manfred, which have left, we will c()iifcs.s far deejx'r traces on our fancy, than any thing in the more elaborate work before us. Lion] says, " 1 will try U'hother the air will calm my apirjis: 'ii« .V goodly night ; the cloudy wind which blew From the Levant has crept into ita cave. [ncss! And the broad moon hasbriKliien'd. What a atill- HfO>» to an ourn. bittice. And what a contrast with the scene I left, \\'hcre the (all torches' glare, and silver lamps' More pallid gleam, along the ia(>«-8triervade The ocean-born and earih-commanding my." pp, 9»— lOL 2C 326 POETRY. We can now afford but one other extract ; — and we take it from the grand and prophetid rant of which the unhappy Doge dehvers him4 self at the place of execution. He asks whether he may speak ; and is told he may, but that the people are too far off to hear him. He then says, " I speak to Time and to Eternity, Of which I grijw a portion — not to man ! Ye elements ! in which to be resolved I hasten 1 Ye bhie waves ! which bore my banner, Ye winds ! which flutter'd o'er as if you loved it, And fill'd my swelling sails, as they were wafted To many a triumph ! Thou, my native earth, <■ Which I have bled for, and thou foreign earth, '< ' Which drank this willing blood from many a wound ! [Thou ! Thou sun ! which shinest on these things, and Who kindlest and who quenchest suns ! — Attest I I am not innocent — But are these guiltless ? I perish : But not unavenged : For ages Float up from the abyss of time to be, And show these eyes, before they close, the doom Of this proud city ! — Yes, the hours Are silently engendering of the day, When she, who built 'gainst Attila a bulwark, Shall yield, and bloodlessly and basely yield Unto a bastard Attila ; without Shedding so much blood in her last defence As these old veins, oft drain'd in shielding her. Shall pour in sacrifice. — She shall be bought ! Then, when the Hebrews in thy palaces. The Hun in thy high places, arid the Greek Walks o'er thy mart, and smiles on it for his ; When thy patricians beg their bitter bread In narrow streets, and in their shameful need Make their nobility a plea for pity ; — when Thy sons are in the lowest scale of being. Slaves turn'd o'er to the vanqiiish'd by the victors, Despised by cowards for greater cowardice, And scorn' d even by the vicious for their vices. When all the ills of conquer'd states shall cling thee, Vice without splendour, sin without relief; When these and more are heavy on thee, when Smiles without mirth, and pastimes without plea- Youth without honour, age without respect, [sure, Meanness and weakness, and a sense of woe 'Gainst which thou wilt not strive, and dar'st not murmur, Have made thee last and worst of peopled deserts. Then — in the last gasp of thine agony, Amidst thy many murders, think of mine! Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes ! Gehenna of the waters ! thou sea Sodom I Thus I devote thee to the infernal gods ! Thee and thy serpent seed ! [Here the Doge turns, and addresses the Exe- cutioner. Slave, do thine office ! Strike as I struck the foe ! Strike as I would Have struck those tyrants ! Strike deep as my curse ! Strike— and but once !— pp. 162—165. It will not now be difficult to estimate the character of this work. — As a play, it is defi- cient in the attractive passions ; in probability, and in depth and variety of interest; and revolts throughout, by the extravagunt dis- proportion which the injury bears to the unmeasured resentment with which it is f pursued. Lord Byron is, undoubtedly, a poet of the very first order — and has tale«its to reach the very highest honours of the tlrama. But he must not again disdain love and am- bition and jealousy. He must not substitute what is merely bizarre and extraordinary, for ;what is naturally and universally interestiilg — I nor expect, by any exaggerations, so to rou and rule our sympathies, by the sensek anger of an old man, and the prudish propr ties of an untempted woman, as by t agency of the great and .simple passions w ' which, in some of their degrees, all men i familiar, and by which alone the Drama Mu.se has hitherto wrought her miracles. Of '•Cain, a JMystery,'' we are constrain to say, that, though it abounds in beanti; passages, and shows more poicer perhaps th any of the author's dramatical compositio Sve regret very much that it should everhf been published. It will give great seam; and offence to pious persons in general — a may be the means of suggesting the m painful doubts and distressing perplexities, hundreds of minds that might never oth I wise have been e.vposed to such dangeri , disturbance. It is nothing less than absu in such a case, to observe, that Lucifer can ; well be expected to talk like an orthod: divine — and that the conversation of the t'\ Rebel and the first Murderer was not lik • to be very unexceptionable — or to plead i| authority of Milton, or the authors of the \ mysteries, for such ofiensive colloquies. '. • fact is, that here the whole argument — aji;i verj' elaborate and specious argument it i'- is directeif ag-ainst the goodness or the po'r of the Deity, and against the reasonabler'S of religion in general; and there is no aiis r .so much as attempted to the offensive (,- trines that are so strenuously inculcated. '-3 Devil and his pupil have the field entirel !tt themselves — and are encountered withn.;'* ing but feeble obtestations and unreasoijg horrors. Nor is this argumentative blasphty a mere incidental defomiity that arises ine course of an action directed to the com],n sympathies of our nature. It fonns, on e contrary, the great staple of the piece— d occupies, we should think, not less than 'o thirds of it ; so that it is really difficult tc 5- lieve that it was written for any other pur 6 than to inculcate these doctriiie,s — or at lea discuss the question on which they bear. > r. we can certainly have no objection to fu Byron writuig an Essay on the Origin of .il — and sifting the whole of that vast and r« plexing subject with the force and the ?• dom that would be expected and allowcin a fair philosophical discussion. But wijo not think it fair, thus to argue il partially id con amove, in the nairie of Lucifer and C'l; without the responsibility or the liabili to answer that would attach to a philosop al dis})utant — and in a form which both doi e» the danger, if the sentiments are pernio, is, and almost precludes his opponents fron he possibility of a reply. > » Philosophy and Poetry are both very pd things in their way ; but, in our opinion, ley do not go very well together. It is but a lor and pedantic .'^ort of poetry that seeks cl fly to embody melaiihysicalfubtilties and ah; ret deductions of reason — anil a very susp. 'U* philo.sophy that aims at establishing its )C- trines by appeals to the passions aiich" fancy. Though such argnmentSj how er, LORD BVRONS TR.\GEDIES. 827 ^[^»lii al worth little in the schools, it does not • ^ f) fcpw that their etFect is inconsiderable in the \\i\d. On the contrary, it is the mischief of a! poetical jxirailoxes, that, I'roni the very lijits and end of poetry, which deals only in opt 'US and jjlancinir views, they are never biuu-^lit to the fair test of arjrument. An al- lijKMi to a donbtfnl topic will oflen jkiss for a dinitive conclusion on it ; and. wiien cloth«'d npeautifnl lanii-inure. may li'ave the most p|nici()us impressions behind. In tlie cunrts olinoraiity, jxM-ts are unexceptionaI)le tril- likes: they may izive in the evidence, and diose to facts whether good or ill; but we d|iur to their arbitrary and self-plea.'^ing sijimincs up. They are susinx'ted judges, atl not very otten s;ife advocates; where l'i eat q»stions are concerned, ami univcrs;d prin- cies broneeause '1' le aiiributes seem many, as ihy works: — If ou must be propitiated with prayers, 'J'e iheni 1 If ihou must be induced with altars, A soften'd with a sacrifice, receive them I T ) beings here erect them unto ihee. [smokes IfitMi iov'si blood, the shepherd's shrine, which O ny right hand, hath shed it for thy service, Inie first ol his flock, whose limbs now reek ' Inkincuiiiary incense to ihy skies ; weet and blooming fruits of earih, der seasons, which the unsiain'd turf I'nd them on now otVers in the face road sun which ripen'd theni, may seem Gd to the«. masnnich as they have not St _r'd in limb or lite, and rather form A iinple of thy works, than supplication ook on ours '. If a shrine without viciini, aliar without gore, may win thy favour, on it I and fir hnn who dn sseili it, — such as ihoii mad'si him ; and seeks noihing ■h miisi be won by kneeling. If he's evil, iKc iiiin ! thou art omrupoient. and may'sl. — what can he oppose 1 If he be Rood, hiiii, or spare him, ns ihnu wilt ! since all jj'on tlicc; .ind griod and evil seeni luve no power themselves, nave in thy will ; heiher that be good or ill I know not, l)eing ommpoieni. nor fit to judge P'lience ; but merely to endure jnda;t — which thus lar I have endured." pp. 424. 425. he catasttophe follows soon after, and i«» briL'ht alioul with 'jrciil dramatic skill and ff-t. The murderer i» sorrowful and con- ' •'! — his parents reprobate and reimnnce his wife dmas to him with eairer and -itatinir affection; and they wander forth ih'^r into the vast solitude of th»' universe. 'e have now gone throti:rh the poetical pal of this volume, and ought here, jvrhaps, to lose our account of it. But tln-re arc a ft pages in prose that are more talked of than all the rest; nnd whicn ieail irresistibly to topics, ujion which it seems at last iiccci*- .s'lry that we should express an opinion We allude to the concluding jiart of the Ap|>etidix to •• The Two Foscan," in whiih I.ohI Hvton resumes his habitual ctimjilaint of the lio.ntil- ity which lie ha.s exjH'rienccd fitnii the wri- ters of his own country — makes reprisals on those who have assjiih-d his reputation — uiid inHicts, ill jvirticulur. a memorable chastise- ment ujion the tinhap])y Lnureat*-, inlers|MTs««d with sonic jvditical rctlcctioiis of great weiyht and autliority. It is not however with tiiem', or the merits of (ho livatment which Mr. Soulhey has cither given or received, that we have now any con- cern. But we have a word or two to .miy oii the griefs of Lord Byron him.-M-lf. He com- plains bitterly of the detraition by which he has been assiiled — and intimates that his works have lx'«'ii received by the public with far less cordiality and favour than he was en- titled to expect. We are con.Hlrained to s;iy that this apjM-ars to us a very extraordinary mistake. In the w hole course of our exi)eri- ence. we cannot recollect a single author who has nnd .-^j little iens LORD BVKON-S TRAdKOIKS. 82f fai debauchery — if the Matron, who has cluneil all hearts by the lovely siuietimo- II 11 of her coiiju;jral aiul nuitenial eiuiear- imits. glides out from the circle of her dul- dii. and iiives bolil and shameless way to thtimost abandoned and degradinji; vices — ounolions of riitht and wrong are at once coijDUnded — our confidence in virtue shaken ■-% to [e foundation — and our reliance on truth ^'^nsossanltidelity at an end for ever. ^^ik his is the charge which we bring against ~liij((4^Lo Byron. We say that, under some strange '^MB.fgmilppreheiision as to the truth, and the duty ■ of ]f)claiining it. he has exerted all the jxjwers of ;s powerful mind to convince his readers, bol,directly and indirectly, that all ennobling - pui|.uts, and disinteresteil virtues, are mere . de(|its or illusions — liollow and despicable . mo.ceries for the most part, and, at best, but -aiiistyab ious follies. Religion, love, jmtriotism, :-beaivalir, devotion, constancy, ambition — all are - ifaliliito e laughed at, disbelieved in, and de- ic-W^i d ! — iind nothing is really good, so far as .:3:(Wean irather. but a succession of danirers to Ptiijlie blood, and of banquets and intrigues to f|jthe it ag-ain ! If this doctrine stood alone, , wii its examples, it would revolt, we believe mo than it would seduce : — But the author of has the unlucky gift of personating all ,_tho' sweet and lofty illusions, and that with , sut trrace and force, and truth to nature, that it i-mpossible not to suppose, for the time, that . he amon:; the most devoted of their votaries — till it' casts otf the character with a jerk — and, , theriument after he has moved and exahed us ^jljll^io lie very height of our conception, resumes ,iJji,i(,his{iockery at all things serious or sublime — . aiuiets us down at once on some coarse joke, -hearted sarcasm, or fierce and relentless ■aality — as if on purpose to show ...J i - Whoe'er was edified, himself was not " — or I demonstrate practically as it were, and by :aniple. how possible it is to have all fine '^''"" aninoble feelings, or their appearance, for a ' '''"moent. and yet retain no particle of respect ' for lem — or of belief in their intrinsic worth or I rmanent reality. Thus, we have an iii- del lie but very clever scene of young Juan's coiealment in the bed of an amorous matron, aiii >f the torrent of "rattling and audacious '"I'Mice" with which she repels the too - suspicions of her jealous lord. All this - 'rely comic, and a little coarse: — Hut till," Mie ])oet chooses to make this shameless am abandoned woman address to her young gal lit an epistle breathing the very spirit of wa J, devoted, pure, and unalterable love — tin; profaning the holiest language of the .•- hei,aiid indirectly associating it with the mo hateful and degratling sensuality. In *^ful to s neath them. If it will not listen to the \-e of the charmer, that brilliant garden, gav id glorious as it is, must be deserted, an tg existence deplored, as a snare to the unv y. (:?lugust, 1S17.) Manfred ; a Dramatic Poem. By Lord Bvron. 8vo. pp. 75. London: ISH. This is a very strange — not a very pleasing — but unquestionably a very powerful and most poetical production. The noble author, we find, still deals with that dark and over- awing Spirit, by whose aid he has so often subdued the minds of his readers, and in whose might he has wrought so many won- ders. In Manfred, we recognise at once the gloom and potency of that soul which burned and blasted and fed upon itself in Harold, and Conrad, and Lara — and which comes again in this piece, more in sorrow than in anger — more proud, perhaps, and more awful than ever — but with the fiercer traits of its misan- thropy subdued, as it were, and quenched in the gloom of a deeper despondency. Man- fred does not. like Conrad and Lara, wreak the anguish of his burning heart in the dan- gers and daring of desperate and predatory war — aor seek to drown bitter thoughts in the tumult of perpetual contention — nor yet, like Harold, does he sweep over the peopled scenes of the earth with high disdain aird aversion, and make his survey of the business and pleasures and studies of man an occasion for taunts and sarcasms, and the food of an im- measurable spleen. He is fixed by the genius of the poet in the majestic solitudes of the central Alps — where, from his youth up. he has lived in proud but calm seclusion from the ways of men; conversing only with the magnificent forms and aspects of nature by which he is surrounded, and with the Spirits of the Elements over whom he has acquired dominion, by the secret and unhallowed stu- dies of Sorcery and Magic. He is averse indeed from mankind, and scorns the low and frivolous nature to which he belongs: but he cherishes no animosity or hostility to that feeble race. Their concerns excite no inter- est — their pursuits no sympathy — their joys no envy. It is irksome and vexatious for him to be crossed by them in his melancholy mus- : ings, — but he treats them withgentlenesd pity ; and, except when stung to impat xt ! by too importunate an intrusion, is kirn nd considerate of the comforts of all around m. This piece is properly entitled a Dra tic Poem — for it is merely poetical, and is ai all a drama or play in the modern accep 'on ; of the term. It has no action : no plot- nd no characters: Manfred merely muse;nd suffers from the beginning to the end. ;Ii8 distresses'are the same at the opening (ie scene and at its closing — and thetemlin which they are borne is the same. A I ter and a priest, and some domestics, are r'fed introduced ; but they have no oonnectioi ith the passions or sufferings on which the er- est depends ; and Manfred is substai alone throughout the whole piec^. He no communion but with the memory i B(Mng he had loved ; and the immortal 1 rilj whom he evokes to reproach wiih his n ;ry, and their inability to relieve it. The "un- earthly beings approach nearer to thec'tic- ter of persons of the drama — but stil if)' are but choral accompaniments to th.H-r- formance; and Manfred is. in reality, lli'iiiy actor and sufferer on the scene. Todel'falf I his character indeed — to render roncc ible his feelings — is plainly the whole see; and design of the poem : and the conceptii and execution are, in this respect, equal!)- nif- able. It is a grand and terrific visk )f a being invested with superhuman aftr'lef, in order that he maybe capableof mm han human sufferings, and be sustained la*' them by more than human force and iiae. To object to the improbability of the ^tion is, we think, to mistake the end and iiof the author. Probabilities, we apprehej , a'^ not enter at all into his consideratio -lu« object was, to produce effect — to exa and lilate the character through whom he ,i8tc interest or appal us — and To raise our c oep- LORD BVRONS MANKIiKO. 88! :':<. of it, by all the helps that couKl be di-riveil i;ti the majesty of nature, or the dread of -< fLitrslitioii. It is eiioii>,'li. tlierefore, if the |"^!«ll!|^ siLtiou ill which he has placed him is con- i ilj!;»;- cciibU — and if the supposition of its reality c ances our emotions and kindles our im- i . uition ; — for it is Manfred only that we are ;iii'd to ffar, to pity, or ailniire. If \vi' .1 oiR-e conceive of him as a real existiMicc, enter into the depth and the hei-^ht of his ; e and his sorrows, we may deal as we sy withtiie means thai have been used to iiish us with this impression, or to enable i.>|ii attain to this conception. We may re- ■^d them but as types, or metaphors, or allc- . i:.ies: But he is the thing to be expressed; i;et(i|j(;a!ithe feehnjj and the intellect, of which all ih 1' are but shadows. lie enents, such as they are, upon which thipiecp may he said to turn, have all taken Ion:; before its openiiiir. and aie but tic< nf the agonising being to whom they re >M(!oii:l? V shadowed out in the casual communica- Nobly born and tniined in the castle s ancestors, he had very soon sequestered M^POpij, s.'lf from the society of men ; and, after ling through the common circle of hurn.in Hi's. had dfdiciited himself to the worship 1-' wild magniticence of nature, and to e forbiddt-n studies by which he had ifd to command its presiding powers. — companion, however, he had, in all his s and enjoyments — a female of kindred us, taste, and capacity — lovely too beyond oveliness; but, as we gather, too nearly rcked to be lawfully beloved. The catas- tifhe of their unhappy passion is insinuated le darkest and most ambiguous terms — that we make out is, that she died un- i'ly and by violence, on account of this tl attachment — though not by the act of Ibject. He killed her. he .says, not with iiaiul — but his heart ; and her bUnid was .-a 1. though not by him! From that hour, WetKlil is a burden to him, and memory a torture kijiffg — 1,1 ihc' e.\tent of his power and knowledge - • es only to show him the hopelessness and |!i ssness of his mis»'ry. j!ie j)iece opens with his evocation of the jits of the Elements, from whom he de- ijds the boon of foriretfulness — and ques- '- th-'m as to his own immortality. The •iie is in his Gothic tower at midnight — and with a solilo!]iiy that reveals at once i! ! of the speaker, and the genius of author. uiJllie"''! in hmp mii«i h-" replfnish'd — hut pven ihen '. will noi burn bo loni; O" I mii"l wnicli I lilosophy niiH srience. and ilii' ppririgo wonder, nnd the wisdum of ihr world, inve cis/ivi-d. and in my mind there in power lo make tlifse guiiifrt to iieclf — It they avail not : I have ih !>d I have m^t with citnri lit thin avail'd not : I have had mv f«ar. Man. I have no choire ; iht re is no form onennh Hideous or heautiliil to me. l^i him Who is most powerful of ye, take such aspect As unto him may seem most fining. — Come! Sevnlh Sjiiril. {ApfM-ariiip in Ihr rhape of a hitnili/ulfimiilt fif;iin-.) Rehold I ?[. Oh Ood'l if it be thus, and thou An not a madness and a mockery, I yet iiiieht be mo'Jt hiippy. — I will clasp thoe. And we again will be — [Tlir figiirr ranifhes. My heart is crush'd ! [!\lA.VFnED/- edj;o I H'and. find on ibe torrent's brink buiieiilli Ifehold ihe tall pines dwindled as to slirulis In di7.zuiess of (iisianri- ; when a leap. A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring My brenot upon |is rocky Ixisom's bed ■|'o resi for ever — wherefore do I pmise f Thou win^'ed and cioud-clcaving minmter. \,^n rnsir patMrt Whose happy flishi is hichesi into heaven. Well may's! thou swoop so near n»e— I should b» Tbv prey, and Koriru tliine ea(jlcls! thou nr! gona Where the eye cannot follow ihee ; but thino ejra Yet piercc«i downward, onward, or above With a pervading vision. — Heautidil ! How beautiful is all this visible world ! 332 POETRY. How glorious in its action and itself ! But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we, Half dust, half deity, alike unfit To sink or soar, with our mix'd essence make A conflict of its elements, and breathe The breath of degradation and of pride, Contending with low wants and lofty will Till our mortality predominates, And men are — what they name not to themselves. And trust not to each other. Hark ! the note, [The fhtpheriV x pipe in the distance is heard. The natural music of the mountain reed — For here the patriarchal day-s are not A pastoral fable— pipes in the liberal air, Mix'd with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd ; My soul would drink those echoes ! — Oh, that I were The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, A livins; voice, a breathing harmony, A bodiless enjoyment — born and dying With the blest tone which made me 1" — pp. 2(3 — 22. At thi.s period of his soliloquy, he is de- scried by a Chamois hunter, who overhears its continuance. " To be thus — Grey-hair'd with anguish. like these blasted pines, Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless, A blighted trunk upon a cursed root. Which but supplies a feeling to decay — And to be thus, eternally but thus, Having been otherwise ! Ye f opting crags of ice! Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down In mountainous o'erwhelming, come and crush me! I hear ye momently above, beneath. Crash with a frequent conflict; but ye pass, And only fall on things which still would live; On the young flourishing forest, or the hut And hamlet of the harmless villager. The mists boil up aro\ind the glaciers ! clouds Rise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury, Like foam from the roused ocean of deep Hell, Whose every wave breaks on a living shore. Heaped with the damn'd like pebbles — I am siddy!" pp. 23, 24. Ju«t as he is about to sprin^r from the clifT, he is seized by the hunter, who forces him away from the dangerous place in the midst of the rising tempest. In the second act, we fiiid him in the cottage of this peasant, and in a still wilder state of disorder. His host offers him wine ; but, upon looking at the cup, he exclaims — " Away, away ! there's blood upon the brim ! Will it then never — never sink in the earth ? C. Hun. What dost thou mean ? thy senses wander frotn thee. 3Ian. I say 'tis blood — my blood 1 the pure warm stream Which ran in the veins of my fathers, and in ours When we were in our youth, and had one heart. And loved each other — as we should not love ! — And this was shed : but still it rises up, Colouring the clouds that shut me out from heaven. Where them art not — and I shall never be ! C. Hun. Man of strange words, and some half- maddening sin, ^c. Mati. Think'st thou e.xistence doth depeiia on It doth ; but actions are our epochs: mine [time ? Have made my days and nights imperishable, Endless, and all alike, as .«ands on the shore. Innumerable atoms ; and one desert. Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break. But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks. Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness. C.Hun. Alas! he's mad — but yet I must not leave him. Ma7i. I would I were — for then the things I see Would be but a distempered dream. C.Hun. What is ■ That thou dost see, or think thou look'st upon Man. Mvself. and thee — a peasant of the Al - Thy humble virtues, hospitable home. And spirit patient, pious, proud and free ; Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts Thy days of health, and nights of sleep; thy u\ By danger dignified, yet guiltless ; hopes Of cheerlul old age and a quiet grave, With cross and garland over its green turf, And thy grandchildren's love for epitaph; This do 1 see — and then I look within — It matters not — my soul was scorch'd alreadyi pp. 27— The following scene is one of the jjt poetical and most sweetly written in e poem. There is a still and delicious wile y in the tranquillity and seclusion of the pi ;, I and the celestial beauty of the Being » reveals herself in the midst of these vie enchantments. In a deep valley among « mountains, Manfred appears alone befc a lofty cataract, pealing in the quiet suns le down the still and everlasting rocks j d says — " It is not noon — the sunbow's rays still arch The torrent with the many hues of heaven, .-^nd roll the sheeted silver's waving column O'er the crag's headlong perpendicular, And fling its lines of foaming light along. And to and fro, like the pale courser's tail, The Giant steed, to be bestrode by Death, As told in the Apocalypse. No eyes But mine now drink this sight of loveliness ; I I should be sole in this sweet solitude, ( And with the .Spirit of the place divide The homage of these waters. — I will call her.; [He takes same of the water into the palm . » hand, andfliiiss it in the air, muttering tii- juration. After a pause, the Witch 01 tl Ai.rs rises hcnealh the arch of the sunlx ^ the torrerit.] I Mdji. Beautiful Spirit ! with thv hair of lig,' And dazzling eyes of glory ! in whose form I The charms of Earth's least-mortal daughters m To an unearthly stature, in an essence Of purer elements ; while the hues of youth,- Carnaiion'd like a sleeping infant's cheek, Rock'd by the beating of Tier mother's heart. Or the rose tints, which summer's twilight le i I'pon the lolty glacier's virgin snow, ^1 he blush of earth embracing with her heave - Tinge ihy celestial aspect, and make tame The bcnuiies of the sunbow which bends o'er •«! Beautitul .Spirit ! in thy calm clear brow, Wherein is glass'd serenity of soul. Which of itself shows immortality, I read that thou wilt pardon to a Son Of Earth, whom the abstruser Powers permi At limes to commune with them — if that he AvaW him of his spells — to call thee thus. And gaze on thee a moment. Witch. Son of Earth! I know thee, and the Powers which give thee p «r! I know thee for a man of many thoughts. And deeds of good and ill. extreme in both. Fatal and fated in thy sufTerings. I have expected this — what wouldst thou will le' Man. To look upon thy beauty !—nothiii'ur- ther."— pp. 31, 32. There is something exquisitely beauti; J" our taste, in all this passage; and bot hj" apparition and the dialogue are so man ?'. that the sense of their improbability is al- lowed up in that of their beauty ; — and, ih- I out actually believing that such spirit" a«' or communicate themselves, we feel fc n^ moment as if we stood in their precce- >«iloot'i \ \A.at follows, though extiomely i-H)\\r tliis — A|<'ing of ihe race ihoii dost ijespise, order which ihiiie own would rise nbo%-e, ;\\ng svith us and ours, ihou dus! forepo eifis of our prent knowledge, and shrink'st hack irecreant morialiiy Away I [hour — 'an. Dau?liicr of .\ir I I loll ihee. since that words arc breaih ! — I^ook on ine in my sleep, vaich my waichings — Come and sit by me I Msoliiude is solitude no more. [wopled with the Furies ! — I have guash'd teeili ill darkne.es till returnint; morn, n cursed myself till simsct ; — I have pray'd madness as a l>Us.«in<: — 'tis denied me. ' I live affronted Death — hut in the war O lemrn'8 the waters shrunk from me, fatal things pass'd harmless." — pp. M. 37. ar! aid Aeqiiitii A tetinjtii he third scene is the boldest in the exhi- bi)n of supernatural persons. The three mti f^''"'^*' '^"'^' ^f'mesis meet, at mitlniijht, on \j,,jjjthtop of the Alps, on their way to the hall iiitulj of[^rimanes. and sinp stranpe ililties to the II, of their mischiefs wrought among men. .\i lesis being rather late, thus apologizes for ^^ kilning them waiting. iiofbliu*' 'vas detain'd repairing shattered thrones, i»We, M Tying fools, restoring dynasties, wdiviit Amsing men upon their enemies. 1.-1 ill ai A I making them repent their own revenge; (rffll()ll()iG *'"' ^^ character ; and though the ..jioilertiau or may tell us that human calamities are ■mer'suSna r;illy subjects of derision to the Ministers !iisiio», of engeance, yet we cannot be persuaded M«iikwthi satirical and political allusion^ are at all kits ^*^ P^^'t>Je with the feelings and impressions 'y,„ wl;h it was here his business to maintain. %4, ^^^" ^^^ Fatal Sisters are ainiiii assembled yiliiv, be re the throne of Arimanes, Manfred suil- iniJoi (ley appears among them, and refuses the »(rPo««f pMrations which they require. The first ixH^Dt iny thus loftily announces him. t;, " lince of the Powers invi.oible ! This man m' In no common order, as his port ifWf A I 'i0 ^v Ii p¥, Tl presence here denote ; his sufferings ari^^i//^ Hf J been of an iminonal nature, like (rtH** f^^ own ; his knowledge and his powers and will. Afar as is compatible with clay, I'll clogs the eihcrial essence, have been such Jiflij!-* Af lay hath seldom borne; his aspiration* "■ been beyond the dwellers o( ihc eanh, Ai ihey have only taucht him what we know— M lb- hill) n thing, which I, wlio pity not. Yei pard'iii iho«o whr) pity. He is mine, And thine, ii may be — bi- i( so, or not, No other ,'^|iirii m tlii.t region haih A >oui like h ^ — or |>ower upon liii soul." pp. •»:, IH. .•\t his desire, tin- L'host of hii4 beloved A»- t.irte is liieii eallid up, uiid appeals — but re- liises to sjieak at the romiiuuul of thi- I'owi'r.s who luive niis«'d her. till ^hlllfred breaks out into this pafwioiiHte and a'^oniHing add[es.Bst I I cannot rest. I know not what I apk, nor what I seek : I feel but what thou an — and wlial I am ; .\nd I would hear yet once, before I perish. The voice which was my music.— Speak to me ! F'or I have call'd on ihec in the still night, .Startled the slumbering birds from the hush'd boughs, .\nd woke ihe mountain wolves, and made ihc -Ai^quninied with thy vainly echoed name, [caves Which answered me — many ilimcs answered nic — .''pirits and men — but thou wen silent still I Yet speak to me! I have outwatch'd the stars, .\nd gazed o'er heaven in vain in search of ihee. .Speak to me I 1 have wandered o'er ihe eanh And never found thy likeness. — Speak 10 me! Look on the fiends around — they feel lor me : I fear them not, and feel for thee alone. — Speak to me ! though it be in wrath ;— but say — I reck not what — but let me hear thee once — This once ! — once more ' Phiinlom of Atlartf. Manfred ! Man. Say on. Bay on — I live but in the sound — it is thy voice ! [ill». Phan. Manfred ! To-morrow ends thine earthly Farpwell ! ^ftln. Yet one word more — am I forgiven f Phnn. Farewell ! Man. Say, shall we meet again ? riiiin. Farewell ! Man. < )iie word for mercy ! Soy, thou lovest me ! Phau. Manfred ! [Thr Spirit of AsTARTE flifamyrari. Nrm. She's gone, and will not be recalled." pp. 50— .12. The last act, though in many passages verv beautifully written, »«'ems to us less jKJwerfuI. It passes altogether in Manfred's castle, and is chieHy occupied in two loim conver!«iitions between him and a holy abbot, who comes to exhort and absolve him. and whose counsel he np'ls with thi" most reverent srentleness, and bill few bursts of dignity and priiie. The following passages are full of jKietry ami feeling. " .\y — father! 1 have had those earthly visions. .•\nil noble Bspirsiioiis in iiiv yoiiili ; To make my own the mind of ruber mc.i, 'I'he cnli^hlener of nations: and to rinr F knew not whither — il might bo lo fn'l ; But fall, even as tlie mouniain-eainm.'. Wh'rii hiiTing leapt from its ni'-re daxzlr :• .>• ..;ht, Bven in ihe loaiiiing ■■.rengib of iia ubyu, JB« 334 POETRY, (Which casts up misty columns thai become Clouds raining from the re-ascended skies), Lies low hut mighty siill.— But this is past! My thoughts mistook themselves. Ahbott. And why not live and act with other men ? M'ln. Because my nature was averse from life ; And yet n;U cruel; for I would iioi make, But find a desolation : — like the wind, The red-hot breath of the most lone Simoom, Which dwells but in the desert, and sweeps o'er The barren sands which bear no shrubs to blast. And revels o'er their wild and arid waves, And set'kcih not, so that it is not sought. But being met is deadly ! Such hath been The course of my c.xist'ence ; but there came ThiuHS in my path which are no more." — pp. 59, 60. There is also a fine address to the setting sun — and a singular miscellaneous soliloquy; in which one of the authors Roman recol- lections is brought in, we must say somewhat annaturally. " The stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountains. — Beautiful ! [ lintrrr yet with Nature, for the night Hnth been to me a tnore familiar face Than that of man ; and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness, I learn'd the language of another world ! I do remember me, that in my youth, When I was wandering — upon such a night I stood within the Colosseum's wall, Midst the chief relics of almighty Roine ; The trees which grew along the broken arches Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars Shone through the rents of ruin ; from afar The watchdog bayed beyond the 'fiber; and More near, from out the Coesars' palace came The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly, Of distant sentinels the fitful song Begun and died upon the gentle wind. Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach Appear'd to skirt the horizon ; yet they stood Within a bowshot. — And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon ! upon All this, and cast a wide and tender light. Which soften'd down the hoar austerity Of rugged desolation, and fill'd up, .\s 'twere, anew, the gaps of centuries ; Leaving that beautiful which still was so. And making that which was not, till the place Became religion, and the heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old I" — pp. 68, 69. In his dying hour he is beset with Demons, who pretend to claim him as their forfeit; — but he indignantly and victoriously disputes their claim, and asserts his freedom from their thraldom. " Must crimes be punish'd but by other crimes, And greater criminals ? — Back to thy hell ! Thou hast no power upon me, that I feel ; Thou never shalt possess me, that I know : What I have done is done ; I bear within A torture which could nothing gain I'rom thine : The mind which is immortal makes itself Requital for its good or ill — derives No colour from the fleeting things without ; But is al)sorb'd in suflcrancc or in joy. Born from the knowledge ot its own desert. ThoiL didst not tempt me, and thou couldst not tempt me : I have not been thy dupe, nor am thy prey — But was my own destroyer, and will be My own hcrenfter — Back, ye Innicd fiends ! The hand of death i?!on me — but not yours! [The Demons disappear." — pp. 74, 75. There are great faults, it must be admitted, in this poem ; — but it is undoubtedly a rfc jof genius and originality. Its worst \\ perhaps, is, that it fatigues and overaw( us by the uniformity of its terror and solem y, Another is the painful and offensive nalu of the circumstance on which its distress is tj. mately founded. It all springs from th( ig. appointment or fatal issue of an inces; us passion ; and incest, according to our mt m ideas — for it was otherwise in antiquit -is not a thing to be at all brought befon he imagination. The lyrical songs of the S its are too long; and not all excellent. ']>n is something of pedantry in them now nd then ; and even Manfred deals in cla \'A allusions a little too much. If we we to consider it as a proper drama, or ever j a finished poem, we should be obliged to id, that it is far too indistinct and unsatisfain-. But this we take to be according to the dgn and conception of the author. He coi tn- plated but a dim and magnificent sketclfa subject which did not admit of a more iju- rate drawing, or more brilliant colouring Its obscurity is a part of its grandeur; — ai (he darkness that rests upon it,, and thes''ky distance in which it is lost, are all devi j to increase its majesty, to stimulate our.iri' osity. and to impress us Avith deeper aw It is suggested, in an ingenious pape'ni late Number of the Edinburgh Mag ne, that the general conception of thispieciind much of what is excellent in the maniiof its execution, have been borrowed fron:;the Tragical History of Dr. Faustus" of Mai^e; and a variety of passages are quoted, jich the author considers as similar, and, in any respects, superior to others in the poem '"oi* us. We cannot agree in the general ifin.* of this' conclusion ; — but there is, no d(''t, a certain resemblance, both in some ithe topics that are suggested, and in the (t of the diction in which they are e.vpijSed Thus, to induce Faustus to persist in 1, un- lawful studies, he is told that the Sp; 3 ci the Elements will serve him — " Sometimes like women, or unwedded m; , Shadowing more beauty in their ayrie brow Than have the svhite breasts of the Qu('8 ol Love." And again, when the amorous sorcere oiti- mands Helen of Troy to be revived. ; his paramour, he addresses her, on her f ■ Sf pearance, in these rapturous lines — ' " VVns this the face that launcht a thousan liip«' And burn'd the toplesse towers of Ilium? \ Sweet Helen ! make me immortal with a k ! Her lips siicke forth my soule ! — see where i f ■ Come, Helen, come, give me my souleagi '! Here will I dwell, for heaven is in that lip, ; And all is dross that is not Helena. O ! thou art fairer than the evening ayre, ' Clad in the beauty of a thotisand siarres; , More lovely than the monarch of the skye;; In wanton Arethusa's azure arms !" | The catastrophe, too, is bewailed in vfiSBOl great elegance and classical beauty. ! " Ctit is ihe branch that might have gro' e fun And burned is Apollo's laurel bougii l^W' That sometime grew within this learned i »• TOtnk :i escela mkmk ikitolaii rllaDtcok i gnniieiii'i- tflit,aiiilS stimiililfi RELIQl'ES OK KOBKIH' iUIINS. usiiis is 2!one t — regard his hellish liill. hose fieiidlul tenure may exhort ihe wise, (ily lo wonder at unlawlul things." But these, ami many other smooth and hciful verses in this curious old dniina, ]jve nothing, we think, against the orij^i- liitv of Manfred ; for there is nolhini; to be tjnil there of the pride, the ahstnictiim, and t' heart-rooted misery in which that oriiji- 1 lity consists. Fau^^tus is a vulipir sorcerer, tnpted to sell his soul to the Hevil for the cliuary price of sensual pleasure, and earthly I iver ami glory — and who shrinks aiul shutf- i -s in agonv when the forfeit comes to be e icted. The style, too. of Marlowe, thousjh eitint and scholarlike, Is weak atid childish chipared with the (lepth and force of much what we have quoted from Lord Byron; .i|i the di.^irusling bulfoonery and low farce ol which his piece is princiitally made up. place it much ruore in conlrn^t, than in any terms of com{NiriM)n. with that of hi!« nobh? sncces«ur. In the tone and pitch of the com- position, a(« well us in the character of the diction in the more sol* mn jmrts, the piece belbre us n-mind* n* much more of the Pro- metheus of it'schylus. tlum of any moro modern performance 'I'lw In-meiidous soli- tude of the principal ]M'riM>ii — ihe «tipertiatnral beiiiirs with whom iilune h< holdn rntnmnnion — the ■luilt — the tinnness -the mi.'M'iN — are all jHiints of resemblance, to whicli the irratult ur of the jXH-tic imagery only given a more striking eflecf. The thief ititieri*nces are. that the subject of the (Jreek jwet wn» s;incti(ied ami exalted by the established be- lief of his connIr\ ; and that his teiioit are nowhere tempered with the sweetness which breathes tVoin so many pus.s;iges of hiH Eng- lish rival. {3annavv,, ISCIH.) lHqties of Robert Burns, fo;i5i.'!ri«£r chicjly of (hi'sinal Letters. Poems, and Cntud Ubser- atious on Scottish Songs. Collected and publisficd by R. H. Cromkk. 8vo. pp. 450. ,ondon: 1808. i£iiiW|ai». Ltrsintlieiii > ID the pi 3tlhereis,» tolhiiia ;4a»JiiiS ; they aiti Bsto'peis^! loidliialfe ITfllllll- ailieiiifB* l^- jk'Rxs is certainly by far the greatest of our [tical prodigies — from Stephen Duck down iThomas l)ermody. They are forgotten ady; or only remembered for derision. the name of Burns, if we are not mis- tifcn, has not yet "gathered all its fame;" I will endure long after those circumstan- are forgotten which contributed to its fust nfjricly. So much indeed are we impressed h a sense of his merit.s, that we cannot ii -> thinking it a deroixation from them to ctf^ider him as a prodiiry at all : and are con- \\ thai he will never be ri:.'htly estimated jvjet. till that vulgar wonder be entirely ritessed which was raised on his having bin a ploughman. It is true, no doubt, that h ivas bom in an humble station : and that m;h of his early life was devoted to severe la)nr, ami to the society of his fellow-labour- et| But he was not himself either unedu- d or illiterate; and was placed in asitua- more favourable. perhap.s, to the develop- it of CTfat poetical talents, than any other ch could nave been assigned him. He taught, at a ver)- early age, to read and p; a-id soon after acquired a com[x>lent ' ' ' >• of French, together with the ele- I>atin and Geometry. His taste for as encouraged by "his parents and Ills associates: and, before he had .rK)3"d a sint'le stanza, he was not .'iar with many prose writers, but • intimately acquainted with Pope, lire, and Thomson, than nine tenths ;.. . )\\{\i that now leave our schools for ih|im!versity. Those authors, indeed, with sii t» oil oolfeclionsof soni's, and the lives of Hrnibal and of Sir William Wallace, were .................... I childhood : and, co-operating with the solitude i of his rural occupations, were sufficient to I rouse his ardent and ambitious mind to tlie ! love and the practice of poetry. He had about ! as much scholarship, in short, we imagine, as Shakespeare; and far belter models to foim his ear to harmony, and train his fancy to ' graceful invention. We ventured, on a former occasion, to say .somethini: of the effects of regular education, and of the general diffusion of literature, in repressing the vigour and originality of all kinds of mental e.xertion. That sj)ecuIation ' was jierhaps carried somewhat too fat : but I if the mradox have proof any where, it is in its application to poetry. Among well edu- caleil people, the standard writers of this ; description are at once so venerat«>d and so familiar, that it is thout;ht equally minossible to rival them, as lo write vertes without at- tempting it. If there be one dt-gree of fame I which excites emulation, there is another I w hich leads to despair : Nor can we conceive ; any one less likely to be added to the short lisi of original poets, than a young man of fine fancy and delicate taste, who has acquired a hiv'h reli.'^h for poetry, by jHTUsing the most celebrated writers, and eonversii.g with the most intelligiMit judges. The head of such a jX'rs and fastidious remarks which have been maile even on those pas.siges. When he turns his eyes, therefore, on hid own conceptions or designs, they can scarro- ly fail to apiM'ar rude and contemptible. He is ivr|»etually haunted and dej-re^H d by the idc-al present? of thos*- ;iriat niasli rs, «i;d , their exacting critics. He is aworu to uhat 336 POETRY. comparisons his productions \vill be subjected among his own friends and associates; and recollects the derision with which so many rash adventurers have been chased back to their obscurity. Thus, the merit of his great predecessors chills, instead of encouraging his ardour ; and the illustrious names which have already reached to the summit of excellence, act like the tall and spreading trees of the forest, which overshadow and strangle the saplings which may have struck root in the soil below — and afford etlicient shelter to nothing but creepers and parasites. There is, no doubt, in some few individuals, •■'that strong divinity of soul" — that decided and irresistible vocation to glory, wliich, in spite of all these obstructions, calls oat. per- haps once or twice in a century, a bold and original poet from the herd of scholars and academical literati. But the natural tendency of their studies, and by far their most com- mon effect, is to repress originality, and dis- courage enterprise ; and either to change those whom nature meant for poets, into mere read- ers of poetry, or to bring them out in the form of witty parodists, or ingenious imitators. In- dependent of the reasons which have been already suggested, it will perliaps be found, too, that necessity is the mother of invention, in this as well as in the more vulgar arts ; or. at least, that inventive genius will frequently slumber in inaction, where the preceding in- genuity has in part supplied the wants of the owner. A solitary and uninstructed man. with lively feelings and an inflammable imagi- nation, will often be irresistibly led to exer- cise those gifts, and to occupy and relieve his mind in poetical composition : But if his edu- cation, his reading, and his society supply him with an abundant store of images and emotions, he will probably think but little of those internal resources, and feed his mind contentedly with what has been provided by the industry of others. To say nothing, therefore, of the distractions and the dissipation of mind that belong to the commerce of the world, nor of the cares of minute accuracy and high finishing which are I imposed on the professed scholar, there seem \to be deeper reasons for the separation of Wgiiiality and accomplishment: and for the partiality which has led poetry to choose almost all her prime favourites among the re- cluse and uninstructed. A youth of quick parts, in short, and creative fancy — with just so much reading as to guide his ambition, and roughhew his notions of excellence — if his lot be thrown in humble retirement, where he has no reputation to lose, and ^^here he can easily hope to excel all that he sees around him, is much more likely, we think, to give himself up to poetry, and to train himself to habits of invention, than if he had been en- cumbered by the pretended helps of extended study and literary society. If these observations "should fail to strike of themselves, they may perhaps derive ad- ditional weight from considering the very re- markable fact, that almost al! the great poets of every country have appeared in an early stage of their history, and m a period c . paratively rude and unlettered. Homer v'l forth, like the morning star, before the J; j of literature in Greece, and almost all ^ great and sublime poets of modern Euie are already between two and three hui^ j years old. Since that time, although big and readers, and oiiponnuities of itadiiijr, e multiplied a thousand told, we have imprc d chiefly in point and terseness of expres; j in the art of raillery, and in clearness J simplicity of thought. Force, richness, J variety of invention, are now at least as e as ever.^ But the literature and relinemei f the age' does not exist at all for a rustic d illiterate uidividual : and, consequently, e present time is to him what the rude !;•« of old were to the vigorous writers w h adorned them. But though, for these and for other rca: j, we can see no propriety in regjirdir.g e poetry of Burns chieliy as the v onderful ' k of a peasant, and thus admiring it muc n the same way as if it had been written b his toes; yet there are peculiarities ii u works which remind us of the lowness o ii origin, and faults for w hich the defects o ii education aflord an obvious cause, if i ,i ' legitimate apology. In forming a corret * timate of these works, it is necessary to e I into account tho.se peculiarities. I The first is, the undiciplined harshnessjdj i acrimony of his invective. The great Isll ! of polished life is the delicacy, and eveiie generosity of its ho. i'xcur<» of im]v>tiiouB fcelinj; inn it he may be. always approai-hcs his ess on a fooling of equality : but has r caupht that tone of chivalions p;-allantry oinj wt?!! uniformly abiises itself m the presence b of^U' object of its devotion. Accordingly, rill of suinir for a smile, or mt'ltiiiir in a his mu.se deals in iiothin:; but locked 1 aces anil inidnijrhl rencontres; juid. even complimentary effusions to ladies of hest mnk. is for straining them to the of her impetuous votary. It is easy. rlingly. to see from his correspondence, many of his female jxitronessj's shrunk ,i iiu: the vehement familiarity of his admini- lioj: and there are even .-Hime traits in the ; I vojmes before us. from which we can trather. I, he resented the .•shyness and estran^re- : to which those feelinirs srave rise, with .; a>t as little chivalry as he had .shown in ,fjl,ji.^ It the leadinir vice ni Burns character, " anJlhe cardinal detonnity, indeed, of all his I r([nctions. was his contempt, or atfectation •itempt. for prudence, decencv, and reg- y; and his admiration of thoushtless- oddity, and vehement sensibility; — his ;". in short, in (he dispensing power of i< and social feeliiijj. in all matters of ity and common sense. This is the slang of the worst German plays, and • west of our town-made' novels : nor can hine be more lamentable, than that it I have found a |Kitron in such a man .is -. and communicated to many of his pro- Mis a character of immorality, at once .nptible and hateful. It is but too true, hilanlhroj>y in a tavern, while his wife-s In-art is breakmg at her chi>erless lire.side, and his children pininil in sd in srtmi' measure arising ut of it, is th;it ix'nwtual Ixiast of his own H obtruded \i\w\ the ol hi« writing's. The sentiment itself is noMe. an it is often finely e.vpres.sed :— but a genth rn... It j.;n>. which but with incredulity; and their mag- | would only have expressed it when he was nous authors set down as determined | insidted or pn)Voked ; and wouM never have ^'ates, who seek to distruise their selfish- I maile it a spontaneous theme to thow friends in whose estimation he felt that hi« hoi.our 8t(xxl dear. It is mixed up, too, ui Burns 2D ler a name somewhat less revolting, ost 43 '■ '^Tlijproliigacy is almost always selfishiies 338 POETRV, with too fierce a tone of defiance ; and indi- cates rather the pride of a sturdy peasant, than the cahn and natural elevation of a generous mind. The last of the symptoms of rusticity which we think it necessary to notice in the works of this extraordinary man, is that frequent mistake of mere exaggeration and violence. for force and sublimity, which has defaced 80 much of his prose composition, and given an air of heaviness and labour to a good deal of his .i^erious poetry. The truth is, that his forlc was in humour and in pathos — or rather in tenderness of feeling; and that he has very seldom succeeded, either where mere wit and sprightliness, or where great energy and ■weight of sentiment were requisite. He had evidently a very false and crude notion of what constituted strength of writing ; and in- stead of that simple and brief directness which stamps the character of vigour upon every syllable, has generally had recourse to a mere accumulation of hyperbolical expres- sions, which encumber the diction instead of exalting it. and show the determination to be impressive, without the power of executing it. This error also we are inclined to ascribe entirely to the defects of his education. The value of simplicity in the expression of pas- sion, is a lesson, we believe, of nature and of genius ; — but its importance in mere grave and impressive writing, is one of the latest discoveries of rhetorical experience. With the allowances and exceptions we have now stated, we think Burns entitled to the rank of a great and original genius. He has in all his compositions great force of con- ception; and great spirit and animation in its expression. He has taken a large range through the region of Fancy, and naturalized him.self in almost all her climates. He has great humour — great powers of description — great pathos — and great discrimination of character. Almost every thing that he says has spirit and originality ; and every thins' that he says well, is characterized by a charming facility, which gives a grace even to occa- sional rudeness, and communicates to the reader a delightful sympathy with the sponta- neous soaring and conscious inspiration of the poet. Considering the reception which these works have met with from the public, and the long period during which the greater part of them have been in their possession, it may appear superflous to say any thing as to their characteristic or peculiar merit. Though the ultimate judgment of the public, however, be always sound, or at least decisive as to its general result, it is not always very apparent upon what grounds it has proceeded ; nor in conse(iuence of what, or in spite of what, it has been obtained. In Burns' works there is much to censure, as well as much to praise ; and as time has not yet separated his ore from its dross, it may be worth while to state, in a very general way. what we presume to antici- pate as the result of this se})aration. Without pretending to enter at all into the comparative merit of particular passages we may venture to lay it down as our opinion — that hispoei is far superior to his prose ; that his Scolt compositions are greatly to be preferred to English ones ; and that his Songs will pro bly outlive all his other productions. Av(' few remarks on each of these subjects v comprehend almost all that we have to saj the volumes now before us. The prose works of Burns consist .aim entirely of his letters. They bear, as well his poetry, the seal and the impress of genius; but they contain much more ] taste, and are written with far more appani labour. His poetry was almost all writ., primarily from feeling, and only secondaij from ambition. His letters seem to havelx! nearly all composed as exercises, and for c play. There are few of them Avrittenw' simplicity or plainness; and though natu' enough as to the sentiment, they are genera! very strained and elaborate in the expressi; A very great proportion of them, too, rel neither to facts nor feelings peculiarly c nected with the author or his corresponuer but are made up of general declamat moral reflections, and vagne discussioiis- evidenlly composed for the sake of effect, frequently introduced with long complaint! i having nothing to say, and of the neces, and difficulty of letter-writing. By far the best of those comi^ositions. . such as we should consider as exceptions t this general character — such as contain si specific infonnation as to himself, or are;' gested by events or observations directly plicable to his correspondent. One p! best, perhaps, is that addressed to Dr. ]M containing an account of his early liii which Dr. Currie has made such a juiln use in his Biogiapby. It is written with . clearness and characteristic effect, and tains many touches of easy humour and i ral eloquence. We are struck, as we ■ the book accidentallj-, with the follo' . original application of a classical imairt ■ this unlettered rustic. Talking of the ' vague aspirations of his own gigantic n he says — we think very finely — '"1 h.M some early stirrings of ambition ; but were the blind gropings of Homer's C; round the walls of his cave!'' Of his ' letters, those addressed to Rlrs. Dunlopjf; in our opinion, by far the best. He apf |ti from first to last," to have stood somewhlin awe of this excellent lady ; and to have i* no less sensible of her sound judgTneni:iti strict sense of proprietj-, than of her si'ij and generous partiality. The following!* sasrewe think is striking and characteristi- . 1, "I own mypelf 80 little a Presbyterian, h' approve of set times and seasons of more ihm f" nary acts of devotion, for breaking in on thni j'"' iiated routine of life and thought wiiich isso,W reduce our exi-'ienre to a kind of instinct, oi;f sotnetiines. and with some minds, to a sianl^'J little superior to mere machinery. 1 1 " This dny ; the fii-.st Sunday of May; a bfl. bluo-.-sUyed noon, soinc time about the becil* and a hoary moniintr nvd calm sunny day alH'"* end of auiunin ;— these, time out of mind i»>» been with me a kind of holiday. RELIQUKS OF ROBERT lU'R.VS. 899 1 1 believe T owe ihis to that plorious pnpor in the S ctaior. ' 'I'he Vision of Miraa;' a piece that SI ok my yoiiii!? fjncy l)cl"ore I was onpaSlo ol li.\- i; an idea lo a word nl" ihreu sylinbles. ' On ihc ■' ijay of the moon, whii-h, acoording to ihf custom liny forefathers. I iilways kc

rdinary impression. I liavc s,>r> favourite tlowers in spring ; among whicii ure ihlriountain-diiisy, the harebell, (he fox-glovi', tin- w j brier-rose, the budding birch, iind Die hoary liaihorii. that I view and hang over with particular iitht. I never hear the loud, solitary wliisijc of \\ curlew in a summer noon, or the wild mi.xinjr a nee of a troop of grey plover in an auiumn;!! lining, without teeling an elevaiion of soul, like i,>nthu.-iasni of devotion or poetry. Tell me, my ;. friend, lo what can this be ow iu^; f Are wo ii 11? of machinrry. which, like the Kolian liarp, , live, takes the impression of the passing acci- '■ I Or do these workings argue someihitiii ^ :]in us above the trodden clodf" — Vol. ii. pp. ;',\-i97. thie we may add the following j-assage, is' part, indeed, of the same picture : — There is scarcely any earthly object gives me I i — I do not know if I should call it pleasure — iforneihinff which exalts me. something which ■ ptures me — than to walk in the sheltered side • wood, or high plantation, in a cloudy winier- I'and hear the stormy wind howling among the ■■■:•, and raving over the plain I It is my best rnn for devotion : my mind is wrapt up in a kind I ,iihugiasni to Him. who, in the pompous lan- je of the Hebrew bard. " walks on the wings L- wind." — Vol. ii. p. 11. le following is one of the best and most tig of a whole series of eloquent h3-po- i riasra. ■>Vfter six weeks' confinement, 1 am beginning ' ' alk across liie room. They have been six hor- 1 weeks ; — anguish and low spirits made mc to read, write, or t' ink, have a hundred times wished that one could -pi life as an officer resigns a cominission : for I Id not lake in any poor, ignorant wretch, by /iff out. Lately I was a sixpenny private ; and. .i] knows, a miserable soldier enough: now I nh to the campaign, a starving cadet — a little ' ! conspicuously wri'tchcd. ! am ashamed of all this ; for thoimh I do want ' irry for the warfare of life, I could wish, like ij other soldiers, to have as much fortitude or nlng as to dissemble or conceal mv cowardice." [ Vol. ii. pp. 127, 128. 'he of the most strikins loiters in the col- ' hn. and. to us. one of the most inlpresi- -|is the earlii;«t of the whole scries; bciii^ 1 jessed to his father in 1781. si\ or seven :1> before his name had been heard of out : I's own family. The author was then a I'lnon (kx-dre.sscr. and his father ^ poor ;Q.nt; — yet there is not one trail of vul- I'lrly. either in the thoueht or the expression ; ' ijon the contrary, a diiniitv and elevaiion jMitimeiit. which must have bi-en con- Ijcd as of good omen in a youth of much . ii'3r condition. The letter is as follows: — " Honoured Sir, — I have purposelv delayed wri- ting, in the hope that I should havo the pb inure oi .SOCIO!; vou on New-year's Day; but work conio« so linrJ upon \\», that I do not choutie to be nbHcni on that account, as well as for nome other little reasons, which I shall tell you at meeting. ,My heahh is nearly the name nn when vou were here, only my sleep is a li'ile notmdnr. and, on the w hole. I Qoi rather better than otherwise, thoii|j;h I mend t\v very slow dcgiec!*. The weakncM of my nerves has so debiliiated my mind, that I dare neither re- view pnsi wants, iinr look forward into (uiuriiy ; for the least nnxieiy or perturbation in my liream pro- duces mosi unhappy rllV'cia on my whole Iranie. Someiimes, indeed, when lor an limir or two my spirits are a liille lij;hieiied, 1 glimmir a little inti> futurity : but my principal, and indeed my only pleasurable cmplovment. is looking backwiirds and for« ards, in a moral and relieious way. I urn qui'e triinsporied at the ihoughi, that ere long, perhaps very soon, I shiill bid an eternal ndieu to all ilie p> not very much deceive mjself, I could contentedly and gladly resign it. •The soul, unP8!>y, ami confin'd al lionio Kostii and expaUau-s In n life lo ronir.' 'It is tor this reason I am more pleaded with •he l.')tli, Kith, and 17th versus of the 7th chapter of the Krvflations. tlian with any ten times as many verses in the whole Bibb-, and would not ex- change the noble enthu.'iiasm with which they in- spire ine for all that this word has to oiler. .As for this world, I despair of ever making a figure in it. I am not formed for the bustle of the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. I shall never apain be capnble of entering into such scenes. Indeeil I am alto- gether unconcerned for the thoughts of (his life. I Ibresee that poverty and obscurity probably await me; and 1 am in some measure prepared, and daily preparing to meet them. I have but just time and paper to return to you my grateful thanks (or the lessons of virtue and piety you have given me ; which were too mtich neglected at the lime of giving them, but which. I hope, have been remem- bered ere it is yet loo late." — Vol. i. pp. '.'!• — 101. Before proceeding to take any particular notice of his jwetical compositions, we mu5t take leave to apprise our Southern readers, that all his best pieces are written in Scotch; and that it is impossilde for them to form any adeijuate judgment of their merits, without a pretty long residence among those who still use that lanjruage. To be able to translate the words, is but a small part of the know- ledfri' that is necessary. The whole yeiiius anti idiom of the lancuage must Ix; familiar ; and the characters, and habit.s and as.)■• But blate and laithfn', -scarce can weelb< «• The mother, wi" a woman's wiles, can sp What makes the youth sae bashtu' a s« grave ; i'li !" Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respect, m •' The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious fac They, round the ingle, form a circle wi,. The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace. The big ha'-Bihle, ance his fathePs pn His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. His lynrt hafi'ets wearing thin an' bare ; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion «i {le wales a portion with judicious care W And ' I.et us worship GoD !' he says, wiih «"» " Thev ohaunt their artless notes in simple •»■ They tune their hearts, by far the 'ftl*'- aim,' &c. ' Bti. jj^ "Ike hip rxKLIQUKS OF ROIJKKT HrRNS. «i is II III S"«k!,II|i| "itdiesiiii ipjwfsiiiw Kueiilifi; rouf(ll)p)Jl|l r'tefwi!! .teM,!iS 'WWIOIDI jiktjW INlklOllii ■MniBit'i ijiiniJiif itiiiwli kli»«'"' Then homeward all take off (heir sev'ral uny ; The youngling coiiaijers retire to rest : The pareni uuir their jtccnY homage pay, And proffer up to Henven the wnrin rciiue;)! Thai [[f who stills the raveii'p clnm'rons nesi, And decks the lilv fair in How'ry pridi-. Would, in the way his wisdom sees the host, For them and for their little oiie« provide ; tft chiefly, in their hearts, with gmce divine pre- side." Vol. liii pp. 174 — 181. The charm of the fijie lines written on turn- ip up a mouse's nest with a plouirh, will al.-io qlound to consist in the simple tenderness othe delineation. ■ Thy wee hit Jtounie, too, in ruin I Its silly wa's the, wins are sirewin ! An' naething, now. to big a new ane. O' fog^nce green ! An' bleak December's winds ensuin, Baith snell and keen ! Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, All' weary winter comin last. An' cozie here beneath the blast. Thou ihoimht to dwell, 'Till crash ! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell. That wee bit heap <>' leaves an' stihble, Has cost ilH?e inony a weary nibble ! Now thou's turned out. for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To tliole the winters sleety dribble, An cranreuch cauld !" Vol. iii. pp. 147. 'he verses to a Mountain Daisy, though re elegant and picturesque, seem to derive tJ^r chief beauty from the same tone of sen- tilent. Wee. modest, crimson-lipped flow'r, I Thon's met me in an evil hour ; For I maun crush ainang the sioure Tliv .'ilender stem ; I To spare thee now is past my pow'r. Thou bonnie gem I Alas ! it's no ihv netbor sweet, The bonnie Lark. c<>nifianion meet ! Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet I \Vi' spreckl'd breast, I V hen upwanl-sprinuing, blyihe to greet j The purpling eaai. Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble birth; Yet cheerfully thou glinted t«eei on the frogrnni, lluw'ry nwaird, III Hhady bower: '■ Then yon. ye niild, nnio-drawing dog I Ye (nme to ruradim- iiirng, .\n' (jied the tntant warld a nhoj;, '.Maist ruin'd a. '• Hut, tare you wcel, auld .\irkir hi^ .> II wad v«r Ink ■ thought an" men'! Ve aibhns might — I dinna ken — Siill h.-ie a gtah, — I'm wae to thuik upo' yon den, Kv'n for your iiak«!" Vol. ui. pp. 74 — 76. The tiiie-t examples, however, of this simple and tiiipietciidii,^ tenderness is to bo found in those .-ion^s which are likely to transmit the name of Bums to all future generations. He found this deliirhtfnl trait in the old Scottiiih ballads which hn took for his model. uii.Tupoii wliich ho has improved with a felicilv and delicacy of imitation altosether unrivalled iu the history of literature. Sometimes it is the brief and simple pathos of the genuine old ballad ; as, " But I look to the West when I lie down to rest. That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be; For lar in the West lives he I love best, The lad that is dear to my baby and me." Or, as in this other specimen — " Druniossie moor. Drumossie day ! A waefu' day it was to me ; For there I lost my father dear, iMy father dear, and brethren three. " Their winding sheet the bluidy clay. Their trraves are growing green to see ; And by them lies the dearest lad That ever hiest a woman's e'e ! Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, A bluidy man I trnw thou lie ; For mony a heart thou hast made sair, That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee." Vol. iv. p. 337. Sometimes it is animated with airy narrative, and adorned with imaues of thr utmost ele- gance and beauty. As a specimen taken at random, we insert the following stanzas: — '■ And av she wroueht her mainmic's wark : And ny xhe iMni; sae mernhe : The biythesl bird upon the Imsh i{ad ne'er a lighter heart than she. ■' But hawks will rob the lender joya That bless the little lintwhiie's nest ; .\nd frodi will blieht the fairest flowem. And love will break the soundest rest. " Younj; Robie was the brawest lad. The (lower and pride of a' the glcn ; .\nd be had owscn. sheep, and kyo, And wanton naigies nine or ton. " Me gsed wi' Jeanie to the irysie. Ho ilnnc'd wi' Jeanie on tne down ; And Inng ere witless Jeanie wist, Her heart woa tint, her peace waaslown. 2d2 342 POETRY, " As in the bosom o' the stream The moon-beam dwells at dewy e en; So trembliti^, pure, was infant love Within the breast o bonieJean . Vol. IV. p. 80. Sometimes, again, it is plaintive and mourn- ful— in the same stram ot unaffected sim- nlicity. " O stay, Bweet warbling wood-lark, stay, Nor quit for me the trembling spray ! A hapless lover courts thy lay. Thy soothing fond complannng. " Again, again that tender part That I may catch ihy meltmg art ; For surely that would touch her heart, Wha kills me wi' disdaining. " Say was thy little mate unkind, And heard thee as the careless wmd ? Oh. nocht but love and sorrow join d, Sic notes o' woe could wauken. " Thou tells o' never-ending care ; O' speechless grief, and dark despair ; For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair . Or my poor heart is broken !" Vol. IV. pp. 220, ^~/. We add the following from Mr. Cromek's new volume ; as the original form of the very popular song given at p. 325, of Dr. Currie's fourth volume : — " Ye flowery banks o' bonie Doon, How can ye blume sae fair ; How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu' o' care ! " Thou' 11 break my heart, thou bonie bird That sings upon the bough ; Thou minds me o' the happy days When my fause luve was true. " Thou'Il break mv heart, thou bonie bird That sings beside thy mate ; For sae I sat, and sae I sang. And wist na o' my fate. " Aft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon, To see the woodbine twine, And ilka bird sang o' its love, And sae did I o' mine. " Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose Frae aff its thorny tree, And mv fausc hiver staw the rose, But left the ihorn wi' me." Vol. v. pp. 17, 18. Sometime.s the rich imagery of the poet's fancy overshadows and almost overcomes the leading sentiment. " The merry ploughboy cheers his team, Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks, But life to me's a weary dream. A dream of ane that never wauks. • The wanton coot the water skims, Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, The stalely swan majestic swims, And every thing is blest but I. " The sheep-herd sleeks his fauUiing slap. And owre the moorlands whistles shrill ; Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step I meet him on the dewy hill. " And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, Blythe waukens by the daisy's side, And mounts and sing- on flittering wingSj A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide. — Vol, iii. pp !i84, 285. The sensibility which is thus associate! with simple imagery and gentle melanchol; is to us the most winning and attractive. Bi Burns has also expressed it when it is merel the instrument of torture — of keen reraorsi and tender and agonising regret. There ar some strons traits of the tbrmer feeling, iutb poems entitled the Lament, Despondency, &c when, looking back to the times " When love's luxurious pulse heat high," ' he bewails the consequences of his own i regularities. There is something cumbroil and inflated, however, in the diction of thes pieces. We are infinitely more moved wili his Elegy upon Highland ]Mary. Of thisliri love of the poet, we are indebted to M Cromek for a brief, but very striking accour from the pen of the poet himself. In a no on an early song inscribed to this mistress, 1 had recorded in a manuscript book— "My Hishland lassie was a warm-hearie| charmincr young creature as ever blessed a m with generous love. After a pretty long tract of i mnst ardent reciprocal attarhment, we met, by « poiniment. on the second Sunday of May. in a r nuesiered spot bv the Banks ot Ayr, >vhere > •spent the day in lakins a farewell betore she sh.ii embark for the West Highlands, to arrange matt, among her friends for our projected change ol li \t the close of Autumn following, she crossed i sea to meet me al Greenock : where she had scai landed when she was seized with a malignant feV which hurried my dear girl to the grave in a_t days '.—before 1 could even hear of her dlness. ^ Vol. v. pp. 2J/,23C Mr. Cromek has added, in a note, the f lowino- interesting particulars ,; though w-ith' specifying the authority upon which he del. them : — " This adieu was performed with all those sim] and striking ceremonials which rustic sentiment j devised to "prolong tender emotions and to insj. awe The lovers stood on each side ol a sn: purling brook ; they laved their hands in its lini stream, and holding a Bible between them,!: nounced their vows to be faithful to each oti, Thev parted— never to meet again ! " The anniversary of Mary Cawpbell a ieaitt ■ thai was her name) awakening in the sensitive ro; of Burns the most lively emotioii. he reiirejJ ft- his family, then residing on the farm of Misto and wandered, solitary, on the banks of the ^ and about the farm yard. ^- ■}^l^^''''ll';''^?'^J of mind, nearly the ^:. We of 'he .""sh J H s«g. lion was so great, that he threw himsclt on the , of a corn stack, and there conceived his subhme i tender elegy— his address To Nnryin Heaven. \ ol. V. p. 2.5b. I ;ows :- The poem itself is as foil " Thou lingering star, with les.-'ning ray, ; That tov'st to greet the early morn, A"ain thou usherst in the day ; Iviy Mary from my soul was torn . " O .Mary ! dear departed shade ! Where is ihv place of blis.sful rest ? | See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? , Hear'st thou the groans that rend this bret! " That sacred hour can I forget, Can 1 forget the hallowed grove. Where hv the winding Ayr we met. To live one day of parting love ! " Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past ; RELIQUKS OF ROnERT lUIJNS. 343 'hy ima^e at our last embrace ; kh! little thoiisht we 'twas our last I j\t gurjjling kiss'd his pebblt-d shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thickening, green, 'le Irasrant birch, and hawthorn hour. Twin d amorous round the raptured scene. ' e flowers sprang wanton to ho prest, 1^ I'he birds sang love on every spray, W 'II too, too soi»ii, the glowing west tittll ^rociaiin'd the speed of winged day ! !«fi " ^" "^'' ''^P"*" scenes my inem'ry wakes, !,. * \iid ("ondly broods with miser care ; ^i 'Ine but the impression stronger make,", itfei ^s streams their channels deeper wear. diet •• > :\!ary. dear departed shade! IJ. d! tVhere is thy place ol !)lis«fMl rest f Iiielli i^"" 'I'"" 'hy lover lowly laid f "ear'st thou the groans that rend his brensi t" Vol. i. pp. ir., 1J6. his pieces of humour, the tale of Tatn titer is proKibiy the best : thotiirh there arejniits of intiiiite merit in Seotch Drink, '" llieSoly Fair, the Hallow E'en, and several ■ soiiirs ; in all of which, it is very re- .ble. that he rises occasionally itito a .^iLiji of beautiful description or lofty senti- i'AFimei far above the pitch of his original con- 'l-*«CPj-J)n. The jviems of ob.'servation on life '• aiidpharacters, are the Twa IVi^s and the v;u lis Epistles — all of which show verv ex- ' •< Unary s.iiracity and powers of expression. are written, however, in so broad a diii- liat we dare not venture to (piote any , :<( them. The only pieces that can be fr■cla^l'd under the head of pure fiction, are ]3Bthejwo Bridffes of Ayr. and the Vision. In i ytheUt, there are some viirorous and strikini; ,^ij[|line We select the passage in which the Mu! describes the early propensities of her i"av<;rite. rather as beinpr more generally in- 1 ble, than as superior to the rest of the .P"' saw ihee seek the soundin? shore, elighied with the d:ishing roar; r when the North bis fleecy store Drove through 'he skj saw grim Nature's vis;ige hoar Struck thy voung eye. r when the deep-ereen manil'd ennh arm cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth, nd joy and music pouring forih In ev'ry grove, saw thee eye the gen'ral mirth With boundles.s love. ,'hrn ripen'd fields, and aznre skies, iill'd forth ihi- reapi-rs' rusilinir noise, saw thee leave their ev'nins joys. And lonely stalk, o vent thy bosom's swellint; rise In pensive wnlk. ^0 " 'hen youthful love, warm, blushing, strong. fen-shivering shot thy nerves along, hose accents grateful to thy I'lncne, Th' adored .Vnmf, taught thee how to pour in som;. To sooth thy flame. >nw thy pulse's maddening play, .'ild send thee Pleasurp's devious way, lisled by Fancy's meienr-ray. I?y I*ns!9, 110. Tlicie is another fnipnent, called also a Vision, which belon;,'s to a hi;,'her ord.T of jKu-try. If Hums had never wnttt-ii iiii\ iliiinj el.scj the jKJwerof des\\»t nhing iln' sky ; The fox WHS howling on the hill. .And (he diMiuiil -echoing glens reply. ■' The stream adown its iinzcllv path, Wiis rushing liy the ruin'il wn's, Hasting to join the sweeping Nitli, Wh.tfC distant roaring swells an' fa's. • The ciiiild blue north was streaming forth Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din ; .\ihort the lift ihev start and shilt. Like fortune's favours, tint as win ! " By hredle-ss chance I iiirn'd mine eyes. And l)y the moon-benm, shook, to see A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. " Had I a statue been o' stane. His d:irin' look had daunted me ; And on his bonnet grav'd wns plain, The sacred posy — Liberty ! '■ And frne hts harp si^ strains did flow. Might roiis'd the slumbering dead to hear; But oh, it WHS II lAle of woe, .As ever met a Uriion's ear I " He sang wi' joy the former day, lb- weeping wail'd his Utter limes — But what he said, it wnsnae play, I winna veiiiur'lin my rhymes." Vol. iv. 344— 346. Some verses, written for a Hermita^ze. sound j like the best jKirts of Grongar Hill. The reader may take these few lines as a speci- men : — I " .As thy day crows warm and high, Lite's meridian fl.iining nigh. Dost thou smirn the hiiinlile vale? Life's proun summits wnuldst thou scale f Dangers, ejinle-pinion'd, bold. Soar around each cliffy hold. While cheerful peace, with linnet song. Chants the lowly dells among." — Vol. iii. p. 299. There is a little copy of Verses upon a Newp- jKipcr at p. 355, of Or. Cnrrie's fourth volume. written in the «ame condensi'd style, and only wanting tninslation into English to he worthy of Swift. The finest piece, of the ."^tronirand nervoufi sort, however, is undoubtedly the address of Robert Brtice to his army at Bannockbum, betjiniiinir. '"St'ots. wha liae wi' Wallacj- Bled. The D»*ath Song, beginning, " Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth and ye skies. Now pay with the bright setting sun.'* is to us less pleasing. There are specimens, however, of such vi^fnur and emphasis s great and lamented chief." — Preface, pp. xi. i- Of the Letters, which occupy near) jalf the volume, we cannot, on the whole, e ref? any more favourable opinion than that urb we have already ventured to pronoui ; o" the prose compositions of this author i !Pn- era]. Indeeil they abound, rather mor'han those formerly published, in ravings abo Sfn- sibility and imprudence — in coninioii ev- ing. and in professions of love for w ^i^.v By far the best, are those which are ndd 'S*'*! to' Mi.ss Chalmers; and that chieliy b iK*^ they seem to be written with lessefl'ort.'iilal the same time with more respect for 1, cor- respondent. The following was writt ala most critical period of his life; and thLw' feelings and good sense which it di'a)»i only rnake us regret more deeply thilh'') were not attended with greater firmne " Shortlv after mv last return to Ayr re, 1 iTiarried ' my Jean.' 'This was not in cons>ien'-e of the attachment of romance perhaps ; buftisda long and much lov'd fellow-creature's happ »« "' RKLIQUKS OF ROHKKT lU'RXS. US miry in my Jeterniinaiion, mid I durst not inllf \s\[ so iinporinni a doposiie. Ni>r hnvo I any I aje to repent it. If I have not i;ot polite tatile, ..,^1,,. niilish manners, and lasliionable dresx. 1 am not ^ leJcpned and distrusted wiili the niuliilorni luruo ;'-!" ol purding-school alleciaUon ; and I liuve got the liaisoiucst figure, the sweeiist temper, the mnind- ' s 'onstitution, and the kindest heart in the county I M Burns helieves, as firmly as her creed, ihat I n\]te plu» bel rsprit. rt le plus honnrlf kommr in ttitiiiiverse ; althoujfh she scarcely ever in her hie, txipt the Scriptures of the Old and New 'resin- .jUi<|t, and the I'snimsol" David in metre, spent live ■ ''■ tlunnv' — 1. -- - -:.i 1 - ^ k [ W«j,(,no MOV vi\\ lies together on either prose or verse. — I muMt pt also from this last, a certain late publication cots Poeins, which she has perused very de- . , , TO Iv, and all the ballads in the counirv. as she hnn ™™Mlll(0|ic partial lover I you will cry) the finest " wikhI- wild " 1 ever heard. — I am the more imriiciilar is lady's character, as I know she will hcncclonh the honour of a share in your best wi.shes. 9 still at Mauchliiie, as I am building my li'Ve: for this hovel that I shelter in while occii- . illy here, is pervious to every blast that blows, ..:i(every shower that falls; and I am only pre- • id from beiii" chilled to death, by being sutfo- .1,1 with smoke. I do not find my larm thai , iiyworth I was tauijht to expect ; but I believe, 111 ne. it may be a saving bargain. You will be , Jollip|,3ed to hear that I have laid aside idle fclat. ijJiilislalaanbiiid every day after my reaper. ' l^ aoill; 'I'o save me trom that horrid situation of at any « lo fciil*'1 R'^'i'S down, in a losing bargain of a farm, to ■^mi ry, I have taken my excise instructions, and ^, ha my commission in my pocket for any emerg- "' -en of fortune I If I could set all before your vit . whatever disrespect you. in common with the , .\v(d, have for this business, I know you would yjijllljBpoveof my idea." — Vol. v. pp. 74, 75. mu\t re may add the following for the sake of . , co^ection. I know not how the word exciseman, or still ' m? opprobrious, gauger, will sound in your ears. jiii'iDtiil J have seen the day when my auditory nerves f« tiai llii vn\ii have felt very delicately on this subject ; but ■ Hvrwiia fp and children are things which have a won- — rlf il power in blunting these kind of senRations. 1 ij, pounds a year for lile. and a provision for ^' i'ws and orphans, vou will allow, is no bad sci- •.,iy-'.r. for a poil. for the ignominy of the pro- I'tlnn, I have the encouriigemcnt which I once ' he d a recTui'iiig serjcant give to a numerous, if . , net respectable audience, in the streets of Kilmar- -Fietel ncw — ' Gentlemen, for your further and better en- co agcment. I can assure you that our regiment is floccfMh most blackguard corps tinder the cmwn, and I onilftfe CO equenlly with us an honest fellow hasthe surest " oalbi chice of preferment.' " — Vol. v. pp. 99, 10). timitop would have been as well if Mr. Cromek iOt'Jiisis* hi left out the history of Mr. Hamiitonsdis- ocwi.i'll" nc^ioiis witli his parish milliliter, — Burns' fi.a0$ ajloL'v to a f^entlemaii with whom he had a iV-iiW*' dr ikeii jujuabble, — and the anecdote of hi.s , fliTP b«]^ u.«ed to cLfk for more Uiftior, when visil- in in the country, under the prete.vt of forli- V-:.' hiin.self a;.'ainst the terrors of a lillle ■ U h«* had to pa.«is through in poing home. if' most interesting pa»j*at(e!«, indeed, in this of the volume, are those for which we are >btr-d lo Mr. Crf-mek himself. He informs ,^tlii(l* Uffor instance, in a note. n liiuil and ai-complwhed Woman wan ■ hoinu al. most nesv to him. mid of which he had toriiit>il but a Very mndei)uale idea." — Vol. v. pp f>8, i)'.». He adds al.HO, in another place, that ''the jKH»t, when questioned alniut his habits of connHi.siliDii, replied, — 'All my jxH'lry is the ellcct (>l easy c«im]>ositi(Mi. but of lulnirioiis correction." " It is pUusin^ to know thus*- things — even if ihry were reall) as tntiiii:: !l^ to a fiiperlicial ol>,H«>tver thi'y ma\ probably anpear. There is a very amiable letter from Mr. Mur«UK-h, the jH)els early preceptor, at 1). Ill; and a very splendid one from Mr. nloointield, at p. 135. As nuthiii^ is muTH rare, anions the miiior |mi(n p.Mi»t8 more in circumst.nnces than in ehceiiiials. Thai man stood up with the siatnp of superior inipllert on his brow ; a visible greatness : and great and patriotic subjects would only have called into action the powers of his mind, which lay iniiciive w hile he played calmly and exquiHiiely the pastoral pi|M). " Thi! letters to winch I have alluded in my pre- face to the ' Rural Tales,' were friendly warnings, pointed with immediate reference to the fate of that extraordinary man. ' Remember Burns,' has been the watchword of my friends. I do remember Burns; but I am not Burns! I have neither his lire lo Ian, or to (lueiich ; nor his passions to control I Where ihcn is my merit, if 1 make a peaceful voyage on a smooth sea, and with no mutiny on board?"— Vol. v. pp. 135, 13r,. The observations on Scotti.sh sonps, which fill nearly one hundred and fifty pa^jes, are, on the whole, minute and trilling; though the exquisite justness of the poet's taste, and his fine relish of simplicity in this species of com- position, is no less remarkable here than in nis correspondence with Mr. Thomson. Of all other kinds of jKietry, he was so indulgent a juilge. that he may almost be termed an in- dist;riininate admiier. We find, too, from these observations, that sevenil songs and pieces of .-iongs, which he printed as genuine antifjues, wert? really of his owi'i comjKi.sition. The commonplace b. perly referred to our excellent institution: if parochial education, and to the natural sob> v and prudence of our nation, may certainly allowed : but we have no doubt that the'u a good deal of the same principle in Engl |, and that the actual intelligence of the k"r orders will be found, there also, veryj&o exceed the ordinary estimates of theirs;;, riors. It is pleasing to know, that the souig of rational enjoyment are so widt ly diss ^j. nated ; and in a free country, it is comfort e to think, that so great a proportion of e people is able to appreciate the advant ^ of its condition, and fit to be relied oji, i H emergencies where steadiness and in j. gence may be required. Our other remark is of a more limitet > plication ; and is adtlressed chiefly to le followers and patrons of that nev,- scho )fl poetry, against which we have thought i-ul duty to neglect no opporlmiity of testif j. Those gentlemen are outrageous for siir c- ity ; and we beg leave to recommend to im the simplicity of Burns. He has copiet'ie spoken language of passion and affection, ih infinitely moie fidelity than they have .er done, on all occasions w hich properly adff'jd of such adaptation : But he has not rej'fd the helps of elevated language and hal lal associations ; nor debased his compositii by an affectation of babyish interjections, qo all the puling expletives of an old nui;y- maid's vocabulary. They may look ng enough among his nervous and manly ;;8, before they find any "Good lacks !" — •■ sir hearts !"' — or "As a body may says." in 1 'n; or any stuff about dancing daffodils and ter Emmelines. Let them think, \vith ■nb in- finite contempt the powerful mind of mi would have perused the story of Alic' 'eH and her duffle cloak, — of Andrew Jont JiJ the half-crown,— or of Little Dan w )ut breeches, and his thievish grandfather. '/Cl them contrast their own fantastical perse 'ne? of hysterical school-masters and sente'ros leechgatherers, with the authentic rust of Burns's Cotters' Saturday Night, and 1. in- imitable songs; and rellect on thedil'enl reception which those personifications 'We met with from the public. Though thcA'ill not be reclaimed from their puny affed ons by the example of their learned prrdt o off, they may, perhaps, submit to be admo; hed by a self-taught and illiterate poet, wh( rew from Nature far more directly than ih m do, and produced something so mud*" the admired copies of the masters whoi W) have abjured. CAMPBELLS GERTRUDE 01- WV()ML\(J. 847 (,lpiil, 180^1.) f .'iin/(f^ o/ ?f'i/0'n'«g) « Pinnsylvanian Talc ; and other Pttrms. Bv Ti !o/ " The PUasiires of Hope,^! ffc. 4to. pp. 136. Loiulon : I.oiij. Thomas Ca.mpbei.i.. mi(hoT ,TTiaii & to. : |H0«>. •'e rejoice once more to see a polished aiul admiration of tittering parlie?, un;, in many places, and its beauties are never revialed, but to :;. the first, and more conden.sition and him who strays, in calm contemplation, by its ilent linishing than the latter. If tiie true course, an«l follows its wandernij^s with un- 'i of nature be not everywhere maintained, distracted and unimpatient admirntion. There jves place, at least, to art only*, and not to - aifctation — and,, least of all, to affectation of BiiJularity or rudeness. « jimkIi hiuiiful as the greater part of this volume -.[le public taste, we are afraid, has of late .1 too much accustomed to beauties of a .!.' obtrusive and glaring kind, to be fully i;bleof its merit. Without supposing that ijiaste has been in any great degree vitiattd, ui sen imjxjsed upon, by the babyism or the I lltiiinan]uarianism which have lately Wen versi- MaiiJiii fie for its improvement, we may be allowed to ispect, that it has been somewhat dazzled ; '. he splendour, and bustle and variety of [most popular of our recent poems: and iijthc more modest colourini: of truth and s a reason, too, for all this, which may be made more plain than by metaphors. The highest delight w hich ixxtry produco«, does not aris«> from the mere p^is.sivr perc<»p- tion of the images or .sentiments which it pre- sents to the miiul ; but from the «xcitemenl which is given to its own internal activity, and the character which is imprc^.^i'd on the train of its sjwntaneous conceptions. Even the dullest n-ader generally sees more than is directly presented to him by the poet; but a lover of poetry always pees infinitely more; and is often indebted to his author lor little more than an impulse, or the key-note of a meloiiy which his fancy makes out for itself. Thus, the effect of jjoetry, depends more on the//Hj7/w/HC5.sof the impres,sions to which it ijre may, at this moment, seem somewhat 111 and I'eeble. We have endeavoured, on gives rise, than on their own individual force ..ijiais foiicr occ^isions. to do justice to the force or novelty : and the writeisvho po.-M ss the yiifl j,i,l an originality of some of those brilliant pro- ' greatest powers of fascination, arc not those . dn ions, as well as to the genius (fitted for who present us with the greatest number of ! h higher things) of their authors — and lively images or lofty sentirnent.s. but who little doubt of being soon called upon I most successfully impart their own impulse \ renewed )t ol t>eing soon called upon I most successlully impart tlieir own impulse ribute of applause. But we I to the current of our thoughts and feelings, jiol help sa}-ing, in the mean time, that and give the colour of their brighter concep- I work before us belongs to a class which ' tions to tho!»e which they excite in their |es nearer to our conception of pure and readers. Now, upon a little consideration, it )ert iKietr)-. Such productions do not. . ed. strike so .«;trong a blow as the vehe- t fflusions of our modern Trouvcurs ; I they are calculated, vre think, to please e deeply, and to call out more perma- \ull probably appear that the dazzling, and the busy and marvellous scenes which con- .•ititute the whole charm of sonie j denis. are not so well calculated to produce lliis effect, as those more intelligible d» lineatinns which Iv, those trains of emotion, in which the are Iwrrowed from ordinary life, arul coloured' ,'ht of iwetr}' will probably be found to from familiar affections. The object is, to'. ist. Tney may not be so loudly nor so , iiwaken in our mincUa train of kindled emo- er«si!Iy applauded; but their fame will tions, and to excite our imaginations to work ablv endure lorger, and they will be out for themselves a tissue of pleasii.g or im- ler recalled to mnigle with the reveries pressive conceptions. But it M'«-mi' obvious. )litary leisure, or the consolations of real that this is more likely to be accomplished nv. by surroundinir us L'radually with those ob- here is a sort of poetry, no doubt, as there jects. an>.\ample, to be revenged, and to die ! The po a closes with this vehement and impas- skid exhortation. ?fore proceeding to lay any part of the po :i itself before our readers, we should try to ve them some idea of that delighfnl har- lm(y of colouring and of expression, which seies to unite every part of it for the pro- du ion of one effect ; and to make the de- sciition, narrative, and reflections, conspire to reathe over the whole a certain air of pu and tender enchantment, which is not on dispelled, through the whole Icnqlh of thooera, by the intru.sion of any diwordant imession. " All that \vf can now do. how- ev, is to tell th'-m that this wti« il-^ effect •ipi our feelincs: and to give them their Kce of partakinir in it, by a pretty copious • Vtion of extracts. le descriptive stanzas in the beginning, v\ ;h set out with an invocation to Wyoming, , though in some places a little obscure and overlaboured, are, to our taste, very soft ami I beautiful. " On .'^iis(|ui'liiiiHin'.'i nidi!, fnir Wyoming! .Xlilioiii;)) the wiKl-nowcr on ihy niiiiM wall .\ncl nxifloRs lioincd, a S4iil rrmiiiilirnnca bring . of what ihy Kriitic people did (irfnll, , Yfi thou Wirt once ihe invflicst land of all , That soe the .\tiantir wnvp tlxir morn restore. ' Swct't land I may I lliy lost diiitjht» rf-cnll. I Anil pjinii thy tieririide m hrr Lwiwirs ut yore. Whose tieoiiiy was the love of Pennsylvania's shore I " It was beneath thy skies thnl. hut to prune IIls aiiiiiniii fruits, or xkim tin- IikIii ranoc. Peri hnni'e, aloinf thy river calm, at iiixin, The happy shepherd swain hud nought lo do, Vt«\u nmrii till evenmc's sweeter pnsiime grew ; Their liiiihrol, in the dance of forests brow n When lovely maidens pranki in flowrets new ; And ave, lhos« sunny inouiiiaiiis hall way down Would echo tlagehi Irom some romantic town. " Then, where of Indian hills the daylight takes His leave, iiow might you the Ihimingo see Disponing like a meteor on the lakes — And phiylul 8V(ly mind could culture well reptiv. And more engaging grew from pleasing day to day ■' I may not paint those thousand infant charms; ll'iicoiis<-ious la»< inniion, undeMgn'd I) I he nri»d to bless hrr sire and al! mankind '. 'F'he l>ook. ihe bo^om on his kiee reilin'il, Or how sweei fairy-lore he heard her con. (The playmate ere the teacher of her mind) ; All iiiieompanion'i! else lur yenrs hnd j;'d, and swoon'd away ; Or shriek'd unto the God to whom the Christians pray.— " ' Our virgins led her with their kindly bowls Of lover balm, and sweet sagamite ; But she was journeying to the bmd of souls, And lilted up her dying head to pray That we should bid an antient friend convey Her orphan to his home of England's shore ; And take, she said, this token far away To one that will remember us of yore, _ When he beholds the ring that Waldegrave s Julia wore.—' " PP- 16, 17. Albert recognises the child of his murdered friend, with great emotion ; which the Indian witnesses with characteristic and picturesque composure. '• Far differently the Mute Oneyda took His calumet of peace, and cup of joy ; As monumental bronze unchang'd his look : A soul that pity touch'd, but never shook : Train'd, from his trcc-rock'd cradle to his bier, 'Fhe fierce extremes of aood and ill to brook j.mpassivc — fearing but the shame of fear — A stoic of the woods— a man without a tear. — " p. 20. This warrior, however, is not without high feelings and tender afTections. " He scorn'd his own, who felt another's woe : And ere the wolf-skin on his back he flung. Or laced his mocasins, in act to go, A song of parting to the boy he sung, . Who slept on Albert's couch, nor heard his friend- ly tongue. " ' Sleep, wearied one! and in the dreaming land Should'st thou the spirit of thy mother greet Oh ! say, to-morrow, that the white man's hand Hath pluck'd the thorns of sorrow from thy feet; While T in lonely wilderness shall meet Thy httle foot-prints— or by traces know The founiain, svhere at noon I thought it sweet To feed thee with the quarry of my bow, Vnd pour'd the lotus-horn, or slew the mountain roe. (fcc. " A valley from the river shove withdrawn [ Was Albert's home two quiet woods between, Whose loftv verdure overlook'd his lawn; And waters to their resting-place serene, Came, fresh'ning and reflecting all the scene: (A mirror in the depth of flowery shelves;) So sweet a spot of earth, you might (I ween) • Have guess'd some congregation of the elves i To sport by summer moons, had shap'd it fo themselves." — p. 27. The effect of this seclusion on Gertrude i beautifully represented. " It seeni'd as if those scenes sweet influence had On Gertrude's soul, and kindness like their own Inspir'd those eyes affectionate and glad, That seeni'd lo'love whate'er they look'd upon! W bother with Hebe's mirth her features shone, Or if a shade more pleasing them o'ercast, (As if for heav'nly musing meant alone ;) j Yet so becominglv the expression past, | That each succeeding look was lovelier than ihelatj " Nor guess I, was that Pennsylvanian home, With ah its picturesque and balmy grace, ^ And fields that were a lu.vury to roam, Lost on the soul that look'd from such a face! Enthusiast of the woods ! when years apace Had bound thy lovely waist with woman's zone, The sunrise path, at morn. I see iheo trace To hills with high magnolia overgrown ; _ And joy to breathe the groves, romantic at, alone."— pp. 29, 30'. | The morning scenery, too, is touched \ri a delicate and masterly hand. Adieu' ,eet scion of the rising sun pp. 21,22. The Second part opens with a fine descrip tion of Albert's sequestered dwelling. It re- minds lis of that enchanted landscape in which Thomson has embosomed his Castle of Indo- lence. We can make room only for the first Btanza. " While yet the wild deer trod in spangling dew- While boatman caroll'd to the fresh-blown air, And woods a horizontal shadow threw, _^ And early fox appear' d in momentary view, p. 32. The reader is left rather too much in i dark as to Henry's depaittire for Europe; nor, indeed, are we apprised of his abseiu, till we corne to the scene of his une.xped , return. Gertrude was used to spend the i part of the day in reading in a lonely :. rocky recess in those safe woods; which described with Mr. Campbell's usual felici j " Rocks sublime To human art a sportive semblance wore ; And yellow lichens colour'd all the clime, j Like inoonliaht battlements, and towers deca;, by time. • " But high, in amphitheatre above. His arms the everlasting aloes threw : Bicath'd but an air of lieav'n, and all the grove ■ As if instinct with living spirit grew, j Rolling its verdant gulls of every hue ; \ A nd now suspended was the pleasing din, j Now from a murmur faint it swcli'd anew, j Like the first note of organ heard wiihm . J Cathedral aisles— ( re yet its symphony bepin. p. 3.V In this retreat, which is represented V' solitary, that except her own, | " scarce an ear had heard j The stock-dove plaining ihrough iis gloom proloi Or winglct of the fairy humming bird, , [ Like atoms of the rainbow fluiienng round.; p. J, —a strancer of lofty port and gentle manij snrprisrs^her, one morning, and is condW; to her father. They enter into converW|i on the subject of his travels. [ CAMPBPXLS (JERTRrOK OV WVDMIXC. 891 " And imich they lov'd his fervid strain — W;>' lie each fair variety rctrac'd ( M iinr?. and manners, o'er the eastern main. "\:> l!ii()py Swiizer's hills — romantic S(^)ain — I liiied fields of France — or, more retni'd, . ,.#ofi Ausonia's monumental reign ; iSiiiless eai'h rural image he desisrn'd, 'Mk '^ ''I ^^^ '''^ city's pomp and iiouie of liumun kind. •* .^on some wilder portraiture he draws I Of jnture's savage glories he would speak — "'^■k Th|<>nelines9 ot earth that overawes ! — Wife, res'ing by some tomh of old cacique Thiama-driver on Fenivia's peak, \i>>(iire nor livinsi moMon marks around ; l>iiiiorks that to the boundless forest shriek ; I *r ild-cane arch high tlung o'er gulf profound, I. flnctuates when the storms of El Dorado sound." — pp. 3(), 37. -bert. at last, bethinks him of inquiring I his stray ward youiisi Hem y ; ami enter- ' his guest with a short summary of his - ry. il tare tlie wand'rer hid ; — but could not hide A • r. a smile, upon his cheek that dwell ! — ' A I speak, mysterious stranger !' (Gertrude cried) li '—it is! — I knew — I knewhim well! "I'iAValdegrave's self, of Waidegrave come to J^^Ji" A b-st of joy the father's lips declare ; [tell !' ,^-' ■ ButJertrnde speechless on his bosom fell : "^'^ At ce his open arms embrac'd the pair ; Wa never group more blest, in this wide world of ^*i, care!"— p. 39 le fir.«t overflowing of their joy and art- •love is represented with all the fine rs of tmfh and pnetiy; but we cannot Tiake room for it. The Second Part ends this stanza : — 'Tn would that home admit them — happier far t.Mi wit :IM5 Th grandeur's most niajrnificent saloon — Wh'. here and there, a solitary star 'd in the dark'ning firmament of June ; Jiltv'ce brought the soul-felt hour full goon, :S'e — which I may not pnurlray ! jiner did theHymenean mooii ■ l-idise of hearts more sacred sway, i|ihat slept beneath her soft voluptuoua rny." — I p. 43. 'l]e Last Part sets out with a soft but "piipd sketch of their short-lived^ felicity. 'rpp little moons. hnwsh'Tt ! amidst the grove, tastoral savannas ihev consume ! he, beside her buskin'd youth to rove, Dc :s. in fancifully wild costume. C>^'- Her vely brow to shade with Indian plume ; .All irtii in hunter-seeming vest they fare; to cha.'^e the deer in forest gloom ! -•It the breath of heav'n — the blessed air — ■.i.tPTrhnnse of hearts, unknown, unseen to i share. "(at tiiongh the sportive dog oft round them note, ^ ik n. or wild bird bursting on the wine; Yf" ho. ill love's own presence, would dcvoie To iith ho-e gentle throats that wake the spring ? Or 'jih:i .? Ironi the brook its victim bring 7 No '-lor let fear one little warbler rouse ; Rii'lfd tiy Gertrude's hand. B"i!l let them sing. Aer]jiniance of her path, amidst the boughn. ''''nthade ev'n now her love, and witness'd first lier vows.'" — pp. IS, 49. T slor diirr ;^'< ,sit'..B ' transition to the melancholy part of the s introduced with Great tetiderness and mortal pleasure, what art thou in truth 1 t'it The irrent'a smoothness ere it dash below Sweet W'yomit^p! the day. when thou win dooni'd, Guililiss, to niourn thy lovehcst bow'rH Inid low ! When, wli< reof yesteniny n garden bloom'd. Death overspread his pall, and block'iiing ashes gloom'd f — " Slid WHS the vear, by proud Oppression driv'n, When 'rrntisailnntic l.ilirriy nrom' ; Not m the sunshine, and tlie Hinile of htfav'ii. Hut wrapt in vhirlwmds, and Ix'^irl wiih woes: Amidst the strife of fratricidal foes. Iler birth star was the liuht ol burning plains ; Her baptism is the weight of IiKhk! that (lows From kindred hearts — the blond ot Itriii^li veins!— And famiiie^racksiiur steps, niid pCHiileniinl pains I" pp :.(». 51. Gertrude's alarm and dejection at the pros- pect of hostilities are well described; " O, meet not thou," she cries, "thy kindred foe ! But peaceful let us srek fr.ir Kngland's strand," &,c. — as well as the arpumentB and peneroua .sentiments by which her husband labours to reconcile her to a necesMry evil. The noc- turnal irruption of the old Indian is jriven with crreat .spirit : — Aijeand misery luul so chani^cd his appearance, tluit he was not at iirst recog- nised by any of tlie party. ■' ' And hast thou then forgot ' — he cried forlorn. And ey'd the group with half indicnant air). ' Oh ! hast thou, Christian chief, forgot the mom When I with thee the cnp of peace did share ? Then stately was this head, and dark this hair, That now is white as Appalncliia's snow ! But, if the weiirht of fifteen years' despair. And nge hath bow'd me, and the tort'ring foe. Bring ine my Boy — and he will his deliverer know !' — "It was not long, with eyes and heart of flame, Ere Henry to his lov'd Oneyda flew: [came, ' Bless thee, iny guide !' — but, backward, as he The chief his old bewilder'd head withdrew. And grasp'd his arm, and look'd and lonk'd him through. 'Twasstrangr — nor could the group a smile control, Tlie long, the doubtful scrutiny to view : — At last delight o'er all his features stole, [.^nul. — ' It is — my own !' he cried, and clasp'd him to his " ' Yes ! thou rccall'st my pride of years ; for then The bowstring of my spirit was not slack. [men. When, spite of woods, and floods, and anibush'd I bore thee like the quiver on my back. Fleet as the whirlwind hurries on the rack ; .\or focman then, nor cougar's crouch I fear'd. For I was strong as mountain cataract ; And dost thou not remember how wc ch' er'd Upon the last hill-top, when white men's hu's ap- pear'd f " — pp. .54—56. After waniine them of the approach of their terrible foe, the conflafrration is seen, and the whoops and scatterinf( shot of tlie enemy heard at a distance. The motley militia of the neifrl)ourhood flock to the defence of Albert, the effect of their shouts and music on the old Indian in fine and striking. " Rous'd by their warlike pomp, oiid niirih. and Old Oiiiali^Hi woke his battle song, [cheer, And beating with his war-dub carlence s'roi'i:. Tells how liis dcep-Biung indignation sniar'ii," dec. p. 61. Xor is the contrast of this savage enlhusiaam with the venerable comi>nro :• ■ • * ' •• '■ "^^ beautifully represented. 352 POETRY. " Calm, opposite the Christian Father rose, Pale on his venerable brow its rays Otiiiariyr light the conflagration throws; One hand upjn his lovely child he lays, And one ili' uncovered crowd to silence sways; \Vhile, though the battle flash is faster driv'n — UnawM, with eye unsiarlied by the blaze, He for his bleeding country prays to Heaven — Prays that the men ol blood themselves may be forgiven." — p. 62. They then speed their night march to the distant fort, whose wedged ravelins and re- doubts " Wove like a diadem, its tracery r^und The lofty summit of that mountain green " — and look back from its lofty height on the desolated scenes around them. We will not separate, nor apologize for the length of the fine passage that follows ; which alone, we think, might justify all we have said in praise of the poem. " A scene of death ! where fires beneath the sun. And blended arms, and white pavilions glow ; And for the business of destruction done. Its requiem the war-horn seem'd to blow. There, sad spectatress of her country's woe ! The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm. Had laid her cheek, and clasp'd her hands of snow- On VValdegrave's shoulder, half within his arm Enclos'd, that felt her heart and hush'd its wild alarm ! •' But short that contemplation ! sad and short The pause to bid each much-lov'd scene adieu ! Beneath the very shadow of the fort, [flew, Where friendly swords were drawn, and banners Ah I who could deem that foot of Indian crew Was near ? — Yet there, with lust of murd'rous deeds, (Jleam'd like a basilisk, from woods in view. The ambush'd foeman's eye — his volley speeds! And Albert — Albert — falls! the dear old father bleeds ! " And tranc'd in giddy horror Gertrude swoon'd ! Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone, Say, burst they, borrow'd from her father's wound. Those drops ? — God ! the life-blood is her own ! Andfali'ring, on her Waldegrave's bosom thrown — 'Weep not, O Love I' — she cries, 'to see me bleed — Thee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee alone — Heaven's peace commiserate I for scarce I heed These wounds! — Yet thee to leave is death, is death indeed. " ' Clasp me a little longer, on the brink Of fate ! while I can feel thy dear caress ; And, when this heart hath ceas'd to beat — oh! think, And let it mitigate thy woe's excess. That thou hast been to me all tenderness. And friend to more than human friendship just. Oh ! by that retrospect of happiness. And by the hopes of an immortal trust, [dust! God shall assuage thy pangs — when I am laid in " ' Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart ! The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move, Where my dear father took thee to his heart. And Gertrude thought it ecstasy to rove With thee, as with an angel, through the grove Ol peace — imagining her lot was cast In heav'n ! for ours was not like earthly love ! And must this parting be our very last ? [past. — No! I shall love thee still, when death itself is " ' Half could I hear, niethinks. to leave this earth — , And thee, more lov"d than aught beneath the sun! ] Cmild I have liv'd to smile hut on the birth Of one dear p'edgc 1 — But shall there then be none, | Iri future times — no gentle little one, To clasp thy neck, and look, resembhng me! ' Yet seems u, ev'n while life's last pulses ruii A sweetness in the cup of death to be. Lord of my bosom's love 1 to die beholding th( " Hush'd were his Gertrude's lips! but still j bland And beautiful expression seem'd to melt With love that could not die ! and still his han She presses to the heart no more that felt. .\h heart ! where once each fond aflecuondwi. And features yet that spoke a soul more fair!' pp. 64- 1. The funeral is hurried over with pat! c brevity; and the desolate and all-eiidug Indian brought in again with peculiar bea-. "Touch'd by the music, and the melting seen Was scarce one tearle.-^s eye amidst the crowd- Stern warriors, resting on their swords, were n To veil their eyes, as pass'd each much- d shroud — While woman's softer soul in woe dissolv'd a L " Then mournfully the parting bugle bid , Its farewell o'er the grave ot worth and iruih.| Prone to the dust, afflicted Waldegrave hid His face on earth ? — Him waich'd in gloomy i„ His woodland guide; but words had none to 'i The grief that kiiew not consolation's name!; Castiiig his Indian mantle o'er the youth. He watch'd beneath its folds, each burst ibat |k Convulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering fra." P- After some tim'e spent in this nnjtejKJ awful pause, this stern and heart-struck a- forter breaks out into the following torn ig and energetic address, with which^lhe ) m closes, with great spirit and abruptness:- " ' And / could weep ;' — th' Oneyda chief His descant wildly thus began : ' But that I may no; stain with grief The death-song of mv father's son ! Or bow his head in woe ; F'or by my wrongs, and l)y my wrath ! To-morrow Areouski's breath (That fires yon heaven with storms of deail Shall light us to the foe: And we shall share, my Christian boy! The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy !— " ' But thee, my flow'r I whose breath was ■ By milder genii o'er the deep. The spirits of the white man's heav'n ', Forbid not thee to weep I — Nor will the Christian host. Nor will thy father's spirit grieve To see thee, on the battle's eve. Lamenting take a mournful leave Of her who lov'd thee most : She was the rainbow to thy sight ! Thy sun — thy heav'n — of lost delight !— " ' To-morrow let us do or die ! But when the bolt of death is hiirl'd. Ah ! whither then with thee to fly. Shall Onlalissa roam the world ? Seek we thy once-lov'd home ? — The hand is gone that cropt its flowers ' Unheard their clock repeats its hours. — Cold is the hearth within their bow'rs ! — And should we thither roam. Its echoes, and its empty tread, Would sound like voices from the dead ! " ' But hark, the trump ! — to-morrow thou In alory's fires shah dry thy tears: Ev'n from the land of shadows now My father's awful ghost sppears. Amidst the clouds that round us roll I CAMPBELLS GERTrxUDE OF WVOMLNG •^ik ' bids my soul for battle thirst — iiuis me dry lii'- last — ilie first — !:■ onlif tfHrs tlini ever burst — Flini I lutnlissi's soul ! — &aiise I may not stniii with ltu f Ip death-song of an Indian chief I' ' — pp. 7(>-73. V*L ^i'* needless, after these extracts, to en- ij„i2|1arij upon the beauties of this poem. They idi{if,coiil5t chietly in the feeHiii; and tendernesV ikjuitispf ¥ whole delineation, and the laP!e and jJelncj- with which all the suboidinate parts ire hade to contribute to the those most will) are most worthy to be plf.isi'd ; ami always .•:ccm most bcautilul to tho.so who give it the i;ri'at»-st .share of their allcnlinn. Of the smaller pieces which lill up the vol- ume, wc have si-arce h'ft ours<'lv«'s riM)m to say any thing. The greater jwrt of them have been jirinted lH'fiir<< ; and there are probably tew readers of English j»oetry who are not al- ready familiar with the I.,.ion — that 8t)rt of force and graiuieur which results from the simple and conci.se expression of iXreat events and natural emotions, alto::ether unassisted by any splendour or amplification of expre.ssion. The characteristic merit, in- deed, both of this piece and of Hohinlinden. is, that, by the forcible delineation of one or two great circumstances, they give a clear and most enertretic representation of events as complir'ated as they are impressive — and thus impress the mind of the reader with all the tf^rror and sublimity of the subject, while they rescue him from the fatigue and [M-rplex- ity of its details. Nothing in our jiidumient can be more impressive than the followins: very short and simple description of the British fleet bearing up to clos<' action : " As they drifted on their path. There was sib nre de« p an death ! And ihc boldest held his bnath For a lime. — " — p. lO'.t. The description of the battle itwif (ihoii-h it begins with a tremendous line) is in the samo spirit of homely sublimity ; and worth a thou- sand stanzas of thun: the power to give him confidence in hi" great talents Tand hope earnestly, that \m now meet with such encouragement, a na* set him above all restraints that procee roB apprehension : and induce him to gi' Ire- scope to that genius, of which we a pf ■ suaded that the world has hitherto seen iH^r 1 the grace than the richness. ( lanuanj, lS2o.) ' Theodric, a Domestic Tale: with other Pocm^. By Thomas Campbell. l2mo. p. London : 1824. those relics to which it excludes th- 1 bility of any future addition. At all ' he has better proof of the permanent J the public take in his productions, tha^ ever can have who are more diligent multiplication, and keep themselves recollection of their great patron by n quent intimations of their e.xistein i e.xperiment, too, though not without I ards. is advantageous in another resp- the re-appearance of such an aiill! those lone periods of occullalion. is i hailed as a novelty— and he recei I double welcome, of a celebrated etrac If Mr. Campbell's poetry was of a kind that could be forgotten, his long fits of silence would put him fairly in the way of that mis- fortune. But, in truth, he is safe enough;— and has even acquired, by virtue of his ex- emplary laziness, an assurance and pledge ot immortality which he could scarcely have obtained without it. A writer who is still fresh in the mind and favour of the public, after twenty years' intermission, may reason- hblv expect to be remembered when death .cshall have finally sealed up the fountains of h's .nspiration; imposed silence on the cavils of envious rivals, and enhanced the value of 8 IBM ■Ml w >ii»Illt!l| ofiital «L« o[ til ^, 100,11 ::llyi|ia uiknoiM filiii,eij nnselkf! liemtiiil' • tiiiiiitf,'ii mail I, CwtiiiS raosMtii snaleip! :o ihiililil inJihili IvAield if tools il»tai«i l«Dfillfl«i vmS ^ I C.ViMPBELL S TIIKODRIC. 355 aemembered fripiiil. There is. acconlinsly. living poet, we believe, w hose ailvertij^e- ikil excites gcealer e.vpeclatiou than Mr. npbeJI's; — ami a new poem from him is ileil for with even more eagernetw (a.s it is taiiily for a mueh loiurer time) than a new el from the autliur of Waverley. Like all er human felix:itie.>«, however, this hiL'h e.\- tation and nre]xirej homaire lias its liiaw- tHs anil its danirers. A popular anlhi>r, as V have been led to remark on tormer oeca- slis. has no rival so formidable as his former s|l — ajid no comjuirison to sustain half m rous as that wliich is always made be- ien the average merit of his now work, and remembered beauties — for little else is r remembered — of his old ones. low this c-oinjviri.s<}n will result in the sent instance, w*- do not presume to pre- t with coiilidence — but we doubt whether ill be, at lea.st in the beirinninsr. altoirether favour of the volume before us. The ptms of this author, indeed, are ;renerallv nre admired the more thevare studied, and Ibttfii^ in our estimation in proportion as they ome familiar. Their noveltv. theret'ore. is ays rather mi obstruction than a help to ir popularity; — and it may well be ques- tiied. whether there be any thin-j in the elties now before us that can rival in our auctions the long remembered beauties of tn Pleasures of Hope — of Gertrude — of Ofonnor's Child — the Song of Linden — The riners of England — and the many other banting melodies that are ever present to minds of all lovers of poetry. "he leading piece in the present volume is aj&ttempt at a very difficult kind of poetry : ai one in which the most complete success hardly ever be.«o spleiidid and striking as tcfnake amends for the difficulty. It is en- •1 --a Domestic Story" — anc'l it is so; — mm upon few incidents — embmcing few meters — dealing in no marvels and no itjors — di.splayini: no stormy passions. With- oi complication of plot, in short, or hurry of •with no atrocities to shudder at, or ' s of noble daring to stir the .«pirits of the iipitiffus — it pa.oses quietly on, through the -Kdtii path.s of private life, conversing with /title natures and patient sufferings — and un- ilini. withsprenc pitv and sol>er triumph, tlj paii2s which are fated at times to wrinir th l)rHast of innocence and iienerusity. and ll| courage and comfort which generosity and inpcence can never fail to bestow. The lak; and the feeling which leil to the wlec- »i' of such topics, could not but impress their ilracter on the style in which thev are ted. It is distinguished accordingly by a I and tender finish. lK)lh of thought and of -bv chastened r-legancr* of worrls a mild di;mily and tcnqK-red ;^; :ii! image: p.'jifi'^ in the sentiments, antl a ueneml tonr ofimplicity and directness in the conduct of story, which, joined lo its great brevity, •is at first perhaps to disguise both tKe iiess and the force of the genius required ts production. But though not calculated rike at once on the dull palled ear of an I idle and occupied world, if is of all others I {M'thaps the kind of jwetry best fittetl to wm , on our .softer hour.s, and to sink deep luio va- cant bosom.H — unlcH'king all the »ource» of toiul recollfction, and leadiiiL' us gently on through the ma/i-s of tle<-]) and iiigros-Hing meditation — and thus ministerinir to a deejH-r ' enchantment and mon- la>ting delight than I caii v\oi bf in.»pired by the more imix)rtuiiato strains ot more umbilious authors. Thi-re aif no doubt peculiar and jx-rhnpii in.-up«'mble dilliculties m the managennnt of j themes ho delicate, and reipiiring .ho tine and I so lestrained a hand — nor are we pre|);ired to j sny that Mr. Campbell has on ihi.-* occasion entirely escaped them. There are imssjiges that are somewhat Jade: — then- ar»- «\pre6- sioris that are trivial : — But the prevailing character is sweetne.is and beauty : ami it prevails ov«'r all that i.s opjxis* tl to it. The story, thouuh abundantly simjile. as our read- ers will immediately see. has two distinct comuirtments — one relating to the Swi.h* maiden, the other lo the English wife. The former, with all itsaccomj'animents, we think nearly i)erfecl. It is full of lendernes,", purity, and pity ; and tbiished w ilh the most exquisite elegance, in few and simple louchi's. The other, which is the least considerable, ha« more decided blemishes. The diction is in many places too familiar, and the incidentn too common — and the cause ol dislr(V>i,s has the double misfortune of being unpoitical in its nature, and improbable in its result. But the shortest way is to give our readers a slight account of the {)oem, with such specimens as may enable them lo judge fairly of it for themselves. j It opens, poetically, with the description of a fine scene in Switzerland, and of a rustic church-yard ; where the friend of the author I points out to him the flowery grave of a I maiden, w ho. though gentle and tair. had died of unrequited love : — and so they proceetl, be- I tween them, for the matter is left ptx-tically obscure, to her historv. Her fancy had Ixen 1 early captivated by tfie tales of lu-roic daring ; and chivalric pride, with which her country's I annals abouiuled — and she disfie had tK'ver seen ! In the mean tinn". Thu drir, who had promised a visit to his younu JToltfit, ; pass<'s over to England, and is l»etrothi(i to a lady of thai country of infinite worth and ' amiableness. He then repairs to Sw itzcrlai.d, I where, after a little time, he disccvurs thu I love of Julia, which he gently, but firmly re- 356 POETRY. bukes — returns to England, and is married. His wife ha? uncomfortable relations — quarrel- some, selfish, and envious : and her peace is sometimes wounded by their dissensions and unkindness. War breaks out anew, too, in Theodric's country; and as he is meditating a journey to that tjuarter, he is surprised by a visit from Julia's brother, who informs him. that, after a long struggle with her cheri.«he(l love, her health had at last sunk under it, and that she now prayed only to see him once more before she died ! His wife generously urges him to comply with this piteous request. He does so ; and arrives, in the midst of wintry tempests, to see this pure victim of too warm an imagination expire, in smiles of speechless Sfratitude and love. While mourning over her. he is appalled by tidings of the dangerous illness of his beloved Constance — hurries to England — and finds her dead ! — her fate hav- ing been precipitated, if not occasioned, by the harsh and violent treatment she had met with from her heartless relations. The piece closes with a very touching letter she had left for her husband — and an account of its sooth- ing effects on his mind. This, vve confess, is .sliirht enough, in the way of fable and incident : But it is not in those things that the merit of such poems consists : and what we have given is of course a mere naked outline, or argument rather, intended only to explain and connect our e.xtracts. For these, we cannot possibly do better than begin with the beginning. ""Twas sunset, and the Ranzdes Vaches was sung, And lights were o'er th' Helvetian mountains flung, Thai gave the glacier tops their richest glow, And ling'd 'he lakes like molten sjold below. Warmth flush'd the wonted rcsions of the storm, Where, PhcEnix-like, you saw the eagle's form, That high in Heav'ns vermilion wheel'd and soar'd I Woods nearer frown'd; and cataracts dash'd and roar'd, From heights bronzed by the hounding bouquetin ; Herds tiiiKling roam'd the long-drawn vales be- tween, [green. And hamlets glitter'd white, and gardens flourish'd 'Twas transport to inhale the brinlit sweet air ! The mountain-bee was revelling in its glare, And roving with his minstrelsy across The scented wild weeds, and enamcU'd mos.«. Rarth's features so harmoniously were link'd. She seem'd one great glad form, with life instinct. That felt Heav'n's ardent breath, and smil'd below Its flush of love with consentaneous glow. \ Gothic church was near; the spot around Wa.e beautiful, ev'n though sepulchral ground ; For there nor yew nor cypress spread their gloom. But roses blossom'd by each rustic tomb. .\midst them one of spotless marble shone — A maiden's grave — and 'twas inscrib'd thereon. That young and lov'd she died wliose dust was there : " ' Yes,' said my comrade, 'young she died, and fair I (Jrace form'd her, and the soul of gladness play'd Once in the blue eyes of that mountain-maid ! Her fingers witch'd the chords they passed along. And her lips seem'd to kiss the sou! in song : Yet woo'd and worshipp'd as she was, till few Aspir'd to hope, 'twas sadly, strangely true. That heart, the martyr of its fondness burn'd And died of love that could not be return'd. " ' Her father dwelt where yonder Castle shines O'er clust'ring trees and terrace-mantling vin* As gay as ever, the laburnum's pride Igli, . Waves o'er each walk where she was woe o And still the garden whence she grac'd her br , .\s lovely blooms, though trode by strangers i '. How oft from yonder window o'er the lake. Her song, of wild Helvetian swell and shake, Has made the rudest fisher bend his ear, -And rest enchanted on his oar to hear 1 Thus bright, accomplish'd, spirited, and bland Well-born, and wealthy for that simple land, , Why had no gallant native youth the art To win so warm — so exquisite a heart f She, midst these rocks inspir'd with feeling gt g By mountain-freedom — music — fancy — song, Herself descended from the brave in arms. And conscious of romance-inspiring charms, j DreanU of Heroic beings ; hoped to find ' Some extant spirit oi chivalric kind ; And scorning wealth, look'd rold ev'n on ibe i m Of manly worth, that lack'd the wreath of Fatr " pp.3- VVe pass over the animated picture oi « brother's campaigns, and of the fame of 1 j. dric, and the affectionate gratitude of paitt and sister for his care and praises of it I noble boy. We must make room, how ti, for this beautiful sketch of his return. ; " In time, the stripling, vigorous and heal'd, Resum'd his barb and banner in the field. And bore himself right soldier-like, till now ' The third campaign had manlier bronz'd hisb > ; When peace, though but a scanty pause forbre — A curtain-drop between the acts of death — A check in frantic war's unfinished game. Yet dearly bought, and direly welcome, cam^ The camp broke up, and L'dolph left his chit. As with a son's or younger brother's grief: ' But journeying home, how rapt his spirits rot Hovv light his footsteps crush'd St. Goihard'ssi i! How dear seem'd ev'n the waste and wild SI i- ^horn. Though wrapt in clouds, and frov\-ning as in n. Upon a downward world of pastoral charms; Where, by the very smell of dairy-farms, And fragrance from the mountain-herbage bin, Blindfold his native hills he could have know " His coming down yon lake — his boat in * Of windows where love's flutt'ring kerchief r- The arms spread out for him — the tears that h I- ('Twas Julia's, 'twas his sister's met him fir Their pride to see war's medal at his breast. And all their rapture's greeting, may be gu« i ' pp. 12 '. At last the generous warrior appears i ler- son among those innocent beings, to wb ^ had so long furnished the grand theme- li*- I course and meditation. i " The hoy was half beside himself— the sire 1 All frankness, honour, and Helvetian fire. j (")f speedy parting would not hear him speal I And tears bedew'd and brighien'd Julia's c k. I " Th\i9. loth to wound iLrir hospitable pr . ! A month he promis'd with them to abide; As blithe he trod the mountain-sward as th< And felt his joy make ev'n the young more J How jocund was their breaktasi parlour, fa i By yon blue water's breath !— their wall'no* bland! Fair Julia seem'd her brother's soften'd sp ~ A gem reflecting Nature's purest light — And with her graceful wit there was inwro il A wildly sweet unworldliness of thought. That alrnost child-like to his kindness dre^ And twain with Udolph in his friendship gr • But did his thoughts to love one moment r; er; No! he who had lov'd Consiaiire could not IV Besides, till grief betray'd her undesign'd. CAMPBELL'S THEODRIC M7 'i' unlikely ihou|;ht could sciurrely readi liis mind, ~ at eyes so youn^ un years like his sliouid beam ftwoy'd devouon bacK lor pure esleeiii. " pp. 17. 18. Symptoms Still more uiiequivoeal, howi'vi-r, ajlast make explaiiatioiis i»'c»'ss;iry ; aiul he ijoblifjed to ilisclose to her the st'ori't of his Ire ami engaiienu'iit in Kiii^Maml. The eH«'ots dthis disclosure, and all the intermediate esnts, are described with the same amce ajl delicacy. But we jxiss at once to the dee of poor Julias pure-hearteil rumaiice. 'Thni winier's eve how d.irkly Nnture's brow Sjwl'd on ihe scenes ii iJKhis so lovely now ! le tempest, riiging o'er ihe realms of ice, Sx)k Iraginents from the ritied precipu-e; " whiL-t their failing cchin-d to the wind, wolf's long howl m dismal discord ioin'd, ile white yon water's foam was riiis'd in clouds t whirl'd like spirits wailing in (heir shrouds : hout was Nature's elemenial dm — Beauty di«d. and Fnend.'^hip wept within ! Sweet Julia, though her faie was finish'd half. I knew him — smil'd on him with tceble laugh— Afi blest him, till she drew her laiest eigh ! But lol while Tdolph's bursts of agony, age's tremulous wniiings, rouml him rose, iai accents pierced him deejier ye! than those I "Ivas tidings — by his English messenger Constance — brief and terrible they were," &.c. pp. 3."), 36. hese must suflice as specimens of the Siss part of the jx)em, which we have al- rdy said we consider as on the whole the n-«t perfect. The English portion is un- d. btedly liable to the imputation of beine oiupied with scenes too familiar, and events tc trivial, to admit of the higher embellish- ir Its of pwelry. The occasion of Theornd "yet a fortnight " away from him. Wo object e noble spirit .sought, from her death- bed, to .soothe the beloved husluind she was leaving with so much reluctance. " ' Theodric ! this is destiny above Our power to baffle ! Bear it then, my love ! Your soul, I know, as firm is knit to mine As these clusp'd hands in blessing you now join : Shape not iningin'd horrors in my faie — Ev'n now my suff'rings are not very great ; And when your griel s first transports shall sub- I call upon your sireni»th of soul and pnde (side, To pay my memory, if 'lis worth the debt Love's tlorilyiiig tribute — not forlorn regret : I charge my name with power lo conjure up Reflection's balmy, not us bitter cup. .■Vf y nnrd'iiing angel, at the gates ol ffeaven. Shall look not more regard than you have given To me: and our life's union has been clad In smiles of bliss as swi-et as life e'er had. .Shall glright remembrance cast f ."^liall biiiernens outflow from sweetness past f .No! imaged in the sanctuary of your breast. There let me smile, amidst liij;h thoughts at rest ; .And let contentment on your spirit shine, .\s if its peace were siill a part of mine : For if you war not proudly wnh your pain. For von I shall have worse than liv'd in vain. Bui I conjure your mrinlini'i« to bear My lows with noble spirit — not de^iiair : I ajik you by our love to promise ihu I And kiss ihese words, wliere 1 have left a kisa — The latest from my living lifia lor yours?' " pp. 39—41. The tone of this tender farewell must re- rniml all our readers of the catastrophe of Gertrude ; and certainly e.\|)o»«'s the author to the charge of some jKivetly of invention in the structure of his pathetic narnitives— a charge from which we are not at this moment [KUtu-ularly solicitous to defend hiin. The minor poems which occupy the reot of 358 POETRY. the volume are of various character, and of course of unequal merit ; though all of them are marked by that exquisite melody of ver- sification, and general felicity of diction, which makes the mere recitation of their words a luxury to readers of taste, even when they pay but little attention to their sense. Most of them, we believe, have already ap- peared in occasional publications, though it is quite time that they should be collected and engrossed in a less perishable record. If they are less brilliant, on the whole, than the most exquisite productions of the author's earlier days, they are generally marked, we think, by greater solemnity and depth of thought, a vein of deeper reflection, and more intense sympathy with human feelings, and, if possible, by a more resolute and entire de- votion to the cause of liberty. Mr. Campbell, we rejoice to say, is not among those poets whose hatred of oppression has been cliilled by the lapse of years, or allayed by the sug- gestions of a base self-interest. He has held on his course through good and through bad report, unseduced, unterrified ) and is now found in his duty, testifying as fearlessly against the invaders of Spain, in the volume before us, as he did against the spoilers of Poland in the very first of his publications. It is a proud thing indeed for England, for poetry, and for mankind, that all the illustrious poets of the present day — Byron, Moore, Kogers, Campbell — are distinguished by their zeal for freedom, and their scorn for courtly adula- tion; while those who have deserted that manly and holy cause have, from that hour, felt their inspiration withdrawn, their harp- strings broken, and the fire quenched in their censers I Even the Laureate, since his un- happy Vision of Judgment, has ceased to sing; and fallen into undutiful as well as ignoble silence, even on court festivals. As a specimen of the tone in which an unbought Muse can yet address herself to public themes, we subjoin a few stanzas of a noble ode to the Memory of the Spanish Patriots who died in resisting the late atrocious inva- sion. " Brave men who at the Trocadero fell Beside your cannons — conquer'd not, though slain I There is a victory in dying well For Freedom — and ye have not died in vain ; For come what may, there shall be hearts in Spain To honour, ay, embrace your martyr'd lot. Cursing the Bigot's and the Bourbon's chain. And looking on your graves, though trophied not. As holier, hallow'd ground than priests could make the spot !" " Yet laugh not in your carnival of crime Too proudly, ye oppressors! — Spain xt)a$. free ; Her soil has felt the foot-prints, and her clime Been winnow'd by the wines of Liberty ! And these, even parting, scatter as they flee Thoughts — influences, to live in hearts unborn, Opinions that shall wrench the prison-key From Persecution — show her mask off-torn, And tramp her bloated head beneath the foot of Scorn. " Glory to them that die in this great cause ! Kings, Bigots, can inflict no brand of shame. Or shape of death, to shroud them from applause : — No ! — manglers of the martyr's earthly frame ! Your hangman fingers cannot touch his fame. Still in your prostrate land there shall be some Proud hearts, the shrines of Freedom's vestal flame Long trains of ill may pass unheeded, dumb, But Vengeance is behind, and Justice is to come.' pp.78— 81. Mr. Campbell's muse, however, is by nc means habitually political; and the greater part of the pieces in this volume have a purely moral or poetical character. The e.xquisiu stanzas to the Rainbow, we believe, are ii every body's hands ; but we cannot resist tht temptation of transcribing the latter part oi them. " When o'er the gteen nndelug'd earth | Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, How came the world's grey fathers forth To watch thy sacred sign ? " And when its yellow lustre smil'd O'er mountains yet nntrod. Each mother held aloft her child To bless the bow of God ! " Methinks, thy jubilee to keep. The first-made anthem rang, J On earth deliver'd from the deep. And the first poet sang. | " Nor ever shall the Muse's eye Unraptur'd greet thy beam : Theme of primeval prophecy, Be still the poet's theme ! " The earth to thee her incense yields. The lark thy welcome sings. When glitt'ring in the fieshen'd fields , The snowy mushroom springs'. " How glorious is thy girdle cast ; O'er mountain, tower, and town. Or mirror'd in the ocean vast, A thousand fathoms down ! " As fresh in yon horizon dark, As young thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark First sported in thy beam. " For, faithful to its sacred page. Heaven still rebuilds thy span. Nor lets thy type grow pale with age That first spoke peace to man." pp. 52—55. The beautiful verses on Mr. Kemble's; tirement from the stage afford a ver>' markable illustration of the tendency of ^, Campbell's genius to raise ordinary then into occasions of pathetic poetry, and to inv trivial occurrences with the mantle of solei thought. We add a fpw of the stanzas. " His was the spelt o'er hearts Which only acting lends — The yoimgest of the sister Arts, Where all their beauty blends: For ill can Poetry express. Full many a tone of thought sublime, And Painting, mule and motionless, Steals but a glance of lime. But by the mighty Actor brought. Illusion's perfect triumphs come — Verse erases to be airy thought, And Sculpttire to be dumb." " High were the task — too liigh. Ye conscious bosoms here ! In words to paint your memory Of Kemble and of Lear ! But who forgets that white discrowned head, ,_ Those bursts of Reason's half-e.xiinguish'd gl i SCOTT'S LAY OF THE LAST AHNSTREL The tears upon Cordelia's bosom ehed, Iiloubt more touching than despair, f 'twas reahty he feh f" And tliere was many an hour I Of blendtd kindred fame, IVVheii Siddons's aujt.liiir power I And sister magic o;iiiie. jl'o^iher at the Nluse's side j '1 he tragic paragons had grown — fl'bey were the cliildren ol her pride, j I'he columns ol her liirone I |An i imdivideJ lav^iur ran ''^•' I From heart to heart in iheir applause, Save for the gallantry of man. In lovelier woman's cause." — pp. (<4 — 1>7. 'Uit ^' have great difficulty in rt'sistiiig the ncijiteiTitation to go on: But in c^n.^t^-ieiicf we E>!i!»muii stop heie. ^\'c are ashanu-il. intleeii, 'f'! to tjnk how considerable a projwrlion of this (7(551 litUi volume ^^•^ have already iransferred into .;;ii our xtiacts. Nor have we much to s;iy of ;ii the;x)eras we have not extracted. -The '^ Ritt' Bann"' and "Reullura" are the two jrs ^iaare 'xquisite — and most of the occa-sional ? poe^s too good for occasions. um T|:> volume is very small — and it contains >»:: all ^it the distinguished author has written ■'^ for ijany years. We regret this certainly: — ' but|ve do not presume to complain of it. . ..Th'-^Tvice of the Muses is a free service — ! II that we receive from their votaries is ! gift, for which we are bound to them in atitude — not a tribute, for the tardy 1(08 rendring of which they are to be threatened lawot aUnmed. They siand to the public it; f "-'; the plation of benefactors, not of debtors-. Thei shower their largesses on unthankful ■ ^" hea.| ; and disclaim the trammels of any ^f^, 6ord|l contract. They are not articled clerks. in 6»rt, whom we are entitled to scold for idleness, but the liberal donors of im- 1 possessions; for which they require he easy quit-rent of our praise. If Mr. bell is lazy, therefore, he has a right to his laziness, unmolested by our impor- ?s. If, as we rather presume is the case, he i)r«fer other employment.'* to the feverish oci-ui>atioii of jH>elr\ , he has a rii.'ht I surely to cluiose his emnloynieiits — and is , more lik«'ly to chmise welt, than llx- henl of I his olHcious advisurdly suppo- sing, that the ingi'iiious author is actually lalM)uriiig all the while at what he at latst produces, and has been diligently at work during the whole interval in perfecting that w hich is at last discovered to fall short of perfection! To those wlio know the habits of literary men. nolhitig how ever can be more ridiculous than tliis supix>sition. Your true drudges, with whom all that is intellectual moves most w retchedly slow, are the (juickest and most regular w ith their publications ; while men of genin.s, whose thoughts play with the ease and rapiilily of lightning, otten seem tardy to the public, because there are long intervals betw een the flashes ! We are far from undervaluing that care and labour without which no finished performance can ever be produced by mortals ; and still farther from thinking it a reproach to any author, that he takes pains to render his w orks w orlhy of his fame, hut w hen the slow ness and the ■ifll; the ■^^mor ?^onh '>*;:cai^ ""renjr tuni ifoir »<>ir ^ The ay of the Last Minstrel : a Poem. Bv \V Constable and Cu. : LonJi size of his publications are invidiously put together in order to depreciate their merits, or to raise a doubt as to the force of the ge- nius thiit produced them, we think it right to enter our caveat against a conclusion, which is as rash as it is ungenerous; and indicates a spirit rather of detraction than of reasonable juilgmcnt. :ipril, ISOo.) consider this poem as an attempt to ' •r the refinements of modern poetry to latter and the manner of the ancient '*j, * he Novels of Sir Walter Scott have, no •Jjllj^doull cast his Poetry into ihe shade: And ii is { * beycp qui'Bijon that ihry must always omipy the ^ highit and most conspirijoiis place in thai tiplemiid '^ tTopt wh fh his ccfinis has r ared to his niemnry. ^_ Yetjihen I recollect the vehement admiration it '^' oncejxciied. I cannot part with the belief that ■^ iherAs much in his poetry also, which our bl'c •^ shouj not allow to be forgotten. And it is under 'V^iOiis ipression that I now venture to reprint my . .\\.ry.n Scott, Esw ties or bitter contentions of the succee » reigns, is represented as wandering abou « Border in poverty and solitude, a few \ « after the Revolution. In this situation Vii driven, by want and weariness, to seek sh rt in the Border castle of the Duchess of > clench and Monmouth; and being cheere r the hospitality of his reception, offers to 4 '"an ancient strain,'" relating to the old r- riors of her family ; and after some fnji;ji attempts to recall the long-forgotten me jr, pours forth "The Lay of Ihe Last Minst,'" in six cantos, verj' skilfully divided by : le recurrence to his own situation, and :ie complimentary interruptions from his lit auditors. The construction of a fable seems b 10 means the forte of our modern poetical > ters ; and no great artifice, in that respect u to be expected, perhaps, from an imitat if the ancient romancers. Mr. Scott, mji^ has himself insinuated, that he considere.M story as an object of very subordinatfu- portance ; and that he was less solicitoao deliver a regular narrative, than to coi,ct such a series of incidents as might enable m to introduce the manners he had under: 'n to delineate, and the imagery with v >h they were associated. Though the conceM of the fable is, probably from these ca ■*, exceedingly defective, it is proper to a short sketch of it before our readers, bo: or the gratification of their curiosity, and a- cilitate the application of the remarks wf. 'ay be afterwards tempted to olTer. Sir Walter Scott of Buccleuch. the Lo of Branksome, was slain in a skirmish wil;he Cars, about the middle of the sixteenth n- tury. He left a daughter of matchless bi :)'i an infant son, and a high-minded widow. 10, though a very virtuous and devout persoi a« privately addicted to the study of Maj. in which she had been initiated byhertjer. Lord Cranstoun their neiehbour was at ud with the whole clan of Scott ; but had en desperately in love with the daughter .ho returned his passion with equal sinceril nJ ardour, though withheld, by her duly t»« mother, from uniting her destiny will "»• The poem opens with a description of th( »'• like establishment of Branksome-hall aJ the first incident which occurs is a dia rue between the Sprits of the adjoin nr^r m'n H'n and river, who, after consuhing the starJe- clare that no good fortune can ever ble IM SCOTTS LAV OF THE LAST MINSTRKL 361 '"^ima^iou " till pride be quelleil, and love be ;:ii'tfrp'' The lady, whose forbidden sluilies ' 1 auitht her to understaml the lanl)«>akerR, overhears this conversHtioii ; ..>\vs, if jKJSsible, to retain her piir|)o; of It. She rails a r splendour of an ever-burnini:r l.uii; which illuminates the s«'pulchre of the Ciicjuiter. With tremhiina hand he takes ihej.'ok from the side of the deceased, and ' liur 's home with it in his bosom. .,.^,; lith-' mean time. Lord Cranstoun and the ' "^iovA- Marc:aret have met at dawn in the 0(|s adjacent to the castle, ami are repeat- Lrh'Mr vows of true love, when they are d by the approach of a horseman. The laJietreats; and the lover advaneinir, finds hU it toe the messenf)d his ,;. In {Kissing throntrh th»* court, how- iihe sees the yr)ung heir of Buccleueh at iand, a.s.suming the form of one of his Anions, tempts him to iro out with him woo. The lady finds the wounded knighl, and eagerly employs chainis for hih reiover) , tluit she tniw liarn the sloiy o| Ins dimtsler. 1 he lovely Alaigaret, in the nieun lime, is sittii-g in her tuirel, gazing on the wesleni star, and musing on the scenes of the morning, when she discovers the blazing beacons that an- nounce the approach of an Knglish enemy. The alarm is imnie.lialelv given, and bustling prejviration made througfunil the mansion for defence. The Kiiglish foice umler the com- mand of ihe Loiils lh)wnrd and I>acre speedily appears before the castle, leaiiing with them the young Hiiccleuch ; anil ptojKi.-M' that the lady should either give up Sir William of Deforaine (who had lH«'n her messenger to Melro.«e), as havini: iiicnrred the guilt of march lrea.«on, or receive an Ki glish rairison within her walls. She answers, with much spirit, that her kinsman will clear himself of the im|nitation of treastin by single conduit and that no foe shall ever get admittance into her fortress. The Knirlish Lords, being se- cretly apprised of the appioach of powerful succours to the besieged, agree to the projioijal of the combat; and .stipulate that the Iniy shall be restored to liberty or detained ir> bondage, according to the issue of the battle. The lists are appointed for the ensuing day ; and a truce being proclaim* d in the mean time, the opposite bands mingle in hospitality and friendship. Deloraine being wounded, was expected to appear by a champion ; and some contention arises for the honour of that substitution. — This, however, is speedily terminated by a person in the armour of the warrior himself, who encounters the Engli.sh champion, slays him, and leads his captive young chieftain to the embraces of his mother. At this moment Deloraine himself appears, half-clothed and unarmed, to claim thecoml^t which has been terminated in his absage had In'cn seaJ^nl, w ho is heard to cry '• Found ! found ! found I" 2V 362 POETRY. and is no more to be seen, when tho darkness clears away. The whole party is chilled with terror at "this extraordinary incident; and Deloraine protests that he distinctly saw the tigiire of the ancient wizard Michael Soolt in the middle of the lightning. The lady re- nounces for ever the unhallowed study of magic : and all the chieftains, struck with awe and consternation, vow to make a pil- grimage to Melrose, to implore rest and for- giveness for the spirit of the departed sorcerer. With the description of this ceremony the minstrel doses his " Lay."' From this little sketch of the story, our readers will easily perceive, that, however well calculated it may be for the introduction of picturesque imagerj-. or the display of ex- traordinary incident, it has but little preten- sion to the praise of a regular or coherent narrative. The magic of the lady, the mid- night visit to Melrose, and the mighty book of the enchanter, which occupy nearly one- third of the whole poem, and engross the attention of the reader for a long time after the commencement of the narrative, are of no use whatsoever in the subsequent develop- ment of the fable, and do not contribute, in any degree, either to the production or ex- planation of the incidents that follow. The whole character and proceedings of the goblin page, in like manner, may be considered as merely episodical : for though he is employed in some of the subordinate inridents. it is remarkable that no material part of the fable requires the intervention of supernatural agency. The young Buccleuch might have wandered into the wood, although he had not been decoyed by a goblin ; and the dame might have given her daughter to the deliverer of her son, although she had never listened to the prattlement of the river and mountain spirits. There is. besides all this, a great deal of gratuitous and digressive description, and the whole sixth canto may be said to be re- dundant. The story should naturally end with the union of the lovers ; and the account of the feast, and the minstrelsy that solem- nised their betrothment is a sort of epilogue, superadded after the catastrophe is complete. But though we feel it to be our duty to point out these obvious defects in the struc- ture of the fable, we have no hesitation in conceding to the author, that the fable is but a secondary consideration in performances of this nature. A poem is intended to please by the images it suggests, and the feelings it inspires; and if it contain delightful images and affecting sentiments, our pleasure will not be materially impaired by some slight want of probability or coherence in the narrative by which they are connected. The callida jiinctina of its members is a grace, no doubt, which ought always to be aimed at ; but the quality of the members themselves is a con- .eideration of far higher importance; and that by which alone the success and character of the work must be ultimately decided. The adjustment of a fable may indicate the indus- try or the judgment of the writer ; but the jOenius of the poet can only be shown in his inanagement of its successive incidents, these" more essential particulars. Mr. Scot merits, we think, are unequivocal. He wrii, throughout with the spirit and the force ol, poet ; and though he occasionally discover: little too much, perhaps, of the '• brave nt lect," and is frequently inattentive to t delicate propriety and scrupulous correctm of his diction, he compensates for those ( fects bv the fire and animation of his \\h- composition, and the brilliant colournig a prominent features of the bsin- s with wh he has enlivened it. We shall now proct to lay before our readers some of the passai which have made the greatest impression our own minds : subjoining, at the .-iame tin such observations as they have most forcil suggested. In the very first rank of poetical excellen< we are inclined to place the introductory a concluding lines of every canto ; in which t ancient strain is suspended, and the feelii and situation of the Minstrel himself c scribed in the words of the author. T elegance and the beauty of this setting, if may so call it, though entirely of modt workmanship, appears to us to be fully mc worthy of admiration than the boUler rel. of the antiques which it encloses ; and Ic; us to regret that the author should have wa ed, in imitation and anti(iuarian research so much fif those powers which seem fu equal to the task of raising hiin an indepondi reputation. In coiiHrmation of these ivmar we give a considerable jail of the introdi tion to the whole poem : — " The way was long, the wind was cold, The Minstrel was infirm and old ; His wither'd cheek, and tresses gray, Seem'd lo have known a better day ; The harp, his sole remaining joy, Was carried by an orphan boy. The last of all the Bards was he, Who sung of Border chivalry ; For, well-aday ! their date was fled, His tunelul brethren all were dead; And he. neglected and oppressed, Wish'd to be with them, and at rest ! No more, on prancing pallrey borne, He caroll'd, ligbt as lark at morn ; No longer, courted and caress'd. High plac'd in hall, a welcome guest. He poiir'd. to lord and lady gay, The unpremeditated lay I Old linie.s were chang'd, old manners gone ! A stranger fill'd the Stuarts' throne; 'I'he bigots of the iron time Had call'd his harmless art a crime. A wand'ring harper, scorn'd and poor, He begg'd his bread from door to door; And tun'd, to please a peasant's ear. The harp, a King had lov'd to hear."— pp. 3, After describing his introduction to ' presence of the Duchess, and his offer ' entertain her with his music, the dcscript i proceeds : — " Tiie humble boon was soon obtain'd ; The aged Minstrel audience gain'd. But, when he reach'd the room of state. Where she, with all her ladies, sate, Perchance he wish'd his boon denied '. For, when to tune his harp he tried. His trembling hand had lost the ease SCOTT'S LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 363 Which marks security to please ; And scenes, long past, ot joy and pain, Came wild'ring o'er his aged brain — Amid the strings his fingers stray'd, And an uncertain warbling made — And ol't he shook his hoary head. But when he caught the measure wild, The old man rais'd his face and smil'd ; And lighten'd up his laded eye, With all the poet's ecstasy I In varying cadence, soft or strong, He swept the sounding chords along ; The present scene, the future lot. His toils, his wants, were all forgot ; Cold diffidence, and age's frost, In the full tide of song were lost. j Each blank, in faithless mem'ry void. The p6et's glowing thought supplied ; ? And, while his harp responsive rung, i 'Twas thus the latest Minstrel sung." I p. 6.-8. ! We add, chiefly on account of their brevity. ke following lines, which immediately suc- ceed the description of the funeral rites of lie English champion : — j The harp's wild notes, though hush'd the song, The mimic march of death prolong ; f Now seems it far, and now a-near, I Now meets, and now eludes the ear ; I Now seems some mountain's side to sweep, \ Now faintly dies in valley deep ; I Seems now as if the Minstrel's wail, , Now the sad requiem loads the gale ; Last, o'er the warrior's closing grave, Rings the full choir in choral stave." pp. 155, 156. j The close of the poem is as follows : — j Hush'd is the harp — the Minstrel gone. j And did he wander forth alone ? Alone, in indigence and age. To linger out his pilgrimage ? No ! — closp beneath proud Newark's tower, Arose the Minstrel's lowly bower ; A simple hut ; but there was seen The little garden hedg'd with green, The cheerful hearth and lattice clean. There, slielter'd wand'rers, by the blaze, Ofi heard ilie tale of other days ; For much he lov'd to ope his door. And give the aid he begg'd before. So pass'd the winter's day — but still. When summer smil'd on sweet Bowhill, And July's eve, with balmy breath, Wav'd the blue-bells on Newark's heath ; .^nd floiirish'd. broad, BInckandro's oak, The aged Harper's soul awoke ! Then would he sing achievements high, And circumstance o' Chivalry; I Till the rapt traveller would stay. Forgetful of the closing day ; JAnd Yarrow, as he roll'd along, iBore burden to the Minstrel's song." pp. 193, 194. [Besides these, v.'hich are altogether de- iched from the lyric effusions of the min- Irel, some of the most interesting passages I the poem are those in which he drops the jisiness of the story, to moralise, and apply ^ his own situation the images and reflec- ts it has suggested. After concluding one nto with an account of the warlike array epared for the reception of the English in- ders, he opens the succeeding one with the Slowing beautiful verses: — Sweet Teviot ! by thy silver tide, ' The glaring bale-fires blaze no more ! No longer steel-clad warriors ride Along thy wild and willow'd shore ; Where'er thou wind'st, by dale or hill, All, all is peaceful, all is still, As if thy waves, since Time was born, Since first they roU'd their way to Tweed, Had only heard the shepherd's reed, Nor started at the bugle-horn ! " Unlike the tide of human lime, Which, though it change in ceaseless flow, Retains each grief, retains each crime, It's earliest course was doom'd lo know ; And, darker as it downward bears, Is stain'd with past and present tears ! Low as that tide has ebb'd with me, It siill reflects to Mem'ry'a eye The hour, my brave, my only boy, Fell by the side of great Dundee. Why, when the volleying musket play'd Against the bloody Highland blade, Why was not I beside liiin laid I — Enough — he died the death of lame; Enough — he died with conquering Graeme." pp. 93, 94. There are several other detached passages of equal beauty, which might be quoted in proof of the effect which is produced by this dramatic interference of the narrator : but we hasten to lay before our readers some of the more characteristic parts of the performance. The ancient romance owes much of its interest to the lively picture which it affords of the times of chivalry, and of those usages, manners, and institutions which we have been accustomed to associate in our minds, with a certain combination of magnificence with simplicity, and ferocity with romantic honour. The representations contained in those performances, however, are for the most part too rude and naked to give com- plete satisfaction. The e.\ecution is always extremely une(|ual ; and though the writei sometimes touches upon the appropriate feel- ing with great effect and felicity, still this appears to be done moie by accident than design ; and he wanders away immediately into all sorts of ludicrous or uninteresting de- tails, without any apparent consciousness of incongruity. These defects Mr. Scott has corrected with admirable address and judg- ment in the greater part of the work now before ns ; and while he has exhibited a very striking and impressive picture of the old feudal usages and institutions, he has shown still greater talent in engrafting upon those descriptions all the lender or magnanimous emotions to which the circumstances of the story naturally give rise. Without impairing the antitjue air of the whole piece, or violating the simplicity of the ballad style, he has con- trived in this way. to impart a much greater dignity, and more powerful interest to his production, than could ever be attained by the unskilful and unsteady delineations of the old romancers. Nothing, we think, can afford a finer illustration of this remark, than the opening stanzas of the whole poem : they transport us at once into the days of knightly daring and feudal hostility ; at the same time that they suggest, and in a very interesting way, all those softer sentiments whicli arise out of some parts of the description. 364 POETRY " The feast was over in Branksome tower ; And the Ladye had gone to her secret bower ; Her bower, that was guarded l)y word and by Deadly to hear, and deadly to tell — [apeil Jesu .Slaria, shield us well I No living wight, save the Litdye alone, Had dar'd to cross the threshold stone. " The tables were drawn, it was idlesse ati ; Knight, and page, and household squire, Loiter d through Ihe lofty hall, Or crowded round the ample fire. The siag-houiids, weary with the chase, Lay stretch'd upon the rushy floor. And urg'd in dreams the forest race. From Teviot-stone to Eskdale-moor." pp. 9, 10. After a very picturesque representation of the military establishment of this old baronial fortress, the minstrel proceeds, " !\Iany a valiant knight is here; But he, the Chieftain of them all. His sword hang.s rusting on the wall, Beside his broken spear ! Bards lone shall tell. How Lord Walter fell ! When startled burghers fled, afar, The furies of the Border war ; When the streets of high Duncdin Saw lances trleam, and falchions redden. And heard the slogan's deadly yell — Then the Chief of Braaksome fell I " Can piety the discord heal, Or staunch the death-feud's enmity ? Can Christian lore, can patriot zeal. Can love of blessed charity ? No! vainly to each holy shrine. In mutual pilgrimage, they drew ; Implor'd, in vain, the grace divine For chiefs, their own red falchions slew. While Cessford owns the rule of Car, While Ettrick boasts the line of Scott, The slaughter'd chiefs, the tnortal jar, The havoc of the feudal war, Shall never, never be forgot ! " In sorrow o'er Lord Walter's bier. The warlike foresters had bent ; And many a flower and many a tear. Old Teviot's maids and matron's lent : But, o'er her warrior's bloody bier. The Ladye dropp'd nor sigh nor tear I Vengeance, deep-brooding o'er the slain, Had lock'd the source of softer woe; And burning pride, and high disdain. Forbade the rising tear to flow ; Until, amid his sorrowing clan, Her son lisp'd from the nurse's knee — ' And, if I live to be a man. My father's death reveng'd shall be !' Then fast the moiher'.^ tears did seek Todew the infant's kindling cheek." — pp.12 — 15. There are not many passages in English poetry more impressive than some parts of this extract. As another illustration of the prodigious improvement which the style of the old romance is capable of receiving from a more liberal admixture of pathetic sentiments and gentle affections, we insert the following passage ; where the effect of the picture is finely assisted by the contrast of its two com- partments. " So pass'd the day — the ov'ning foil, 'Twas near the time of curfew bell ; The air was mild, the wind was calm. The stream was smooth, the dew was balm ; Ev'n the rude watchman, on the tower, Enjoy'd and blessed the lovely hour. n Far more fair Margaret lov'd and bless'd The hour of silence and of rest. On the high turret, sitting lone, She wak'd at times the lute's soft tone ; Touch'd a wild note, and all between Thouglit of the bower of hawthorns green ; Her golden hair stream'd free from band, Her fair cheek rested on her hand. Her blue eye sought the west afar, For lovers love the western star. '' Is yon the star o'er Penchryst-Pen, That rises slowly to her ken. And, spreading broad its wav'ring light, Shakes its loose tresses on the night ? Is yon red glare the western star ? — Ah! 'tis the beacon-blaze of war ! Scarce could she draw her tighten'd breath ; For well she knew the fire ot death ! " The warder view'd it blazing strong, And blew his war-note loud and long. Till, at the high and haughty sound. Rock, wood, and river, rung around ; The blast alarm'd the festal hall. And startled forth the warriors all ; Far downward in the castle-yard. Full many a torch and cresset glar'd ; And helms and plumes, confusedly toss'd, Were in the blaze half seen, half lost; And spears in wild disorder shook. Like reeds beside a frozen brook. " The Seneschal, whose silver hair, Was redden'd by the torches' glare. Stood in the midst, with gesture proud. And issued forth his mandates loud — ' On Penchryst glows a bale of fire, And three are kindhng on Priesthaughswire,' &,c.— pp. 83—85. In these passages, the poetry of Mr. Scott i entitled to a decided preference over that o the earlier minstrels; not only from th greater consistency and condensation of^h imagery, but from an intrinsic superiority i the nature of his materials. From the in provement of taste, and the cultivation of th finer feelings of the heart, poetry acquires, i a refined age, many new and invaluable eK ments, which are necessarily unknown in period of greater simplicity. The descriptio of external object.s, however, is at all timt equally inviting, and equally easy ; and man of tlir pictures which have been left by th ancient romancers must be admitted to po; sess, along with great diffuseness and homt liness of diction, an e.\actness and vivacit which cannot be easily exceeded. In th part of his undertaking, INIr. Scott therefor had fewer advantages ; but we do not thin that his success has been less remarkablt In the following description of Melrose, whic introduces the second canto, the reader wi observe how skilfully he calls in the aid o sentimental associations to heighten the effet of the picture which he presents to the eye : " If thou wouldsl view fair Melrose aright, Go visit it by the pale moonlight : For the gay beams of lightsome day Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray. When the broken arches are black in night, ,\nd each shafted oriel glimmers white ; When the cold light's uncertain shower Streams on the ruin'd central lower; When buttress and buttress, alternately, Seem fram'd of ebon and ivory ; When silver edges the imagery, isiif' ^SflfOJ SCOTTS LAY OF THE LAST MNSTREL. 365 And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die ; When distant Tweed is heard to rave, And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave ; Then go ! — but go alone the while — Then view St. David's ruined pile ! And, home returning, soothly swear, Was never scene so sad and fairl" — pp. 35, 36. In the following passage he is less ambi- tious; and confines himself, as an ancient minstrel would have done on the occasion, to a minute and picturesque representation of the visible object before him : — " When for the lists they sought the plain, The stately Ladye's silken rein Did noble Howard hold ; Unarmed by her side he walk'd. And much, in courteous phrase, ihey taik'd Of feats of arms of old. Costly his garb — his Flemish rufl' Fell o'er his doublet shap'd of buff. With satin slash'd, and lin'd ; Tawny his boot, and gold his spur. His cloak was all of Poland fur, His hose with silver twm'd ; His Bilboa blade, by Marchmen felt, Hung in a broad and studded belt ; Hence, in rude phrase, the Bord'rers still Call'd noble Howard, Belted Will."— p. 141. The same scrupulous adherence to the style jf the old romance, though greatly improved in point of brevity and selection, is discernible in the following animated description of the least, which terminates the poem : — " The spousal rites were ended soon ; 'Twas now the merry hour of noon. And in the lofty-arched hall Was spread the gorgeous festival : Steward and squire, with heedful haste, Mai-shall'd the rank of every guest ; Pages, \vith ready blade, were there, The mighty meal to carve and share. O'er capon, heron-shew, and crane. And princely peacock's gilded train. And o'er the boar's head, garnish'd brave. And cygnet from St. Mary's wave ; O'er ptarmigan and venison, The priest had spoke his benison. Then rose the riot and the din. Above, beneath, without, within ! For, from the lofty balcony, Rung trumpet, shalm, and psaltery; Their clanging bowls old warriors quaff 'd. Loudly they spoke, and loudly laugh'd ; Whisper'd young knights, in tone more mild. To ladies fair, and ladies smil'd. The hooded hawks, high perch'd on beam. The clamour join'd with whistling scream, And flapp'd their wings, and shook their bells, In concert with the staghound's yells. Round go the flasks of ruddy wine, From Bourdeaux, Orleans, or tlie Rhine ; Their tasks the busy sewers ply, And all is mirth and revelry." — pp. 166, 167. The following picture is sufficiently antique a its conception, though the execution is evi- iently modern : — " Ten of them were sheath'd in steel, With belted sword, and spur on heel : They quilted not their harness bright. Neither by day, nor yci by night ; They lay down to rest With corslet laced. Pillow'd on buckler cold and hard ; They carv'd at the meal With doves of steel. [met barr"d.'' And they drank the red wine through the hel- The whole scene of the duel, or judicial combat, is conducted according to the strict ordinances of chivalrj-, and delineated with all the minuteness ot an ancient romancer. The modern reader will probably find it ratlier tedious; all but the concluding stanzas, which are in a loftier measure. " 'Tis done, 'tia done ! that fatal blow Has stretch'd him on the bloody plain ; He strives to rise— -Brave Musgrave, no ! Thence never sliali thou rise again ! He chokes in blood — some friendly hand Undo the visor's barred band, Unfi.\ the gorget's iron clasp, And give him, room for life to gasp! — In vain, in vain — haste, holy friar, Haste, ere the sinner shall expire! Of all his guilt let him be shriven, And smooth his path from earth to heaven ! " In haste the holy friar sped ; His naked foot was dyed with red, As through the lists he ran ; Unmindful of the shouts on high. That hail'd the conqueror's victory. He rais'd the dying man ; Loose wav'd his silver beard and hair. As o'er him he kncel'd down in prayer. And still the crucifix on high. He holds before his dark'ning eye, .A.nd still he bends an anxious ear. His falt'ring penitence to hear ; Still props him from (he bloody sod. Still, even when soul and body part. Pours ghostly comfort on his heart, And bids him trust in God ! Unheard he prays ; 'tis o'er, 'tis o'er ! Richard of Musgrave breathes no more." p. 145—147. We have already made so many e.xtracts from this poem, that we can now only afford to present our readers with one specimen of the songs Avhich Mr. Scott has introduced in the mouths of the minstrels in the concluding canto. It is his object, in those pieces, to exemplify the different styles of ballad narra- tive which prevailed in this island at different periods, or in different conditions of society. The first is constructed upon the rude aiid simple model of the old Border ditties, and produces its effect by the direct and concise narrative of a tragical occurrence. The se- cond, sung by Fitztraver, the bard of the ac- complished Surrey, has more of the richness and polish of the Italian poetry, and is very beautifully written, in a stanza resembling that of Spenser. The third is intended to represent that wild style of composition which prevailed among the bards of the northern continent, somewhat softened and adorned by the minstrel's residence in the south. We prefer it. upon the whole, to either of the two former, and shall give it entire to our readers; who will probably be struck v,-ith the poetical effect of the dramatic form into which it is thrown, and of the indirect description by which every thing is most expressively told, without one word of distinct narrative. ■' O listen, listen, ladies gay ! No haughty feat of arms I tell ; Soft is the note, and .=ad the lay, That mourns the lovely Rosabelle. " — Miicr, moor the barge, ye gallant crew! And, gentle Ladye, deign to siay I 2ir 2 366 POETRY. Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, Nor tempt the stormy Iriih to-day. " The hlack'ning wave is edg'd with white ; To inch* and rock the sea-mews fly ; The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite, Whose screams forbode that wreck is nigh. " Last night the gifit d seer did view A wet shroud roll'd round Ladye gay : Tlien slay ihee, fair, in Ravensheuch ; Why cross the gloomy frith to-day ?" — " 'Tis not because Lord Lind'say's heir To-night at Roslin leads the ball, But that my Ladye-moiher there .Sits lonely in her castle hall. ' 'Tis not because the ring they ride, And Lind'say at the ring rides well ! But that my sire the wine will chide, If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle." — ' O'er Roslin all that dreary night A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam ; 'Twns broader than the watch-fire light, And brighter than the bright moonbeam. " It glar'd on Roslin's castled rock. It redden'd all the copse-wood glen ; 'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak. And seen trom cavern'd Hawthornden. ' Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud. Where Roslin's chiefs uncotfin'd lie ; Each Baron, for a sable shroud, Sheath'd in his iron panoply. " Seem'd all on fire within, around, Both vaulted crypt and altar's pale; Shone every pillar foliage-bound. And glimmer'd all the dead-men's mail. " Blaz'd battlement and pinnet high, Blaz'd every rose-carv'd buttress fair — So still they blaze when fate is nigh The lordly line of high St. Clair I " There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold Lie buried within that proud chapelle ; Each one the holy vault doth hold — But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle ! " And each St. Clair was buried there. With candle, with book, and with knell ; But the Kclpv rung, and the Mermaid sung The dirge of lovely Rosabelle !"— pp. 181-184. From the various extracts we have now given, our readers will be enabled to form a tolerably correct judgment of this poem ; and if they are pleased with these portions of it which have now been exhibited, we may venture to assure them that they will not be disappointerl by the perusal of the whole. The whole night-journey of Deloraine — the opening of the wizard's tomb — the march of the Enirlish battle — and the parley before the walls of the castle, are all executed with jthe .same spirit and poetical energy, which we think is conspicuous in the specimens we have already extracted ; and a great variety of short passages occur in every part of the poem, which are still more striking and meri- torious, though it is impossible to detach them, vvithout injury, in the form of to hear "of the Gallant Chief of Otterburnc or "the Dark Knight of Liddisdale," and it the elevating power of great names, wh we read of the tribes that mustered to t war, •' beneath the crest of old Dunbar, a' Hepburn's mingled banners." But we real cannot so far sympathise with the local pj, tialities of the author, as to feel any glow patriotism or ancient virtue in hearnig of t Todrig or Johnston clans, or of Elliots, Ar strongs, and Tinlinns; still less can we reli the introduction of Black John of Athelsta Whitsladc the Hawk, Arthur-fire-thc-hraes, h Roland Forstcr, or any other of those w thies who " Sought the beeves that made their broth. In Scotland and in England both," into a poem which has any pretensions > seriousness or dignity. The ancient metri 1 romance might have admitted those honvr personalities; but the present age will t endure them: And Mr. Scott must eitir sacrifice his Border prejudices, or oti'eud I his readers in the other parts of the empin There are many passages, as we hr > already insinuated, which have the genel character of heaviness, such is the minstrts account of his preceptor, and Delorair lamentation over the dead body of grave : But the goblin page is, in our opir the capital deformity of the poem. We ' already said that the whole machinery is i less : but the magic studies of the lady, i\ the rifled tomb of Michael Scott, give sion to so much admirable poetry, that can on no account consent to part with thfl The page, on the other hand, is a perpetj burden to the poet, and to the reader : an undignified and improbable fiction, w'r excites neither terror, admiration, nor asll ishment ; but needlessly debases the straiii the whole work, and excites at once ouri credulity and contempt. He is not a •' tricj spirit," like Ariel, with whom the ima tion is irresistibly enamoured; nor monarch, like Oberon, disposing of the dil nies of mortals : He rather appears to u| be an awkward sort of a mongrel betv Puck and Caliban ; of a servile and br nature; and limited in his powers to the dulgeiice of petty malignity, and the inHic of despicable injuries. Besides this obje to his character, his existence has no sut from any general or established supersti^ Fairies and devils, ghosts, angels, and witc' are creatures with whom we are all famiil and who excite in all classes of manli emotions with which we can easily be : to sympathise. But the story of Gilpin li ner can never have been believed out off village where he is said to have made! appearance ; and has no claims upon ~ J--J7 "- -• - ..uota .- . - 11 t.on. It is but fair to apprise the reader, on ''"I'^Y of those ^vllo were not originally the other hand, that he will meet with very acquaintance. There is nothing at ail ir heavy passages, and with a variety of details ^^ting or elegant in the scenes of wlu.li 1 which are not li'kelv to interest any one but a •he hero: and in reading those pas.siLM s Borderer or an antiquary. We like very well ''^^lly could not help suspecting th:it lln ^ . not stand in the romance when the aged :' •Isle. Istrel recited it to the royal Charlca and' SCOTT'S LADY OF THE LAKE. 367 mighty earls, but were inserted afterwards to 'suit the taste of the cottagers among whom 'he begged his bread oii the Border. VVe en- ' treat Mr. Scott to inquire into the grounds of Jthis suspicion; and to take advantage of any decent pretext he can lay hold of for purging '■The Lay" of this ungraceful intruder. We iivoiild also move for a Quo Warranto against 'the .-ipirits of the river and the mountain ; for ■thouiih ihey are come of a very high lineag-e, we do not know what lawful business they 'could have at Branksome castle in the year '1550. ' Of the diction of this poem we have but little to .*;ay. From the extracts we have already given, our readers will perceive that the versification is in the highest degree ir- regular and capricious. The nature of the work entitled Mr. Scott to some licence in this respect, and he often employs it with a very pleasing effect ; but he has frequently ex- coedeil its just limits, and presented us with 'such combinations of metre, as must put the leeth of his readers, we think, into some jeopardy. He has, when he pleases, a very i'.neiodious and sonorous style of versification, ;3ut often composes with inexcusable negli- 'jence and rudeness. There is a great number )f lines in which the verse can only be made but by running the words together in a very 'uuisual manner ; and some appear to us to 'lave no pretension to the name of verses at 'dl. Wh'at apology, for instance, will Mr. '^cott make for the last of these two lines ? — " For when in studious mood he pac'd St. Kentigern's hall." hT for these 1 — , " How the brave boy in future war, ' Should tame the unicorn'c pride." I 1 We have called the negligence which could I leave such lines as these in a poem of this iiature inexcusable; because it is perfectly , evident, from the general strain of his com- position, that Mr. Scott has a very accurate ear for the harmony of versification, and that he composes with a facility which must lighten j the labour of correction. There are some ! smaller faults in the diction which might have been as well corrected also : there is too much alliteration ; and he reduplicates his words loo often. We have "never, never," several times; besides "'tis o'er, 'tis o'er" — "in vain, in vain" — "'tis done, 'tis done;" and several other echoes as ungraceful. We will not be tempted to say any thing more of this poem. Although it does not contain any great display of w hat is i)roperlv called invention, it indicates perhaps as much vigour and originality of poetical genius as any performance which has been lately offered to the public. The locality of the subject is likely to obstruct its popularity; and the au- thor, by confining himself in a great measure to the description of manners and personal adventures, has forfeited the attraction which might have been derived from the delineation of rural scenery. But he has manifested a degree of genius which cannot be overlooked, and given indication of talents that seem well worthy of being enlisted in the service of the epic muse. The notes, which contain a great treasure of Border history and antiquarian learning, are too long, we think, for the general reader. The form of the publication is also too ex- pensive ; and we hope soon to see a smaller edition, with an abridgement of the notes, for the use of the mere lovers of poetry. i (^ttgnst, ISIO.) f he Lady of the Lake : a Poem. By Walter Scott. Second Edition. 8vo. pp, 434 : 1810, I proof of extraordinary merit, — a far surer one, j we readily admit, than would be afforded by i any praises of ours: and, therefore, though ' we pretend to be privileged, in ordinary cases, to foretell the ultimate reception of all claims j on public admiration, our function may be thought to cease, where the event is already I so certain and conspicuous. As it is a sore ! thing, however, to be deprived of our privi- : leges on so important an occasion, we hope to be pardoned for insinuating, that, even in such j a case, the office of the critic m.ay not be al- j together superfluous. Though the success of the author be decisive, and even likely to be permanent, it still may not be without its use to point out, in consequence of what, and in spite of what, he has succeeded ; nor alto- gethpr uninstructive to trace the preci.se limits of the connection which, even in this did! world, indisputably subsists between success i Mr. Scott, though living in an age unusu- jlly prolific of original poetry, has manifestly i'utstripped all his competitors in the race of liopularity ; and stands already upon a height |o which no other writer has attained in the |nemory of any one now alive. We doubt, ^rdeed. whether any English poet ever had so hany of his books sold, or so many of his erses read and admired by such a multitude If persons in so short a time. We are credibly jiformed that nearly thirty thousand copies if "The Lay" have been already disposed 'i in this country ; and that the demand for flarmion. and the poem now before us, has |cen still more considerable, — a circulation j."e believe, altogether without example, in he case of a bulky work, not addressed to ji"' bigotry of the mere mob, either religious ir political. I A Dopularity so universal is a pretty sure 368 POETRY. and desert; and to ascertain how far \mex- umpled popularity does really imply unrival- led" talent. As It It! the object of poetry to give pleasure, It would seem to be a pretty safe conclusion, that that poetry must be the best which gives .lie greatest pleasure to the greatest number of persons. Vet we must pause a little, be- ;ore we give our assent to so plausible a pro- position. It would not be quite correct, we fear, to say that those are invariably the best judges who are most easily pleased. The great multitude, even of the reading world, must necessarily be uninstructed and inju- dicious; and will frequently be found, not only to derive pleasure from what is worthless in finer eyes, but to be quite insensible to those beauties which atibrd the most exquisite delight to more cultivated understandings. True pathos and sublimity will indeed charm every one : but, out of this lofty sphere, we are pretty well convinced, that the poetry which appears most perfect to a very refined taste, will not often turn out to be very popular poetry. This, indeed, is saying nothing more, than 4 that the ordinary readers of poetry have not a very refined taste ; and that they are often insensible to many of its highest beauties, while they still more frequently mistake its imperfections for excellence., The fact, when stated in this simple way. Commonly excites neither opposition nor surprise : and yet, if it be asked, why the taste of a few individuals, who do not perceive beauty where many others perceive it, should be exclusively dig- nified with the name of a good taste ; or why poetry, which gives pleasure to a very great number of readers, should be thought inferior to that which pleases a much smaller num- ber, — the answer, perhaps, may not be quite so ready as might have been expected from the alacrity of our assent to the first propo- sition. That there is a good answer to be given, however, we entertain no doubt : and if that which we are about to offer should not appear very clear or satisfactory, we must submit to have it thought, that the fault is not altogether in the subji'ct. In the first place, then, it should be remem- bered, that though the taste of very good judges is necessarily the taste of a few, it is implied, in their description, that they are per- sons eminently qualified, by natural sensi- ;bility, and long experience and refiection, to (perceive all beauties that really exist, as well as to settle the relative value and importance of all the different sorts of beauty ; — they are in that very state, in short, to which all who are in any degree capable of tasting those re- fined pleasures would certainly arrive, if their sensibility were increased, and their experi- ence and reflection enlarged. It is difficult, therefore, in following out the ordinary analo- gies of laML'uau-c. to avoid consitieringlhem as [ in thi; riirht, and calling their taste the true and the just one ; when it ai)pears that it is | 8uch a* is uniformly prodiiceil by the cultiva- j tion of those faculties upon which all our per- pptions of taste s-j obviously depend. | It is to he considered also, that though it • the end of poetry to please, one of the pa.rt i whose pleasure, and whose notions of exc- leiice, wdl always be primarily consulted i its composition, is the poet himself: and as i must necessarily be more cultiA'ated than 1 • great body of his readers, the presumption , that he will always belong, compaiativi' speaking, to the class of good judges, and r most of its pursuits. With regard to dic- jon and imagery, too, it is quite obvious that jlr. Scott has not aimed at writing either in a ;i?ry pure or a very consistent style. He j?ems to have been anxious only to strike, iid to be easily and universally understood; [id, for this purpose, to have culled the most littering and conspicuous expressions of the ■est popular authors, and to have interwoven i^em in splendid confusion with his own ner- pus diction and irregular versification. In- ifferent whether he coins or borrows, and (■awing with equal freedom on his memory |id his imagination, he goes boldly forward. I full reliance on a never-failing abundance : jid dazzles, with his richness and variety, j'en those who are most apt to be offended jith his glare and irregularity. There is thing, in Mr. Scott, of the severe and ma- (Stic style of Milton — or of the terse and |.e composition of Pope — or of the elaborate jjgance and melody of Campbell — or even j the flowing and redundant diction of ^uthey.— But there is a medley of bright iages and glowing words, set carelessly and ,isely together — a diction, tinged successive- I'with the careless richness of Shakespeare, t: harshness and antique simplicity of the A romance.s, the homeliness of vulgar bal- ] lads and anecdotes, and the sentimental glitter I of the most modern poetry, — passing from the borders of the ludicrous to those of the sublime — alternately minute and energetic — sometimes artificial, and frequently negligent j — but always full of spirit and vivacity, — j abounding in images that are striking, at first ; sight, to minds of every contexture — and ! never expressing a sentiment which it can cost the most ordinary reader an)* exertion to comprehend. ! Such seem to be the leading qualities that , have cor.tributed to Mr. Scott's popularity ; ' and as some of them are obviously of a kind [ to diminish his merit in the eyes of more fastidions judges, it is but fair to complete this view of his peculiarities by a hasty no- tice of such of them as entitle him to unquali- fied admiration ; — and here it is impossible not to be struck with that vivifying spirit of strength and animation which pervades all the ine(]nalities of his composition, and keeps constantly on the mind of the reader the im- pression of great power, spirit and intrepidity. There is nothing cold, creeping, or feeble, in all Mr, Scott's poetry; — no laborious littleness^ or puling classical affectation. He has his fail- ures, iii(l(>cd. Iik(^ other people ; but he always attemjits viiioronsiy : And never fails" in his im- mediate object, without accomplishing some- thing far beyond the reach of an ordinary writer. Even when he wanders from the paths of pure taste, he leaves behind him the footsteps of a powerful genius; and moulds the most humble of his materials into a form worthy of a nobler substance. Allied to this inherent vigour and animation, and in a great degree derived from it, is that air of facility and freedom which adds so peculiar a grace to most of Mr. Scott's compositions. There is certainly no living poet whose works seem to come from him with so much ease, or who so seldom appears to labour, even in the most burdensome parts of his performance. He seems, indeed, never to think either of him- self or his reader, but to be completely identi- fied and lost in the personages with whom he is occupied ; and the attention of the reader is consequently either transferred, unbroken, to their adventures, or, if it glance back for a moment to the author, it is only to think how much more might be done, by putting forth that strength at full, which has, without ef- fort, accomplished so many wonders. It is owing partly to these qualities, and partly to the great variety of his style, that Mr. Scott is much less frequently tedious than any other bulky poet with whom we are acquainted. His store of images is so copious, that he never dwells upon one long enough to pro- duce weariness in the reader; and, even ^^•here he deals in borrowed or in tawdry wares, the rapidity of his transitions, and the transient glance with which he is satisfied as to each, h ave the critic no time to be offend- ed, and hurry him forward, along with the multitude, enchanted with the brilliancy of the exhibition. Thus, the very frequency of his deviations from pure taste, comes, in some sort, to constitute their apology ; and the pro- 87* POETRY. fusion and variety of his faults to afford a new proof of his genius. These, we think, are the general character- istics of iVIr. Scotts poetry. Among his minor peculiarities, we might notice his singular talent for description, and especially for the description of scenes abounding in motion or aclioa of any kind. In this department, in- deed, we conceive him to be almost without a rival, either among modem or ancient poets: and the character and process of his descrip- tions are as e.xtraordinary as their effect is astonishing. He places before the eyes of his readers a more distinct and complete pic- ture. perhap.s, than any other artist ever pre- sented by mere words; and vet he does not (like Crabbe) enumerate all tKe visible parts of the subjects with any degree of minute- ness, nor confine himself by any means, to what is visible. The singular merit of his delineations, on the contrary, consists in this, that, with a few bold anil abrupt strokes, he finishes a most spirited outline. — and then in- stantly kindles it by the sudden light and co- lour of some moral affection. There are none of his fine descriptions, accordingly, which do not derive a great part of their clearness and picturesque effect, as well as their interest, from the quantity of character and moral e.\- pression which is thus blended with their de- tails, and which, so far from interrupting the concept if)n of the external object, very power- fully stimulate the fancy of the reader to complete it: and give a grace and a spirit to the whole representation, of which we do not know where to look for any other example. Another very striking peculiarity in Mr. Scott's poetry, is the air of freedom and na- ture which lie has contrived to impart to most of his distinguished characters: and with which no poei more modern than Shakespeare has ventured to represent personages of such dignity. We do not allude here merely to the genuine familiarity and homeliness of many of his scenes and dialogues, but to that air of gaiety and playfulness in v^-hich pensons of high rank seem, from time immemorial, to have thouirht it necessary to array, not their courtesy only, but their generosity and their hostility. This tone of good society. Mr. Scott hiis shed over his higher characters with great grace and effect : and has, in this wa)-, not only made his representations much more faithful and true to nature, but has very agree- ably relieved the monotony of that tragic so- lemnity which ordinary writers appear to think indispensable to the dignity of poetical heroes and heroines. We are not sure, however, whether he has not occasionally exceeded a little in the use of this ornament : and given, now and then, too coquettish and triflinara tone to discussions of weight and moment. M:-. Scott has many other characteristic ex- cellences: — But we have already detained our readers too ]an ' of war, and of the chase. An elderly lad \*- SCOTT'S LADY OF THE LAKE. 3T* ntroJuced at supper ; and ihe stranger, after lisclosing himself to be ••James Filz-James, he knight of Snowdoun," tries in vaia to dis- ■over the name and history of the laiJies, vhose manners discover them to be of high ank and quality. He then retires to sleep, aid is disturbed with distressful visions — ises and tranquillises himself, by lookhig out m the lovely moonlight landscape — says his jravers, and sleeps till the heathcock crows m the mountains behind him : — And thus .•loses the fast canto. The second opens with a fine picture of the iged harper, Allan-bane, sitting on the island >each with the damsel, v^tching the skiff ,vhich carries the stranger back again to land. rhe minstrel sings a sweet song ; and a con- (•ereation ensues, from which the reader gath- ers, that the lady is a daughter of the house )f Douglas, and that her father, having been ?xiled by royal displeasure fiom the court, lad been fain to accept of this asylum from Mr Roderick Dhu, a Highland chieftain, who lad long been outlawed for deeds of blood, 3ut still maintained his feudal sovereignty in he fastnesses of his native mountains. It ippears also, that this dark chief is in love .vith his fair protegee ; but that her affections ire eng-aged to Malcolm Graeme, a younger md more amiable mountaineer, the companion md guide of her father in his hunting excur- sions. As they are engaged in this discourse, he sound of distant music is heard on the ake ; and the barges of Sir Roderick are dis- ■overed, proceeding in triumph to the island, ler mother calls Ellen to go down with her receive him ; but she, hearing her father's lorn at that instant on the opposite shore, lies to meet him and Malcolm Graeme, who 5 received with cold and stately civility by he lord of the isle. After some time. Sir toderick informs the Douglas, that his retreat as been discovered by the royal spies, and lat he has great reason to believe that the '.ing (James V.), who, under pretence of hunt- ig, had assembled a large force in the neigh- ourhood, was bent upon their destruction, (e then proposes, somewhat impetuously, lat they should unite their fortunes indis- ilubly by his marriage with Ellen, and rouse le whole Western Highlands to repress the ivasiou. The Douglas, with many expres- ons of gratitude, declines both the war and lie alliance ; and, intimating that his daughter ;i3 repugnances which she cannot overcome, [id that he, though ungratefully used by his •vereign. will never lift his arm against him, iclares that he will retire to a cave in the ?ighbouring mountains, till the issue of the reat is seen. The strong heart of Roderick ■ wrung with agony at this rejection ; and, hen Malcolm advances to offer his services, . Ellen rises to retire, he pushes him violent- back — and a scuffle ensues, of no very dig- iied character, which is with difficulty ap- •ased by the giant arm of Douglas. Malcolm en withdraws in proud resentment ; and, fusing to be indebted to the surly chief ,en for the use of his boat, plunges into the Iter, and swims over by moonJight to the mainland : — And, with the description of this feat, the second canto concludes. The third canto, which is entitled "The Gathering,' opens with a long and rather tedious account of the ceremonies employed by Sir Roderick, in pre})aring for the sum- moning or gathering of his clan. This is ac- complished by the consecration of a small wooden cross, which, with its points scorched and dipped in blood, is circulated with in- credible celerity through the whole territory of the chieftain. The eag'er fidelity with which this fatal sigiial is hurried on and obeyed, is represented with great spirit and felicity. A youth starts from the side of his father's coffin, to bear it forward ; and having run his stage, delivers it into the hands of a young bridegroom returning fiom church; who instantly binds his plaid around him, and rushes onward from his bride. In the mean time. Douglas and his daughter had taken refuge in the mountain cave; and Sir Roderick, passing near their retreat in his way to the muster, hears Ellen's voice sing- ing her evening hymn to the Virgin. He does not obtrude on her devotions, but hurries to the place of rendezvous, where his clan re- ceive him with a shout of acclamation, and then couch on the bare heath for the night. — This terminates the third canto. The Iburth begins with more incantations. Some absurd and disgusting ceremonies are gone through, by a wild hermit of the clan, with a view to ascertain the issue of the im- pending war: — and this oracular response is obtained — -'that the party shall prevail which first sheds the blood of its adversary." We are then introduced to the minstrel and Ellen, whom he strives to comfort for the alarming disappearance of her father, by singing a long fairy ballad to her; and just as the song is ended, the knight of Snowdoun again appears before her, declares his love, and urges her to put herself under his protection. Ellen, alarmed, throws herself on his generosity — confesses her attachment to Grame — and with difficulty prevails on him to seek his own safety by a speedy retreat from those dangerous confines. The gallant stranger at last complies ; but, before he goes, presents her with a ring, which he says he had re- ceived from the hand of King James, with a promise to grant any boon that should be asked by the person producing it. As he is pursuing his way through the wild, his sus- picions are excited by the conduct of his guide, and confirmed by the musical warn- ings of a mad woman, who sings to him about the toils that are set, and the knives that are whetted against him. He then threatens his false guide, \vho discharges an arrow at him, which kills the maniac. The knight slays the murderer; and learning from the expiring victim that her brain had been turned by the cruelty of Sir Roderick, he vows vengeance on his head ; and proceeds with grief and ap- prehension along his dangerous way. When chilled with the midnight cold, and exhausted with want and fatigue, he suddenly comes upon a chief reposing by a lonely watch-fire j o n. 374 POETRY. and. though challenged in the name of Rod- erick Dhu, boldly avows himself his enemy. The clansman, however, disdains to take ad- vantage of a woni-out wanderer ; and pledges himself to escort him safe out of Sir Roderick's territory ; after which, he tells him he must answer with his sword for the defiance he had uttered against the chieftain. The stran- ger accepts his courtesy upon those chivalrous terms ; and the warriors sup, and sleep to- gether on the plaid of the mountaineer. They rouse themselves by dawn, at the opening of the fifth canto, entitled " The Combat," and proceed towards the Lowland frontier ; the Highland warrior seeking, by the way. at once to vindicate the character of Sir Roderick, and to justify the predatory habits of his clan. Filz-James expresses freely his detestation of both ; and the dis- pute growing warm, he says, that never lover longed so to see the lady ol' liis heart, as he to see before him this murderous chief and his myrmidons. "Have then thy wish!" answers his guide ; and giving a loud whistle, a whole legion of armed men start up at once from their mountain ambush in the heath ; while the chief turns proudly, and sa)s, those are the warriors of Clan-Alpine — and '-I am Roderick Dhu!"' — The Lowland knight, though startled, repeats his defiance ; and Sir Roderick, respecting his valour, by a signal dismisses his men to their conceal- ment, and assures him anew of his safely till they pass his frontier. Arrived on this equal ground, the chief now demands satis- faction ; and forces the knight, who tries all honourable means of avoiding the combat with so generous an adversary, to stand upon his defence. Roderick, after a tough combat, is laid wounded on the ground ; and Fitz- James, sounding his bugle, brings four squires to his side ; and after giving the wounded chief into their charge, gullops rapidly on towards Stirling. As he ascends the hill to the castle, he descries the giant form of Douglas approaching to the same place; and the reader is then told, that this generous lord had taken the resolution of delivering him- self up voluntarily, with a view to save IMal- colm GiiEme, and if possible Sir Roderick also, from the impending danger. As he draws near to the castle, he sees the King and his train descending to grace the hcjlyday sports of the commonalty, and resolves to miiiijle in them, and present himself to the eye of his alienated sovereign as victor in tho.se humbler contentions. He w'ins the prize accordingly, in archery, wrestling, and f (itching the bar; and receives his reward rom the hand of the prince ; who does not condescimd to recognise his former favourite by one glance of nfrection. Roused at Inst by an insult from one of the royal grooms, he proclaims himself alouil ; is ordered into cus- tody by the King, and represses a tumult of the populace which is excited for his rescue. At this instant, a messenger arrives with tidings of an approaching battle between the clan of Roderick and the King's lieutenant, the Earl of Mar ; and is ordered back to pre- liei vent the combat, by announcing that both Sir Roderick and Lord Douglas are in the hands of their sovereign. The sixth and last" canto, entitled "The Guard Room,'' opens with a very animated description of the motley mercenaries that formed the royal guard, as they appeared at early dawn, after a night of stern debauch While they are quarrelling and singing, the sentinels introduce an old minstrel and e veiled maiden, who had been Ibrwarded b) Mar to the royal presence ; and Ellen, disclos- ing her countenance, awes the rufiian soldiery into respect and pity, by her grace and liber ality. She is then conducted to a more seeral waiting-place, till the Kiiig should be visible and Allan-bane, asking to be taken to prison of his captive lord, is led, by mistake the sick chamber of Roderick Dhu, who dying of his wounds in a gloomy apartment the castle. The hJgh-souled chieftain inqu eagerly after the fortunes of his clan, Douglas, and Ellen : and. when he learns t a battle has been fought with a doubttul su cess, entreats the minstrel to sooth his parti spirit with a description of it, and with victor song of his clan. Allan-bane plies: and the battle is told in very animal and irregular verse. When the vehemi strain is closed, Roderick is found cold Allan mourns him in a pathetic lament. It the mean time, Ellen hears the voice Malcolm Gra;me lamenting his captivity fi an adjoining turret of the palace ; and, bef< she has recovered from her agitation, is s led by the appearance of Fitz-James, wh comes to inform her that the court is asseiE bled, and the King at leisure to receive he suit. He conducts her trembling steps to th hall of presence, round A\hich Ellen casts timitl and eager glance lor the monarch; B all the glittering figures are uncovered, am James Fitz-James alone wears his cap plume in the brilliant assembly ! The trut immediately rushes on her imagination The knight of Snowdoun is the King of Scoi land ! and. struck with av.e and terror, sb falls speechless at his feet, clasping her handi and pointing to the ring in breathless agitJ tion. The prince raises her with eager kin( ness — declares aloud that her father is foj given, and restored to favour — and bids h( ask a boon lor .some other person. The naitij of GiEeme trembles on her lips; but et\ cannot trust herself to utter it. and" begs tt grace of Roderick Dhu. The king answer that he woulil give his be;?! earldom to restoil him to life, and presses her to name soir other boon. She blushes, and hesitates; ar the king, in playful vengeance, condemt Malrnlm GicTcme to fetters — takes a chain c nold from his own neck, and throwing it ovij that of the yonuiz chief, puts the clasp inl ^Hjii'l the hand of Ellen! ' . ' Such is the brief and naked outline the story, which Mr. Scott has embellishfci with such ex(iuisite imagery, and enlarge by so many characteristic incidents, as i] have rendered it one of the most attracti^j poems in the lai.^uagi-. That the storj mljtoi "■■ ' ej SCOTT'S LADY OF THE LAKE. 375 ipon the whole, is well digested and happily jarrit'd on, is evident from the hold it keeps )f the reader's attention throuirh every part )f its progress. It has the fault, indeed, of ill stories that turn upon an anagiwrisis or •ecognition, that the curio.sity which is ex- ited during the first reading is extinguished "or ever when we arrive at the discovery. rhis. however, is an objection which may be nade, in some degree, to almost every story )f interest; and we must say for Mr. Scott, ;hat his secret is very discreetly kept, and •nost felicitously revealed. If we were to scrutinize the fable with malicious severity. ive might also remark, that Malcolm Gramme las too insigTiificant a part assigned hun, con- sidering the favour in which he is held both by Ellen and the author; and that, in bring- ing out the shaded and imperfect character jf'Roderick Dhu, as a contrast to the purer virtue of his rival, Mr. Scott seems to have fallen into the common error, of making him more interesting than him whose virtues he ivas intended to set off, and converted the i-illain of the piece in some measure into its tiero. A modern poet, however, may perhaps be partloneJ for an error, of which Milton Liimself is thought not to have kept clear; ind for which there seems so natural a cause, in the difierence between poetical and amia- ble characters. There are several improba- bilitie.'^. too, in the story, which might disturb I scrupulous reader. Allowing that the king if Scotland might have twice disappeared for ^several days, without exciting any disturb- iince or alarm in his court, it is certainly rather ^extraordinary, that neither the Lady Margaret, lor old Allan-bane, nor any of the attendants it the isle, should have recognised his person ; md almost as wonderful, that he should have :'ound any difficulty in discovering the family if his entertainers. There is something rather ..wkward, too. in the sort of blunder or mis- understanding (for it is no more) which gives ■ecasion to Sir Roderick's Gathering and all ;ts consequences; nor can any machinery be |;onceived more clumsy for eiBecting the de- liverance of a distressed hero, than the intro- .roduction of a mad woman, who. without aiou'ing or caring about the wanderer, warns ;.ira, btf a song, to take care of the ambush hat was set fur him. The Maniacs of poetry ;.ave indeed had a prescriptive right to be imsicai, since the days of Ophelia down- prds; but it is rather a rash extension of this Irivilege, to make them sing good sense, and b make sensible people be guided by them. • Before taking leave of the fable, we must e permitted to express our disappointment jnd regret at finding the general cast of the jharactersand incidents so much akin to those )!"Mr. Scott's former publications. When we ,eard that the author of the Lay and of Mar- lion was employed upon a Highland story, e certainly expected to be introduced to a ew creation : and to bid farewell, for awhile, !>_ the knights, squires, courtiers, and chivalry j' the low country : — But here they are all oon us again, in their old characters, and Jarly in their old costume. The same age — the same sovereign — the same manners — the same ranks of society — the same tone, both for courtesy and for defiance. Loch Katrine, indeed, is more picturesque than St. Mary's Loch: and Rotlerick Dhu and his clan have some features of novelty : — But the Douglas and the King are the leacling personages ; and the whole interest of the story turns upon per- sons and events having precisely the same character and general aspect with "those which gave their peculiar colour to the former poems. It is honourable to Mr. Scott's genius, no doubt, that he has been able to interest the public so deeply with this third presentment of the same chivalrous scenes: but we cannot help thinking, that both his glory and our grati- fication would have been greater, if he had changed his hand more completely, and ac- tually given us a true Celtic story, with all its drapery and accompaniments in a correspond- uig style of decoration. Such a subject, we are persuaded, has very great capabilities, and only wants to be in- troduced to public notice by such a hand as Mr. Scott's, to make a still more powerful im- pression than he has already eflected by the resurrection of the tales of romance. There are few persons, we believe, of any degree of poetical susceptibility, who have wandered among the secluded valleys of the Highlands, and contemplated the singular people by whom they are still tenanted — with their love of music and of song — their hardy and irregu- lar life, so unlike the unvarying toils of the Saxon mechanic — their devotion to their chiefs — their wild and lofty traditions — their na- tional enthusiasm — the melancholy graiideur of the scenes they inhabit — and the multi- plied superstitions which still linger among them, — without feeling, that there is no exist- ing people so well adapted for the purpcses of poetry, or so capable of furnishing the oc- casions of new and striking inventions.* The great and continued popularity of Macpher- son's Ossian (though discredited as a memorial of antiquity, at least as much as is warranted by any evidence yet before the public), proves how very fascinating a fabric might be raised upon that foundation by a more powerful or judicious hand. That celebrated translation, though defaced with the most childish and offensive affectations, still charms with occa- sional gleams of a tenderness beyond all other tenderness, and a sublimity of a new charac- ter of dreariness and elevation ; and, though patched with pieces of the most barefaced pla- giarism, still maintains a tone of originality which has recommended it in every nation of the civilised world. The cultivated literati of Enoland, indeed, are struck with the affec- tation and the plagiarism, and renounce the whole work as tawdry and factitious; but the multitude at home, and almost all classes of readers abroad, to whom those defects are less perceptible, still continue to admire ; and * The Tnrtaji fever e\chcd in the South (and not yet eradicnted) by the Highland scenes and charac- iers of Waverlyi seems fully to justify this suir£;es- tioii ; and makes it rather surprisine; that no odier great writer has since repeated the experiment. 376 POETRY. few of our classical poets have so sure and regular a sale, both in our own and in other laniruaires, as the singular collection to which we\ave just alluded. A great part of its charm, we think, consists in the novelty of its Celtic characters and scenery, and their singular aptitude for poetic combinations ; and thel-efore it is that we are persuaded, that if Mr. Scott's powerful and creative genius were to be turned in good earnest to such a subject, something might be produced still more im- pressive and original than even this age has yet witnessed. It is now time, however, that we should lay before our readers some of the passages in the present poem which appear to us most characteristic of the peculiar genius of the author ; — and the first that strikes us, in turn- ing over the leaves, is the following fine de- scription of Sir Roderick's approach to the isle, as described by the aged minstrel, at the close of his conversation with Ellen. The moving picture— the effect of the sounds — and the wild character and strong and pecu- liar nationality of the whole procession, are given with inimitable spirit and power of ex- pression. " But hark, what sounds are these ? My dull ears catch no falt'ring breeze, No weeping birch nor aspen's wake ; Nor breath is dimphng in the lake ; Still is the canna's hoary beard, Yet, by my minstrel faith, I heard — And hark again ! some pipe of war Sends the bold pibroch from afar." — " Far up the lengthen'd lake were spied Four dark'ning specks upon the tide, That, slow, enlarging on the view, Four mann'd and masted barges grew. And bearing downwards from Glengyle, Steer'd full upon the lonely isle ; The point of Brianchoil they pass'd, And, to the windward as they cast. Against the sun they eave to shine The bold Sir Rod'rick's banner'd Pine ! Nearer and nearer as they bear. Spears, pikes, and axes flash in air. Now nii^ht you sec the tartans brave. And plaids and plumage dance and wave ; Now see the bonnets sink and rise, As his tough oar the rower plies ; See flashing at each sturdy stroke The wave ascending into smoke I See the proud pipers on the bow. And mark the gaudy streamers flow From their lond chanters down, and sweep, The furrow'd bosom of the deep, As, rushing through the lake amain. They plied the ancient Highland strain. " Ever, as on they bore, more loud And louder rung the pibroch proud. At first the sounds, by distance tame, IVleilow'd along the waters came, And hng'ring Ions by cape and bay, Wail'd every harsher note away ; Then, bursting bolder on the ear, The clan's shrill Galh'ring thev could hear ; Those ilirilling sounds, that call ihe might Of old Clan-.A.lpine to the fight. Tliiik iieat the rapid notes, as when The inust'ring hundreds shake the glen, And, hurrying at the signal dread. The baiter'd earth returns their tread ! Then prelude light, of livelier tone, Express'd their merry marching on, Ere peal of closing battle rose, With mingled outcry, shrieks, and blows ; And mimic din of stroke and ward. As broad-sword upon target jarr'd ; And groaning pause, ere yet again, Condens'd, the battle yell'd amain; The rapid charge, the rallying shout. Retreat borne headlong into rout. And bursts of triumph to declare Clan-Alpine's conquest — all were there! Nor ended thus the strain ; but slow, Sunk in a moan prolong' d and low. And clmng'd the conquering clarion swel For wild lament o'er those that fell. " The war-pipes ccas'd ; but lake and hill Were busy with their echoes still ; And, when they slept, a vocal strain Bade their hoarse chorus wake again, While loud an hundred clansmen raise Their voices in their Chieiiain's praise. Each boatman, bending to his oar. With measur'd sweep the burthen bore, In such wild cadence, as the breeze Makes through December's leafless trees. The chorus first could Allan know, ' Rod'righ Vich .Alpine, ho ! iero !' And near, and nearer as they row'd, Distinct the martial ditty flow'd. " Boat Song. " Hail to the chief who in triumph advances ! Honour'd and bless'd be the ever-green Pine! Lona may the Tree in hi3 banner that glances, Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line !"- " Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fount Blooming at Beltane, in wititer to fade ; When the whirlwind has stripp'd ev'ry leaf on mountain, The more shall Clan- Alpine exult in her shad«' Moor'd in the rifted rock, Proof 10 the tempest's shock. Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow ; Menteith and Breadalbane, then, Echo his praise agen, ' Rod'righ Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe 1' " Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highland Stretch to vour oars, for the ever-green Pine! ! that the rose-bud that graces yon islands. Were wreaih'd in a garland around him to twini that some seedling gem. Worthy such noble stem, Honour'd and bless'd in their shadow might grov Loud should Clan-Alpine then Rinc from her deepmost glen, ' Rod'rich Vich Alpine dhu, no ! ieroe !' " pp. 65— 71. ■ The reader may take next the followi general sketch of Loch Katrine : — "One bumish'd sheet of living gold, Loch Katrine lay beneath him roll'd ; In all her length far winding lav, With promontory, creek, and bay. And islands that, empurpled bright. Floated amid the livelier light ; And mountains, that like giants siand. To sentinel enchanted land. High on the south, huge Benvenue Down to the lake in masses threw Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurl d The fragments of an earlier world ! A wild'rina forest feather'd o'er His ruin'd sides and sumtnii boar ; While on the north, throush middle nir, Ben-an heav'd high his forehead bare.' '-pp. 18, The next is a more minute view of the i scenery in a summer dawn — closed witha 1 picture of its dark lord. SCOTTS LADY OF THE LAKE. 377 ' The summer dawn's reflected hue To purple chang'd Loch Katrine blue ; IMildiy and soft the wesiern breeze Just kiss'd the lake, just stirr'd the trees ; And the piras'd lake, like maiden coy, Trembled but dimpled not for joy ! The mountain shadows on her breast Were neither broken nor at rest ; In brijjht uncertainty they lie, Like future joys to Fancy's eye I The water lily to the lia;ht Her chalice rear'd of silver bright ; The doe awoke, and to the lawn, Begemm'd with dew-drops, led lier fawn , The grey mist left the mountain side. The torrent show'd its glistening pride ; Invisible in flecked sky, The lark sent down her revelry ; The hlack-bird and the speckled thrush Good-morrow gave from brake and bush ; In answer coo'd the cushat dove Her notes of peace, and rest, and love. No thought of peace, no thoueht of rest, Assuag'd the storm in Rod'rick's breast. With sheathed broad-sword in his hand, Abrupt he pac'd the islet strand : The shrinking band stood oft aghast At the impatient glance he cast ; — Such glance the mountain eagle threw. As, from the cliffs of Ben-venue, She spread her dark sails on the wind, And, high in middle heaven reclin'd, With her broad shadow on the lake, Silenc'd the warblers of the brake.'" — pp. 98-100. ! The following description of the starting of the fiery cross," bears more marks of labour 'an most of ]\Ir. Scott's poetry, and borders, ■rhaps, upon straining and exaggeration; !t it shows great power. Then Rod'rick, with impatient look. From Brian's hand the symbol took : ' Speed, Malise, speed !' he said, and gave The crosslet to his henchman brave. 'The nmster-place be Lanric mead— •Iiisiant the time— speed, Mahse, speed !' Like heath-bird, when the hawks pursue, The barge across Loch Katrine flew ; High s:ood the henchman on the prow; ^^0 rapidly the bargemen row, The bubbles, where they launch'd the boat, Were all unbroken and afloat, Dancing in foam and ripple still. When it had near'd the mainland hill ! And from the silver beach's side ?till was the prow three fathom wide, When lightly bounded to the land, r^he messenger of blood and brand. Speed, Malise, speed ! the dun deer's hide )n fleeter foot was never tied. j^peed, Malise, speed ! such cau.se of haste Thine active sinews never brac'd. ^end 'gainst the steepy hill thy breast, 5urst down like torrent from its crest ; '^ ith short and springing footstep pass he trembling bog and false morass ; Across the brook like roe-buck bound, ^nd thread the brake like questing hound ; he crag is high, the scaur is deep, ' et shrink not from the desperate leap ; ■ arch'd are thy burning lips and brow, et by the fountain pause not now ; lerald of battle, fate, and fear, tretfth onward in thy fleet career! he wounded hind thou track'st not now, iirsu st not maid through greenwood bough, ■ or phest thou now thy flying pace ^ ith rivals in the mountain race ; ut dancrer, death, and warrior deed, re m thy course— Speed, Malise, speed !' " pp. 112—114. The following reflections on an ancient field of battle afford one of the most remarkable instances of false taste in all Mr. Scott's wri- tings. Yet the brevity and variety of the images serve well to show, as we have for- merly hinted, that even in his errors there are traces of a powerful genius. " a dreary glen. Where scatter'd lay the bones of men, 111 some forgotten battle slain. And bleach'd by drifting wind and rain. It^ tnight have tam'd a warrior's heart. To view such mockery of his art ! The knot-grass fetter'd there the hand. Which once could burst an iron band ; Beneath the broad and ample bone. That buckler'd heart to fear unknown, A feeble and a timorous guest. The field-fare fram'd her lowly nest ! There the slow blind-worm left his slime On the fleet limbs that niock'd at time ; And there, too, lay the leader's skull. Still wreath'd witli chaplet flush'd and full. For heath-bell, with her purple bloom, Supplied the bonnet and the plume."-pp. 102, 103 But one of the most striking passages ir the poem, certainly, is that in which Sir Roderick is represented as calling up his men suddenly from their ambush, when Fitz-James expressed his impatience to meet, face to face, that murderous chieftain and his clan. " ' Have, then, thy wish !'— He whistled shrill: And he was answer'd from the hill ! Wild as the scream of the curlew. From crag to crag the signal flew. Instant, through copse and heath, arose Bonnets and spears and bended bows I On right, on left, above, below. Sprung up at once the lurking foe ; From shingles grey their lances start. The bracken-bush sends forth the dart. The rushes and the willow-wand Are bristling into axe and brand. And ev'ry tuft of broom gives life To plaided warrior arm' J for strife. That whistle garrison'd the glen At once with full five hundred men ! As if the yawning hill to heaven A subterranean host had given. Watching their leader's beck and will. All silent there they stood and still. Like the loose crags whose threat'ning mass Lay tott'rifig o'er the hollow pass. As if an infant's touch could urge Their headlong passage down the verge. With step and weapon forward flung. Upon the mountain-side they hung. The mountaineer cast glance of pride Along Benledi's living side ; Then fix'd his eye and sable brow Full on Fitz-James — " How say'st thou now? These are Clan-Alpine's warriors true ; . And, Saxon,— 7 am Roderick Dhu!"— ' Fitz-James was brave :— Though to his heart The life-blood thrill'd with sudden start. He niann'd himself with dauntless air, Return'd the Chief his haughty stare. His back against a ro entered on : and written, for the most ~ with great tenderness and beautv. Tl lowing, we think is among the most strikir " Time rolls his ceaseless course I The race ( Who danc'd our infancy upon their knee, And told our marvelling boyhood legends sia Of their strange ventures happ'cl by land oc^ How are they blotted from the things that be! How few, all weak and wiiher'd of their Wait, on the verge of dark eternity, Like stranded wrecks — the tide returning I To sweep them from our sight ! Time roll ceaseless course I " Yet live there still who can remember we! How, when a mountain chief his bugle «fcc,— pp. 97, 9S. There is an invocation to the Harp ^ North, prefixed to the poem : and a far subjoined to it in the same measure, \VT% and versified, it appears to us, with more Mr. Scott's usual care. We give two i ' three stanzas that compose the last : — "Harp of the North, farewell ! The hills ^ dark, On purple peaks a deeper shade descendir In twilight copse the glow-worm lights \.i ; s; ^ The deer, half-seen, are to the covert \. .■ Resume thy wizard elm ! the fountain Imi ,>:: And the wild breeze, ihv wilder minsirolsy Thy numbers sweet wiihNature's vespers blenjg' With distant echo from the fold and lea. And herd-boy's evening pipe, and humof i^..-. - ing bee. j nj'««r " Hark ! as my ling' ring footsteps slow retire' ^JTrJ* Some Spirit of the Air has wak'd ihy string' 'Tis now a Seraph bold, with touch of fire ; ■ 'Tis now the brush of Fairy's frolic wing. ■ SCOTT'S LADY OF THE LAKE. 379 Receding now, the dying numbers ring Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell ! And now ilie mountain breezes scarcely brine A wand'ring witch-note of the disiant spell — And now, 'tis silent all ! — Enchantress, fare thee well !"— pp. 289, 290. These passages, though taken with very little selection, are favourable specimens, we think, on the whole, of the execution of- the work before us. We had marked several of an opposite character; but, fortunately for 3Ir. Scott, we have already extracted so much, that we shall scarcely have room to take any notice of them; and must condense all our vituperation into a very insignificant compass. One or two things, however, we think it our duty to point out. Though great pains have eviiliMitly been taken with Brian the Hermit, we think his whole character a failure, and mere deformity — hurting the interest of the story by its improbability, and rather heavy md disagreeable, than sublime or terrible in its details. The quarrel between INIalcolm md Roderick, in the f«econd canto, is also angraceful and offensive. There is something foppish, and out of character, in Malcolm's rising to lead out Ellen from her own parlour; md the sort of Mrestling match that takes jlace between the rival chieftains on the occasion is humiliating and indecorous. The j zreatest blemish in the poem, however, is the \ ibaldry and dull vulgarity which is put into (he mouths of the soldiery in the gnard-room. [Mr. Scott has condescended to write a song for them, which will be read with pain, we [ire persuaded, even by his warmest admirers: iind his whole genius, and even his power pf versification, seems 'to desert him when he jittempts to repeat their conversation. Here IS some of the stuff which has dropped, in •his inau.^picious attempt, from the pen of one |)f the first poets of his age or country : — I " ' Old dost thou wax, and wars grow sharp ; Thou now hast glee-maiden and harp, Get thee an ape, and trudge the land, The leader of a juggler band.' — j" ' No, comrade I — no such fortune mine. After the fight, these sought our line. • . That aged harper and the srirl ; ' And. having audience of the Earl, : Mar bade I should purvey ihem sieed. I And bring them hitherward with speed. I Forbear your mirth and rude alarm, j For none shall do ihem shame or harm.' — ' Hear ye his boast !' oried John of Brent, Ever to strife and jangling bent : ) ' Shall he strike doe beside our lodge, I And yet the jealous i.igg:\rd grudge 'I'o pay the forester his fee ! ! I'll have mv share, liowe'er it be.' " pp. 250. 251. , His Highland freebooters, indeed, do not tse a much nobler style. For example : — '"'It is. because last evening-tide ■ Brian an augury hath tried, Of that dread kind whi(h must not be Unless in dread extremity. The Taghairm call'd ; by which, afar, Our sires foresaw the events of war. . Duncragean's milk-white bull they slew.'— ' Ah ! well the arallant brute I knew ; The choicest of the prey we had. When swept our merry-men Gallangad. Sore did he j^umber our retreat ; And kept our stoutest kernes in awe. Even atthepassof Beal'maha.'"— pp. 146, 147. Scarcely more tolerable are such expres- sions as — "For life is Hugh of Larbert lame ;"— Or that unhappy couplet, where the King himself is in such distress for a rhyme, as to be obliged to apply to one of the most obscure sahits on the calendar. " 'Tis James of Douglas, ht/ Snint Serle ; 'i'he uncle of the ba'nish'd Earl." ' We would object, too, to such an accumu- lation of strange words as occurs in these three lines : — " ' Fleet foot on the roirci; Sage counsel in Cumber; Red hand in the forai/,' " &,c. Nor can we relish such babyish verses as " ' He will return : — dear lady, trust : — With joy, return. He will— he must.' " " ' Nay, lovely Ellen ! Dearest ! nay.' " These, however, and several others that might be mentioned, are blemishes which may well be excused in a poem of more than five thousand lines, produced so soon after another still longer: and though they are blemishes which it is proper to notice, be- cause they are evidently of a kind that 'may be corrected, it would be absurd, as well as unfair, to give them any considerable weight in our general estimate'of the work, or of the powers of the author. Of these, we have already spoken at sulTicient length; and must now take an abrupt leave of Mr. Scott, by expressing our hope, and tolerably confident expectation, of soon meeting withhim again. That he may injure his popularity by the mere profusion of his publications, is no doubt possible ; though many of the most celebrated poets have been among the most voluminous : but, that the public must gain by this libe- rality, does not seem to admit of any ques- tion. If our poetical treasures were increased by the publication of Marmion and the Lady of the Lake, notwithstanding the existence of great faults in both those works, it is evi- dent that we should be still richer if we pos- sessed fifty poems of the same merit ; and, therefore, it is for our interest, whatever it may be as to his. that their author's muse should continue as prolific as she has hitherto been. If Mr. Scott will only vary his sub- jects a little more, indeed, v.e think we might engage to insure his own reputation against any material injury from their rapid parturi- tion ; and, as we entertain very great doubts whether rnuch greater pains would enable him to write much better poetry, we would rather have two beautiful poerns, with the present quantum of faults — than one, with ordy one-tenth part le.ss alloy. He will always be a poet, we fear, to whom the fastidious will make great objections; but he may easily find, in his popularity, a compensation for their scruples. He hns'the jury hollow in his favour ; and though ihe court may think that its directions have not been sufficiently attended to, it will not quarrel with the verdict. 380 POETRY. (2lpi-U, 180S.) Poems. By the Reverend George Crabbe. 8vo. pp. 260. London, 1807.* We receive the proofs of Mr. Crabbe's poetical existence, which are contained in this volume, with the same sort of feeling that would be excited by tidings of an ancient friend, whom we no longer expected to hear of in this world. We rejoice in his resurrec- tion, both for his sake and for our own : But we feel also a certain movement of self-con- demnation, for having been remiss in our in- quiries after him, and somewhat too negligent of the honours which ought, at any rate, to have been paid to his memory. It is now, we are afraid, upwards of twenty years since we were first struck with the vig- our, originality, and truth of description of usurp the attention which he was sure of commanding, and allowed himself to be" nearly forgotten by a public, which reckonsl upon being reminded of all the claims which] the living have on its favour. His foimer publications, though of distinguished ment,j j were perhaps too small in volume to remain' long the objects of general attention, and seem, by some accident, to have been jostled aside in the crowd of more clamorous com- petitors. Yet, though the name of Crabbe has not hitherto been very common in the mouths of our poetical critics, we believe there are few- real lovers of poetry to whom some of his "The Village;" and since, we regrettetl that ', sentiments and descriptions are not secretly an author, who could write so well, should i familiar. There is a truth and a force in many have written so little. From that time to the of his delineations of rustic life, which is cal- present, we have heard little of Mr. Crabbe; culated to sink deep into the memory; and, and fear that he has been in a great measure being conlirmed by daily observation, they lost sight of by the public, as well as by us. are recalled upon innumerable occasions — With a singular, and scarcely pardonable in- when the ideal pictures of more fanciful au- difference to fame, he has remained, during thors have lost all their interest. For our- this long interval, in patient or ' pose ; and, without making a smi ment to maintain or advance the reputation imeu, uuruig mors nave losi an ineir nueresi. ror our- indolent re- selves at least, we profess to be indebted to! J,™"!,' ingle move- Mr. Crabbe for many of these strong impres-j M" ''! le reputation , sions: and have known more than one of our ®"-''' he had acquired, has permitted others to * I have given a larger .space to Crabbe in this repubhcation than to any of his contemporary poets ; not merely because I think more highly ot him than of most of ihem, but also because I fancy that he has had less justice done him. The nature of his subjects was not such as to attract either imita- tors or admirers, from among the ambitious or fan- ciful lovers of poetry ; or, consequently, to set him at the head of a School, or let him surround him- self with the zealots of a Sect : And it must also unpoetical acquaintances, who declared ihey could never pass by a parish workhouse with- out thinking of the description of it ihey had read at .school in the Poetical Extracts. The volume before us will renew, we trust, and extend many such ii;npressions. It contains all the former productions of the author, with about double their bulk of new matter ; most of it in the same taste and manner of com- position with the former ; and some of a kind, of which we have had no previous examplt "lor. The whole, however, is of nc merit, and will be found, we have be admitted, that his claims to distinction depend , . fully as much on his great powers of observation, i'l yiis autli his skill in touching the deeper sympaihies of our ordinary m nature, and his power of inculcating, by iheir means, ' jittle doubt, a sufficient warrant for Mr. Crabbf the most impressive lessons of humarnty, ason any to take his place as one of the most original. lin:a£s"'te'?rr^ai,^h"hot%^^^^ -^^ P^'hetic poets of the present trinsic worih and ultimate success of those more centuij. . , . . substantial attributes ; and have, accnrdinuly, the His characteristic, certamly, is force, ano etrongfst impression that the citations I have here I truth of description, joined for the most pari given from Crabbe will strike more, and sink deeper 1 to great selection and condensation of expres- sion ; — that kind of strength and originalit\ into the minds of readers to whom they are new (or by whom they may have been partially forgot- ,• i . -.i, ■ /-> * i .v.„. -«,., ten), than any I have been able to present from 1 ^^hich we meet with in Cowper, and that son other writers. It probably is idle enough (as wef ae a liiile presumptuous) to suppose that a publica- tion like litis will afford many opportunities of test- ing the truth of this prediction. But, as the ex- periment is to be made, there can be no harm in mentioning this as one of its objects. It is but candid, however, after all. to add, that my concern for iMr. Crabbe's reputation would jII of diction and versification which we atlmirt ■in "The Deserted Village" of Goklsniith, oi "The Vanity of Human Wishes" of Johnson If he can be said to have imitated the manne of any author, it is Goldsmith, indeed, whc has been the object of his imitation ; and ye his general train of thinking, and his view: scarcely have led me to devote near one hundred : of society, are so extremely opposite, pages to the estimate of his poetical meri's, had I not eel some value on the speculations as to the elements of poetical excellence in general, and its moral bearings and afliniiies — for the introduction of which this estimate seemed to present an occa- sion, or apology. when "The Village" was first published, i was commonly considered as an antidote o an answer to the more captivating representa tioiis of " The Deserted Village." Comparei with this celebrated author, he will be found' k CRABBE'S POEMS. 381 «re think, to have more vigour and less deli- cacy; and while he must be admitted to be nferior in the fine finish and unifbim beauty )f his composition, we cannot help consitlering lim as superior, both in the variety and the ruth of his pictures. Instead of that uniform iut of pensive tenderness which overspreads he whole poetry of Goldsmith, we find in Mr. Iliabbe many gleams of gaiety and humour, rhough his "habitual views of life are more jloomy than those of his rival, his poetical 'emperament seems far more cheerful ; and ,vhen the occasions of sorrow and rebuke are rone by, he can collect himself for sarcastic pleasantry, or unbend in innocent playfulness, ilis diction, though generally pure and pow- erful, is sometimes harsh, and sometimes juaint ; ami he has occasionally admitted a •Duplet or two in a state so unfinished, as to rive a character of inelegance to the passages n which they occur. With a taste less dis- Mplined and less fastidious than that of Gold- smith, he has. in our apprehension, a keener eye for observation, and a readier hand for he delineation of what he has observed, riiere is less poetical keeping in his whole jerformance ; but the groups of which it con- sists are conceived, we think, with equal jenius, and drawn with greater spirit as well IS far greater fidelity. It is not quite fair, perhaps, thus to draw a letailed parallel between a living poet, and me whose reputation has been sealed by leath, and by the immutable sentence of a ;urviving generation. Yet there are so few )f his contemporaries to whom Mr. Crabbe ;)ears any resemblance, that we can scarcely •xplain our opinion of his merit, without com- laring him to some of his predecessors. There is one set of writers, indeed, from vhose works those of Mr. Crabbe might re- eive all that elucidation which results from ontrast, and from an entire opposition in all loints of taste and opinion. We allude now 9 the Wordsworths, and the Southeys, and .'oleridges, and all that ambitious fraternity, hat, with good intentions and extraordinary ilents, are labouring to bring back our poetry j the fantastical oddity and puling childish- ess of Withers, Quarles, or Marvel. These entlemen write a great deal about rustic life, s M'ell as Mr. Crabbe ; and they even agree dthhim in dwelling much on its discomforts; ut nothing can be more opposite than the lews they take of the subject, or the manner !i which they execute their representations of lem. Mr. Crabbe exhibits the common people ' England pretty much as they are, and as ley must appear to every one who will take le trouble of examining into their condition ; , the same time that he renders his sketches 1 a very high degree interesting and beautiful -by selecting what is most fit for descrip- Pn — by grouping them into such forms as , |Ust catch the atteiition or awake the mem- ly — and by .scattering over the whole such I lits of moral sensibility, of sarcasm. a;;d of I 'Pp reflection, as every one must feel to be , lural; and own to be powerful. The gentle- men of the new school, on the other hand, scarcely ever condescend to take their sub jects from any description of persons at a. known to the common inhabitants of the world ; but invent for themselves certain whimsical and unheard-of beings, to whom they impute some fantastical combination of feelings, and then labour to excite our sym- pathy lor them, either by placing them in in- credible situations, or by some strained and exaggerated moralisation of a vague and tra- gical description. Mr. Crabbe, in short, shows us something which we have all seen, or may see, in real life : and draws from it such feel- ings and such reflections as every human be- ing must acknowledge that it is calculated to excite. He delights us by the truth, and vivid and picturesque beauty of his representations, and by the force and pathos of the sensations with which we feel that they are connected. Mr. Woidsworth and his associates, on the other hand, introduce us to beings whose ex- istence was not previously suspected by the acutest observers of nature ; and excite an interest for them — where they do excite any, interest — more by an eloquent and refined analysis of their own capricious feelings, ihaii by any obvious or intelligible ground of sym- pathy in their situation. Those who are acquainted with the Lyrical Ballads, or the more recent publications of Mr. Wordsworth, will scarcely deny the jus- tice of this representation ; but in order to vindicate it to such as do not enjoy that ad- vantage, we must beg leave to make a few hasty references to the former, and by far the least exceptionable of those productions. A village schoolmaster, for instance, is a pretty common poetical character. Goldsmhh has drawn him inimitably; so has Sheiistone, with the slight change of sex; and Mr. Crabbe, in two passages, has followed their footsteps. Now, Mr. Wordsworth has a village school- master also — a personage who makes no small figure in three or four of his poems. But by what traits is this worthy okl gentleman de- lineated by the new poet 1 No pedantry — no innocent vanity of learning — no mixture of indulgence with the pride of power, and of poverty with the consciousness of rare ac quircments. Every feature which belongs to the situation, or marks the character in com- mon apprehension, is scornfully discarded by Mr. Wordsworth: who represents his grey- haired rustic pedagogue as a sort of half crazy, sentimental person, overrun with fine feel- ings, constitutional merriment, and a mosi humorous melancholy. Here are the two stanzas in which this consistent and intelli- gible character is pourtrayed. The diction is at least as new as the conception. " Thp sighs which Mntthew heav'd were s\t;hs Of one lir'd out with/;/?/ and mndvess ; TliH loars which came to Matthew's eyes Were tears of light — the oil of se childie^h and absurd affecta- )!is. we turn with pleasure to the manly use and correct picturing- of Mr. Crabbe ; iJ, after bemg dazzled and made giddy ilh the elaborate raptures and obscure origi- ilities of these new artists, it is refreshing to eet again with the spirit and nature of our \ masters, in the nervous pages of the ithor now before us. The poem that stands first in the volume, that to which we have already alluded as iving been first given to the public upwards tweTnty years ago. It is so old, and has of le been so scarce, that it is probably new many of our readers. We shall venture, erefore, to give a few extracts from it as a lecimen of Mr. Crabbe's original style of imposition. We have already hinted at the iscription of the Parish Workhouse, and in- rt it as an example of no common poetry : — I'heirs is yon house that holds the parish poor, hose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door ; Here, where the putrid vapours flagging play, lid the dull wheel hums doleful through the day ; liere children dwell who know no parents' care ; irents, who know no children's love, dwell there ; eart-broken matrons on their joyless bed, )rsaken wives, and mothers never wed ; ejected widows with unheeded tears, id crippled age with more than childhood-fears ; le lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they ! 18 moping idiot and the madman gay. " Here, too, the sick their final doom receive, !re brought amid the scenes of grief, to grieve ; here the loud groans from some sad chamber .\t with the clamours of the crowd below, [flow, i ' Say ye, opprest by some fantastic woes, fme jarring nerve that baffles your repose; iho with sad prayers the weary doctor tease, !>name the nameless ever-new disease ; Iw would ye bear in real pain to lie, fspis'd, neglected, left alone to die? iw would ye bear to draw your latest breath, Viere all that's wretched paves the way for deaih ? i' Such is that room which one rude beam divides, fd naked rafters form the sloping sides ; V^ere the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen, ^d lath and mud are all that lie between ; '\e one dull pane, that, coarsely patch'd, gives 1 (he rude temi)est, yet e.xcludes the day : [way B-e. on a matted flock, with dust o'erspread, i; drooping wretch reclines his languid head ; n him no hand the cordial cup applies," &c. j pp. 12-14. The consequential apothecary, who gives ijimpatient attendance in these abodes of Itiery, is admirably described ] but we pass t(|he last scene : — ",nw to the church behold the mourners come, PJitely torpid and devoutly dumb ; T. viilnge children now their games suspend, I'-ee the bi.^r tha' bears their ancient friend ; F'he was one in all their idle sport, A| like a monarch rul'd their linJe cotirt ; J'l pliant bow he form'd, the flying ball, Fj bat, the wicket, were his labours all ; H| now they follow to his grave, and stand, So close, you'd say that they were bent, I With plnhi and manifest i7itcnt '. To drag it to the ground ; ■ .\nd all had join'd in one endeavour. To bury Ihh poor thorn for ever." [1 id this it seems, is Nature, and Pathos, and Pcry ! Silent and sad, and gazing, hand in hand ; While bending low, iheir eager eyes o.xplore The niingird relics of the parish poor ! The bell tolls lale. the moping owl flics round, Fear marks ihe Hmht and magnifies the sound ; The busy priest, detain'd by weightier care, Deiers his duty till the day of prayer ; And wailing long, the crowd reiire distrest. To think a poor man'.s bones should [w. unble,-!!." pp. Iti. 17. The scope of the poem is to show, that the villagers of real life have no resemblance to the villagers of poetry ; that poverty, in sober truth, is very uncomlortable ; and vice by no means confined to the opulent. The following passage is powerfully, and finely written : — " Or will you deem them amply paid in health. Labour's fair child, that languishes with wealth ? do then 1 and see them rising w-iih the sun. Through a long course of daily toil to run ; See them beneaih the dog-siar's raging heat. When the knees tremble and the temples beat ; Behold them, leaning on their scythes, look o'er The labour past, and toils to come e.xplore ; Through fens and marshy moors their sieps pursue, When their warm pores imbibe the evening dew. " There may you see the youih of slender frame Contend widi weakness, weariness, and shame ; Yet urg'd along, and proudly loaih lo yield, He strives to join his fellows of the field ; Till long-contending nature droops at last; Declining health rejects his poor repast ! His cheerless spouse the coming danger sees. And mutual murmurs urge the slow disease. " Yet grant them heahh, 'tis not for us to tell. Though the head droops not, that the heart is well ; Or will you praise that homely, healthy fare. Plenteous and plain, that happy peasants share ? Oh ! trifle not with wants you cannot feel ! Nor mock the misery of a stinted meal ; Homely not wholesome — plain iiol plenieous — such As you who praise would never de:gn to louch! " Ye gentle souls, who dream of rural ease. Whom the smooth stream and smoother sonnet do ! if the peaceful cot your praises share, [please ; Go look within, and ask if peace be there : If peace be his — that drooping, weary sire, Or theirs, that offspring round their feeble fire I Or hers, that matron pale, whose trembling hand Turns on the wretched hearth th' expiring brand." pp. 8— 10. We shall only give one other extract from this poem ; and we select the following fine description of that peculiar sort of barrenness which prevails along the sandy and thinly inhabited shores of the Channel : — " Lo ! where the heath, with with'ring brake grown o'er, [poor ; Lends the light turf that warms the neighbouring From thence a length of burning sand appears. Where the thin harvest waves its wither'd ears ; There thistles stretch iheir prickly arms afar. And to the ragged infanf threaten war ; There poppies nodding, mock the hope of toil, There the blue bugloss paints the sterile soil : Hardy and high, above the slender sheaf. The slimy mallow waves her silky leaf; O'er the young shoot the charlock throws a shade. And clasping tares cling round the sickly blade ; With mingled tints the rocky coasts abound, And a sad splendour vainly sliines around." jjp. 5, 6. The next poem, and the longest in the volume, is now presented for the first time to the public. It is dedicated, like the former, to the delineation of rural life and characters, 384 POETRY. and is entitled, ''The Village Register ;"' and, upon a very simple but singular plan, is divi- ded into three parts, viz. Baptisms. Marriages, and Burials. After an introductory and gen- eral view of village manners, the reverend author proceeds to present his readers with an account of all the remarkable baptisms, marriages, and funerals, that appear on his register for the preceding year ; with a sketch of the character and behaviour of the respect- ive parties, and such reflections and exhorta- tions as are suggested by the subject. The poem consists, therefore, of a series of por- traits taken from the middling and lower ranks of rustic hfe, and delineated on occa- sions at once more common and more inter- esting, than any other that could well be imagined. They are selected, we think, with great judgment, and drawn with inimitable accuracy and strength of colouring. They are finished with much more minuteness and detail, indeed, than the more general pictures in "The Village :■" and, on this account, may appear occasionally deficient in comprehen- sion, or in dignity. They are, no doubt, e.\e- cuted in some instances with too much of a Chinese accuracy; and enter into details which many readers may pronounce tedious and uimecessary. Yet there is a justness and force in the representation which is entitled to something more than indulgence : and though several of the groups are com- posed of low and disagreeable subjects, still. we think that .'^ome allowance is to be made for the author's plan of giving a full and exact view of village life, which could not possibly be accomplished without including those baser varieties. He aims at an important moral efTect by this exhibition ; and must not he defrauded either of that, or of the praise which is due to the coarser efforts of his pen. out of deference to the sickly delicacy of his more fastidious readers. We admit, however, that there is more carelessness, as well as more ^uaintness in this poem than in the other ; and that he has now and then apparently heaped up circumstances rather to gratify his own ta.ste for detail and accumulation, than to give any additional effect to his de- scription. With this general observation, we beg the reader's attention to the following abstract and citations. The poem begins with a general view, first of the industrious and contented villager, and then of the profligate and disorderly. The first compartment is not so striking as the last. Mv. Crabbe, it seems, has a set of smugglers amono- his liock, who inhabit what is called the Street in his village. There is nothing comparable to the following description, but some of the prose sketches of Mandeville : — " Here, in cabal, a disputntious crew Each pvening nieer ; the sot, the cheat, the shrew ; Riots are nish'ly heard — the curse, the cries Of be.iteii wife, pervrrsc in her replit-s : Boy.< ill their firs: stoPn rngs. to steal hegin. And iflils, who know not sex. are skill'd in gin I Sriaier.' and smngclers here their gains divide. lMisnarin<; females here their victim? hide ; And here is one. the Sibyl of the Rcnv, Wiiu liiio-.va all secrets, or affecis to know. — " See ! on the floor, what frowzy patches rest What nauseous fragments on yon tractur'd ches What downy-dust beneath yon window-seat ! And round these posts thai serve this bed for fee This bed where ail those tatter'd garments lie, Worn by each se.x, and now perforce thrown by. " See ! as we gaze, an infant lifts its head, Left by neglect, and burrow'd in thai bed ; The mother-gossip has the love supprest, An infant's cry once waken'd in her breast," & " Here are no wheels for either wool or flax. But packs of cards — made up of sundry packs ; Here are no books, but ballads on the v\all. Are some abusive, and indecent all ; Pistols are here, unpair'd ; with nets and hooks. Of every kind, for rivers, ponds, and brooks ; An ample flask that nightly rovers fill, With recent poisoti from the Dutchman's still; A box of tools with wires of various size. ! Frocks, wigs, and hats, for nighi or day disguise ! And bludgeons stout to gain or guard a prize. — " Here his poor bird, th' inhuman cockrr brir Arms his hard heel, and clips his golden v. ;r_'^ Whh spicy food th' impatient spirit feeds. And shouts and curses as the battle bleed.- : Struck through the brain, depriv'd of both 1 - ' y The vanquisli'd bird must combat till he d ■ - ' Must faintly peck at his victorious loe. And reel and stagger at each feeble blow ; When fall'n, the .ravage erasps his dabbled pltii His biood-stain'd arms, for other deaths assunii And damns the craven-fowl, that lo.«i his stake, And o?i/y bled and perish'd for his sake I" pp. 40 — 44, Mr. Crabbe now opens his chronicle; the first babe that appears on the list natural child of the miller's daughter dam.sel fell in love with a sailor; but father refused his consent, and no would unite them whhout if. The poor yielded to her passion ; and her lover wei sea, to seek a portion for his bnde : — " Then came the days of shame, the grievous The varying look, the wand'ring ap|)eiiie; , The jciy assum'd, while sorrow dimm'd theej The torc"d sad smiles that follow'd sudden sigl And every art, long us'd, but us'd in vain. To hide thy progress. Nature, and thy nain. " Dfiy after day were past in grief aiid pain, Week after week, nor came the youth again ; Her boy was born : — No lads nor lasses came To grace the rite or give the child a name ; Nor grave conceited nurse, of office proud. Bore the young Christian, roaring through In a small chamber was my office done. [cro» Where blinks, through paper'd panes, the sun ; Where noisy sparrows, perch'don penthouse n Chirp tuneksa joy, and mock the frequent tear. '■ Throughout the lanes, she glides at cvenii There softly lulls her infant to repose ; [cli Then sits and gazes, but w ith viewless look. As gilds the moon the rimpling of the brook ; Then sings her vespers, but in voice so low, She hears their murmurs as the waters flow; And she too murmurs, and begins to find The solemn wand'rings of a wounded mind ! pp. 47- We pass the rest of the Baptisms; i' proceed to the more interesting chapter Marriages. The first pair here is an old bachelor, who. in the first days of do' had married his maid-servant. The revei ^Ir Crabbe is very facetious on this mat and not very scrupulously delicate The following picture, though liable in ], to the same objection, is perfect, v.e thin' that .style of drawing: — !jsep»ii irt^l CRABBE'S POEMS. 885 ' Next al our aliar stood a luckless pair, brought by strong passions — and a warrant — there ; !y long rent cloak, hung loosely, strove the bride, 'rom ev'ry eye, what all perceiv"d to hide ; Vhile the boy-bridegroom, shuffling in his pace, fow hid awhile, and then expos'd his face ; Ls shame alternately with anger strove 'he brain, contused with muddy ale, to move ! n haste and stainm'riiig he perlorm'd his part, ind look d the rage that rankled in his heart. ,ow spake the lass, and lisp'd and minc'd the while ; lOok'd on the lad. and faintly try'd to smile; V'iih soft'nened speech and humbled tone she 'o stir the embers of departed love; [strove ^'hile he a tyrant, frowning walk'd before, elt the poor purse, and sought the public door; he sadly following in submission went, .nd saw the final shilling foully spent ! 'hen 10 her father's hut the pair withdrew, .nd bade to love and comfort long adieu !" pp. 74, 75 The next bridal is that of Phoebe Dawson, le most innocent and beautiful of all the illag^e maidens. We give the following retty description of her courtship : — Now, through the lane, up hill, and cross the ieen but by few, and blushing to be seen — [green, ejected, thoughtful, an.vious and afraid.) ed by the lover, walk'd the silent maid: ow through the meadows rov'd they, many a mile, oy'd by each bank, and trifled at each stile ; 'here, as he painted every blissful view, Vid highly colour'd what he strongly drew, 'le pensive damsel, prone to tender fears, mm'd the fair prospect with prophetic tears." pp. 76, 77. This is the taking side of the picture : At 13 end of two years, here is the reverse, bthing can be more touching, we think, than i quiet suffering and solitary hysterics of is ill-fated young woman: — ;jO ! now with red rent cloak and bonnet black, ^d torn green gown, loose hanging at her back, I'e who nn infant in her arms sustains, d seems, with patience, striving with her pains : lich'd are her looks, as one who pines for bread The ardent lover, it seems, turned out a brutal husband : — " If present, railing, till he saw her pain'd ; If absent, spending what their labours gain'd : Till that fair form in want and sickness pin'd. And hope and comfort fled that gentle mind." p. 79. It may add to the interest which some readers will take in this simple story, to be told, that it was the last piece of poetry that was read to Mr. Fo.x during his fatal i]lnes«; and that he examined and made .some flatter- ing remarks on the manuscript of it a few- days before his death. We are obliged to pass over the rest of the Marriages, though some of them are extreme- ly characteristic and beautiful, and to proceed to the Burials. Here we have a great variety of portraits, — the old drunken innkeeper — the bustling farmer's wife — the infant — and next the lady of the manor. The following description of her deserted mansion is strik- 1 ing, and in the good old taste of Pope and 1 Dryden :— " " Forsaken stood the hall. Worms ate the floors, the tap'stry fled the wall; No fire the kitchen's cheerless grate display'd ; No cheerful light the long-clos'd sash convey'd ; The crawling worm that turns a summer fly, Here spun his shroud and laid him up to die The winter-death: — upon the bed of state. The bat. shrill-shrieking, woo'd hisflick'ring mate: To empty rooms, the curious came no more. From empty cellars, turn'd the angry poor, And surly beggars curs'd the ever-bolted door. To one small room the steward found his way, Where tenants follow'd, to complain and pav." pp. ]04,'l05. The old maid follows next to the shades of mortality. The description of her house, fur- niture, and person, is admirable, and affords a fine specimen of Mr. Crabbe's most minute finishing ; but it is too long for extracting. We Mose cares are growing, and whose hopes are fled 1 rather present our readers with a part of the le her parch'd lips, her heavy eyes sunk low. | character of Isaac Ashford : — td tears itnnotic'd from their channels flow ; i ■ ene her manner, till some sudden pain " Ne.\t to these ladies, but in nought allied, [vts the meek soul, and then she's calm again ! — A noble peasant, Isaac Ashford, died. : Noble he was — contemning all thines I'; broken pitcher to the pool she takes. f\i every step with cautious terror makes ; B not alone that infant in her arms, i nearer cause, maternal fear, alarms I '>'h water burden'd. then she picks her way, "•vly and cautious, in the clinging clay ; h in niitl-grecn she trusts a place unsound. Ai deeply plunges in th' adhesive ground ; I'm whence her slender foot with pain site takes,"' &,c. ' nd now her path, but not her peace, she gains, '■ from her task, but shiv'ring with her pains; — 4 home she reaches, open leaves the door. \ placing first her infant on the floor. ng all things mean, His trnih unquestion'd, and his soul serene : Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid : At no man's question Isaac look'd dismay'd: Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace," &,c. " \Vere others joyful, he look'd smiling on. And eave allowance where he needed none ; Yet far was he from stoic-pride remov'd ; He felt, with many, and he warmly lov'd : I mark'd his action, when his infant died. And an old neighbour for offence was tried ; The still tears, stealing down that furrow'd cheek, Spoke pity, plainer than the tongue can speak," &c. pp. Ill, 112. The rest of the character is drawn with ares her bosom to the wind, and sits, ^j sobbing struggles with the rising fits! r ..;„ 1 .|,gy come — she feels th' inflaming grief, j equal spirit ; but we can only make room for the author's final commemoration of him. r;' shuts the swelling bosom from relief I I speaks in feeble cries a soul distrest. ' he sad !a\igh that cannot be represt ; r neighhour-rnatron leaves her wheel, and flies ^Vi all the aid her poverty supplies ; _ e'd, the calls of nature she obeys. Vied by profit, nor allur'd by praise; ^* waiting long, till these contentions cease, 'ispeaks of comfort, and departs in peace." pp. 77, 78 " I feel his absence in the hours of prayer. And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there I I see, no more, those white locks thinly spread. Round the bald polish of thai honour'd head ; No more that awful glance on playful wight, Compeli'd to kneel and tremble at (he sight ; To fold his fingers all in dread the while. Till Mr. Ashford sotten'd to a smile ! 386 POETRY. No more that meek, that suppliant look in prayer, Nor ihit niire faith, ihii gave it force — are there : — But he is biest ; atid I iMiiieiit no more, A wise good man contented to be poor." — p. 114. We then bury the village midwife, super- seded ill her old ai^e bj' a volatile doctor: then a siiriv rustic niistin'thrope : and last ot ail, the reverend author's ancient sc.\ton, whose chronicle of his various pastors is given rath<^r at too great length. The poem ends with a simple recapitulation. We think this the most important of the new pieces in the volume; and have ex- tended our account of it so much, lliat we can afford to say but little of the others. "The Library'" and "The Newspaper"" are republi- cations. They are written with a gooil deal of tersenes.s, sarcasm, and beauty ; but the subjects are not very interesting, and they will rather be approved, we think, than admired or delighted in. We are notjnuch taken either with "The Birth of Flattery." With many nervous lines and ingenious allusions, it has samething of the languor which seems insep- arable from an allegory which exceeds the length of an epigram. "Sir Eustace Grey"" is quite unlike any of the preceding compositions. It is written in a sort of lyric measure : and is intended to represent the perturbed fancies of the most terrible msanity settling by degrees into a sort of devotional enthusiasm. The opening stanza, spoken by a visiter in the madhouse, is very striking. " I'll see no more ! — the heart is torn By views of woe we cannot heal ; Long shall I see tlie«<> tliimrs forlorn. And oft again their a^riefs shall feel. As each upon the mind shall steal ; That wan projector's mystic style, That lumpish idiot leering by. That peevish idler's ce;iseless wile. And Ihaf poor niiiidrn':' halffomCd fmih, While slrucrslins; for the full-drawn sigh .' I'll know no more!" — p. 217. There is great force, both of language and conception, in the wild narrative Sir Eustace gives of his frenzy : though we are not sure whether there is not something too elaborate, and too much worked up, in the picture. We give only one image, which we think is orig- itial. He supposed himself hurried along by two tormenting demons. " Throngh lands we lied, o'er seas we flew, .■\nd halted on a boundle-^s plain ; Where nothing fed, nor breath'd. nor grew, But silence rul'd the still domain. " I'pon that boundlips plain, below, 'i'he selling; sun'.^ last rays were shed. And gave a mild and sober glow. Where all were still, asleep, or dead ; Vast ruins in the midst were spread, Pillar.'! and pedinients sublime. Whore the crcy moss had form'd a bed. And cloih'd the cnmibling spoils of Time. • There was I fix'd, I know not how, Condemn'd for untold years to slay; Ypf ypar.-> were nut ; — one dreadful noir, Kiuhir'd no rbanee of night or day ; 'I'he same mild evening's sleeping ray Shone softly-solemn and serene, And all that time I gaz'd away. 'I'he setting sun's sad ravs were seen.'' p. 226. '•' The Hall of Justice," or the story of ih Gipsy Convict, is another experiment of M Crabbe's. It is very nervous — ver\- shockii; — and very powerfully represented. Th woman is accused of stealing, and tells hi story in impetuous and lofty language. " My crime ! this sick'ning child to feed, I seiz'd the food your witness saw; I knew your laws forbade the deed, But yielded to a stronger law I" — " But I have griefs of other kind. Troubles and sorrows more severe ; Give me to ease my tortur'd mind. Lend to my woes a patient ear ; And let me — if I may not find A friend to help — Hiid one to hear. " Mv mother dead, my father lost, 1 wander'd with a vagrant crew ; A common care, a common cost. Their sorrows and their sins I knew ; With them on want and error forc'd, Like them, I base and guilty grew ! " So through the land I wand'ring went. And little found of grief or joy ; But lost my bosom's sweet content, When first I lov'c^the gypsy boy. " A stuidy youth he was and tall. His looks would all his soul declare. His piercing eyes were deep and small. And strongly curl'd his raven hair. " Yes, Aaron had each manly charm, .AH in the May of youtht'"ul pride; He scarcely fear'd his fathfir's arm, .And every other arm defied. — Oft when they grew in anger warm, (Whom will not love and power divide f)| 1 rose, their wrathful souls to calm. Not vet in sinful combat tried." pp. 210- The father felon falls in love with the trothed of his son, whom he despatch some distant errand. The consummationi his horrid passion is told in these powe stanzas : — " The night was dark, the lanes were deertM .And one by one they took their way ; €l He bade me lay me down and sleep! I only wept, and wish'd for day. Accursed be the love he bore — Arrnrffd was thr force lie us'd — So let him of his God implore For mercy .' — and he so refused .''' — J It is painful to follow the story out sou return.s, and privately murders his fal and then marries his widow ! The prof barbarity of the life led by tho.'^e outci forcibly expressed by the simple narrati the lines that follow : — " I brought a lovely daughter forth, His lather's child, in Aaron's bed I , He look her from me in his wrath. I ' Where is my child ?'— ' Thy child is del " 'Twas false I We wander'd far and wide! Through town and country, field and fe^ Till .Aaron fighting, fell and died. < And I became a wife again." — p. 21.". VVe have not room to give the sequel of * dreadful ballad. It certainly is not pleat'l CRABBE'S BOROUGH. 387 eading; but it is written with very unusual )Ower of language, and shows Mr. Crabbe to lave great mastery over the tragic pas-sioius of )ity and horror. The volume closes with some rerses of no great value in praise of Women. We part with regret from Mr. Crabbe; but ,vc hope to meet with him agam. If his muse, :o be sure, is prolific only once in twenty-four irearS; we can scarcely expect to live long enough to pass judgment on her future pro- geny : But we trust, that a larger portion of public favour than has hitherto been dealt lo hiin will encourage him to greater efTorts : and that ho will soon appear again among the worthy supporters of the old poetical estab- lishment, and come in time to surpass the revolutionists in fa.st firing, a.s well as in weight of metal. (2pril, ISUi The Borovgh : a Poem, in Twenty-four Letters. By the R( " ' Svo. pp. 3-f4. London: 1810. George Cuabbe. LL. B. We are very glad to meet with Mr. Crabbe io soon agciin ; and particularly glad to find, that lis early return has been occasioned, in part, Dy the encouragement he received on his last ippearance. This late spring of public favour. .ve hope, he will yet live to see ripen into ma- ure fame. We scarcely know any poet who ieserves it better : and are quite certain there s none who is more secure of keeping with josterity ^^'l^atevel• h^ ma}- win from his con- ;emporaries. The present poem is precisely of the char- icter of The Village and The Parish Register. t has the same peculiarities, and the same ault.* and beauties; though a severe critic [night perhaps add, that its peculiarities are Inore obtrusive, its faults greater, and its beau- lies less. However that be, both faults and iieauties are so plainly produced by the pe- uliaiity, that it may be worth while, before living anymore particular account of it, to try i" we can ascertain in what that consists. And here we shall very speedily discover, oat iSIr. Crabbe is distinguished from all other oets, both by the choice of his subjects, and y his manner of treating them. All his per- pns are taken from the lower ranks of life : lud all his scenery from the most ordinary itul familiar objects of nature or art. His Uaracters and incidents, too, are as common Ivlhe elements out of which they are com- punded are humble.; and not only has he pthing prodigious or astonishing in any of ;s representations, but he has not even at- inpted to impart any of the ordinary colours \ poetry to those vulgar materials. He has |i moral;.5ing swains or sentimental trades- -len; and scarcely ever seeks to charm us by ie artless graces or lowly virtue.s of his per- inages. On the contrary, he has represented Is villagers and humble burghers as alto- , ther as dissipated, and more dishonest and 'Seontented, than the profligates of higher 2; and, instead of conducting us through poming groves and pastoral meadows, has il us along filthy lanes and crowded wharfs, Ijhospilals. alms-houses, and gin-shops. In fine of these delineations, he may be con- fjered as the Satirist of low life — an occupa- tt:i sufficiently arduous, and. in a great de- 8:e, new and original in our language. But I by far the greater part of his poetry is of a different and a higher character : and aims at moving or delighting us by lively, touch- ! ing, and finely contrasted representations of the dispositions, sufferings, and occupations of those ordinary persons who form the i'ar ; greater part of our fellow-creatures. This, too. he has sought to effect, merely by placing before us the clearest, most brief, and most striking sketches of their external condition — [ the most sagacious and unexpected strokes of character — and the truest and most pathetic 1 pictures of natural feeling and cornmon .suffer- I ing. By the mere force of his art, and the novelty of his .style, he forces us to attend to objects that are usually neglected, and to enter into feelings from which we are in gene- ral but too eager to escape; — and then trusts to nature for the effect of the representation. It is obvious, at first sight, that this is not a task for an ordinary hand ; and that many in- genious writer.s, who make a very good figure with battles, nymphs, and moonlight land- scapes, would find themselves quite helpless, if set down among streets, harbours, and taverns. The difficulty of such subjects, in short, is sufficiently visible — and some of the causes of that difficulty ; But they have their advantages also ; — and of these, and their hazard.s, it seems natural to say a few words, before entering more minutely into the merits of the work before us. The first great advantage of such familiar subjects is. that every one is necessarily well acquainted with the originals; and is there- fore sure to feel all that pleasure, from a faithful representation of them, which results from the perception of a perfect and success- ful imitation. In the kindred art of painting, we find that this single consideration has been sufficient to stamp a very high value upon accurate and lively delineations of objects, in themselves uninteresting, and even disagree- able : and no very inconsiderable part of the pleasure which may be derived from Mr. Crahbe's poetry may probably be referred to its mere truth and fidelity; and to the brevity and clearness with which he sets before his readers, objects and characters with which they have vken all their days familiar. In his happier passages, however; he has a POETRY. higher merit, and imparts a far higher grati- fication. The chief delight of poetry consists, not so much in what it directly supplies to the imagination, as in what it enables it to supply to itself; — not in warming the heart by its passing brightness, but in kindling its own latent stores of light and heal : — not in hurrying the fancy along by a foreign and ac- cidental impulse, but in setting it agoing, by touching its internal springs and principles of activity. Now. this h]ght'^;t and must delight- ful effect can only be produced by ihe pool's 5triknig a note to which the heart and the atfec- lions naturally vibrate in unison ; — by rousing oneof a large family of kindred impressions: — by dropping the rich st^ed of his fancy upon the fertile and sheltered places of the imagination. But it is evident, that the emotions connected with common and familiar object.^ — with ob- jects which fill every man's memory, and are necessarily associated with all that he has ever really felt or fancied, are of all others the most likely to answer this description, and to produce, where they can be raised to a suf- ficient height, this great effect in its utmost perfection. It is for this reason that the images and affections that belong to our universal na- ture, are always, if tolerably represented, in- finitely more captivating, in spite of their apparent commonness and simplicity, than those that are peculiar to certain situations, however they may come recommended bv novelty or grandeur. The familiar feeling of maternal tenderness and anxiety, which is every day before our eyes, even in the brute creation — and the encKantment of youthful love, which is nearly the same in all charac- ters, ranks, and situations — still contribute far more to ihe beaaty and interest of poetry than all the misfortunes of princes, the jealousies of heroes, and the feats of giants, mafficians. or ladies in armour. Every one can enter into the former set of feelings: and but a few into the latter. The one calls up a thousand familiar and long-remembered emotions — which are answennl and refiected on every side by the kindred impressions which e.v- perience or observation have traced upon every memory: while the other lights up but a transient and unfruitful blaze, and passes away without perpetuating it.self in any kin- dred and native sensation. Now, the delineation of all that concerns the lower and most numerous cla^si s of so- ciety, is, in this respect, on a foolinsr with the pictures of our primary affections— that their originals are necessarily familiar to all men. and are inseparably associated with their owii most interesting impressions. Whatever may be our own condition, we all live surrounded with the poor, from infancy to ase ; — we hear daily of their sufferuigs and misfortunes: — and their toils, their crimes, or their pastimes, are our hourly spectacle. Many diligent readers of i>oetry know little, by "their own e.vperience, of palaces, castles, or'camps ; and still less of tyrants, warriors, and banditti • — but every one understands about cottages, streets, and villages ; and conceives, pretty corrfeCtly, the character and conditioTi cf sivil- lors, ploughmen, and artificers. If tlie poe can contrive, therefore, to create a sutficien I interest in subjects like these, they will infal I libly sink deeper into the mind, and be mori I prolific of kindred trains of emotion, than sub ' jects of greater dignity. Nor is the difiicnlt I of exciting such an interest by any means s I great as is generally inia'jined. For it i ! common human nature, and common huma: feelings, after all. that form the true ^ourc of interest in poetry of every description ;- and the splendour and the marvels by whic it is sometimes surrounded, serve no othe purpose than to fix our attention on thos workines of the heart, and those energies o the understanding, which alone comn)aiid a the genuine sympathies of human beings- and w hich may be found as abundantly in th breasts of cottagers as of kings. "VVht levf there are human being.s. therefore, w iih fee ings and characters to be represented, our a tention may be fixed by the art of the poet- by his judicious selection of circumstanceg- by ihe force and vivacity of his style, and lb' clearness and brevity of his representations. In point of fact, we are all tO€<-hed mdi deeply, as well as more frequently, in life, with the sufl'erings of peasants than princes; and sympathise much oftener. more heartily, with the successes of the than of the rich and di.stinguished. The casions of such feelings are indeed so m and so common, that they do not often lea' j any very permanent traces behind them, j pass away, and are effaced by the very rapidi: of their succession. The business and cares, and the pride of the world, obstruct tl development of the emotions to which th would naturally give rise: and press so clo| and thick upon the mind, as to shnt it. at m^ seasons, against the reflections that are Eetually seeking for admission. When are leisure, however, to look quietly into hearts, we shall find in them an infinite m tiludc of little fragments of sympathy ^ our brethren in humble life — abortive m I ments of compassion, and embryos of kindni , and concern, which had once fairly begtm j live and germinate within them, though wi i ered and broken off by the selfish bustle j fever of our daily occupations. Now. all th( maybe revived and carried 0!i to maturity ^ the art of the poet : — and. there fore, a po'W'^ , ful effort to inteiest ns in the feelings of ti : humble and obscure, will usually call fo: ' more deep, more numerous, and niore pern I nent emotions, than can ever be excited the fate of princesses and heroes. Indi ] dent of the circumstances to which we ; already alluded, there are causes which m us at all times more ready to enter into i feelin<;s of the humble, than of the exaM : part of our species. Our sympathy \\ ith ih ' enjoyments is enhanced by a certain mixti : of pity for their general condition, which. I purifying it from that taint of envy wIli li most always adheres to our admiration ol great, renders it more welcome and .satisft toi-y to our bosoms : while our concern for^ n^nering" is at once softened and endeajiSdl CR ABBE'S BOROUGH. 3J?9 us. by the recollection of our own exemption from them, and by the feeling, that we fre- quently have it in our power to relieve them. From the-se, and from other cau.ses, it ap- pears to us to be certain, that where subjects, taken from humble life, can be made sutii- ciently interesting to overcome the distaste and the prejudices with which the usages of polished society too generally lead us to re- gard them, the interest which they excite will commonly be more profound and more lasting than any that can be raised upon loftier themes • ami the poet of the Village and the Borough be oftener. and longer read, than the poet of the Court or the Camp. The most [popular passages of Shakespeare and Cowper, we think, are of this description: and there is much, both in the volume before us, and in Mr. Crabbe"s former publications, to which we might now venture to refer, as proofs of the same doctrine. When such representa- tions have once made an impression on the iraatiination. they are remembered daily, and for ever. VVe can neither look around, nor within us, without being reminded of their truth and their importance j and, while the more brilliant effusions of romantic fancy are recalled only at long intervals, and in rare situations, we feel that we cannot walk a step from our own doors, nor cast a glance back on 3ur departed years, without being indebted to the poet of vulgar life for some striking image or touching reflection, of which the occasions were always before us, but — till he tauaht us how to improve them — were almost always allowed to escape. ■ Such, we conceive, are some of the advan- :ages of the subjects which iVIr. Crabbe has in a great measure introduced into modern Doetry : — and such the grounds upon which |A-e venture to predict the durability of tlie reputation which he is in the couise of ac- [juiring. That they have their disadvantages jilso. is obvious: and it is no less obvious, that It is to these we must ascribe the greater part | j)f the faults and deformities with which this [ (luthor is fairly chargeable. The two great i^rrors into which he has fallen, are — that he iias described many things not worth describ- ing; — and that he has frequently excited dis- jrust; instead of pity or indignation, in the |>reasts of his readers. These faults are ob- ,'ious — and, we believe, are popularly laid to iiis charge : Yet there is, in so far as we have i'bservcd, a degree of misconce})tion as to the |rue grounds and limits of the charge, which xe think it worth while to take this opportu- ity of correcting. .: The poet of humble life mtiM describe a aeat deal — and must even describe, minutely, iiany things which possess in themselves no jeauty or grandeur. The reader's fancy must |e awaked — and the power of his own pencil displayed: — a distinct locality and imaginary Jality must be given to his characters and , gents: and the ground colour of their com- iion condition must be laid in, before his pe- ialiar and selected groups can be presented lith any effect or advantage. In the same j a}-, he must study characters with a minute and anatomical precision ; and must make both hmiself and his readers familiar with the ordinary traits and general family features of ihe beings among whom they are to move, be- fore they can either understand, or take much interest in the individuals w ho are to engross their attention. Thus far, there is no excess or unnecessary minuteness. But this faculty of observation, and this power of description, hold out great temptations to go furthei. Tlu're is a pride and a delight in the exeicise of all peculiar power; and the poet, who has learned to describe external objects exqui- sitely, with a view to heighten the effect of his m.oral designs, and to draw cliaraclers with accuracy, to help forward the interest or the pathos of the picture, will be in great; dan- ger of describing scenes, and drawing char- acters, for no other purpose, but to indulge his taste, and to display his talents. It cannot be denied, we think, that Mr. Crabbe has, on many occasions, yielded to this temptation. He is led away, every now and then, by his lively conception of external objects, and by his nice and sagacious observation of human character; and v/antons and luxuriates in de- scriptions and moral portrait painting, wliile his readers are left to wonder to what end so much industry has been exerted. His chief fault, however, is his frequent lapse into disgusting representations ; and this, we will confess, is an error for which we find it far more difficult either to account or to apologise. VVe are not, however, of the opinion which we have often heard stated, that he has represented human nature under too unfavourable an aspect ; or that the dis- taste which his poetry sometimes produces, is owing merely to the painful nature of the scenes and subjects with which it abounds. On the contrary, we think he has given a just- er, as well as a more striking picture, of the true character and situation of the lower or- ders of this country, than any other writer, whether in verse or in prose; and that he has made no more use of painful emotions than was necessary to the production of a pathetic effect. All powerful and pathetic poetry, it is ob-i vious, abounds in images of distress. Thej delight which it bestows partakes strongly of pain ; and, by a sort of contradiction, which has long engaged the attention of the reflect- ing, the compositions that attract us most powerfully, and detain us the longest, are those that produce in us most of the effects of actual suffering and wretchedness. The so- lution of this paradox is to be found, we think, in the simple fact, that pain is a far stronger sensation than pleasure, in human existence; and that the cardinal virtue of all things that are intended to delight the mind, is to produce a strong sensation. Life itself appears to con- sist in sensation; and the universal passion of all beings that have life, seems to be. lb;it they should be made intensely conscious oi it; by a succession of powerful and engrossing emotions. All the mere gratifications or natu- ral pleasnres that are in the power even of the most fortunate, are quite insufficient to fill this 390 POETRY. vast craving for sensation : And accordingly, we see every day, that a more violent stimu- lus is sought for by those who have attained the vulgar heights of life, in the pains and dangers of war — the agonies of gaming — or the feverish toils of ambition. To ihose who have tasted of those potent cups, where the bitter, however, so obviously predominate.**, the security, the comforts, and what are call- ed the enjoyments of common life, are intol- erably insipid and disgusting. Nay, we think we have observed, that even those who. with- out any effort or exertion, have experienced unusual misery, frequently appear, in like manner, to acquire a .sort of taste or craving for it; and come to look on the tranquillity of ordinary life with a kind of indilference not unmingled with contempt. It is certain, at least, that they dwell with most apparent satis- faction on the memory of those days, which have been marked by the deepest and most agonising sorrows; and derive a certain de- light from the recollections of those over- whelming sensations which once occasioned so fierce a throb in the languishing pulse of their existence. If any thing of this kind, however, can be traced in real life — if the passion for emotion be so strong as to carry us. not in imagination, but in reality, over the rough edge of present pain — it will not be difficult to explain, why it should be so attractive in the copies and fic- tions of poetry. There, as in real life, the great demand is for emotion ; while the pain with which it may be attended, can scarcely, by any possibility, exceed the limits of en- durance. The recollection, that it is hut a copy and a fiction, is quite snflicient to keep it down to a moderate temperature, and to make it welcome as the sign or the harbinger of that agitation of which the soul is avaricious. It is not, then, from any peculiar quality in pain- ful emotions that they become capable of afi^ording the delight which attends them in tragic or pathetic poetry — but merely from the circumslurice of their being more intense and powerful than any other emotions of which the mind is susceptible. If it was the consti- tution of our nature to feel joy as keenly, or to sympathise with it as heartily as we do with sorrow, we have no doubt that no other sensa- tion would ever be intentionally excited by the arti.sts that minister to delight. But the fact is. that the pkasitres of which we are ca- pable are slight and feeble compared with/Ac pains that we may endure: and that, feeble as they are, the sympathy which they e.xcite falls much more .short of the original emotion. When the object, therefore,' is to obtain sen- .eation, there can be no doubt to which of the two fountains we should repair; and if there be but few pains in real life which are not, in some measure, endeared to us by Ihe emo- tions with which ihcy are attended, we may be pretty sure, lliat the more di.stress we in- troduce into poetry, th«> more we shall rivet the attention and attract the admiration of the reader. There is but one exception to ih's lulf — and it brings us back from the apology of Mr. Crabbe. to his condemnation. Every form of distress, whether it proceed from passion or from fortune, and whether it fall upon vice ori virtue, adds to the interest and the charm of poetry — except only that which is coBhected with ideas of Disgust — the least taint of which disenchants the whole scene, and puts an end both to delight and sympathy. 13ut what isi it, it may be asked, that is the proper object) of disgust? and what is the precise descrip-l tion of things w hich we think ]\lr. Crabbe sol inexcusable for admitting ? It is not easy tbi define a term at once so simple and so signifi- cant: but it may not be without its use, t» indicate, in a general way, our c its true force and comprehensioi It' is needless, we suppose, to explain what are the objects of disgust in physical or exter-i nal existences. These are sufiiciently plain an " unequivocal : and it is universally admitted that all mention of them must be carefully ex. eluded from every poetical description regard, again, to tinman characler. action, ajik*™!,- , feeling, we should be inclined to term every f^J thing disgusting, which represented misery^ * without making any appeal to our love, res- pect, or admiration. If the surt'ering persOT . , be amiable, the delightful feeling of love aiUW.""? afTrction tempers the pain which the contei plation of su fie ring has a tendency to exci.,,^ ,. and enhances it into the stronger, and iherei- J' ?; If kf, fore more attractive, sen there be crreat I dale iiwnler tfh: m (odoot foi telkt uJof; ation of pity uiic-ic LPc g.cai power or energy. nowL,v.^, united to guilt or wretchedness, the mixtureW^ ,!. of admiration exalts the emotion into som thing that is sublime and pleasing: and even in cases of mean and atrocious, but efficieni iruilt, our sympathy with the victims u whom it ispractised.andouractiveindignatii and desire of vengeance, reconcile us to th humiliating display, and make a compound' that, upon the whole, is productive of pleasure, The onlj- sufiVrers, then, upon whom wCi cannot bear to look, are those that excite paf by their wn-etchedness. while they are too di piaved to be the objects of afiection, and t weak and insignificant to be ihe causes misery to others, or, con.'uccess in treating of subjects which had been .jsually rejected by other poets, had at length ed him to disregard, altogether, the common mpressionsof mankind as to what was allow- ible and what inadmissible in poetry ; and to •eckon the unalterable laws by which nature las regulated our sympathies, among the prejudices by Mhich they were shackled and mpaired. It is ditficult, however, to conceive ,iow a writer of his quick and exact observa- tion should have failed to perceive, that there |S not a single instance of a serious interest ;)eing excited by an object of disgust: and hat Shakespeare himself, who has ventured •very thing, has never ventured to shock our eeliiigs with the crimes or the sufferings of leiu^is absolutely without power or principle, independent of universal practice, too, it is ,till more difiicult to conceive how he should iiave overlooked the reason on which this liractice is founded; for though it be.gener- ■ lly true, that poetical representations" of suf- fering and of guilt produce emotion, and con- equently delight, yet it certainly did not ;equire the penetration of Mr. Crabbe to dis- over, that there is a degree of depravity vhich counteracts our sympathy with sufler- pg, and a degree of insignificance which ex- jinguishes our interest in guilt. We abstain |rora giving any extracts in .support of this jecusation : but those who have perused the [olume before us, will have already recol- lected the .story of Frederic Thompson, of |.bel Keene, of Blaney, of Benbow, and a lood part of those of Grimes and Ellen Orford ;-hesi(les many shorter passages. It is now I me. however, to give the reader a more .articular account of the work which contains pem. j The Borough of Mr. Crabbe, then, is a ietailed and minute account of an ancient inglish sea-port town, of the middling order; Jiitaining a series of pictures of its scener}-, ml of the different classes and occupations |f its inhabitants. It is thrown into the form |f letters, though without any attemjit at the jpi.stolary character; and treats of the vicar (ud curate — the sectaries — the attornies — the ipothecaries : and the inns, clubs, and stroll- |ig-playerS; that make a figure in the place: |-but more particularly of the poor, and their haracters and treatment ; and of almshouses, lisoiis, and schools. There is. of course, no ,uity or method in the poem — which consists altogether of a succession of unconnected descriptions, and is still more miscellaneous in reality, than would be conjectured from the titles of its twenty-four separate compart- ments. As it does not admit of analysis, therefore, or even of a much more particular description, we can only give our readers a just idea of its c.vecution, by extracting a few of the passages that appear to us most characteristic in each of the many styles it exhibits. One of the first that strikes us, is the tbllowing very touching and beautiful picture of innocent love, misfortune and resignation — all of them taking a tinge of additional sweet- ness and tenderness from the humble con- dition of the parties; and thus affording a striking illustration of the remarks we have ventured to make on the advantages of such subjects. The passage occurs in the second letter, where the author has been surveying, with a glance half pensive and half sarcasti- cal, the monuments erected in the churchyard. He then proceeds : — " Yes ! there are real Mourners — I have seen A fair sad (iirl, mild, suffering, and serene; Attention (through the day) her duties claini'd, And to tie useful as resigti'd she aini'd ; Neatly she dress'd, nor vainly seeni'd t' expect Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect ; But when her wearied Parents sunk to sleep, She sought this place to meditate and weep; 7'hen to her mind was all the past display'd, 'I'hat faithful Meinory brings to Sorrow's aid : For then she thought on one regretted Youth, Her lender trust, fuid his unquestion'd truth ; In ev'ry place she wander'd, where they'd been. And sadly-sacred held the pariing-scene Where last for sea he took his leave ; — that place With double interest would she nightly trace," described with that good-hearted indulgence ,-hich marks all Mr. Crabbe's writings. The printed rules he guards in painted frame, And shows his children where to read his name." We have now alluded, we believe, to what ; best and most striking in this poem ; and, lougli we do not mean to quote any part of rhaf we consider as less successful, we must ay, that there are large portions of it which ppear to us considerably inferior to most of le author's former productions. The letter n the Election, we look on as a complete lilure — or at least as containing scarcely any ling of what it ought to have contained. — 'he letters on Law and Physic, too, are tedi- us ; and the general heads of Trades, Amuse- lents. and Hospital Government, by no means mnfiiis. The Parish Clerk, too, we find dull. nd without eflect : and have already given ur opinion of Peter Grimes, Abel Keene, and enbow. We are struck, also, with several missions in the picture of a maritime borough. Ir. Crabbe might have made a great deal of press-gang; and. at all events, should have iveii us some wounded veteran sailors, and )me voyasers with tales of wonder from jireign lands. i The style of this poem is distinguished, Ike all r\ir. Crabbe's other performances, by leat force and compression of diction — a sort j" sententious brevity, once thought essential !■ poetical composition, but of which he is |)vv the only living example. But though this I almost an unvarying characteristic of his lyle, it appears to us that there is great 'uiety. and even some degree of misteadi- pss and inconsistency in the tone of his ex- fession and versification. His taste seems arcely to be sufficiently fixed and settled as ; these essential particulars; and, along with 'certain quaint, broken, and harsh manner ' his own, we think we can trace very fre- jient imitations of poets of the most opposite iiaracter. The following antithetical and ;.lf-punning lines of Pope, for instance : — ! 'Sleepless himself, to give his readers sleep ;" Whose trifling pleases, and whom trifles plenfe ; — \ve evidently been copied by Mr. Crabbe in te following, and many others : — And in the restless ocean, seek for rest."' 'Denying her who taught thee to deny." 'iJcrapinsr they liv'd, but not a scrap they gave." '3ound for a friend, whom honour could not bind." 'Imong the poor, for poor distinctions sigh'd." In the same way. the common, nicely bal- 2;ed line of two members, which is so char- -J^erigtic of the same author, has obviously been the model of our author in the follow- nij3 • " That woe could wish, or vanity devise." " Sick witliout pity, sorrowing without hope." " Gloom to the night, and pressure to the chain" — and a great multitude of others. On the other hand, he appears to us to be freijuently misled by Darwui into a sort of mock-heroic magnificence, upon ordinary oc- casions. The poet of the Garden, for instance, makes his nymphs " Presen! the fragrant quintessence of tea." And the poet of the Dock-yards makes his carpenters "Spread the warm pungence ot o'trboiling tar." Mr. Crabbe, indeed, dors not scruple, on some occasions, to adopt the mock-heroic in good earnest. When the lai;dlord of the Grilfin becomes bankrupt, he says — " The insolvent Griffin struck her wings sublime," and introduces a very serious lamentation over the learned poverty of the curate, with this most misplaced piece of buffoonery : — " Oh ! had he learn'd to make the wig he wears !" One of his letters, too, begins with this wretched quibble — " From Law to Physic stepping at our ease, We find a way to finisii — t)y Degrets.'" There are many imitations of the peculiar rhythm of Goldsmith and Campbell, too, as our readers must have observed in some of our longer specimens ; — but these, though they do not always make a very harmonious combination, are better, at all events, than the tame heaviness and vulgarity of such verses as the following : — "As soon Could lie have thought gold issued from the moon." "A seaman's body — there'll he wore to-night." " Those who will not to any guide submit. Nor find one creed to iheir concepiii>ns fit — True litdependrnls: while they Ctilrin hate. They heed as little what Socltiians siaie." — p. 54. " Here pits of crag, with spongy, plashy base, To some enrich th' unculiivaied space," &c. &c. Of the suddei,, nar^h turns, and broken con- ciseness which we think peculiar to himself, the reader may take the following speci- mens : — " Has yoiu' wife's brother, or )'0ur uiu-le's son, Done aught amiss; or is he thought t' have done ?" " Stepping from post to pnfit he rearh'd the chair ; And there he now refjoses : — that's the Mayor I" He has a sort of jingle, too, which we think is of his own invention; — for instance, " For forms and feasts that sundry limes have past, And formal feasts that will for ever last." " We term it free and easy; and yet we Find it no easy matter to be free." We had more remarks to make upon the i taste and diction of this author : and had noted ; several other little blemishes, which we meant 396 POETRY. io have pointed out for hiscoireciion: but we i mirable account in maintaining tke interei have no longer room for such minute criticism and enhancing the probabilitj-. of an extend -from which; indeed, neither the author nor train of adventures. At present, it is impo»| the reader would be likely to derive any great sible not to regret, that so much genius shou" benefit. We take our leave of Mr. Crabbe, ! be wasted in making us perfectly acquaintej therefore, by expressing our hopes that, since 1 with individuals, of whom we are to kncj 1' is proved that he can write fast, he will not nothing but the characters. In such a poen* allow his powers to languish for want of exer- however. Mr. Crabbe must entirely lay asid (. ise : and that we shall soon see him ag^in the sarcastic and jocose style to which he ha ippaying the public approbation, by entitling i rather too great a propensity: but which \v himself to a still larger share of it. An author know, fiiim what he has done in Sn Eu.stac generally knows his own forte so much better Grey, that he can. when he pleases, entirel than any of his readers, that it is commonly | relinqui.^h. That very powerful and origini, a very foolish kind of presumption to offer performance, indeed, the chief fault of whi any advice as to the direction of his efforts; | is, to be set too thick with images — to bt; to but we own we have a very strong desire to , strong and undiluted, in short, for the digeg see Mr. Crabbe apply his great powers to the i tion of common readers — makes us regre' construction of some interesting and connected | that its author should ever have stopped to bi story. He has great talents for narration ; and trifling and ingenious — or condescended t( that unrivalled gift in the delineation of char- ; tickle the imaginations of his readers, hi steal acter. which is now used only for the creation [ of touching the higher passions of their ni of detached portraits, might be turned to ad- I ture. Tales. (^'oDcmbcr, 1S12.) By the Reverend George Crabbe. 8vo. pp. 398. London : 1812. We are very thankful to Mr. Crabbe for these Tales ; as we must always be for any thing that comes from his hands. But they are not e.xactly the tales which we wanted. We did not; however, wish him to write an Epic — as he seems from his preface to have imagined. We are perfectly satisfied with the length of the pieces he has given us ; and delighted with their number and variety. In lush i!T:a3i IS* Jim dk itllesc •dm itiiren their venial offences, contrasted with a stronj sense of their frequent depravity, and to* constant a recollection of the sufferings it prcj duces; — and, finally, the same honours pai> to the delicate affections and ennobling pai sions of humble life, with the same generou' testimony to their frequent existence; mixe^ '•■T up as before, with a reprobation sufficientlj f * rigid, and a ridicule sufficiently severe, oj could have wished it. But we should have If we were required to make a comparativ ^^»ik these respects the volume is exactly as we their excesses and affectations. liked a little more of the deep and tragical estimate of the merits of the present pnbli passions ; of those passions which exalt and ; tion. or to point out the shades of differenc Sf'fce by which it is distinguished from those thai tenani have gone before it. we should say that then ^iufcl dk in lleii iiiliii' ifKiinii overwhelm the soul — to whose stormy seat the modern muses can so rarely raise their flight — and which he has wielded with such | are a greater number of instances on whic' terrific force in his Sir Eustace Grey, and the he has combined the natural language an^ Gipsy Woman. What we wanted, in short, manners of humble life with the energy oi^liiriioii were tales something in the style of those j true passion, and the beauty of generoa' pownf two singular compositions — with less jocu- ; affection ; — in which he has traced out th^^'"'" larity than prevails in the rest of his writings course of those rich and lovelv veins in th — rather more incidents — and rather fewer i rude and unpolished masses tliat lie at th details. I bottom of society ; — and unfolded, in the mid The pieces before us are not of this descrip- (lling orders of the people, the workings o tion ; — they are mere supplementary chapters those finer feelings, and the stirrings of thos to "The Borough.'' or "The Parish Register.'' j loftier emotions which the partiality of othe' The .same tone — the same subject,s — the same : poets had attributed, almost exclusively, t style, measure, and versification ; — the same j actors on a higher scene, finished and minute delineation of things j We hoi>e. too, that this more amiable an ordinary and common — generally very eai- consoling view of human nature will hav gaging when employed upon external objects, the effect of rendering Mr. Crabbe still mor' but often fatijiruing when directed merely to jiopular than we know that he already if insiirnificantcharactersand habits; — the same among that great body of the people, fror stranire mixture loo of feelings that tear the among \\hom almost all his subjects are taker heart and darken th(> imagination, with starts and for w hose use his lessons are chiefly ii of low humour and patches of ludicrous ima- tended : and we say this, not only on accour gery : — the same kindly sympathy with the of the moral benefit which we think the humble and innocent pleasures of the poor . may derive from them, but because we ar and inelegant, and the same mdulgence for I persuaded that they will derive more pleasur CRABBE'S TALES. 397 from them than readers of any other descrip- tion. Those who do not belong to that rank oi society with which this powerful writer is chieliy conversant in his poetry, or who have not at least gone much among them, and at- tended diligently to their characters and occu- pations, can neither be half aware of the exquisite fidelity of his delineations, nor feel in their full force the better part of the emo- tions which he has suggested. Vehement passion indeed is of all ranks and conditions; and its language and external indications nearly the same in all. Like highly rectified spirit, it blazes and inflames with equal force and brightness, from whatever materials it is extracted. But ail the softer and kindlier afiVctions, all the social anxieties that mix with our daily hopes, and endear our homes, and colour our existence, wear a different liverv. and are written in a dilTerent character in almost every great caste or division of society ; and the heart is warmed, and the spirit touched by their delineation, exactly in the proportion in which we are familiar with the types by \\hich they are represented. — When Burns, in his better days, walked out in a fine summer morning with Dugald Stew- art, and the latter observed to him what a beauty the scattered cottages, with their white walls and curling smoke shining in the silent sun. imparted to the landscape, the present poet answered, that he felt that beauty ten times more strongly than his companion could do; and that it was necessary to be a cottager to know what pure and tranquil pleasures often nestled below those lowly roofs, or to read, in their external appearance, the signs of so many heartfelt and long-remembered enjoyments. In the same way, the humble xnd patient hopes — the depressing embarrass- :inents — the little mortifications — the slender /riumphs, and strange temptations which arise !in middling life, and are the theme of Mr. Crabbe's finest and most touching represen- atioiis — can only be guessed at by those who .^litter in the higher walks of existence ; while hey must raise many a tumultuous throb and nany a fond recollection in the breasts of hose to whom they reflect so'ti*ily the image )f their own estate, and reveal so clearly the >ecrets of their habitual sensations. I We cannot help thinking, therefore, that hough such writings as are now before us nust give great pleasure to all persons of taste uid sensibility, they will give by far the irreat- >st pleasure to those whose condition is least emote from that of the beings with whom hey are occupied. But we think also, that t was wise and meritorious in Mr. Crabbe to 'ccupy himself with such beings. In this ■ountry. there probably are not less tlian hree hundred thousand persons who read for iTnusement or instruction, among the mid- ?.ling classes* of society. In thi» hiirher * By ilie middlinji olassBs, we, moan alrnn.«i nil hose who are below the =phprp of what i.-; f-alli (1 ish'onahle or piihlic life, and wlio do, not aim ar isiinciion or noiorieiy bc-yond ihf circle ot tlicir .(jualsin fortune and eitua-iosi. classes, there are not as many as thirty thousand. It is easy to see therefore which a poet should choose to please, for his own glory and emolument, and which he shouitl wish to delight and amend, out of mere philanthropy. The fact too we believe is, that a great part of the larger body are to the full as well educated and as high-minded as the smaller : and, though their taste may not be so correct and fastidious, we are persuaded that their sensibility is greater. The mis- fortune is, to be sure, that they are extremely apt to affect the taste of their superiors, and to counterfeit even that absurd disdain of which they are themselves the objects ; and that poets have generally thought it safest to invest their interesting characters with all the trappings of splendid fortune and high station, chiefiy because those who know least about such matters think it unworthy to sym- pathise in the adventures of those who are without them ! For our own part.s, however, we are quite positive, not only that persons in middling life would naturally be most touched with the emotions that belong to their own condition, but that those emotions are in themselves the most powerful, and consequently the best fitted for poetical or pathetic representation. Even with regard to the heroic and ambitious passions, as the vista is longer which leads from humble privacy to the natural objects of such pas- sions ; so, the career is likely to be more im- petuous, and its outset more marked by strik- ing and contrasted emotions : — and as to all the more tender and less turbulent affections, upon which the beauty of the pathetic is altogether dependant, we apprehend it to be quite manifest, that their proper soil and nidus is the privacy and simplicity of humble life; — that their very elements are dissipated by the variety of objects that move for ever in the world of fashion : and their essence tainted by the cares and vanities that are diffused in the atmosphere of that lofty reaion. But we are wa.'uleriiiL;- into a long disserta- tion, instead oi maiviiiL; d". could be made of the vulgar fine countiy of Enghm If Mr. Crabbe had had the g"ood fortune t( live among ovr Highland hills, and lakes, aiif upland woods — our livii.g floods sweepiiu' through forests of pine — oin- lonely vale* aru rough copse-covered clifls; what a deliciou! picture would his unrivalled powers have eiia' bled him to give to the work! ! — But we hayi no right to complain, while we have such pic tures as this of a group of Gipsies. It is evi dently finished conamorc; and does appear t< us to be absolutely perfect, both in its mora and its physical expression. " .'\gain the country was enclos'd ; a wide And sandy road has banks on either .aide ; Where, lo ! n hollow on the left appear'd, _ And there a Gipsy-tribe their lent had rear'd ; 'Twas open spread, to catch the morning siin, .\nd ihev had now their early meal begun. When two l)rown Boy.'^ just leli iheir grassy seat,! The early Trav'llcr with their pray'rs lo greet : i While yet Orlando held his pence in hand. He saw their sister on her duty stand ; Some twelve years old. demure, afTeeied, f'lv, Prepar'd the force of early powers to try : Urn ft„i* as t'Cft t:W'!" ■ n'siiiia •staptiv! 'h too CRABBE'S TALES. 401 Sudden a look of languor he descries, And well-ieign'd apprehension in her eyes ; Train'd, but yet savage, in her speakina; face, He mark'd ilie features of lier vagrant race ; When a light laugh and roguish leer express'd The vice implanted in her youthful breast I Withui, the Father, who from fences nigh Had brought the fuel for the fire's supply, [by : Watch'd now the feeble blaze, and stood dejected On ragged rug, iust borrow'd from the bed, And by the hand of coarse indulgence fed. In dirty patchwork negligently dress'd, Reclin'd the Wife, an infant at her breast ; In her wild face some touch of grace remain'd, Of vigour palsied and of beauty stain'd ; Her blood-shot eyes on her unheeding mate [state. Were wrathful turn'd, and seem'd her wants to Ciirsingr his tardy aid — her Mother there With Gipsy-state engross'd the only chair; Solemn and dull her look: with such she stands, \nd reads the Milk-maid's fortune, in her hands, Pracinff the lines of life ; assum'd through years, 5ach feature now the steady falsehood wear? ; iVith hard and savage eye she views the food, ^nd grudging pinches their intruding brood ! jast in the group, the worn-out Grandsire sits ieglecied. Tost, and living but bv fi's ; Iseless, despis'd, his worthless labours done, ind half protected by the vicious Son, Vho half supports him ! He with heavy glance, ''iews the young ruffians who around him dance ; >nd, by the sadness in his face, appears 'o trace the progress of their future years; 'hrough what strange course of misery, vice, deceit, fust wildly wander each unpractis'd cheat; /hat shame and grief, what punishment and pain, p6rt of fierce passions, must each child sustain — 're they like him approach their latter end, ■'^ithout a hope, a comfort, or a friend !" pp. 180—182. The next story, which is entitled " Edward lore.'' also contains many passages of ex- lisite beauty. The hero is a young man of pirinar irenins and enthusiastic temper, with ,. ardent love of virtue, but no settled prin- Iples either of conduct or opinion. He first jflceives an attachment for an amiable girl, .fto is captivated with his conversation ;. — fl being too poor to marry, soon comes to t'snd more of his time in the family of an el- irly sceptic (though we really see no object i giving: him that character) of his acquaint- {j3e, who had recently married a young wife, J;i placed unbounded confidence in her vir- tj!. and \h.9. honour of his friend. In a mo- lint of temptation, they abuse this confi- f|ice. The husband i-enounces him with dig- ripd composure : and he falls at once from 1 romantic pride of his virtue. He then " Then as the Friend repos'd, the younger Pair Sat down to cards, and play'd beside his chair ; Till he awaking, to his books applied, Or heard the niiisic of th' obedient bride : If mild th' evening, in the fields they stray'd, .And their own tlock with partial eye survcy'd ; But oft the Husband, to indulgence prone, Resum'd his book, and bade them walk alone. " This was obey'd; and oft when this was done They calmly gaz'd on the declining sun ; In silence saw the glowing landscape fade. Or, sitting, sang beneath the arbour's shade: Till rose the moon, and on each youthful face. Shed a soft beauty, and a dangerous grace." pp. 198, 199. The ultimate downfall of this lofty mind, with its agonising gleams of transitory recol- lection, form a picture, than which we do not know if the whole range of our poetry, rich as it is in representations of disordered intellect, furnishes any thing more touching, or delin- eated with more truth and delicacy. " Harmless at length th' unhappy man was found, The spirit settled, but I he reason drown'd ; And all the dreadful tempest died away. To the dull stillness of the misty day ! " And now his freedom he attain'd — if free The lost to reason, truth and hope, can be; The playful children of the place he meets ; Playful with them he rambles through the streets; In all they need, his stronger arm he lends. And his lost mind to these approving friends. " That gentle Maid, whom once the Youth had Is now with mild religious pity niov'd ; [lov'd, Kindly she chides his boyish flights, while he Will for a moment fi.v'd and pensive be ; And as she trembhng speaks, his lively eyes E.xplore her looks, he listens to her sighs; Chann'd by her voice, th' harmonious soundsinvade His clouded mind, and for a time persuade : Like a pleas'd Infant, who has newly caught From the maternal glance, a gleam of thought ; He stands enrapt, the half-known voice to hear, And starts, half-conscious, at the falling tear! " Rarely from town, nor then unwatch'd, he goes, In darker mood, as if to hide his woes ; But soon returning, with impatience seeks [speaks ; His youthful friends, and shouts, and sings, and Speaks a wild speech, with action all as wild^ The children's leader, and himself a child ; He spins their top. or at their bidding, bends His hack, while o'er it leap his laughing friends; Simple and weak, he acts the boy once more. And heedless children call him Silly Shore." "pp. 206, 207. r "Squire Thomas " is not nearly so interest- ing. This is the history of a mean domineer- ing spirit, who, having secured the succession of a rich relation by assiduous flattery, looks ks the companv of the dissipated and gay ; i about for some obsequious and yielding fair I ruins his health and fortune, without re- \ one, from whom he may exact homage in his gining his tranquillity. When in gaol, and ' turn. He thinks he has found such a one in "a lowly damsel in his neighbourhood, and marries her without much premeditation- — niisrable. he is relieved by an unknown hand a ; traces the benefaction to the friend whose f'ner kindness he had so ill repaid. This when he discovers, to his consternation, not hniliation falls upon his proud spirit and ' only that she has the spirit of a virago, but elttered nerves with an overwhelming force; that she and her family have decoyed him a* his reason fails beneath it. He is for ' ' ''^' ' ' ' ' Wie lime a raving maninc: and then falls j into the match, to revenge, or indemnify themselves for his having mn away with the state of gay and compassionable im- , whole inheritance of their common relative. wility. which is described with inimitable i She hopes to bully him into a separate main- nty in the close of this story. We can J tenance — but his avarice refu.ses to buy his ' hut a few extracts. The nature of the 1 peace at such a price; and they continue to ictions which led to his first fatal lapse ; live together, on a very successful system of at well intimated in the following short pas j mutual tormenting. ^T : — I " Jesse and Colin " pleases us much better 51 2 I 2 402 POETRY. Jesse is the orphan of a poor clerg}'manj who goes, upon her father's death, to live with a rich old lady who had been his friend ; and CoHn is a young farmer, whose father had speculated away an handsome property : and who. though living in a good degree "by his own labour, yet wished the damsel (who half wished it also) to remain and share his hum- ble lot. The rich lady proves to be suspicious. overbeaririiT. and selfish; and sets Jesse upon the ignoble duty of acting the spy and informer over the other dependents of her household : on the delineation of whose characters Mr! Crabbe has lavished a prodigious power of observation and correct description : — But this not suiting her pure and ingenuous mind, she suddenly leaves the splendid mansion, and returns to her native village, where Coliri and his mother soon persuade her to form one of their happy family. There is a great deal of good-heartedne.ss in this tale, and a kind of moral beauty, which has lent more than usual elegance to the simple pictures it pre- sents. We are templed to e.xtract a good part of the denouement. " The pensive Colin in his e^arden stray'd, But felt not then the beauties he di?play'd ; There many a pleasant ohject met his view, A rising wood of oaks behind it grew ; A stream ran by it. and the villase-green And public road were from the garden seen ; Save where the pine and larch the bound'ry made, And on the rose beds threw a soft'nin? shade. " The Mother sat beside the garden-door. Dress'd as in times ere she and hers were poor ; The broad-lac'd cap was known in ancient days. When Madam's drcsscompeU'd ilie village praise: And siil! she look'd as in the times of old ; Ere his last farm the erring husband sold ; While yet the Mansion stood in decent state, | And paupers waited at the well-known gate. j •' ' Alas I my Son !" the Mother cried, ' and why That silent grief and oft-repeated sigh ? Fain would I think that Je^ne still may come I To share the comforts of our rustic home : I She surely lov'd thee ; I have seen the maid. , When ihou hast kindly brought the Vicar aid — When thou hast eas'd his bosom of its pain. j Oh ! I have seen her — she will come again.' " The Matron ceas'd ; and Colin stood the while j Silent, but striving for a grateful smile ; i He then replied — ' Ah I . — Would listen long, and would contend with sleep, To hear the woes and wonders of the deep ; Till the fond mother cried — ' That man will teach Tlie foolish bov his loud and boisterous speech.' Sojudg'd the Father — and the boy was taught To shun the Uncle, whom his love had sought." pp. 368. 369. " At length he sicken'd, and this duteous Child Watch'd o'er his sickness, and his pains beguil'd ; The Mother bade him from the lofi refrain, But. though wi'h caution, yet he went again; And now his tales the sailor feehlv told. His heart was heavy, and his limbs were cold ! The tender boy came olten to entreat His good kind iriend would of hi" presents eat : Purloin'd or purchased, for he saw, with shame, The food untouch'd that to his Uncle came ; Who, sick in body and in mind, rereiv'd The Boy's indulgence, gratified and tiriev'd! " Once in a week the Father came to say. ' George, are you ill V — and hurried him away ; Yet to his wife would on their duties dwell. And often cry, ' Do use my brother well ;' And something kind, no question, haac meant. And took vast credit for the vague intent. " But, truly kind, the gentle Boy essay'd To cheer his Uncle, firm, although afraid ; But now the Father caught him at the door. And, swearing yes. the Man in Office swore. And cried. ' Away 1 — How I Brother. I'm surpris'd, Tiiat one so old can be so ill advis'd,' " &.c. pp. 370 — 371. After the catastrophe, he endures deserved remorse and anguish. " He takes his Son. and bids the boy unfold All the good Uncle of his feelinss told. All he lamenied — and the ready t^>ar Falls as he listens, sooth'd, and griev'd to hear. " ' Did he not curse me, child ?' — 'He never curs'd. But could not breathe, and said his heart would burst :' — [pray ; 'And so will mine!' — 'Then. Father, you must My Uncle said it took his pains away.' " — p. 374. The last tale in the volume, entitled, "The Learned Boy."' is not the most interesting in the collection : thoush it is not in the least like what its title would lead us to expect. It is the history of a poor, weakly, paltry lad, who i.* sent up from th^ country to* be a clerk in town ; and learns by slow decrees to affect freethinkinjr, and to practise dissipation. Upon the tidings of which happy conversion his father, a worthy old farmer, orders him down again to the country, where he harrows up the soul of his pious ^randmotli»'r by his in- fidel prating — and his fathiv reforms him at once by burnin? his idle books, and treating him with a vigorous course of horsewhipping. There is some humour in this tale: — and a great deal of nature and art. especially in the delineation of this slender clerk's gradual corruption — and in the con.stant and constitu- tional predominance of weakness and folly, in all his vice and virtue — his piety and pro- faneness. We have thus gone lhrout!;h the belter part of this volume with a degree of minuteness for which we are not .sure that even our poet- ical readers will all be disposed to thank i. But considering Mr. Crabbe as, upon t- whole, the most original writer who has e\ come before us : and being at the .same tit of opinion, that his writings are destined to still more extensive popularity than they ha • yet obtained, we could not resist the temp • tion of contributing our little aid to the ful ■ ment of that destiny. It is chiefly for t- same reason that we have directed our - marks rather to the moral than the liter? f qualities of his works: — to his genius at leaj rather than his taste — and to his thouirll rather than his figures of speech. By far 1) most remarkable thing in his writinirs, is t s prodigious mass of original observations a I reflections they every where exhibit : and tit extraordinary power of conceiving and rep- sentingan imag-inary object, whether physi 1 or intellectual, with such a rich and coinpl » accompaniment of circumstances and deta , as few ordinary observers either perceive r remember in realities : a power which, thoi i often greatly misapplied, must for ever ent > him to the very first rank among descript ■ poets; and, when directed to worthy objei to a rank inferior to none in the highest - partments of poetry. In such an author, the attributes of st ■- and versification may fairly be considered? secondary ; — and yet, if we were to go • nutely into them, they would afford room r a still longer chapter than that which we :' now concluding. He cannot be said to > uniformly, or even generally, an elegant wri His style is not dignified — and neither \ \ pure nor very easy. Its characters are fo ', precision, and familiarity : — now and t n obscure — sometimes vulgar, and sometii s quaint. With a great deal of tenderness, d occasional fits of the sublime of de.spair J agony, there is a want of habitual fire, am I a tone of enthusiasm in the general teno I his writings. He seems to recollect ra t than invent; and frequently brings forv d his statements more in the temper of a ii- tious and conscientious witness, than of a r- vent orator or impassioned spectator, is similes are almost all elaborate and ingeni s. and rather seem to be furnished from thrf- forts of a fanciful mind, than to be e.\h. d by the spontaneous ferment of a healed )■ agination. His versification again is freque y harsh and heavy, and his diction flat A prosaic; — both seeming to be altogether ?• lected in his zeal for the accuracy and ( i- plete rendering of his conceptions. T -t' defects too are infinitely "reater in his rent than in his early compositions. "The il- I lage" is written, upon the whole, in a floMi: I and sonorous strain of versification ; and -i' Eustace Crey," though a late publicatio'if in general remarkably rich and melod.i." It is chiefly in his narratives and ctirioU!.«- scriptions "that these faults of diction i(i measure are conspicuous. Where he isw li- ed bv his subject, and becomes fairly ii g- nant or pathetic, his language is often ry sweet antl beautiful. He has no fixed ."^y m or rnanuer of ver.sification ; but mi.ves se n' CRABBES TALES OF THE HALL. Mft ! rery opposite styles, as it were by accident, It is no great matter. If he will only write a '' and not in ijeueral very judiciously ; — what is i few more Tales of the kind we have suggested '' peculiar to himself is not good, and strikes us ; at the beginning of this article, we shall en- ''" as being both abrupt and alfected. [ gage for it that he shall have our praises — and ;" He may prolit, if he pleases, by these hints | those of more fastidious critics — whatever be Mil _-and, if he pleases, he may laugh at them. | the qualities of his style or versification. (lulti, 1819.) Tales of the Hall. By the Reverend George Crabbe. 2 vols. 8vo. pp.670. London: 1819. *'n Mr. Crabbe is the greatest mannerist^ per I [haps, of all our living poets; and it is rather Vf unfortunate that the most prominent features ■*? of his mainierism are not the most pleasing. ^rrThe homely, quaint, and prosaic style — the ""alat, and often broken and jingling versification ™ [—the eternal full-lengths of low and worth- '■™Ress characters — with their accustomed gar- ''*pii8hingsof sly jokes and familiar moralising — ^''i* \te all on the surface of his writings ; and are # ilmost unavoidably the things by which we ^"'|ire first reminded of him, when we take up but their combination — in such proportions at least as occur in this instance — may safely be pronounced to be original. Extraordinary, however, as this combination must appear, it does not seem very difficult to conceive in what way it may have arisen ; and. so far from regarding it as a proof of sin- gular humoionsness. caprice, or aflectation in the individual, we are rather inclined to hold that something approaching to it must be the natural result of a long habit of observa- tion in a man of genius, possessed of that iny of his new productions. Yet they are not j temper and disposition which is the usual ac- he things that truly constitute his peculiar companiment of such a habit : and that the same strangely compounded and apparently incongruous assemblage of themes and senti- ■Ai M lojii; iiwii :hm aid 11 ^^''(.Uycharacterist to nanner ; or give that character by which he vill, and ought to be, remembered with future enerations. It is plain enough, indeed, that ments would be frequently produced under hese are things that will make nobody re- | such circumstances — if authors had oftener nembered — and can never, therefore, ba re- the courage to write from their own impres- iracteristic of some of the most original si sions, and had less fear of the laugh or won- der of the more shallow and barren part of their readers. A great talent for observation, and a delight in the exercise of it — the power and the practice of dissecting and disentangling that subtle and ted ; an unrivalled and almost magical ! complicated tissue, of habit, and self-love, and ajverof observation, resulting in descriptions \ affection, which constitute human character — true to nature as to strike us rather as ; .seems to us, in all cases, to imply a contem- scripts than imitations — an anatomy of ■ plative, rather than an active disposition. It racter and feeling not less exquisite and i can only exist, indeed, where there is a good rohing — an occasional touch of matchless deal of social sympathy ; for, without this, the nderness — and a deep and dreadful pathetic, ' occupation could e.xcite no interest, and afford terspersed by tits, and strangely interwoven , no satisfaction — but only such a measure and ith the most minute and humble of his de- sort of sympathy as is gratitied by being a 'iJs. Add to all this the sure and profound spectator, and not an actor on the great theatre Igacity of the remarks with which he every of life — and leads its possessor rather to look a tea »w and then startles us in the midst of very with etuierness on the feats and the fortunes eilheii LJ powerful poetry that the world has ever mt een. ™'l Mr. C, accordingly, has other gifts; and ^^^ hose not less peculiar or less strongly marked ^^^. Kan the blemishes with which they are con bpaii ■ 'ralten, fau: 1158 fc' letot'i lambitious discussions ; — and the weight and of others, than to take a share for himself iu rseness of the maxims which he drops, like the game that is played before him. Some acular responses, on occasions that give no stirring and vigorous spirits there are, no wraise of such a revelation; — and last, though doubt, in which this taste and talopt is com- 't least, that sweet and seldom sounded bined with a more thorough and effective sympathy; and leads to the study of men's characters by an actual and hearty partici- pation in their various passions and pursuits; ! — thouo-h it is to be remarked, that when such persons embody their observations in writing, j they will generally be found to exhibit their These, we think, are the true characteristics characters in action, rather than to describe 'the genius of this great writer; and it is in them in the abstract ; and to let their various t'ir mixture with the oddities and defects to personages disclose themselves and their pe- ^lich we have already alluded, that the pe- culiarities, as it were spontaneously, and with- f iarity of his manner seems to us substan- | out help or preparation, in their ordinary ly to consist. The ingredients may all of conduct and speech — of all which we have a :.T be found, we suppose, in other writers; I very splendid and striking e.xample ill the ')rdof Lyrical inspiration, the lightest touch wKich instantly charms away all harshness 'in his numbers, and all lowness from his ■mes — and at once exalts him to a level ! ih the most energetic and inventive poets < his age. 406 POETRY. Tales of My Landlord, and the other pieces of that extraordinary writer. In the common case, however, a great observer, we believe, will be found, pretty certainly, to be a person of a shy and retiring temper — who does not mingle enough with the people he surveys, to be heated with their passions, or infected with their delusions — and who has usually been led. indeed, to take up the office of a looker on, from some little infirmity of nerves, or weakness of spirits, which has unfitted him from playing a more active pait on the busy scene of existence. Now, it is very obvious, we think, that this contemplative turn, and this alienation from the vulgar pursuits of mankind, must in the fir.^t place, produce a great contempt for most of those pursuits, and the objects tliey seek to obtain — a levelling of the factitious distinc- tions which human pride and vanity have es- tablished in the world, and a mingled scorn and compassion for the lofty pretensions under which men so often disguise the nothingness of their chosen occupations. When the many- coloured scene of life, with ail its petty agi- tations, its shifting ])omps, and perishable passions, is surveyed by one who does not mL\ in its business, it is impossible that it should not appear a very pitiable and almost ridiculous affair : or that the heart should not echo back the brief and emphatic exclama- tion of the mighty dramatist— " Lite's a poor player, Who frets and struts his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more I" — Or the more sarcastic amplification of it, in the words of our great moral poet — "Behold the Child, by Nature's kindly law, Pleas'd with a rattle, lickl'd with a straw ! Some livelier plaything gives our Youth delight, A little louder, but as empty quite : Scarfs, garters, gold our riper years engage ; And beads and prayer-books are the toys of Age ! Pleas'd with this bauble still as that before. Till tir'd we sleep — and Life's poor play is o'er!" This is the more solemn view of the sub- ject : — But the first fruits of observation are most commoidy found to issue in Satire — the unmasking the vain pretenders to wisdom, and worth, and happiness, with whom society is infested, and holding up to the derision of mankind those meaniipssesof the great, those miseries of the fortunate, and those " Fears of the brave, and follies of the wise," which th^eye of a dispassionate observer so quickly dt'lects under the glittering exterior by which they would fain be disguised — and | which bring pretty much to a level the iniel- 1 lect, and morals, and enjoyments, of the great mass of mankind. This misanthropic end has unquestionably i bi'cn by far the most common result of a habit I of observation ; and that in which its effects have most generally terminated: — Yet we j cannot bring ourselves to think that it is their ! just or natural termination. Something, no ^ doubt, will depend on the temper of the indi- | vidual. and ihe proportions in which the gall atid the milk of human knidness have been originally mingled in his composition. — Yet satirists, we think, have not in general been ill-natured persons — and we are inclined ra- ther to ascribe this limited and uncharitable application of their powers of observation to their love of fame antl popularity. — which are well known to be best secured by successfuj ridicule or invective — or, quite as probably indeed; to the narrowness and insuflrcienc) of the observations themselves, and the im- perfection of their talents for their due con duct and extension. It is certain, at least, W€ think, that the satirist makes use but of hall the discoveries of the observer ; and teachet but half — and theworser half — of the le-ssont which may be deduced from his occupation He puts down, indeed, the proud pretensioni of the great and arrogant, and levels the vaii distinctions which human ambition has es tablished among the brethren of mankind;— he " Bares the mean heart that lurks beneath a Star,' — and destroys the illusions which wooK limit our sympathy to the lorward and figur iiig persons of this world — the favourites ol fame and fortune. But the true result of ob servation should be, not so much to cast dowi the proud, as to raise up the lowU : — not S" much to diminish our sympathy with thi powerful and renowned, as to extend it to all who, in humbler conditions, have the same or still higher claims on our esteem or affec tion. — It is not surely the natural consequenc of learning to judge truly of the characters o men, that we should despise or be indifleren about them all ; — and, though we have leame- to see through the false glare which play| round the envied summits of existence, ao« to know how little dignity, or happiness, ol worth, or wisdom, may sometimes belong n the possessors of power, and fortune, an^ learning and renown, — it does not follow, b' any means, ihal we should look upon th whole of. human life as a mere deceit au imposture, or think the concerns of our specie' fit subjects only for scorn and derision. Ot'' promptitude to admire and to envy will indee' be corrected, our enthusiasm abated, and ot! distrust of appearances increased; — but th- sympathies and affections of our nature wi continue, and be better directed — our love c our kind will not be diminisheil — and our ii dulgence for their faults and follies, if we rea our lesson aright, will be signally strenglhei ed and confirmed. The true and proper efiec therefore, of a habit of observation, and i thorough anil penetiating knowledge of hums) character, will be, not to extinguish our syn pathy, but to extend it — to turn, no dout many a throb of admiration, and many a sig of love into a smile of derision or of pit)' but at the same time to reveal much th commands our homage and excites our afle tion, in those humble and unexplored regioi of the heart and under>tandin:r. which nev' engage the attention of the incurious, — and briiig the whole family of mankind nearer a level, by finding out latent merits as well :^ latent defects in all its members, and cor' kw Mm -Mia CRABBE'S TALES OF THE HALL. 407 pensatinj? the flaws that are detected in the boasted oniamenls of life, by bringing to light the richness and the lustre that sleep in the mines beneath its surface. We are afraid some of our readers may not at once perceive the application of these pro- found remarks to the subject immediately be- fore us. But there are others, we doubt not, who do not need to be told that they are intended to explain how ]\Ir. Crabbe, and other persons with the same gift of observation, should so often busy themselves with what may be considered as low and vulgar charac- ters : and, leclining all dealings with heroes and heroic topics, should not only venture to seek for an interest in the concerns of ordinary mortals, but actually intersperse small pieces of ridicule with their undignified pathos, and endeavour to make their readers look on their books with the same mingled feelings of com- passion and amusement, with which — unnat- ural as it may appear to the readers of poetry ' — ^they, and all judicious observers, actually jlook upon human life and huftian nature. — This, we are persuaded, is the true key to the i^eater part of the peculiarities of the author pefore us : and though we have disserted apon it a little longer than was necessary, we eally think it may enable our readers to com- orehend him, and our remarks on him, some- ihing better than they could have done with- kt it. [ There is, as everybody must have felt, a jtrange mixture of satire and sympathy in LU his productions — a great kindliness and iompassion for the errors and sufferings of jur poor human nature, but a strong distrust if its heroic virtues and high pretensions. lis heart is always open to pity, and all the lilder emotions — but there is little aspiration fter the grand and sublime of character, nor jery much encouragement for raptures and cstasiesof any description. These, he seems p think, are things rather too fine for the said oor human nature: and that, in our low and rring cojidition, it is a little ridiculous to pre- snd, either to very exalted and immaculate irtue, or very pure and exquisite happiness. 'e- not only never meddles, therefore, with le delicate distresses and noble fires of the Bfoes and heroines of tragic and epic fable, it may generally be detected indulging in a rking sneer at the pomp and vanity of all ich superfine imaginations — and turning om them, to draw men in their true postures id dimensions, and with all the imperfec- )n6 that actually belong to their condition : — ,6 prosperous and happy overshadowed with ssing clouds of ennui, and disturbed with tie flaws of bad humour and discontent — e great and wise beset at times with strange 'aknesses and meannesses and paltry vexa- ne — and even the most virtuous and en- htencd falling far below the standard of letical perfection — and stooping every now d then to paltry jealousies and prejudices — sinking into shabby sensualities — or medi- on their own excellence and import- with a ludicrous and lamentable anxiety. is is one side of the picture ; and charac- terises sufficiently the satirical vein of our author: But the other is the most extensive and important. In rejecting the vulgar sources of interest in poetical narratives, and reducing his ideal persons to the standard of reality, Mr. C. does by no means seek to extinguish the sparks of human sympathy within us, or to throw any damp on the curiosity with which we naturally explore the characters of each other. On the contrary, he has aflbrded new and more wholesome ibod for all those pro- pensities — and, by placing before us those details which oiu" priile or fastidiousness is so apt to overlook, has disclosed, in all their truth and simplicity, the native and unadul- terated workings of those affections which are at the bottom of all social interest, and are really rendered less touching by the exagge- rations of more ambitious artists — while he exhibits, with admirable force and endless variety, all those combinations of passions and opinions, and all that cross-play of selfishness and vanity, and indolence and ambition, an4 habit and reason, which make up the intel- lectual character of individuals, and present to every one an instructive picture of his neighbour or himself. Seeing, by the per- fection of his art, the master passions in their springs, and the high capacities in their rudi- ments — and having acquired the gift of tracing all the propensities and marking tendencies of our plastic nature, in their first slight indi- cations, or even from the aspect of the dis- guises they so often assume, he does not need, in order to draw out his characters in all their life and distinctness, the vulgar de- monstration of those striking and decided actions by which their maturity is proclaimed even to the careless and inattentive ; — but delights to point out to his readers, the seeds or tender filaments of those talents and feel- ings which wait only for occasion and oppor- tunity to burst out and astonish the world — and to accustom them to trace, in characters and actions apparently of the most ordinary description, the self-same attributes that, un- der other circumstances, would attract uni- versal attention, and furnish themes for the most popular and impassioned descriptions. That he should not be guided in the choice of his sullied by any regard to the rank or condition which his persons hold in society, may easily be imagined ; and, with a view to the ends he aims at, might readily be for- i given. But we fear that his passion for ob- servation, and the delight he takes in tracing ' out and analyzing all the little traits that in- ' dicate character, and all the little circum- stances that influence it, have sometimes led j him to be careless about his selection of the instances in which it was to be exhibited, or at least to select them upon principles very- different from those which give them an in- 1 terest in the eyes of ordinary readers. For j the purpose of mere anatomy, beauty of form or complexion are things quite indiflerent j I and the physiologist, who examines plants I oidy to study their internal structure, and to i make himself master of the contrivances by I which their various functions are performed, 408 POETRY. ]>ay8 no regard to the brilliancy of their hues, ihe sweetness of their odoui-s. or the graces «»f their form. Those who come to him for the sole purjwse of acquiring knowledge may participate perhaps in this indifference ] but the world at large will wonder at them — and he will engage fewer pupils to listen to his instructions, than if he had condescended in some degree to consult their predilections in the beginning. It is the same case, we think, in many respects, with Mr. Crabbe. Relying for the interest he is to produce, on the curi- ous expositions he is to make of the elements of human character, or at least tinding his own chief gratification in those subtle inves- tigations; he seems to care very little upon what particular hidividuals he pitches for the purpose of these demonstrations. Almost every human mind; he seems to think, may serve to display that fine and mysterious mechanism which it is his delight to explore md explain : — and almost every condition, and every history of life, afford occasions to show how it may be put into action, and pass through its various combinations. It seems, therefore, almost as if he had caught up the first dozen or two of persons that came across him in the ordinary walks of life, — and then fitting in his little window in their breast.s, and applying his tests and instruments of ob- servation, had set himself about such a minute and curious scrutiny of their whole habits, history, adventures, and dispositions, as he thought must ultimately create not only a familiarity, but an interest, which the first aspect of the subject was far enough from leading any one to expect. That he suc- ceeds more frequently than could have been anticipated, we are very willing to allow. But we cannot help feeliny, also, that a little more pains bestowed in the selection of his characters, would have made his power of observation and description tell with tenfold effect; and that, in spite of the exquisite truth of his delineations, and the fineness of the perceptions by which he was enabled to make them, it is impossible to take any con- siderable interest in many of his personages, or to avoid feeling some degree of fatigue at the minute and patient exposition that is made of all that belongs to them. These remarks are a little too general, we believe — and are not introduced with strict propriety at the head of our fourth article on Mr. Crabbe's productions. They have drawn out, however, to such a lenglh, that we can afford to say but little of the work imme- diately before us. It is marked with all the characteristics that we have noticed, either now or formerly, as distinctive of his poetry. On the whole, however, it has eertaiidy fewer of the grosser faults — and fewer too, perhaps. of the more exquisite passages which occur in his former publications. There is nothing at least that has struck us, in goincr over these volumes, as equal in elegance to Pho-be I>aw- 80n in the Register, or in pathetic efiect to the Convict's Dream, or Edward Shore, or the Parting; Hour, or the Siiilor dying beside his Sweetheart. On the other hand; there is far less that is horrible, and nothing that can 1 said to be absolutely disgusting; and the pi ture which is afforded of society and hum? nature is, on the whole, much less painf and degrading. There is both less misei,, and less guilt ; and, while the same searchiij and unsparing glance is sent into all the dail caverns of the breast, and the truth brougi'l forth with the same stern impartiality, ttJ result is more comfortable and cheering. Til greater part of the characters are rather mo,l elevated in station, and milder and moj* amiable in disposition ; while the acciden of life are more mercifully managed, and fo tunate circumstances more liberally allowe It is rather remarkable, too. that ]\lr. Crabl seems to become more amorous as he grov older, — the interest of almost all the siori in his collection turning on the temlci ]-a sion — and many of them on its most rci ; iii varieties. The plan of the work, — for it has rath, more of plan and unity than any of the f( mer, — is abundantly simple. Two brothe: both past middle age, meet together lor tl first time since their infancy, in the Hall their native parish, which the elder and rich had purchased as a place of retirement 1^ his declining age — and there tell each olh their own history, and then that of their gues neighbours, and acquaintances. The seni. is much the richer, and a bachelor — havii been a little distasted with the sex by t unlucky result of an early and very <\\tra\ ilh gant passion. He is, moreover, rat reserved and sarcastic, anil somcwiia ish, though with an excellent hcait powerful understanding. The youngt i sensible also, but more open, social, ai ative — a happy husband and father, tendency to Whiiigism, and some notion reform — and a disposition to think well be of men and women. The visit lasts two three weeks in autumn ; and the Tales, w hi make up the volume, are told in the afi dinner tite a tetcs that take place in tli;it 1:i between the worthy brothers over their I oi; The married man, however, wearies ai Ithf; for his wife and children ; and his brother him go, with more coldness than he had ( pected. He goes with him, however, a sta on the way ; and, inviting him to turn asidi little to look at a new purchase he had ma of a sweet farm with a neat mansion, he fin his wife and children comfortably setll there, and all dressed out and ready to ceive them ! and speedily discoA-ers ili;it is, by his brother's bounty, the pro})riti(ir a fair domain within a morning's ride i i ! Hall — where they may discuss polii < -. :i tell tales any afternoon they think pK;] t i. Though their own stories and d('scii|'t:i are not, in our opinion, the best in tin' u" it is but fair to introduce these narrative l> thers and their Hall a little more particula to our readers. The history of the elder a: more austere is not particularly i)robablej-.T nor very interesting; but it affords many sages extremely characteristic of the autl He was a spoiled child, and grew up int CRABBE'S TALES OF THE HALL. 409 Jjuthof a romantic and contemplative turn — ti-eaming, in his father's rural abode, of di- 'ne nymphs and damsels all passion and uitv. One day he had the good luck to •scue a fair lady from a cow, and fell des- fjrately in love : — Though he never got to l)eech of his charmer, who departed from lie place where she was on a visit, and hided the eager search with which he pur- Jed her, in town and country, for many a ng year : For this foolish and poetical pas- pn settled down on his spirits; and neither Ime nor company, nor th,e business of a Lon- pn banker, could effect a diversion. At last, [ the end of ten or twelve years — for the fit Bted that unreasonable time — being then an iper clerk in his uncle's bank, he stumbled wn his Dulcinea in a very unexpected w^ay •and a way that no one but Mr. Crabbe (3uld either have thought of — or thought of jiscribing in verse. In short, he finds her i reablishcd as the chere amie of another re- i rectable banker ! and after the first shock is ■ fer, sets about considei-ing how he may re- lim her. The poor Perdita professes peni- ice ; and he ollVrs to assist and support her she will abandon her evil courses. The lowing passage is fraught with a deep and nelanclioly knowledge of character and of ,jnan nature. , She vow'd — she tried ! — Alas! she did not know [)w deeply rooied evil habits grow! e felt ihe truth upon her spirits press, It wanted ease, indulgence, show, excess; I'.uptuous banquets ; pleasures — not refin'd, it such as soothe to sleep th' opposing mind — ;elook'd for idle vice, the time to kill, .;d subtle, strong apologies for ill ; id thus her yielding, unresisting soul, Ink. and let sin confuse her and control : 'asures that brought disgust yet brouglit relief, ,id minds she hated help'd to war with grief" Vol. i. p. 163. [As her health fails, however, her relapses Icome less frequent ; and at last she dies, titet'ul and resigned. Her awakened lover i stunned by the blow — takes seriously to hiiiess — and is in danger of becoming ava- iious; when a severe illness rouses him to hher thoughts, and he takes his name out f the firm, and, being turned of sixty, seeks iilace of retirement. ' le chose his native village, and the hill I clhnb'd a boy had its attraction still; ^'h that small brook beneath, where he would -'d stooping fill the hollow of his hand, [stand, ' quench ih' impatient thirst — ihen stop awhile ' -ee the sun upon the waters smile, I hat sweet weariness, when, long denied, ^' drink and view the fountain that supplied 1 ■ sparkling bliss — and feel, if not express, (r pertect ease, in that sweet weariness. '"be oaks vet flourished in that fertile ground, ^<' re still ihp church with lofty tower was found ; - 1 still that Hall, a first, a favourite view," &.c. ho {Tall of Binning ! his delight ahoy, 'ii L'ave his fancy in her flight employ ; I e, from his father's modest home, he gaz'd, I grandeur charm'd him, and its height amaz'd: — ^'V, voting, no more, reiir'd to views well known, I finds thai object of his awe his own ; it Hall at Binning ! — how he loves the gloom 52 That sun-excluding window gives the room ; Those broad brown stairs on which he loves to tread ; Those beams wilhiii ; without, that length of lead. On which the names of wanton boys appear, VVho died old men, and left memorials here. Carvings of feet and hands, and knots and Howers, The fruits of busy minds in idle hours." Vol. i. pp. 4 — 6. So much for Squire George — unless any reader should care to know, as Mr. Crabbe has kindly told, that — "The Gentleman was tall." and, moreover, "Looked old when fol- lowed, but alert when met.'" Of Captairk Richard, the story is more varied and ram- bling. He was rather neglected in his youth- and passed his time, when a boy, very much, as we cannot help supposing, Mr. Crabbe must have passed his own. He ran wild in the neighbourhood of a seaport, and found occupation enough in its precincts. " Where crowds assembled I was sure to run. Hear what was said, and muse on what was done ; Atieniive list-ningin the moving scene. And often wond'ring what the men could mean. " To me the wives of seamen lov'd to tell What storms endanger'd men esieem'd so well ; What wondrous things in foreign parts they saw. Lands without bounds, and people without law. " No ships were wreck'd upon that fatal beach, But I could give the luckless tale of each ; Eager I look'd, till I beheld a face Of one dispos'd to paint their dismal case ; Who gave the sad survivors' doleful tale. From the first brushing of the mighty gale Uiuil they struck ! and, suffering in their fate, I long'd the more they should its horrors state ; While some, the fond of pity, would enjoy The earnest sorrows of the feeling boy. " There were fond girls, who took me to their side, To tell the story how their lovers died ! They prais'd my tender heart, and bade me prove Both kind and constant when I came to love !" Once he saw a boat upset ; and still recol- lects enough to give this spirited sketch of the scene. "Then were those piercing shrieks, that frantic All hurried '. all in tumult and affright ! [flight, A gathering crowd from different streets drew near. All ask, all answer — none attend, none hear ! " O ! how impatient on the sands we tread. And the winds roaring, and the women led ! They know not who in either boat is gone, But think the father, husband, lover, one. " And who is s/(e apart ! She dares not come To join the crowd, yet cannot rest at home : With what strong interest looks she at the waves. Meeting and clashing o'er the seamen's graves ! 'Tis a poor girl betroih'd — a few hours more, And he will lie a corpse upon the shore ! One wretched hour had pass'd before we knew Whom they had sav'd ! Alas ! they were but two ! An orphan'd lad and widow'd man — no more ! Arid they unnoticed stood upon the shore. With scarce a friend to greet them — widows view'd This man and boy, and then their cries renevv'd." He also pries into the haunts of the smug- glers, and makes friends with the shepherds on the downs in summer ; and then he be- comes intimate with an old sailor's wife, to whom he reads sermons, and histories, and 2K 410 POETRY. i<;st books, and h)Tiins, and indelicate bal- iJids ! The character of this woman is one of the many examples of talent and labour misapplied. It is very powerfully; and. we doubt not, very truly drawn — but it will attract feu' readers. Yet the story she is at last brouirht to tell of her daughter will com- mand a more general interest. " Ruth— T may tell, loo oft had sho been told I — Was tall and tair, and comely to behold, Gentle and simple ; in her native place Not one compared wiih her in form or face ; She was not merry, but she ^ave our hearth A cheertul spirit that was more than niirih. " There was a sailor bny, and people said He was. as man, a hkeness of the maid ; But not in this — lor he was ever glad, While Ruth was apprehensive, mild, and sad." — They are betrothed — and something more than betrothed — when, on the eve of their wedding-day, the youth is carried relent- lessly off by a press-gang; and soon after is slain in battle ! — and a preaching weaver then woos, with nauseous perversions of scripture, the loathing and widowed bride. This picture, too, is strongly drawn ; — but we hasten to a .scene of far more power as well as i^athos. Her father urges her to wed the missioned suitor; and she agrees to give her answer on Sunday. " She left her infant on the Sunday morn. A creature dooni'd to shame! in sorrow horn. She came not home to share our humhlc meal, — Her father thinking what his child would feel From his hard sentence ! — Still she came not home. The niijht t:rew dark, and yet she was not come ! The east-wind rnar'd, the sea reitirn'd the sonnd. And the rain fell as if the world were drown'd : There were no liahts without, and my 2ood man, To kindness frighten'd, with a wroan began To talk of [luili, and pray ! and then he took The Bible down, and read the holy book ; For he had learning : and when that was done We sat in silence — whither conid we run, We said — and then nish'd frighten'd from the door. For we could bear our own conceit no more : We cail'd on neighbours — there she had not been ; We met some wanderers — ours they had not seen ; We hurried o'er the beach, both north and soutli. Then join'd. and wander'd to our haven's mouth : Where rush'd the falling waters wildly out. I scarcely heard the good man's fearful shout. Who saw a something on the billow ride. And — Heaven have mercy on our sins! he cried. It is my child I — and to the present hour So he believes — and spirits have the power ! " And she was gone! the waters wide and deep RoU'd o'er her body as she lay asleep I She heard no more the angry waves and wind. She heard no more the threat'ning of mankind ; Wrapt in dark weeds, the refuse of the storm. To the hard rock was borne her comely form 1 " But O ! what storm was in that mind ! what strife. That could compel her to lay down her life ! For she was seen within the sea to wade. By one at distance, when she first had pray'd ; Then to a rock within the hither shoal. Softly, and with a fearful step, she stole ; Then, when she gain'd it, on the top she stood A moment still — and drnpt into the flood I '^riie man cried loudly, but he cried in vain. — She heard not then — she never heard again 1" — Richard after\vards tells how he left t sea and entered the army, and fought a marched in the Peninsula ; and how he car home and fell in love with a parson's daug ter, and courted and married her; — and tells it all very prettily, — and, moreover, tl he is very happy, and very fond of his wi and children. But we must now take t Adelphi out of doors; and let them inti duce some of their acquaintances. Amo the tirst to whom we are presented are t\ sisters, still in the bloom of life, who h been cheated out of a handsome indeper ence by the cuiniing of a speculating banki and deserted by their lovers in conse(|uen of this calamity. Their characters are dra\ with infinite skill and minuteness, and thi whole story told with great feeling a: beauty: — but it is difficult to make e.\tracti The pnident suitor of the milder a, more serious sister, .sneaks pitifully avr when their fortune changes. The bold lover of the more elate and gay, seeks to ta a baser advantage. ' " Then made he that attempt, in which to fail I Is shameful. — still more shameful to prevail. ! Then was there lightning in that eye that shed t Its beams upon him. — and his frenzy fled ; j Abject and trembling at her feet he laid, [ Despis'd and scorn'd by the indignant maid, ' Whose spirits in their amtation rose. Him, and her own weak pity, to oppose: .As liquid silver in the tube mounts high, Then shakes and settles as the storm goes by!" The effects of this double trial on \hi different tempers are also very finely scribed. The gentler Lucy is the most , signed and magnanimous. The more ring Jane suffers far keener anguish aijJ fiei'cer impatience ; and the task of soothilj and cheering her devolves on her generojj sister. Her fancy, too, is at times a liq] touched by her alllictioiis — and she writ! wild and melancholy verses. The wandi ings of her reason are represented in a ve alfecting manner; — but we rather choose quote the following ver.^es, which appear us to be eminently beautiful, and makes regret that Mr. Crabbe should have indulg us so seldom with those higher lyrical efl Let me not have this gloomy view, About my room, around my l)ed I But morning roses, wet with dew. To cool my burning brows instead. Like flow'rs that once in Eden grew. Let them their fratrrant spirits shed, And every dav the sweets renew. Till I, a faditig flower, am dead! • I'll have my grave beneath a hill. Where only Lucy's self shall know; Where nms the pure pellucid rill Upon its sravrllv bed below; There violets on the borders blow. And insects their soft light di.=play, Till as the morninir sunbeams glow. The cold phosphoric fires decay. ' There will the lark, the lamb, in sport. In air, on earth, securely play, And Lucy to my grave resort. As innocent, but not so gay. fifie'ssi Kfikk CRABBES TALES OF THE HALL. 411 " ! take me from a world I hate, Men cruel, selfish, sensual, cold ; And. in some pure and blessed slate, Let me my sister minds behold : From grcss and sordid views refin'd, Our heaven of spoiless love to share. For only generous souls design'd, And not a Man to meet us there." Vol. i. pp. 212—215. The Preceptor Husband" is e.\ceecliiioly well managed — but is rather too facetious for our present mood. The old bachelor, who had been five times on the brink of matri- mony, is mi.\ed up of sorrow and mirth ; — but we cannot make room for any e.xtracts, [except the following inimitable description of the first coming on of old age, — though we feel assured, somehow, that this mali- •ious observer has mistaken the date of these jgly symptoms ; and brought them into view bine or ten, or, at all events, six or seven years too early. i' Six years had pass'd, and forty ere the si.x, When Time began to play his usual tricks ! The locks once comely in a virgin's sight, [white ; jOcks of pure brown, displ.Ty'd th' encroaching riie blood once fervid now to cool began, ^nd Time's strong pressure to subdue the man : rode or walk'd as I was wont before, |Jut now the bounding spirit was no more ; '\ moderate pace would now my body heat, \\. walk uf moderate letigih distress my feet. I'show'd my stranger-guest those hills subliine, put said, ' the view is piTor, we need not climb !' Ma friend's mansion I began to dread The cold neat parlour, and the gay glazed bed ; Kt home I felt a more decided tasie, ;Lnd must have all things in my order placed ; ceas'd to hunt ; my horses pleased me less, ly dinner more ! I learn'd to play at chess; look my dog and gun, but saw the brute fVas disappointed that I did not shoot ; ly morninir walks I now could bear to lose. Liid bless'd the shower that gave me not to choose : 1 fact, I fell a langour stealing on ; 'he active arm, the agile hand were gone ; mall daily actions into habits grew, nd new dislike to forms and fashions new ; lov'd my ireps in order to dispose, mimber'd peaches, look'd how stocks arose, lold ihe same story oft — in short, began to prose." Vol. i. pp. 260, 261. "The Maid's Story " is rather long — though ■has many passages that must be favourites ;ith Mr. Crabbe's aomirers. "Sir Owen ale " is too long also ; but it is one of the best ■ the collection, and must not be discussed » shortly. Sir Owen, a proud, handsome an, is left a widower at forty-three, and is on after jilted by a young lady of twenty ; ho, after amusing herself by encouraging his jsiduities, at last meets his iong-e.\pected fclaration with a very innocent surprise at Jding her familiarity with "such an old «nd of her father's" so strangely miscon- rued! The knight, of course, is furious ; — id, to revenge himself, looks out for a hand- :me young nephew, whom he engages to lay pge to her, and. after having won her aflec- pns, to leave her,— as he had been left. The ji rashly engages in th(; adventure : but soon ids his pretended passion turning into a real "e— and entreats his uncle, on whom he is j •pendent, to release him from the unworthy | part of his vow. Sir Owen, still mad for ven- geance, rages at the proposal; and, to confirm his relentless purpo.se, makes a visit to one, who had bett(;r cause, and had formerly ex- presseit equal thirst for revenge. This was one of the higher class of his tenantry — an in- telligent, manly, good-humoured farmer, who had married the vicar's pretty niece, and lived in great comfort and comparative elegance, till an idle youth seduced her from his arms, and left him in rage and misery. It is here that the interesting part of the story begins; and few thhigs can be more powerful or strik- ing than the scenes that ensue. Sir Owen inquires whether he had found the objects of his just indignation. He at first evades the question; but at length opens his heart, and tells him all. We can afford to give but a small part of the dialogue. " ' Twice the year came round — Years hateful now— ere I my victims found : But I did find them, in the dungeon's gloom .Ofa small garret — a precarious home ; The roof, unceil'd in patches, gave the snow Entrance within, and there were heaps below ; I pass'd a narrow region dark and cold, The strait of stairs to that ini'ectious hold ; And. when I enter'd, misery met my view In every shape she wears, in every hue. And the bleak icy blast across the dungeon flew. There frown'd the ruin'd walls that once were white; There gleam'd the panes that once admitted light ; There lay unsavory scraps of wretched food ; And there a measure, void of fuel, stood. But who shall, part by part, describe the state Of these, thus lollow'd by relentless fate ? All, too, in winter, when the icy air Breathed its black venom on the guilty pair. " ' And could you know the miseries they endur'd, The poor, uncertain pittance they procur'd ; When, laid aside the needle and the pen. Their sickness won the neighbours of their den, Poor as they are, and they are passing poor. To lend some aid to those who needed more ! Then, too, an ague with the winter can)e. And in this state — that wife I cannot name ! Brought forth a famish'd child of suH'ering and of shame ! " ' This had you known, and traced them to this Where all was desolate, defiled, unclean, [scene, A fireless room, and. where a fire had place. The blast loud howling down the empty space. You must have felt a part of the distress. Forgot your wrongs, and made their suffering less ! " ' In that vile garret — which I cannot paint — The sight was loathsome, and the smell was faint} .And there that wife, — whom I had lov'd so well, .And thought so happy ! was condemn'd to dwell ; The gay, the grateful wife, whom I was glad To see in dress beyond our station clad. And to behold among our neighbours, fine,' .More than perhaps became a wife of mine : And now among her neighbours to explore. And see her poorest of the very poor! 'i'here she reclin'd unmov'd, her bosom bare To her companion's unimpassion'd stare. And my wild wonder: — Seat of virtue ! chaste As lovely once ! O ! how wert thou disgrac'd ! I'pon that breast, by sordid rags defil'd, Lay the wan features ofa famish'd child ; — That sin-born babe in utter misery laid. Too feebly wretched even to cry for aid ; The ragged sheeting, o'er her person drawn, Serv'd for the dress that hunger placed in pawn. " ' At the bed's feet the man reclin'd his frame: Their chairs had perish'd to support the flame 412 POETRY. That warm'd his agued limbs; and, sad to see, 'I'hat shook him fiercely as he gaz'd on me, &.c. " ' She had not food, nor auglit a mother needs, Who for another life, and dearer, feeds : I saw her speechless ; on her wither'd breast The wither'd child e.xtended, but not prest. Who sought, with moving hp and feeble cry, Vain instinct ! for the fount without supply. " ' Sure it was all a grievous, odious scene, Where all was dismal, melancholy, mean. Foul with compell'd neglect, unwholesome, and unclean ; That arm — that eye — the cold, the sunken cheek — Spoke all ! — Sir Owen — fiercely miseries speak !' " 'And you reliev'd?' " ' If hell's seducing crew Had seen that sight, they must have pitied too.' " ' Revenge was thine — thou hadst the power — the right ; To give it up was Heav'n's own act to slight.' " ' Tell me not, Sir, of rights, and wrongs, or powers ! I felt it written — Vengeance is not ours !' — " ' Then did you freely from your soul forgive ?' — " ' Sure as I hope before my Judge to live, Sure as I trust his mercy to receive. Sure as his word I honour and beheve. Sure as the Saviour died upon the tree For all who sin— /or that dear wretch, and me — Whom, never more on earth, will I forsake — or see!' "Sir Owen softly to his bed adjourn'd ! Sir Owen quickly to his home return'd ; And all the way he meditating dwelt On what this man in his affliction felt ; How he, resenting first, forbore, forgave ; His passion's lord, and not his anger's slave." Vol. ii. pp. 36 — 46. We always quote too much of Mr. Crabbe: — perhaps because the pattern of his arabesque is so large, that there is no getting a fair speci- men of it without taking in a good space. But we must take warning this time, and for- bear — or at least pick out but a few little morsels as we pass hastily along. One of the best managed of all the tales is that entitled '•' Delay has Danger :" — which contains a very full, true, and particular account of the way in which a weakish, but well meaning young- man, engaged on his own suit to a very amia- ble girl, may be seduced, during her unlucky absence, to entangle himself with a far in- ferior person, whose chief seduction is her apparent humility and devotion to him. We cannot give any part of the long and finely converging details by which the catas- trophe Ts brought about : But we are tempted to venture on the catastrophe itself, for the sake chiefly of the riyht English, melancholy, autumnal landscape, with which it con- cludes: — " In that weak moment, when disdain and pride, And lear and fondness, drew the man aside, In that weak moment — ' Wilt thou,' he began, ' Be mine ?' and joy o'er all her features ran ; ' I will !' she softly whisper'd ; but the roar Of cannon would not strike his spirit more ! Ev'n as his lips the lawless contract seal'd He felt that conscience lost her .«even-fold shield, And honour fled ; but still he spoke of love ; And all was joy in the consenting dove ! " That evening all in fond discourse was spent ; Till the sad lover to his chamber went, [pent To think on what had past, — to grieve and to re Early he rose, and look'd with many a sigh On the red light that fiil'd the eastern sky ; Oft had he stood before, alert and gay, To hail the "lories of the new-born day ; But now dejected, languid, listless, low, He saw the wind upon the water blow, And the cold stream curl'd onward, as the gale From the pine-hill blew harshly down the dale; On the right side the youth a wood survey'd. With all Its dark intensity of shade ; Where the rough wind alone was heard to move, In this, the pause of nature and of love ; When now the young are rear'd. and when the old Lost to the tie, grow negligent and cold. Far to the left he saw the huts of men, Half hid in mist, that hung upon the fen; Before him swallows, gathering for the sea. Took their short flights, and twitier'd on the lea; And near, the bean-sheaf stood, the harvest done, And slowly blacken'd in the sickly sun I All these were sad in nature ; or they took Sadness from him, the likeness of his look. And of his mind — he ponder'd for a while, Then met his Fanny with a borrow'd smile." Vol. ii. pp. 84, 85. ' The moral autumn is quite as gloomy, and far more hopeless. "The Natural Death of Love" is perhaps the best written of all the pieces before U6. It consists of a very spirited dialogue between a married pair, upon the causes of the differ- ence between the days «f marriage and those of courtship; — in which the errors and faults of both parties, and the petulance, impatience, and provoking acuteness of the lady, with the more reasonable and reflecting, but somewhat insulting manner of the gentleman, are all. exhibited to the life ; and with more unifonni delicacy and finesse than is usual with ihai 1 author. I " Lady Barbara, or the Ghost," is a longi | story, and not very pleasing. A fair widow' had been warned, or supposed she had been) ! warned, by the ghost of a beloved brother,! that she would be miserable if she contracted' a second marriage — and then, some fifteenii years after, she is courted by the son of ai i reverend priest, to whose house .she had re-. tired — and upon whom, during all the years] of his childhood, she had lavished the cares; of a mother. She long resists his unnatv passion; but is at length subdued by his ur-j i gency and youthful beauty, and gives him herl ', hand. There is something rather disgusting,^ we think, in this fiction — and certainly the worthy lady could not have taken no way so likely to sjive the ghost's credit, as by enter- ing into suck a marriage — and she confessed as much, it seem.«, on her deathlied. '• The Widow."' with her three husbands, is not (juite so lively as the wife of Bath with her five ; — but it is a very amusing, as well as' a very instructive legend; and exhibits a rich variety of those striking intellectual portrait.'* which mark the hand of our poetical Rem- brandt. The serene close of her eventful life is highly exemplary. After carefully col- lecting all her dowers and jointures — " The widow'd lady to her cot retir'd : And there she lives, delighted and admir'd ! \ I KEATS' POEMS. 413 Civil to all, compliant and polite, Dispos'd to think, ' whatever is, is ncht.' At home awhile — she in the autumn finds The sea an ohject for reflecting minds. And change for tender spirits: There she reads, And weeps in comfort, in her graceful weeds !" Vol. ii. p. 213. j The concluding tale is but the end of the I visit to the Hall, and the settlement of the younger brother near his senior, in the way I we have already mentioned. It contains no great matter ; but there is so much good na- ture and goodness of heart about it, that we cannot resist the temptation of gracing our ' exit with a bit of it. After a little raillery, the elder brother says — " ' We part no more, dear Richard ! Thou wilt need ; Thy brother's help lo teach thy boys to read ; And I should love to hear Matilda's psalm, To keep my spirit in a morning calm, And feel the soft devotion that prepares 'I'he soul to rise above its earthly cares ; ' Then thou and I, an independent two, May have our parties, and defend them too ; Thy liberal notions, and my loyal fears, j Will give us subjects for our future years ; We will f.d. The ancients, though they probably ul not stanii in any great awe of their del- es, have yet abstained very much from any iiiiute or dramatic representation of their •elinra him into that forest ! — So they vow eter- il fidelity ; and are wafted up to heaven on |;ng horses : on which they sleep and dream .pong the stars; — and then the lady melts k&y, and he is again alone upon the earth ; it soon rejoins his Indian love, and agrees give up his goddess, and live only for her: Jt she refuses, and says she is resolved to wote herself to the service of Diana : But, ^'jien she goes to accomplish that dedication. ^^ turns out to be the goddess herself in a ijiv shape ! and finally exalts her lover with )\: to a blessed immortality ! [vVe have left ourselves room to say but lit- * of the second volume; which is of a more rj^cellaneons character. Lamia is a Greek a'lique story, in the measure and taste of En- ♦ijTiion. Isabella 's a paraphrase of the same tsi of Boccacio wiiich Mr. Cornwall has also Jijtated, under the title of '•' A Sicilian Story." livould be worth while to compare the two limitations; but we have no longer time lor I such a task. Mr. Keats has Ibllowed hia j original more closely, and has given a deep pathos to sevei".(l of his stanzas. The widow- I ed bride's discovery of the murdered body is very strikingly given. " Soon she turn'd up a soiled glove, whereon Her silk had play'd in purple phantasies! She kiss'd it with a lip more chill than stone, And put it in her bosom, where it dries. Then 'gan she work again ; nor stay'd her care, But to throw back at nmes her veiling hair. " That old nurse stood beside her, wondering. Until her heart felt pity to the core, At sight of such a dismal labouring; And so she kneeled, with her locks all hoar. And put her lean hands to the horrid thing : Three hours they la!)our'd at this trivial sore ; At last they felt the kernel of the grave, &-c. " In anxious secrecy they took it home. And then — the prize was all for Isabel ! She calm'd its wild hair with a golden comb ; And all around each eye's sepulchral cell Pointed each Iringed lash : The smeared loam With tears, as chilly as a dripping well, [kept She drench'd away : — and still she comb'd, and Sighing all day — and still she kiss'd, and wept ! " Then in a silken scarf — sweet with the dews Of precious flowers pluck'd in Araby, And divine liquids come with odorous ooze Through the cold serpent-pipe refreshfully, — She wrapp'd it up ; and for its tomb did choose A garden pot, wherein she laid it by, And cover'd it with mould ; and o'er it set Sweet Basil, which her tears kept ever wet. " And she forgot the stars, the moon, the sun ! And she forgot the blue above the trees ; And she forgot the dells where waters run. And she lorgot the chilly autumn breeze ! She had no knowledge when the day was done ; And the new morn she .saw not! But in peace Hung over her sweet Basil evermore. And moisien'd it with tears, unto the core !" pp. 72—75. The following lines from an ode to a Night- ingale are equally distinguished for harmony and high poetic feeling : — "0 for a beaker full of the warmT?outh ! Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winkino; at the brim, And purple-stained moutli ! That I niiaht drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim I Fade tar away ! dissolve — and quite forget \\'hat Thou among the leaves hast never known — The weariness, the fever, and the fret, [groan ; Here, — where men sit and hear each other Where palsy shakes a few, sad. last grey hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies ! Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs. The voice I hear, this passmg night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown ! Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home, ■'^fif stood in leant amid the alien rorn .' 'I'he same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the loam, Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn." pp. 108—111. We know nothing at once so truly frefih, genuine, and English, — and, at the ^ame 413 POETRY. time, so full of poetical feeling, and Greek elegance and simplicity, as this address to Autumn : — '• Season of mists and mellow fruiifulness — Close bo3om-triend of the maturing Sun ! Conspiri:ig with him now, lo load and bless [run I With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves To bend wiih apples the moss'd cottage trees, And till all Iruii with ripeness to the core ; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more, And still more, later Howers for the bees, I'ntil they think warm days will never cease ; For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. " Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ? Sjometimes, whoever seeks abroad, may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor. Thy hair s«ft-hfied by the winnowing wind ; Or on a half renp'd furrow sound asleep I Drows'd with the I'umes of poppies ; while thy hook Spares the ne.xt swarih. and all its twined flowers ! And sometimes like a gleaner, thou dost keep Steady thy laden head, across a brook ; Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchesl the last oozings, hours by hours ! " Where are the songs of Spring ? Ay, where are thev? Think not of them ! Thou hast thy music too ; While barred clouds bloom the solt-dying day. And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue ! Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows ; borne aloft Or sinking, as the light wind lives or dies I And lull grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft, The^redbreast whistles from a garden-croft, And gaih'ring swallows twitter in the skies I" One of the sweetest of the smaller poems is that entitled '-The Eve of St. Agnes :"' though we can now afford but a scanty extract. The superstition is. that if a maiden goes to bed on that night without supper, and never looks up after saying her prayers till she falls asleep, she will see her destined husband by her bed-side the moment .she opens her eyes. The fair Madeline, who was in love with the gentle Porphyro. but thwarted by an imperi- ous guardian, resolves to try this .-^pell : — and Porphyro, who has a suspicion of hiM- purpose, naturally determines to do \\ hat he can to help it to a happy issue; and accordingly prevails on her ancient nurse to admit him to her virgin bower ; where he watches rev- erently, till she sinks in slumber; — aiul then, arranging a most el(>g^nt desseit by her couch, and gently rousing her with a fender and favourite air," linaily reveals him^relf, and persuades her to steal 'from the castle under lis protection. Tlie ipeninj stanza is a fair specimen of the sweetness and force of the composition. "St. .Agnes Eve ! All. bitter cold if was ! The owl. for all his feathers, was acold ; The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass. And silent was the flock in woolly fold I Numb were the bedesman's fingers, while he told Hi.i rosary : and while his frosted breath. l.jke pioMs iiicen«e irom a censer old, Heem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death. Pas' the sweet virgin's picture, while his prayers he saith." nut the giory and charni of tlin jwem is in tilv< description of the fair maiden's antique chamber, and of all that passes in that swef. and angel-guarded sanctuary : every part o' which Ts touched with colours at once ric and delicate — and the whole chastened an harmonised, in the midst of its gorgeous di; tinctness, by a pervading grace and purit} that indicate not less clearly the exaltatio khan the refinement of the author's fanc} fVVe cannot resist adding a good part of thj description. " Out went the taper as she hurried in ! Its little smoke in pallid moonshine died : The door she closed '. She panted, all akin 'I'o spirits of the air, and visions wide 1 No utter'd syllable — or woe betide I But to her heart, her heart was voluble ; Paining with eloquence her balmy side I " A casement high and treple-arch'd there was, All garlanded with carven imageries Of truits and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass: And diamonded with panes of quaint device Innumerable, of stains and splendid dyes. As are the tiger moth's deep-damask'd wings '. " Full on this casement shown the wintery moon And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast, As down she knelt for Heaven's grace and boon Rose bloom fell on her hand.-*, together prest, And on her silver cross, soft amethyst ; And on her hair, a glory like a saint I She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest Save wings, for heaven ! — Porphyro grew faint, She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint " Anon his heart revives ! Her vespers done, of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees; Unclasps her wamitd jesvels, one by one ; Loosens her fraiirant bodice ; by degrees Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees! Half hidden, like a Mermaid in sea weed. Pensive a while she dreams awake, and sees I In fancy fair, St. Agnes on her bed 1 ' But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled " Soon, trembling, in her soft and chilly nest. In sort of wakeful dream, perplex'd she lay ; Until the poppied warmth of Sleep oppress'd Her soothed limbs, and soul latigued away ! Haven'd alike from sunshine and t'nmi rain. As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again " Stolen to this paradise, and so entranc'd, Porphyro gaz'd upon her empty dress. And lisien'd to her breathing; if it chanc'd To sink into a slumb'rous tendeinrss? Which when he heard, that minute did he bless. And brcath'd himself;— then irom the closet crep Noiseless as Fear in a wide wilderness, And over the hush'd carpet silent stept " Then, by the bed-side, where the sinking moot Made a dim silver twilight, sott he set A table, and. half anguish'd, threw thereon A doili of woven crimson, gold, and jet, &c. " And still she slept — an azure-lidded sleep I In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd ; While he, from forth the closet, brought a heap Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd ; With jellies smoother than the creamy curd. And lucent syrups, tinct with cinnamon; Manna and dates, in argosy transfcrr'd From Fez ; and spiced dainties every one, From silken Samarcand, to cedar'd Lebanon. •' Those delicates he henp'd with glowing hand, On golden dishes, and in baskets bright Of wreathed silver; sumprumis they stand In the retired quiet of the night, Fillinz the rhillv room with perfume light. ' Aiid^iow. iiiy'love: my Seraph fair! awake! Ope thy sweet eyes ! for dear St, Agnes ' sake ! ROGERS' HUMAN LIFE. 419 j It is difficult to break off in such a course Igf citation: But we must stop here; and lehall close our extracts with the following ilively lines : — ' O s«eel Fancy I let her loose ! Summer's joys are spoilt by use, And the enjoying ot'ihe Spring Fades as docs its lilossomiiig ; Autumn's red-iipp'd (ruilage loo, Blushing ihrongh the mist and dew, Cloys with tasting : What do then f Sit ihee by the ingle, %vhen 'I'he sear faggot blazes bright, Spirit ota winter's night ; When the soundless earth is muffled, And the caked snow is shuffled From tlie plough-boy's heavy shoon ; When the Night doih meet the Noon, In a dark conspiracy To banish F.ven from her sky. 'I'hou shall hear Distant harvcsi caroJs clear; Rustle of the reaped corn ; Sweet birds antiieniing the morn ; And, in ihe same moment — hark ! 'Tis the early April iark, Or the rooks, wiih busy caw. Foraging for slicks and straw. Thou shalt, at one glance, behold The daisy and the marigold ; White-plum'd lilies, and the first Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst ; Shaded hyacinth, alway Sapphire queen of the mid - May ; And every leaf, and every flower Pearled with the self-same shower. 'I'liou shalt see the field-mouse peep iNleagre from iis celled sleep; And ihc snake, all winter thin. Cast on suiniy bank its skin ; Freckled nest-egss thou shalt see Hatching in the hawthorn tree, When tlie hen-bird's wing doth rest Quiet on her mossy nest ; Tlien the hurry and alarm When the bre-hive casts its swarm ; Acorns ripe down pattering, While the autumn breezes sing." pp. 122—125. There is a fragment of a projected Epic, entitled "Hyperion," on the e.xpulsion of Saturn and the Titanian deities by Jupiter and his younger adherents, of which we can- not advise the completion : For, though there are passiigcs of some force and grandeur, it is .sufficiently obviou.s, from the specimen before us, that the subject is too I'ar removed from all the souix-.es of human interest, to be suc- cessfully treated by any modern author. Mr. Keats has unquestionably a very beaatifui unagination. a perfect ear for harmony, and a great familiarity with the finest diction ot English poetry ; but he must learn not to mis- use or misapply these advantages ; and neither to waste the good gifts of nature and study on intractable themes, nor to luxuriate too reck- lessly on such as are more suitable. (ilUrcg. 1B19 Human Life: a Poem. By Samuel Rogers. 4to. pp.94. London: 1819, These are very sweet verses. They do | ot, indeed, stir the spirit like the strong lines I f Byron, nor make our hearts dance within s, like the inspiring strains of Scott; but I ley come over us with a bewitching soft- \ that, in certain mood.s, is still more de- ghtful — and soothe the troubled spirits with [ refreshing sense of truth, purity, and ele- mce. They are pensive rather than pas- ' onate : and more full of wisdom and ten- j erness than of high flights of fancy, or over- helming bursts of emotion — while they are loulded into grace, at least as much by the iTectof the Moral beauties they disclose, as (• the taste and judgment with which they e constructed. The theme is Human Life ! — not only "the ibject of all verse "' — but the great centre id source of all interest in the works of iman beings— to which both verse and prose Mriably bring us back, when they succeed rivetting our attention, or rousing our emo- )np — and which turns every thing into poetry which its sensibilities can be ascribed, or ' r which its vicissitudes can be suggested ! ! 3t it is not by any means to that which, in j dinary language, is termed the poetry or e romance of human life, that the present , )rk is directed. The life which it endeav- j "rsto set before us, is not life diversified! with strange adventures, embodied in extra- ordinarj' characters, or agitated with turbu- lent passions — not the life of warlike jmladins, or desperate lovers, or sublime rulHans — or piping shepherds or sentimental savages, or bloody bigots or preaching pedlars— or con- querors, poets, or any other species of mad- men — but the ordinary, practical, and amiable life of social, intelligent, and affectionate men in the upper ranks of society — such, in short, as multitudes may be seen living every day in this country — for the picture is entirely Engli.«h — and though not perhaps in the choice of every one, yet open to the judg- ment, and familiar to the sympathies, of*ali. It contains, of course, no story, and no indi- vidual characters. It is properly and pecu- liarly contemplative — and consists in a series of reflections on our mysterious nature and condition upon earth, and on the marvellous,, though unnoticed changes which the ordinary course of our existence is continually bringing about in our being. Its marking peculiarity ill this respect is, that it is free from the least alloy of acrimony or harsh judgment, and deals not at all indeed in any species of satiri- cal or .sarcastic remark. The poet looks here on man, and teaches us to look on him, not merely with love, but with reverence; and, mingling a sort of considerate pity for the 420 POETRY. I shortness of his busy little career, and the disappointments and weaknesses by which it IS beset, with a genuine admiration of the gieat capacities he unfolds, and the high des- tiny to which he seems to be reserved, works out a very beautiful and engaging picture, both of the affections by which Life is en- deared, the trials to which it is exposed, and the pure and peaceful enjoyments with which it may often be filled. This, after all, we believe, is the tone of , true wisdom and true virtue — and that to which all good natures draw nearer, as they approach the close of life, and come to act less, and to know and to meditate more, on the varying and crowded scene of Inunan ex- istence. — When the inordinate hopes of early youth, which provoke their own disappoint- ment, have been sobereii down by longer ex- perience and more extended viyws — when the keen contentions, and eager rivalries, which employed our riper age. have expired or been abandoned — when we have seen, year after year, the objects of our fiercest hostility, and of our fondest affections, lie down together in the hallowed peace of the grave — when ordinary pleasures and amusements begin to be insipid, and the gay derision which seasoned them to appear flat and importunate — when we reflect how often we have mounied and been com- forted — what opposite opinions we have suc- cessively maintained and abandoned — to what inconsistent habits we have gradually been formed — and how frequently the objects of our pride have proved the sources of our shame ! we are naturally led to ret^ur to the careless days of our childhood, and from that distant starting place, to retrace the whole of our career, and that of our contemporaries, with feelings of far greater humility and indul- gence than those by which it had been actu- ally accompanied :-^to think all vain but af- fection and honour — the simplest and cheap- est pleasures the truest and most precious — and generosity of sentiment the only mental superiority which ought either to be wished for or admired. We are aware that we have saitl ••some- thing too much of this ;" and that our reatlers would probably have been more edified, as well as more delighted, by Mr. Tvogers" text, than with our prt^achment upon it. But we were anxious to convey to them our .sense of the spirit in which this poem is written : — and cOiH-eive, indeed, that what we have now .said falls more strictly within the line of our critical duly, than our general remarks can always be said to do; — because thi^ trn(> character and poetical effect of the work- seems, in this instance, to depend much more on its moral expression, than on any of its merely literary qualities. The author, perhap.s, may not think it any compliment to be thus told, that his verses are likely to be greater favourites with the old than with the young; — and yot it is no small compliment, we think, to say. that they are likelv to be more favourites with his readers every year they live : — And it is at all events true, whether it be a coniplimert or not, that as readers of all ages, if they ai any way worth pleasing, have little glimpsf and occasional visitations of those truths whic longer experience only renders more familia so no works ever sink so deep into nmiabi minds, or recur so often to their rcmen brance, as those M'hich embody simple, an solemn, and reconciling truths, iu »'nn.li;ili and elegant language — and antieipalf. is were, and bring out with etfect. tho.-3sh as the welling waters, round him rise, ;i;iddening his spirit." — pp. 53 — 61. We have dwelt too long, perhaps, on a vork moie calouLited to make a lasting-, than strong impression on the minds of its readers -and not, perhaps, very well calculated for eiiig read at all in the pages of a INliscel- nipous Journal. We have gratified ourselves, cnvever, in again going over it; and hope we ave not much wearied our readers. It is ijlowed by a very striking copy of verses ritteii at Pa'stum in 1816 — and more char- cleristic of that singular and most striking >ene, than any thing we have ever read, in rose or verse, on the subject. The ruins of a^stum, as they are somewhat improperly \lled, consist of three vast and ma.ssive eniples. of the most rich and mag-nificent chitecture ; which are not ruined at all, Lit as entire as on the day when they were uilt. while there is not a vestige left of the ty to which they belonged ! They stand in a -^sert and uninhabited plain, which stretches •v many miles from the sea to the mountains -and, after the subversion of the Roman eatnesS; had fallen into such complete obli- on, that for nearly nine hundred years they id never been visited or heard of by any in- lligmt person, till they were accidentally scovered about the micidle of the last cen- ry. — The whole district in Mhich they are tuated. though once the most fertile and )arishiiig part of the Tyrrhene shore, has 'cn almost completely depopulated by the aParia ; and is now. in every sense of tlie Old, a vast and dreary desert. The follow- ii' lines seem to us to tell all that need be Id, and to express all that can be felt of a eae so strange and so mournful. " They stand between the mountains and the sea ; Awl'ul memorials — but ot wliom we know not ! The seaman, passing, gazes from the deck. The buflalo-driver, in his shaggy cloak. Points to the work of magic, and moves on. Time was they stood along the crowded street^ Temples of (iods ! and on their ample sieps What various habits, various tongues beset The brazen gates, for prayer and sacrifice ! " How many ceniuries did the sun go round From Mount Alburnus to the Tyrrhene sea. While, by some spell render'd invisible. Or, if approach'd, approached by him alone Who saw as though he saw not, they rcmain'd As in the darkness of a sepulchre. Wailing the appointed time ! All, all within Proclaims that Nature had resum'd her right, And taken to herself what man renounc'd ; No cornice, triglyph, or worn abacus, Rut wiih thick ivy hung or branching fern, Their iron-brown o'erspread with brightest verdure! " From my yotiih upward have I longed to tread This classic ground. — And am I here at last ? Wandering at will through the long porticoes, And catching, as through some niajt^stic grove, Now the blue ocean, and now, chaos-like. Mountains and mouniain-gulphs ! and, half-way up, Towns like the living rock from which they grew ? A cloudy region, black and desolate, Where once a slave withstood a world in arms. " The air is sweet with violets, running wild Mid broken sculptures and fallen capitals! Sweet as when 'I'ully, writing down his thoughts, Sail'd slosvly by, two thousand years ago. For Athens; when a ship, if north-east winds Blew from the Paestan gardens, slack'd her course. 'I'he birds are hush'd awhile; and nothing stirs, f^ave the shrill-voic'd cigala flitting round On ihe rousjh pediment to sit and sing ; Or tiic green lizard rustling through the grass, And up the fiuied shaft, with short quick motion. To vanish in the chinks that Time has made ! " In such an hour as this, the sun's broad disk Seen at his setting, and a Hood of light Filling the courts of these old sanctuaries, (Gigantic shadows, broken and conius'd, Across the innumerable columns flung) In such an hour he came, who saw and told, Led by the mighty Genius of the Place' W'allsofsome capital city iirst appear'd, Flalf raz'd, half sunk, or scatter'd as in scorn ; — And what within them ? what but in the midst TIh.-c Three, in moie than their original grandeur, .And. round about, no stone upon another! As if the spoiler had fallen back in fear. And, turning, left ihem to the elements." The volume ends with a little ballad, enti- tled " The Boy of Egremond" — which is well enough for a Lakish ditty, but not quite wor- thy of the place in which we meet it. 424 POETEY. ( 3 u n c , 1 $ i 5 . ) Roderick : The Last of the Goths. By Robert Soi;thev, Esq., Poet- Laureate, and Mnnbi. of the Royal Spanish Academy. 4to. pp. 477. Loudon : 1814.* itself in a work of such length ; but its -wor effect is, that it gives an air of falsetto an pretension to the whole strain of the comp( sition. and makes us suspect the author c imposture and affectation, even when he hi good enough cause for his agonies and ra] tures. How is it possible, indeed, to commit oi sympathies, without distrust, to the hands o a writer, who, after painting with inlinite fore the anguish of soul which pursued the faile Roderick into the retreat to which his crime had driven him. proceeds with redouble emphasis to assure us, that neither his r{ morse nor his downfal were half so intolera ble to him, as the shocking taniencss of the se birds who ffew round about him m that utte solitude ! and were sometimes so familiar a to brush his cheek with their wings ? This is the best, we think, and the most powerful of all Mr. Southey's poems. It abounds with lofty sentiments, and magnifi- cent imagery ; and contains more rich and comprehensive descriptions — more beautiful pictures of pure atfection — and more im- pressive representations of mental agony and e.vultation than we have often met with in the compass of a single volume. A work, of which all this can be said with justice, cannot be without great merit; and ought not, it may be presumed, to be without great popularity. Justice, however, has some- thing more to say of it : and we are not quite sure either that it will be very popular, or that it deserves to be so. It is too monotonous — too wordy — and too uniformly stately, tragical, and emphatic. Above all, it is now and then a little absurd — and pretty frequently not a little affected. The author is a poet undoubtedly ; but not of the highest order. There is rather more of rhetoric than of inspiration about him — and we have oftener to admire his taste and industry in borrowing and adorning, than the boldness or felicity of his inventions. He has indisputably a great gift of amplifying and exalting; but uses it. we must say, rather unmercifully. He is never plain, concise, or unaffectedly simple, and is so much bent upon making the most of every thing, that he is perpetually overdoing. His sentiments and situations are, of course, sometimes ordinary enough : but the tone of emphasis and pre- tension is never for a moment relaxed ; and the most trivial occurrences, and fantastical distresses, are commemorated with the same vehemence and exaggeration of manner, as the most startling incidents, or the deepest and most heart-rending disasters. This want of relief and variety is sufficiently painful of * I have, in my lime, said petulant and provo- king thinga of Mr. .Souiiiey :— and siK-h as I would not say now. But I am not conscious that I was ever unfair to his Poetry : and if I have noted what I thought iis fauiis, in too arrogant and de- risive a spirit, I think I have never failed to give hearty and cordial praise to its beauties — and generally dwelt niiicli more largely on the latter than the former. Few thincrs, at all events, would now grieve me more, than to think I might give pain to his many (rienda and admirers, by reprint, ing, so soon after his death, any thing which might appear derogatory either to his character or his genius; and therefore, though I cannot say tiiat I have substantially chiinged any of the opinions I liave iormerly e.xpressed as to his wriiinirs. I only insert in this publication my review of his last considerable poem : which may be taken as cott- veying my matured opinion of his merits — and will be felt, I trust, to have done no scanty or unwilling justice to his great and peculiar powers. " For his lost crown And sceptre never had he felt a thought Of pain: Repentance had no pangs to spare 1 For triHes such as these. The loss of these ' Was a cheap penalty : . . that he had fallen Down to the lowest depih of wretchedness, His hope and consolation. But to lose His human station in the scale of things, . . To see lirvte Nature scorn hi/n, ami renounce Its /lonws^c to the humdn form divine I . . Had then almighty vengeance thus reveal'd His puni.^hmenl, and was he fallen indeed Below fallen man, . . below redempiion's reach, . Made lower than the beasts?" — p. 17. ' This, if we were in bad humour, we shouK be tempted to say, was little better than drive! ling ; — and certainly the folly of it is greati' aggravated by the tone of intense soleinnit' in which it is conveyed : But the worst faul by far, and the most injurious to the effect ol the author's greatest beauties, is the extiemi diffuseness and verbosity of his style, and hi unrelenting an.xiety to leaA-e nothing to tin fancy, the feeling, or even the plain under standincr of his readers — but to have every thing set down, and impressed and hammerci into them, which it may any how conduce tt his glory that they should comprehend. Then never was any author, we are persuaded, whi had so great a distrust of his readers' capa city, or such an unwillingness to leave ain opportunity of shining unimproved ; and ac cordingly. we rather think there is no juilhot who, wiih the same talents and atlaiimitnt;-' has been so generally thought tedious— o acquired, on the whole, a popularity so in, ferior to his real deservings. On the preseii occasion, we have already said, his desen' ings appear to us unusually great, and hi: faults less than commotdy conspicuous. Bii though there is less childishness and tritiini hi this, than in any of his other productions SOUTHEV'S RODERICK. 425 here is still, we are afraid, enough of tedious- ess and affected energy, very materially to bstruct the popularity which the force, and he tenderness and beauty of its better parts, light have otherwise commanded. There is one blemish, however, which we hink peculiar to the work before us; and aat is, the outrageously religious, or rather uiatical, tone which pervades its whole , tructure ; — the excessive horror and abuse ith which the JNlahometans are uniformly . ooken of on account of their religion alone ] ', iid the ort'ensive frequency and familiarity ;. -ith which the name and the suflerings of ;. 'ur Saviour are referred to at every turn of ^e story. The spirit which is here evinced iwards the Moors, not only by their valiant ', jponents, but by the author when speaking \ his own person, is neither that of pious •probation nor patriotic hatred, but of savage id bigotted persecution : and the heroic iaracter and heroic deeds of his greatest vourites are debased and polluted by the , ihry superstitions, and sanguinary fanati- ; sm, which he is pleased to ascribe to them. ,. ^s, which we are persuaded would be re- J lilting in a nation of zealous Catholics, must t' still more distasteful, we think, among 'ber Protestants ; while, on the other hand, e constant introduction of the holiest per- ns, and most solemn rites of religion, for e purpose of helping on the flagging in- rest of a story devised for amusement, can larcely fail to give scandal and offence to all jrsons of right feeling or just taste. This jmark may be thought a little rigorous by 'jse who have not looked into the work to lich it is applied — For they can have no i^a of the e.xtreme fre(]uency, and palpable , (travagance, of the allusions and invoca- llns to which we have referred. — One poor ynian, for example, who merely appears to - ^re alms to the fallen Roderick in the season - clhis humiliation, is very needlessly made to ■ tplaim, as she offers her pittance, -■ -|ind SOI hrist Jesus, for his Mother's sake, ave mercy on thee." soon after, the King himself, when he lirs one of his subjects uttering curses on \\ name, is pleased to say, r Oh, for the love of Jesub curse him not I [ hroiher, do not curse that sinful soul. Which Jesus suffer'd on the cross to save !" \liereupon, one of the more charitable audi- \k rejoins. "hrist bless thee, brother, for that Christian I speech ! ' ' - nd so the talk goes on, through the greater P;t of the poem. Now. we must say we tl;ik this both indecent and ungraceful ; and Icc upon it as almost as exceptionable a wir' of increasing the solemnity of poetry, as Cfimon swearing is of adding to the energy ol'liscoursp. Ve are not quite sure whether we should rtcon his choice of a subject, among Mr. S»ke upon myself the pain deserv'd ; t For I have drank the cup of hiiicrness, I lAnd having drank therein of lieaveniy grace, i |I must not put away the cup ol shame.' I' i"Thus as she spake she falter'd at the close. And in that dying fall her voice sent forth i [Somewhat of its original sweetnes--. ' Thou I . . Ij [Thou self-abas'd !' e.\claim'd theastonish'd Kinir ; .. , ,' Thou seif-condemn'd !' . . The cup of shame for I ! thee ! '' (Thee . . thee, Florinda!' . . But the very excess '' iOf passion check'd his speech." — pp. 121, 132. Still utterly unconscious of her strange con- "essor. she goes on to explain herself : — |t i " ' I lov'd the King I . . Tenderly, passionately, madly lov'd him ! ^infnl it was to love a child of earth ';■ iViih such entire devotion as I lov'd I lod'rick, the heroic Prince, the glorious Goth I ie was the sunshine of my soul ! and like P ^ flower, I liv'd and flourish'd in his light '; )h bear not wiih rne thus impatiently !' i'fo tale of weakness this, that in the act •ii |)f penitence, indulgent to itself, Ik iVith garrulous palliation half repeats IE The sm it ill repents. I will be brief.' " i pp. 123, 124. II II i She then describes the unconscious growth f their mutual passion — enlarges upon her ;wn imprudence in afTording him opportuni- ;es of declaring it — and expresses her con- )'( iction, that the wretched catastrophe was i" iroiight about, not by any premeditated guilt, '•■ "ut in a moment of delirium, which she had '! jerself been instrumental in bringing on : — I' Here ihen, O Father, at thy feet I own Jyself the guiltier ; and full well I knew hese were his thoughts ! But vengeance masier'd ' jnd in my agony I curst the man [me, ii Khom I lov'd best.' i; i ' Dost thou recall that curse ?' g Iried Rod'rick, in a deep and inward voice, , |ill with his head depress'd. and covering still ' lis countenance. ' Recall it ?' she c.xclaim'd ; ""ather ! I came to thee because I gave ji {he reins to wrath too long . . because I wrought ,18 ruin, death, and infamy. . . fJod, J. Dreive the wicked vengeance thus indulg'd ! :J I forgive the King !' "—p. 132. ' {Roderick again stops her enthusiastic self- , jcusation, and rejects her too generous vin- ication of the King; and turning to Siverian, s-'i .ds— I " ' To that old man.' said he, jvnd to the mother of the unhappy Goili. * 'fell, if it please thi-c not wh:;i thmi hast pour'd xo my secret ear. hut that ihe cliild » ]t whom ihey mourn with anguish unallay'd ■ 'bn'd not from vicious will, or heart corrupt, it It fell by fatal circumstance betray'd I •Jd if, in charity to them, thou livioiis there he sale; sentient alone 1 IfoMtward nature, . . of the whisp'ring leaves |\:it sooth'd his ear. . . the genial breath of heaven li It fmn'd his cheek, . . the stream's perpetual flow, int. with its shadows and its glancing lights, uipies and thread-like motions infinite, r ever varying and yet still the same, e lime toward eternity, ran by. ins his head upon his Master's knees, on the bank beside him Theron lay." pp. 205, 206. n this quiet mood, he is accosted by Sive- who entertains him with a long account tjPelayo's belief in the innocence, or com- Jrative innocence, of their beloved Roderick ; 8^1 of his own eager and anxious surmises lU he may still be alive. The Eighteenth Book, which is rather long al heavy, contains the account of Pelayo's 9nation. The best part of it, perhaps, is short sketch of his lady's affectionate Itation in his glory. When she saw the Pljiarationsthat announced thisgreat event — , ,, " her eyes u;lyeii'd. The quicken'd action of the blood J d with a deeper hue her slowing cheek ; «'' on !ur lips there .sate a smile, which spake ' f'liourrible pride of perfect love ; ;n;r, for her husband's sal-Aiy fortune which their faith foresaw." I p. 21S. joderick bears a solemn part in the lofty Cft monies of this important day ; and, with " jlm and re.solute heart, beholds the alle- Skce of his subjects transferred to his heroic ki.'man. . (le Nineteenth Book is occupied with an int-view between Roderick aad his mother, who has at last recognised him ; and even while .she approves of his penitential abandon- ment of the world, tempts him with bewitch- ing visions of recovered fame and glory, and of atonement made to Florinda, by placing her in the rank of his queen. He continues firm, however, in hia lofty purpose, and the pious Princ(!ss soon acquiosties in those pious resolutions; and, engaging to keep his secret, gives him her ble.ssing, and retires. The Twentieth Book conducts us tf) the Moorish camp and the presence of Comit Julian. Orpas, a baser apostate, claims the promised hand of Florinda; and Julian ap- peals to the JNIoorish Prince, whether the law of JVIahomet admits of a forced marriage. The Prince attests that it does not ; and then Julian, who has ju.st learned that his daughter was in the approaching host of Pelayo, ob- tains leave to despatch a messenger to invite her to his arms The Twenty-lirst Book contains the meet- ing of Julian with his daughter and Roderick ; under whose protection she comes at evening to the Moorish camp, and finds her father at his ablutions at the door of his tent, by the side of a clear mountain spring. On her ap- proach, he clasps her in his arms with over- flowing love. " ' Thou hast not then forsaken me, my child. Howe'er the inexorable will of Fate May in the world which is to come divide Our everlasting destinies, in this Thou wilt not, O my child, abandon me I' And then with deep and interrupted voice. Nor seeking to restrain his copious tears, ' My blessing be upon thy head !' he cried, A father's blessing ! though all faiths were false, It should not lose its worth I . . . She lock'd her Around his neck, and gazing in his face [hands Through streaming tears, exclaim'd, ' Oh never more, Here or hereafter, never let us part !' " — p. 258. He is at first offended with the attendance and priestly habit of Roderick, and breaks out into some infidel taunts upon creeds and churchmen ; but is forced at length to honoui the firmness, the humility, and candour of this devoted Christian. He poses him, how- ever, in the course of their discussion, by rather an unlucky question. " ' Thou preachest that all sins may be effac'd : Is there forgiveness. Christian, in thy creed [thee, For Rod'rick's crime? . . For Rod'rick, and for Count Julian !' said the Goth ; and as he spake Trembled through every fibre of his frame, ' The gate of Heaven is open 1' Julian threw His wrathful hand aloft, and cried, 'Away ! Earth could not hold us both; nor can one Heaven Contain my deadliest enemy and me !' '" — p. 269. This ethical dialogue is full of lofty senti- ment and strong images ; but is, on the whole rather tedious and heavy. One of the newest pictures is the following ; and the sweetest scene, perhaps, that which closes the book immediately after : — " ' Meihinks if ye would know Flow visiia'ions of calamity AfiVcf the pious soul, 'lis shown ye there ! Look yonder at that cloud, which ihrongh the sky Sailing nlone, doth cross in her cMreer The rolling inooii 1 I watch'd it as it came 432 POETRY. And deem'd the deep opaque would blot her beams ; But, melting like a wreath of snow, it hangs In folds ol wavy silver round, and clothes The orb with richer beauties than her own, 'I'hen passing, leaves her in her light serene.' — '• Thus havinw said, the pious suff'rer sate, Beholding with fi.x'd eyes that lovely orb, Which through the azure depth alone pursues Her course appointed ; with iiidiff'rent beams Shiiiinff upon the silent hill? around, And the dark tents of that unholy host. Who, all unconscious of impending fate, Take their last slumber there. The camp is still I The fires have moulder'd ; and the breeze which The soft and snowy embers, just lays bare [stirs At times a red and evanescent li^ht. Or for a moment wakes a feeble flame. They by the fountain hear the stream below, Whose murmurs, as the wind arose or fell. Fuller or fainter reach the ear atiun'd. And n'lw tlie nighiingnle. not distant far. Began her solitary song ; and pour'd To the cold moon a richer, stronger strain Than that with which the lyric lark salutes The new-born day. Her deep and thrilling song Seem'd with its piercing melody to reach The soul ; and in mysterious unison Blend with all thoughts of gentleness and love. Their hearts were open to the healing power Of nature ; and the splendour of the night. The flow of waters, and that ssveetest lay Came to them like a copious evening dew. Falling on vernal herbs which thirst for rain." pp. 2T4-2Tf,. The Twenty-second Book is fuller of busi- ness than of poetry. The vindictive Orpas persuades the Moorish leaden that Julian meditates a defection from his cause ; and. by working on his suspicious spirit, obtains his consent to his assassination on the tirst con- venient opportunity. The Twenty-third Book recounts the car- nage and overthrow of the Moors in the Strait of Covadonga. Deceived by false intelligence, and drunk with deceitful hope, they advance up the long and precipitous defile, along the cliffs and ridges of which Pelayo had not only stationed his men in ambush, but had piled huire stones and trunks of trees, readv to be At Auria in the massacre, this hour I summon thee before the throne of God, . To answer for the innocent blood ! This hour ! Moor, Miscreant, Murderer, Child of Hell ! this hot I summon thee to judgment ! ... In the name Of God ! for Spain and Vengeance. From voice to voice on either side it past With rapid repetition, . . ' In the name Of God I for Spain and Vengeance !' and forthwi. On either side, along the whole defile. , The Asturiatis shouting, in the name of God, Set the whole ruin loose ; huge trunks and stoner And loosen'd crags I Down, down they roll'd wii* rush. And bound, and thund'ring force. Such was the fa As when some city by the labouring earth Heav'd from its strong foundations is cast down And all its dwellings, towers, and palaces, In one wide desola'ion prostrated. From end to end of that long strait, the crash Was heard continuous, and commi.xi with sounds^ More dreadful, slirieks of horror and despair And death, . . the wild and agonising cry Of that whole host, in one destruction whelm'd.'l pp. 298,299.1 The Twenty-fourth Book is full of tragic^ matter, and is perhaps the most interesting the whole piece. A iMoor. on the instigatiti of Orpas and Abulcacem. pierces Julian \rir a mortal wound : who thereupon exhorts h captains, already disgusted with the jeaioi tyranny of the tnfidel, to rejoin the statidai and the faith of their country : and then r quests to be borne into a neighbouriiiirchurc where Florinda has been praying for his co; version. " They rai.'^'d him from the earili ; fie, knitting as ihcy lified him his brow. Drew in through open lips and teeih firin-clos'd His painful breath, aid on his lance laid hand. Lest its long shaft should shake the mortal woun Gently his men with slow and s'endy step Their suff'ring burthen bore; and m the Clmrcl Before the altar, laid him down, his head Upon Florinda's knees." — pp. 207, 308. He then, on the solemn adjuration of Ti- derick. renounces the bloody faith to vvhic j he had so long adhered : and revereiiily r 0.1: pushed over upon the ratiks of the enemy in the ; cgives at his hand the sacrament of reconci lower pass. A soft summer mist hanging iipon i ation and peace. There is great feeling ai the side of the cliffs helps to conceal these preparations : and the whole line of the Infidel is irretrievably engaged in the gulf, when Ad)sinda appears on a rock in the van, and. with her proud defiance, gives the word, which is the signal for the assault. The whole de- scription is, as usual, a little overworked, but is unquestionably striking and impressive. " As the Moors Advanc'd, the Chieftain in the van was seen, Known by his arms, and from the crag a voice Pronounc'd his name.. . . ' Alcahinan, hoa I look Alcuhrnan I' As the floating mist drew up [up! It had divided there, and open'd round The Cross; part clinging to the rock beneath, Hov'ring and wavinn part in fleecy folds, A canopy of silver. Tight condens'd To shape and substance. In the midst there stood .A female form, one hand upon the Cross, The other rais'd in nier.acmg act. Below Loose flow'd her raiment, but her breast was arm'd, And helmeted her head The Moor furn'd pale, For on the walls o! Auria he had seen That well-known l">_'uro. and had well belicv'd Shn rosied with th« dead " What, hoa!' she cried. ' Alcahman ! It; the name ot all who leil energj- we think in what follows : — " That dread oflice done, ' Count Julian with amazement saw tin- Priest Kneel down before him. " By the sacrain»-r)t. Which we have here partaketi I' Roderick cried. ' In this most awiul moment. By that hope, . . ; That holy faith which comforts thee in death. Grant thy forgiveness, Julian, ere tiiou diesi I Behold tiie man who most hath iiijur'd thee! Rod'rick! the wretched Goth, the guilty cause Of all thy guilt, . . the unworthy instrument Of thy redemption. . . kneels before thee here, And prays to be forgiven I' • Roderick!' exclaim The dying Count, . . ' Roderick !' . . and from t With violent eflbrt, half he rais'd himself; [fl« The spear hung heavy in his side ; and pain And weakness overcame him. that he fell Back onhis dauahier's lap. 'O Death.' cried he, | Passing his hand arross his cold damp brow, . . ' Thou tamest the strong limb, and conquerest The stubborn heart ! But yesterday I .said One Heaven could not contain mine enemy And mo ; and now I lift my dying voice To say. Forgive me. Lord ! as I forgive t*) Him who hath done the wrong !' . .lie cIo« d • A moment ; then with sudden impulse cried, SOUTHEY'S RODERICK. 433 Rod'riok, thy wife is dead! — the Church hath power To free ihee from thy vows ! The broken heart Vlight yet be heal'd, the wronp; redress'd, the throne Rebuilt by that same hand whicli pull'd it down ! ^iid these curst Africans ... Oh for a month )f ihat waste hfe which milhons misbestow ! . . ' " pp. 311,312. Returning weakness then admonishes him, lowevev, of the near approach of death ; and e bejis the friendly hand of Roderick to cut hort his pangs, by drawing forth the weapon ,hich clogs the wound in his side. He then ,ives him his hand in kindness — blesses and isses his heroic daughter, and e.xpires. The jncluding lines are full of force and tender- When from her father's body she arose, ier cheek was flusli'd, and in her eyes there beam'd wilder brightness. On the Goth she gaz'd I I'hile underneath the emotions of that hour xhaustt'd hfe save way! ' God!' she said, nfdiig her hands, ' thou hast restor'd me all, . . jll . . in one hour!' . . . and around his neck she \ threw [ven !' erarms and cried, ' My Roderick ! mine in Hea- roaning, he claspt her close ! and in that act nd agony her happy spirit fled I" — p. 313. The Last Book describes the recognition !id e.vploits of Roderick in the last of his bat- *!S. After the revolt of Julian's army, Orpas, I' whose counsels it had been chiefly occa- iined, !.'■■ sent forward by the Moorish leader, { try to win them back ; and advances in iinl of the line, demanding a parley, mount- f on the beautiful Orelio, the famous war l;rse of Roderick, who, roused at that sight, (itains leave from Pelayo to give the renegade h answer j and after pouring out upon him fne words of abuse and scorn, seizes the I ns of his trusty steed ; and " • How now,' he cried, 'Ijelio ! old companion, . . my good horse !' . . (|"wiih this recreant burthen !" . . . And with that I; rais'd his hand, and rear'd, and back'd the steed, '. that renternber'd voice and arm of power ut the rampart is won. and the spoil begun. And all hut the after-carnage done. Shriller shrieks now niincjling come From within thephinder'd dome : Hark to the haste of flyintr feet ! That splash in the blood of the slippery street!" Parisina is of a tlifferent chai-acter. There is no tumult or stir in this piece. It is ail sad- ness, and pity, and tenor. The story is tnltl ill half a senfence. The Prince of Kstt> has married a lady who was oriuinally destined for his favourite natural son. He discovers a ciiminiii attachment between thprn : and puts the issue and the invader of his bed to death, before the face of his unhappy paramou There is too much of horror, perhaps, in lb' circumstances: but the writing is beautifi throughout ; and the whole wrapped in a ric and redunelant veil of poetry, where ever, thing breathes the pure essence of genius an sensibility. The opening verses, though sor and voluptuous, are tinged with the samii shade of sorrow which gives its character am harmony to the whole poem. i " It is the hour when from the boughs, ^ The nightingale's high note is heard ; , It is the hour when lovers' vows , Seem sweet in every whisper" d word ; And gentle winds, and waters near, 1 Make music to the lonely ear ! i Each flower the dews have lightly wet ; And in the sky the stars are met. And on the wave is deeper blue, And on the leal a browner hue, And in the heaven that clear obscure, So softly dark, and darkly pure. Which follows the decline of day. As twilight melts beneath the moon away. But it is not to list to the waterlall That Parisina leaves her hall, &,c. " With many a ling'ring look they leave The spot ot giiiliy gladness past ! And though they hope and vow, they grieve. As if that parting were the last. The frequent sigh — ihe long embrace — The lip that there would cling for ever. While gleams on Parisina's lace The Heaven she fears will not forgive her ! As if each calmly conscious star Beheld her (railty from afar." The arraignment and condemnation of th guilty pair, with the bold, high-toned, and yt temperate tiefence of the son, are manage' wilh admirable talent ; and yet are less toucli iiigthan the mute despair of the fallen beaut) who stands in speechless agony beside him. " Those lids o'er which the violet vein — Wandering, leaves a tender slain, Shilling through the smoothest white That e'er did softest kiss invite — Now seem'd with hot and livid glow To press, not shade, the orbs below ; Which glance so heavily, and fill. As tear on tear grows gath'ring still. — " Nor once did those sweet eyelids close, Or shade the glance o'er which they rose. But round their orbs of deepest blue The circling white dilated grew — And there with glassy gaxe she stood As ice were in her curdled blood ; But every now and then a tear So large and slowly gaiher'd, slid From the long dark fringe of that fair lid, It was a thing lo see, not hear! To speak she' thought — the imperfect note Was chiik'd within her swelling throat. Yet seem'd in that low hollow groan Fler whole heart gushing in the tone. It ceas'd — again she ihouaht to speak Then burst her voice in one long shriek. And to the enrih she fell, like stone Or statue from its base o'erthrown." The grand part of this poem, however, i that which describes the execution of th rival son; and in which, though there is n pomp, either of language or of sentiment, an every thing, on the contrary, is conceived an e.vpressed with studied simplicity and direci ness, there is a spirit of pathos and poetry ' LORD BOON'S POETRY. 439 vhich it would not be easy to find many pa- ,allels. ' The Convent bells are ringing ! ! But niournfully and slow ; 1 In ihe grey square turret svvinjring, I Witli a deep sound, to and fro ! , Heavily to the heart they tro ! ' Hark ! ilie hymn is singing ! — ! The song f<»r the dead below, i Or the living who shortly shall be so ! ; For a departing Being's soul [knoll : The deaih-hynin peals and the hollow bells He is near his mortal goal ; Kneeling at the Friar's knee ; Sad to hear — and piteous to see ! — Kneeling on the bare cold ground. With the block before and the guards around — While the crowd in a speechless ('ircle gather To see the Son fall by the doom of the Father ! '■ It is a lovely hour as yet Before the summer sun shall set. Which rose upon that heavy day. And mock'd it with his steadiest ray ; And his evening beams are shed Full on Hugo's fated head ! As his last confession pouring To the monk, his doom deploring In penitential holiness, He bends to hear his accents bliss With absolution such as may Wipe our mortal stains away! That high sun on his head did glisten As he there diii bow and listen ! And the rings of chesnut hair yurled half-down his neck so bare; But brighter still the beam was thrown Jpon the axe which near him shone With a clear and ghastly glitter I Oh ! that parting hour was bitter ! [5ven the stern stood chill'd with awe : park the crime, and just the law — tet they shudder'd as they saw. ' "The parting prayers arc said and over ')f that false son — and daring lover ! His beads and sins are all recounted ; [lis hours to their last minute mounted — ilis mantling cloak before was stripp'd, !lis bright brown locks must now be clipp'd I 'I'is done — all closely are they shorn — "he vest which till this moment worn — The scarf which Parisina gave — Inst not adorn him to the grave. Iven that must now be thrown aside, .Liid o'er his eyes the kerchief tied ; llutno — that last indignity hall ne'er approach his haughty eye. No! — yours my forfeit blood and breath — "hese hands are chain'd — but let me die .t least with an unshackled eye — trike I' — and. as the word he said, ■pon the block he bow'd his head ; "hese the last accents Huho spoke : strike!' — and flashing fell the stroke ! — oU'd the head — and, gushing, sunk ack the stnin'd and heaving trunk, .1 the dust, — which each deep vein ilak'd with its cnsansiuin'd rain I , liseves and lips a nimiient quiver, onvuls'd and quick — then fix for ever." f the Hebrew melodies — the Ode to Na- pe on, and some other smaller pieces that ajeared about the same time, we shall not »c. stop to say anythins. They are ob- vi sly inferior to thf works we have been nCjCing, and are about to notice, both in ge?ra] interest, and in power of poetry ih raised an inferior artist to the very summit of distinction. Of the verses entitled, ''Fare thee well," — and some others of a similar character, we shall say nothing but that, in spite of their beauty, it is painful to read them — and infi- nitely to be regretted that they should have been given to the public. It would be apiece of idle atiectation to consider them as mere effusions of fancy, or to pretend ignorance of the subjects to which they relate — and with the knowledge which all the world has of these subjects, we must say, that not even the e.xample of Lord Byron, himself, can per- suade us that they are fit for public discussion. We come, therefore, to the consideration of the noble author's most recent publications. The most considerable of these, is the Third Canto of Childe Harold ; a work which has the disadvantage of all continuations, iti ad- mitting of little absolute novelty in the plan of the work or the cast of its character, and must, besides, remind all Lord Byron's readers of the extraordinary effect produced by the sudden blazing forth of his genius, upon their first introduction to that title. In spite of all this, however, we are persuaded that this Third Part of the poem will not be pronounced inferior to either of the former; and, we think, will probably be ranked above them by those who have been most delighted with the whole. The great success of this singular production, indeed, has always appeared to us an e.xtraor- dinary proof of its merits; for, with all its genius, it does not belong to a sort of poetry that rises easily to popularity. — It has no story or action — very' little variety of character — and a great deal of reasoning and reflection of no very attractive tenor. It is substantially a contemplative and ethical work, diversified with fine description, and adorned or over- shaded by the perpetual presence of one em- phatic person, who is sometimes the author, and sometimes the object, of the reflections on which the interest is chiefly rested. It required, no doubt, great force of writing, and a decided tone of originality to recommend a performance of this sort so powerfully as this has been recommended to public notice and admiration — and ihose high characteristics belong perhaps still more eminently to the part that is now before us, than to any of the former. There is the same stern and lofty disdain of mankind, and their ordinary pur- suits and enjoyments; with the same bright gaze on nature, and the same magic power of giving interest and efi'ect to her delinea- tions — but mi.xed up, we think, with deeper and more matured reflections, and a more in- tense sensibility to all that is grand or lovely in the external world. — Harold, in short, is somewhat okler since he last appeared upon the scene — and while the vigour of his intel- lect has been confirmed, and his confidence in his own opinions increased, his mind has 'so become more sensitive; and his misan- gh some of them, and the Hebrew melo- ■ thro]n-; thus softened over by htibils of calmer din especially, display a skill in versification, coiitemplatioii, appears less active and im})a an;a mastery in diction; which would have 1 tient, even although more deeply rooted than <440 POETRY. before. Undoubtedly the finest parts of the poem before us, are those which thus embody the weight of his moral sentiments; or dis- close the lofty sympathy which binds the despiser of Man to the glorious aspects of Nature. It is in these, we thiidi, that the great attractions of the work consist, and the strength of the author's genius is seen. The narrative and mere description are of far inferior in- terest. With reference to the sentiments and opinions, however, which thus give its dis- tiuguishing character to the piece, we must Bay, that it seems no longer possible to ascribe them to the ideal person whose name it bears, or to any other than the author himself. — Lord Byron, we think, has formerly complain- ed of those who identified him with his hero, or supposed that Harold was but the expositor of his own feelings and opinions; — and in noticing the former portions of the work, we thought it unbecoming to give any counte- nance to such a supposition.— In this last part, however, it is really impracticable to distin- guish them. — Not only do the author and his hero travel and reflect together, — but, in truth, we scarcely ever have any distinct intimation to which of them the sentiments so energeti- cally expressed are to be ascribed; and in those which are unequivocally given as those of the noble author himself, there is the very same tone of misanthropy, sadness, and scorn, which we were formerly willing to regard as a part of the assumed costume of the Childe. We are far from supposing, indeed, that Lord Byron would disavow any of these sentiments; 1 and thouijh there are some which we must ever think it most unfortunate to entertain, I and others which it appears improper to have published, the greater part are admirable, and cannot be perused without emotion, even by those to whom they may appear erroneous. The poem opens with a burst of grand poe- try, and lofty and impetuous feeling, in which the author speaks undisguisedly in his own person. " Once more upon the waters! yet once more ! And tlie waves bound beneath me, as a sired That knows his rider. Welcome, to their roar! Swift be their guidance, where.soe'er it lead ! Though thestrain'd mast should quiver as a reed. And the rent canvass fluttering strew the gale, Still must I on ; for I am as a weed. Flung trom the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail Where'er the surge inay sweep, the tempest's breath prevail. " In my youth's summer, I did sing of One, The watid'ring outlaw of his own dark mind; Again I seize the theme then but begun. And bear it with me. as the rushing wind Bears the cloud onwards. In that tale I find The furrows of long thought, and dried-up lears. Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind. O'er which all heavilv the journeying years Plod the last sands of life, — where not a flower appears. " Since my young davs of passion — ^^joy, or pain. Perchance iny heart and harp have lost a string, And both may jar. It may be, that in vain I would essay, as I have sung to sing. Yet. thouL'h a dreary strain, to this I cling; So that it wean me from the weary dream Of selfish grief or gladness ! — so it fling Forgetfulness around ine — it shall seem, To me, though to none else, a not ungrat theme." After a good deal more in the same stra he proceeds, 100, " Yet must I think less wildly:— I have though: Too long and darkly ; till my brain became In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought, A whirling gulf of phantasy and flaine : And thus, untaught in youth my heart to fatrw My springs of life were poison'd." — " Something too much of this: — but now 'tis pn And the spell closes with its silent seal ' Long absent Harold re-appears at last The character and feelings of this unjoyo personage are then depicted with great foi and fondness ;— and at last he is placed up the plain of Waterloo. " In ' pride of place' where laie the Eagle flew.tftlil"™ Mt plain, • tfW Then tore witli bloody talon the rt , , Pierc'd by the shaft of banded nations through Fit retribution ! Gaul may champ the bit And foam in fetters;— but is Earth more freet Did nations combat to niake One submit Or league to tea<;li all kings true sovereigntytiBKilltf Hmn What ! shall reviving 'i'liraldojii asa;n The patch'd-up idol of enlighten'd days ? ' Shall we, who struck the Lion down,' s-liall we Pay the Wolf homage ?'' " If not, o'er one fall'n despot boast no more I" There can be no more remarkable proof the greatness of Lord Byron's genius than tj| mn spirit and interest he has contrivcil to coiifltai'ii'ie municate to his picture of the often-drawn af"'P*? difficult scene of the brt>aking up fiotn Bri:' sels before the great battle. It is a tn remark, that poets generally fail in llie lepr sentation of great events, "when the intert is recent, and the particulars are consequent clearly and commonly known : and the reas is obvious: For as it is the object of })OPtry make us feel for distant or imaginary occu rences nearly as strongly as if they « ere pv sent and real, it is plain 'that there is iiosco| for her enchantments, where the impressi' reality, with all its vast prepondenmce of intt- est, is already before us, and where the co cern we take in the gazette far outgoes ai emotion that can be conjured up in us by tl help of fine descriptions. It is natural, ho^ ever, for the sensitive tribe of poet.s, to mi take the common interest which they tht share with the unpoetical part of their con. trynien, for a vocation to versify ; ;uicf so thi proceed to jwur out the lukewarm distillatioi of their phantasies upon the unchecked effe vesceiice of ])ublic feeling I All our bard accordingly, great and small, and of all se.ve ages, and professions, from Scoff jind Southi down to hundreds without names or addifioii have adventured upon this theme— iind faili , in the management of it ! And while fhf yielded to the patriotic impulse, as if they ho all caught the inspiring summons — " Let those rhvme now who never rhym'd before And those who always rhyme, rhyme now il more — " The result has been, that scarcely a line I be remembered had been produced on a sul LORD BYRON -S POETRY. 44J ^ bet which probably was thought, of itself, a :cure passport to immortality. It required tme courage to venture on a theme beset '■- fith so many dangers, and deformed with the recks of so many former adventurers; — and ■, theme, too, which, in its general conception. li )peared alien to the prevailing tone of Lord >TOn's poetry. See, however, with what sy strength he enters upon it. and with how ' nich grace he gradually finds his way back ,. • liis own peculiar vein of sentiment and ■ iction. There was a sound of revelry by night ; And Belgium's capital had gather'd then Her beauty and her chivalry ; and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men. ?^ thousand hearts beat happily ; and when Vlusic arose wMth its voluptuous swell, soft eyes look'd love to eyes whicii spake again, » \nd all went merry as a marriage bell ; It hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising ; ' knell!" 'Vh ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, "■ \nd gath'ring tears, and tremblings of distress, Vnd cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago ?lush*d at the praijje of their own loveliness ; ^nd there were sudden partings; such as press The lite from out young hearts ; and choking sighs tVhich ne'er might be repeated : — who could guess if ever more should meet those mutual eyes, See upon nights so sweet such awful morn could rise ? ".nd there was mounting in hot haste : the steed, 'he must'ring squadron, and the clatt'ring car, Vent pouring forward with impetuous speed, ind swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; >nd the deep thunder, peal on peal afar; '.nd near, the beat of the alarming drum lous'd up the soldier ere the morning star. "nd Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, .lewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass ! 'rieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, iver the unreturning brave. — alas I ire evening to be trodden like the grass /hich now beneath them, but above shall grow 1 its next verdure ! when this riery mass 'f living valour, rolling on the foe [and low." Al burning with high hope, shall moulder cold 'iter some brief commemoration of the wth and valour that fell in that bloody field, thauthor turns to the many hopeless mourn- er that survive to lament their extinction ; the miy broken-hearted families, whose incura- bl sorrow is enhanced by the national e.x- ultion that still points, with importunate joy, to le scene of their destruction. There is a riciess and energy in the following passage whh is peculiar to Lord Byron, among all nuern poets, — a throng of glowing images, poed forth at once, with a facihty and pro- fuiin which must appear mere wastefulness to lore economical writers, and a certain neigence and harshness of diction, which caibelong only to an author who is oppressed wi the exuberance and rapidity of hfis con- ce] o;is. " ^.e Archangel's trump, not Glory's, must awake '.086 whom they thirst for! though the sound of Fame Jy for a moment soothe, it cannot slake j;e fpvpi- of vain longing ; and the name Sonnour'd but assuaies a .sirougur, biitertr claimT 56 " They mourn, Imt .""mile at .ength ; and, smiling, 'I'he tree will wither long before it fall ; [tnourn ! The hull drives on, though nia.«t and sail be torn ! The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall In massy hoariness ; the ruin'd wall Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone ; The bars survive the captive they cnilinil ; The day drags through, though storms keep out the sun ; And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on : " Even as a broken mirror, which the glass In every fragment multiplies; and makes A thousand images of one that was, The same, and still the more, the more it breaks; And thus the heart will do which not forsakes, Living in shatter'd guise, and still, and cold. And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches. Yet withers on till all without is old. [told." Showing no visible sign, — for such things are un- There is next an apostrophe to Napoleon, graduating into a series of general rellcctions, expressed with infinite beauty and earnest- ness, and illustrated by another cluster of magical images; — but breathing the very es- sence of misanthropical disdain, and embody- ing opinions which we conceive not to be less erroneous than revolting. After noticing the strange combination of grandeur and littleness which seemed to form the character of that greatest of all captains and conquerors, the author proceeds, " Yet well thy soul hath brook'd the turning tide With that untaught innate philosophy. Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride, Is gall and wormwood to an enemy. When the whole host of hatred stood hard by, To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast With a sedate and all-enduring eye ; — [smil'd When fortune fled her spoil'd and favourite child. He stood uiibow'd beneath the ills upon him pil'd. Sager than in thy fortunes : For in them Ambition steel'd thee on too far to show That just habitual scorn which could contemn Men and their thoughts. 'Twaswise to feel; not so To wear it ever on thy lip and brow. And spurn the instruments thou wert to use Till they were turn'd unto thine overthrow: 'Tis but a worthless world to win or lose ! — So hath it prov'd to i hee, and all such lot who choose. But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell, And there hath been thy bane ! There is a fire And motion of the soul which will not dwell In its own narrow being, bat aspire Beyond the fitting medium of desire ; And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore. Preys upon high adventure ; nor can tire Of aught but rest ; a fever at the core, Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. This makes the madmen, who have made men By their contagion ; Conquerors and Kings, [mad Founders of sects and systems, — to whom add Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things. Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs. And are themselves the fools to those they fool ; Envied, yet how unenviable ! what stings Are theirs ! One breast laid open were a school Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or rule : Their breath is agitation ; and their life. A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last ; And yet so nurs'd and bigotted to strife. That should their days, surviving perils past. Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast With sorrow and supineness, and so die ! Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste With its own flickering ; or a sword laid by Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously. 442 POETRY. He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find The lofiiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow; He who furpasses or sididues mankind, Must look down on tlie hate of iliose l)eIow. Thouoh high above the sun of glory glow. And far hencnth the earth and ocean spread. Round \\\n\ are icy rocks; and loudly blow Contending ttmiiesis on his naked head, [led." And ihus reward the toils which to those summits This is splendidly written, no doubt — but we trust it is not true; and as it is delivered with much more than poetical earnestness, and recurs, indeed, in other forms in various parts of the volume, we must really be allowed to enter our dissent somewhat at large. With regard to conquerors, we wish with ail our hearts that ihe case were as the noble author represents it : but we greatly fear they are neither half so unhappy, nor half so much hated as they should be. On the contrary, it seems plain enough that they are very com- monly idolised and admired, even by those on whom they trample ; and we suspect, moreover, that in general they actually pass their time rather agreeably, and derive con- siderable satisfaction from the ruin and deso- lation of the world. From Macedonia's mad- man to the Swede — fromNimrod to Bonaparte, the hunters of men have pursued their sport with as much craiety, and as little remorse, as the hunters of other animals — and have lived as cheerily in their days of action, and as comfortably in their repose, as the followers of better pursuits. For this, and for the fame which they have generally enjoyed, they are obviously indebted to the great interests con- nected with their employment, and the men- tal excitement which belongs to its hopes and hazards. It would be strange, therefore, if the other active, but more innocent spirits, whom Lord Byron has here placed in the same predicament, and who share all their sources of enjoyment, without the guilt and the hardness which they cannot fail of con- tracting, should be more miserable or more unfriended than those splendid curses of their kind : — And it would be piissing strange, and pitiful, if the most precious gifts of Providence should produce only unhappiness, and man- kind regard with hostility their greatest bene- fact(jrs. We do not believe in any such prodigies. Great vanity and ambition may indeed lead to feverish and restless efforts — to jealousies, to hate, and to mortification — but these are only their eflfi^ets when united to inferior abilities. Tt is not those, in short, who ac- tually surpass mankind, that are unhappy; but those who .stmggle in vain to surpass them : And this moody tem[)or, which eats into itself from within, and provokes fair and unfair opposition from without, is cenerally the result of pretensions which outgo the merits by which they are supported — and dis- appointmeii'.s. that may be clearly traced, not to the excess of genius, but its defect. It will be found, we believe, accordingly, that the master spirits of their aee have al- wavs escaped the unhappiness which is here supposed to be the inevitable lot of extraordi- nary talents ; and that this strange tax upon genius has only beer. levied from those h \i,^^ held the secondary shares of it. Men of t^ pi''-' reat powers of mind have generally bu cheerful, social, and indulgent ; while a 3. dency to sentimental whining, or fierce it j. erance, may be ranked among the si; <• symptoms of little souls and inferior h i lects. In the whole list of our English pt <. we can only remember Shenstoiie and Sa^;( — two, certainly, of the lowest — who v querulous and discontented. Cowley, iixl i used to call himself melancholy : — but lie . not ui earnest; and, at any tiite. \\iis m 1 conceits and affectations; ami has nciilm make us proud of him. Shakespt ,in'. greatest of them all, was evidently oi a and joyous temperament ; — and so w ;is Ci > cer, their common master. The same <• position appears to have predomniatec r, Fletcher, Jonson, and their great conter > raries. The genius of Milton partook so ■ thing of the austerity of the party to whicl i- belonged, and of the controversies in wl :. he was involved ; but even when faller t evil days and evil tongues, his spirit seem, have retained its serenity as well as its nity ; and in his private life, as well as i poetry, the majesty of a high characti tempered with great sweetness, genial in gences, and practical wisdom. In the ceeding age our poets were but too g-ay ; though we forbear to speak of living autl we know enough of them to say with C( dence, that to be miserable or to be halt not now, any more than heretofore, the c mon lot of those who excel. If this, however, be the case with p(iBii';o[ confessedly the most irritable and of all men of genius — and of poets, toOjil 11, and born in the gloomy climate of Engl |i„^'j| it is not likely that those who have surpai their fellows in other ways, or in other regi have been more distinguished for unhappic Were Socrates and Plato, the greatest phill|Air;,| phers of anticiuity, remarkable for unscll or gloomy tempers ? — was Bacon, the gre» in modern times? — was Sir Thomas Mo: or Erasmus — or Hume — or Voltaire? — Newton — or Fenelon ? — was Francis I. Henry IV., the paragon of kings and coDq The only one in view ; A small green isle ; it seem'd no more. Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, But in it there were three tall trees, And o"er it blew the mountain breeze. And by it there were waters flowing, And on it there were young flow'rs growing. Of gentle breath and line. The fish swam by the castle wall. And they seem'd joyous, each and all; The eagie rode the rising blast ; Methought he never flew so fast As then to me he seem'd to fly." The rest of the poems in this little volume. i3 less amiable — and most of them, we fear, ive a personal and not very charitable ap- ]cation. One. entitled '-Darkness." is free < least from this imputation. It is a grand id gloomy sketch of the supposed conse- tences of the final extinction of the Sun and t; Heavenly bodies — executed, undoubtedly. ■\th great and fearful force — but with some- tng of German exairgeration. and a fantas- tal selection of incidents. The very con- fition is terrible, above all conception of Idwd calamity — and is too oppressive to the iigitiation, to be contemplated with pleas- V; even in the faint reflection of poetry. " The icy eanh 'ung blind and blackening in the moonless air." 'itie? and forests are burnt; for light ai^d vrmth. '"he brows of men by the despairing light 'ire an unearthly aspect, as by fits ii flashes fell upon them I .'^ome lay down Ai hid their eyes and wepi ; and some did rest 7 iir chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd ! And others hurried to and fro, and fed Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up With mad disquieiude on the dull sky, The pall of a past world ! and then again With curses cast them down upon the dust. And gnaslrd their teeth, and howl'd I" Then they eat each other: and are extin- guished ! " The world was void, The populous and the powerful was a lump, Seasonless. hcrbless, treele.-^s, manless, lifeless — A lump of death — a chaos of liard clay ! The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still, And nothing stirr'd wiihin iheir silent depths ; Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea, [dropp'd And their masts fell down piecemeal : As they They slept on the abyss without a surge — The waves were dead ; the tides were in their grave, The moon their mistress had e.xpir'd befure ; The winds were wiiher'd in the stagnant air. And the clouds perish'd ; Darkness had no need Of aid from them — She was the universe." There is a poem entitled '-'The Dream," full of living pictures, and written with great beauty and genius — but extremely painful — and abounding with mysteries into which we have no desire to penetrate. --The Incant- ation"' and '•Titan'" have the same distressing character — though without the sweetness of the other. Some stanzas to a nameless friend, are in a tone of more open misanthiopy. This is a favourable specimen of their tone and temper. " Though human, thou didst not deceive me, Thoui,'h woman, ihou didst not forsake. Though lov'd, thou foreborest to grieve me. Though slander'd. thou never couldst shake,— Though trusted, tiiou didst not disclaim me, Though parted, it was not to fly, Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me, Nor mute, that the world might belie." Beautiful as this poetry is, it is a relief at last to close the volume. We cannot maintain our accustomed tone of levity, or even speak like calm literary judges, in the midst of these agonising traces of a wounded and distempered spirit. Even our admiration is at last swal- lowed up in a most painful feeling of pity and of wonder. It is impossible to mistake "these for fictitious sorrows, conjured up for the pur- pose of poetical effect. There is a dreadful tone of sincerity, and an energy that cannot be counterfeited, in the expression of wretch- edness and alienation from human kind, which occurs in every page of this publication ; and as the author has at last spoken out in his own person, and unbosomed his griefs a great deal too freely to his readers, the offence now would be to entertain a doubt of their reality. We certainly have no ho])e of preaching him into philanthropy and cheerfuhiess : but it is impossible not to mourn over such a catas- trophe of such a mind ; or to see the prodigal gifts of Nature. Fortune, and Fame, thus turned to bitterness, without an oppressive feeling of impatience, mortification, and sur- prise. Where there are such elements, how- ever, it is equally impossible to despair that they may yet enter into happier combinations, — or not to hope this "that puissant spirit" " yet shiill reascend Self-raia'd, and repossess its native seat." 2N POETRY. (i^orcmbfr, 1817.) Lalla Rookh; an Oriental Romance. By Thomas Moore. 4to. pp. 405. : London: 1817. There is a great deal of car recent poetry stitution of genius. While it is more splendk (kw derived from the East : But this is the finest in imagery — (and for the most part in ver Orientalism we have had yet. The land of good taste) — more rich in sparkling thou^ the Sun has never shone out so brightly on the and original conceptions, and more full indee'. children of the North — nor the sweets of Asia of exquisite pictures, both of all sorts of beai been poured forth, nor her gorgeousness dis- ties and virtues, and all sorts of sufl'erings aii' played so profusely to the delighted senses of I crimes, than any other poem that has yet com^jiiie Europe. The beauteous forms, the dazzling " " splendours, the breathing odours of the Ea.st, seem at last to have found a kindred poet in that green isle of the West : whose Genius has long been suspected to be derived from a warmer clime, and now wantons and luxuri- ates in tho.se voluptuous regions, as if it felt that it had at length regained its native ele- ment. It is amazing, indeed, how much at home Mr. Moore seems to be in India. Persia, and Arabia; and how purely and strictly Asiatic all the colouring and imagery of his book appears. He is thoroughly embued with the character of the scenes to which he trans- ports us : and yet the extent of his knowledge is less wonderful than the dexterity and ap- parent facility with which he has turned it to account, in the elucidation and embellishment of his poetry. There is not. in the volume now before us, a simile or description, a name, a trait of history, or allusion of romance which belongs to European experience ; or does not indicate an entire famiharity with the life, the dead nature, and the learning of the East. Nor are these barbaric ornaments thinly scat- tered to make up a show. They are showered lavishly over all the work : and form, perhaps too much, the staple of the poetry — and the riches of that which is chiefly distinguished for its richness. We would confine this remark, however, to the descriptions of external object-s, and the allusions to literature and history — or to what may be termed the materiel of the {)oetry be- fort! us. The Characters and Sentiments are of a different order. They cannot, indeed, be said to be copies of European nature : but tney ait' still less like that of any other region. They are, in truth, poetical imaginations; — but it is to the poetry of rational, honourable, considerate, and humane Europe, that they belonir — and not to the childishness, cruelty, and profligacy of Asia. It may seem a harsh and presumptuous sentence, to some of our Cosmopolite readers : But from all we have been able to gather from history or recent ob- servation, we should be inclined to say that there was no sound sense, firmness of purpose, or principled goodnes.i, except among the na- tives of Europe, and theirgenuine descendants. There is somethiTig very extraordinary, we think, in the work before us — and something which indicates in the author, not only a great exuberance of talent, but a very singular con- before us ; we rather think we .]a.ce, then, if we con.sider how the fact stands, we shall find that all the great poets, and, in an especial manner, all the poets who chain down the attention of their readers, and maintain a growing interest through a long series of narrations, have been remarkable for the occasional familiarity, and even homeliness, of many of their incidents, characters and sentiments. This is the dis- tinguishing feature in Homer, Chaucer, Ari- osto, Shakespeare, Dryden, Scott — and will be found to occur, we believe, in all poetiy that has been long and extensively poj)nlai' : orthat is capable of pleasing very strongly, or stirring 448 POETRY. very deeply, the common sensibilities of our nature. We need scarcely make an excep- tion for the lofty Lyric, which is so far from bein^ generally attractive, that it is not even intelligible, except to a studious few — or for those solemn and devotional strains which de- rive their interest from a still higher princi- ple : But in all narrative poetry — in all long pieces made up of descriptions and adven- tures, it seems hitherto to have been an indis- pensable condition of their success, that most of the persons and events should bear a con- siderable resemblance to those which we meet with in ordinary life ; and, though more ani- mated and important than to be of daily oc- currence, should not be immeasurably exalted above the common standard of human fortune and character. It should be almost enough to settle the question, that such is the fact — and that no narrative poetry has ever excited a great in- terest, where the persons were too much puri- fied from the vulgar infirmities of our nature, or the incidents too thoroughly purged of all that is ordinary or familiar. But the slightest reflection upon the feelings with which we read such poetry, must satisfy us as to the reason of our disappointment. It may be told in two words. Writings of this kind revolt by their improbability ; and fatigue, by offering no points upon which our sympathies can readily attach. — Two things are necessary to give a fictitious narrative a deep and com- manding interest; first, that we should believe that such things might have happened ; and secoiulhj, that they might have happened to ourselves, or to such persons as ourselves. But, in reading the ambitious and overwrought poetry of which we have been speaking, we feel perpetually, that there could have been no such people, and no such occurrences as we are there called upon to feel for : and that it is impossible for us, at all events, to have much concern about beings whose principles of action are so remote from our own. and who are placed in situations to which we have never known any parallel. It is no doubt true, that all stories that interest us must represent pas- sions of a higher pitch, and events of a more extraordinary nature than occur in common life: and that it is in consequence of rising thus sensibly above its level, that they become objects of interest and attention. But, in order that this very elevation may be felt, and pro- duce its effect, the story must itself, in other places, give us the known and ordinary level, and. by a thousand adaptations and traits of universal nature, make us feel, that the char- acters which become every now and then the objects of our intense sympathy and admira- tion, in great emergencies, and under the in- fluence of rare but conceivable excitements, are. after all. our fellow creatures — made of the same flesh and blood with ourselves, and actinir, and acted upon, by the common prin- ciples of our nature. Without this, indeed, the effect of their sulferings and exploits would be entirely lost upon ns ; as we should be without any .scale by which to estimate the magnitude of the temptations they had to re- sist, or the energies they had exerted. 1 make us aware of the altitude of a mountai^ it is absolutely necessary to show us the pla from which it ascends. If we are allowed see nothing but the table land at the top, fl effect will be no greater than if we had r mained on the humble level of the shore- except that it will be more lonely, bleak, ai, inhospitable. And thus it is. that by e. aggerating the heroic quahties of heroes, tht become as uninteresting as if they had i such quahties — that by striking out thoj weaknesses and vulgar infirmities whit identify them with ordinary mortals, they n( only cease to interest ordinary mortals, but eve to excite their admiration or suqirise ; and aj pear merely as strange inconceivable being in whom superhuman energy and refinemei are no more to be wondered at. than the powt of flying in an eagle, or of fasting in a snakt The wise ancient who observed, that beiii a man himself, he could not but take an inte est in every thinir that related to man — riiigl have confirmed his character for wisdom, b adding, that for the same reason he could tak no interest in any thing else. There is notl ing, after all, that we ever truly care for. bi the feelings of creatures like ourselves: — an we are obliged to lend them to the flowei and the brooks of the valley, and the staisan airs of heaven, before we can take any deligl in them. With sentient beings the case ■ more obviously the same. By vhalevc names we may call them, or with m hatevt fantastic attributes we may please to invet them, still we comprehend, and concern ou selves about them, only in so lar as they n semble ourselves. AJl the deities of tb classic mythology — and all the devils aij i angels of later poets, are nothing but huma creatures — or at least only interest us .so Ion, as they are so. Let any one trv to imagin what kind of story he could make of the ai ventures of a set of beings who difl"ere(l froi our own species in any of its general atinbutt — who were incapable, for instance, of tl I debasing feelings of fear, pain, or anxiety- and he will find, that instead of becomiii I more imposing and attractive by getting ri j of those infirmities, they become utterly h. significant, and indeed in a great degree ii conceivable. Or, to come a little closer i the matter before us. and not to go beyon. the bounds of common experience — Suppo^ I a tale, founded on refined notions of delirai ; love and punctilious inte.«j;rity, to be told to race of obscene, brutal and plundering savag» — or, even within the limits of the same coui try. if a poem, turning upon the jealousies c court intrigue, the pride of rank, and the caba of sovereigns and statesmen, were put in' the hands of village maidens or clownish li. bourers, is it not obvious that the remotenc of the manners, characters and feelings froi their own, would first surprise, and then i> volt them — and that the moral, intellectu; and adventitious Superiority of the personap concerned, would, instead of enhancing tl interest, entirely destroy it. and very speedi. extinguish all symi)alhy with their passion MOORE'S LALLA ROOKH. 44» id all curiosity about their fate ? — Now, what •ntlemen and ladies are to a ferocious savage, politicians and princesses to an ordinarj' Stic, the exaggerated persons of such poetry ; we are now considering, are to the ordinary ;aders of poetry. They do not believe in le possibihty of their existence, or of their ;' ventures. They do not comprehend the jinciplcs of their conduct; and have no urouirh sympathy with the feelings that are rribed to them. We have carried this speculation, we be- Ive, a little too far — and, wiA reference to t' volume before us, it would be more cor- rt perhaps to say, that it had suggested these iservations, than that they are strictlj' ap- fcable to it. For' though its faults are cer- tnly of the kind we have been endeavouring tilescribe, it would be quite unjust to char- aerise it by its faults — which are beyond all dibt less consjMcnous than its beauties, lere is not only a richness and brilliancy of dtion and imagery spread over the whole vrk, that indicate the greatest activity and e^ance of fancy in the author; but it is e rywhere pervaded, still more strikingly, b I strain of tender and noble feeling, poured ovwith such warmth and abundance, as to Btd insensibly on the heart of the reader, ai gradually to overflow it with a tide of svipathetic emotion. There are passages iii'ed, and these neither few nor brief, over wch the very Genius of Poetry seems to h;9 breathed his richest enchantment — wre the melody of the verse and the beauty of he images conspire so harmoniously wilh ihforce and tenderness of the emotion, that th^vhole is blended into one deep and bright stiim of sweetness and feeling, along which th spirit of the reader is borne passively avy, through long reaches of delight. Mr. M-re's poetry, indeed, where his happiest ve is opened, realises more exactly than that of ny other writer, the splendid account wl'jh is given by Comus of the song of " (9 mother Circe, and the Sirens three, .jnid the flnwcry-kiriled Naiades, ho, as they sung, would take ihe prison'd soul, .!id lap it in Elysium !" Ar though it is certainly to be regretted th;he should so often have broken the mea- Mii wilh more frivolous strains, or filled up Its tervals with a sort of brilliant falsetto, it «h(.ld never be forgotte:;, that bis excellences are t least as jieculiar to himself as his faults, ancon the whole, perhaps more characteristic of? genius. '>.e volume before us contains four sepa- lat md distinct poems — connected, however, niuield together "like orient pearls at ran- i!ot;struiig." by the slender thread of a slight prO' story, on which they are all suspended, anco the simple catastrophe of which they in (Tie measure contribute. This airy and ele.nt legend is to the following effect. I^al Rookh, the daughter of the great Au- reniebe, is betrothed to the young king of Bu(aria; and sets forth, with a splendid ^■^iof Indian and Bucharian attendants, to 57 I meet her enamoured bridegroom in the de- I lightful valley of Cashmere, The progress I of this gorgeous cavalcade, and the beauty of the couiitry which it traverses, are exhibit- I ed with great richness of colouring and pic- turesque effect ; though in this, as well as in the Qther parts of the prose narrative, a cer- tain tone of levity, and even derision, is fre- quently assumed — not very much in keeping, we think, with the tender and tragic strain of poetry of which it is the accompaniment — certain breakings out, in short, of that mock- ing European wit, which has made itself merry with Asiatic solemnity, ever since the time of the facetious Count Hamilton — but seems a little out of place in a miscellany, the prevailing character of which is of so opposite a temper. To amuse the languor, or divert the impatience of the royal bride, in the noon-tide and night-halts of her luxurious progress, a young Cashmerian poet had been sent by the gallantry of the bridegroom ; and recites, on those occasions, the several poems that form the bulk of the volume now before us. Such is the witchery of his voice and look, and such the sympathetic eff"ect of the tender tales which he recounts, that the poor princess, as was naturally to be expected, falls desperately in love with him before the end of the journey ; and by the time she enters the lovely vale of Cashmere, and sees the glittering palaces and towers prcjiared for her reception, she feels that she would joyfully forego all this pomp and splendour, and fly to the desert with her adored Fera- morz. The youthful bard, however, has now- disappeared from her side; and she is sup- ported, with fainting heart and downcast eyes, into the hated presence of her tyrant ! when the voice of Feramorz himself bids her be of good cheer — and, looking up, she sees her beloved poet in the Prince himself ! who had assumed this gallant disguise, and won her young affections, without deriving any aid from his rank or her engagements. The whole story is very sweetly and gaily told ; and is adoriTed with many tender as well as lively passages — without reckoning among the latter the occasional criticisms of the omniscient Fadladeen. the magnificent and most infallible grand chamberlain of the Haram — whose sayings and remarks, we cainiot help observing, do not agree very well with the character which is assigned him — being for the most part very smart, senten- tious, and acute, and by no means solemn, stupid, and pompous, as was to have been expected. Mr. Moore's genius, however, we suppose, is too inveterately lively, to make it possible for him even to counterfeit dulness. We come at last, however, to the poetry. The first piece, which is entitled "The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan," is the longest, we think, and certainly not the best, of the series. It has all the faults which we have, somewhat too sweepingly, imputed to the volume at large ; and it was chiefly, indeed, with a reference to it, that we made those introductory remarks, which the author will probably think too nriuch in the spirit of the 2n2 450 POETRY, Bage Chamberlain. The story, which is not | illusions, he poisons the remnant of his ad in all its parts extremely intelligible, is | herentS; and himself plunges into a bath, o! fouiuk-J on a notice, in D'Herbelot, of a da- j such corrosive quality, as instantly to extin ring impostor of the early ages of Islamism, guish life, and dissolve all the elements o who pretended to have received a later and t the mortal frame. Zelica then covers hersel more authoritative mission tlian that of the , with his fatal veil, and totters out to the ram prophet, ai:d to be destined to overturn all parts, where, being mistaken for MokannE tyrannies and superstitions on the earth, and i she rushes upon the spear of her Azim. an. to rescue all souls that believed in him. To receives his forgiveness in death ! while h shade the celestial radiance of his brow, always wore a veil of silver gauze, and was at last attacked by the Caliph, and extermi- nated, with all his adherents. On this story, Mr. Moore has engrafted a romantic and not very probable tale of two young lovers. Azim and Zelica: the former of whom having been supposed to perish in battle, the grief of the latter unsettles her understanding; and her distempered imagination is easily inflamed by the mystic promises of the Veiled Prophet. suri'ives, to pass the rest of his life in contir ual prayer and supplication for her erring spirii and dies at last upon her grave, in the fu assurance of rejoining her in purity and blis.- It is needless to enlarge on the particula faults of this story, after the general observa tions we hazarded at the outset. The chai acter of Mokanna, as well as his power an influence, is a mere distortion and extrava gance : But the great blemish is the corruj tion of Zelica : and the insanity so gratii which at length prevail on her to join the ; tously alleged by the poet in excuse of i ide " troop (if lovely priestesses who earn a blissful immortality in another world, by sharing liis t embraces upon earth. By what artful illu- j sions the poor distracted maid was thus be- | trayed to her ruin, is not very satisfactorily explained; only we are informed that she and the Veiled Apostle descended into a charnel-house, and took a mutual oath, and drank blood together, in pledge of their eter- union. At length Azim, who had not Nothing less, indeed, could in any way ac count for such a catastrophe ; and, after al it is painful and offensive to the imasinatiw The bridal oath, pledged with blood amon I the festering bodies of the dead, is one of th I overstrained theatrical horrors of the Germa, .!;„„, I school ; and a great deal of the theoriMU mmt j and argumentation which is intended to pallj *<«««? ate or conceal those defects, is obscure an* ^, I incomprehensible. Rich as it is, in short, i! ^^^-^ been slain, but made captive in battle, and , fancy and expression, and powerful in aolm jig^i^, had wandered in Greece till he had imbibed i of the scenes of passion, we should have ha ifeijilispe the love of liberty that inspired her famous great doubts of the success of this volume, ij i^aijyi heroes of old — hears of the proud promises it had all been of the same texture with tbi ji-^i'"; of emancipation which Mokanna (for that , poem of which we are now speaking. W was the prophet's name) had held out to all i even there, there is a charm, almost irresist nations, and comes to be enrolled among the > ble, in the volume of sweet sounds and beai champions of freedom and virtue. On the tiful images, which are heaped together wil day of his presentment, he is introduced into j luxurious profusion in the general texture c a scene of voluptuous splendour, where all the i the style, and invest even the absurdities c seducive influences of art and nature are in vain j the story with the graceful amplitude of the exerted to divert his thoucfhts from the love i rich and figured veil. What, for instance, ca^ of Zelica and of liberty. He breaks proudly be sweeter than this account of Azim"s enti away from these soft enchantments, and finds ' into this earthly paradise of temptations? a mournful female figure before him, in whom j ne almost immediately recognises his lone- ! lost and ever-loved Zelica. The first moment of their meeting is ecstasy on both sides ; but the unhappy sirl soon calls to mind the un- utterable condition to which she is reduced — and, in agony, reveals to him the sad story of her derangement, and of the base advantages that had been taken of it. Azim at first throws her from him in abhorrence, but soon turns, in relenting pity, and off"ers at last to rescue her from this seat of pollution. She listens with eager joy to his proposal, and is about to fly with him ui the instant, when the dread voice of INIokanna thunders in her ear her oath of eternal fidelity. That terrible sound brings back her frenzy. She throws her lover wildly from her, and vanishes at once, amidst the dazzling lights of that un- holy palace. Azim then joins the approaching army of the Caliph, and leads on his forces again.st the impious usurper. Mokanna per- forms proditries of valour — but is always borne b^ck by the superior force and enthusiasm of Aiim : and after a long course of horrors and " Meanwhile, through vast illuminatrd halls. Silent and briahi, where nothing Init ihe falls Of fragrant waters, gushing with cool sound From many a jasper fount, is heard around, Young Azim roam;* bewilder'd ; nor can guess . What means this maze ot light and loneliness! Here, the way leads, o'er tesselated floors i Or mats of Cairo, through long corridors, Where, rang'd in cass^olets and silver urns, ?weet wood of aloe or of sandal burns ; And here, at once, the glittering saloon Bursts on his sight, boundless and bright as nooi Where, in the midst, reflecting back ilie rays In broken rainbows, a fresh fountain plays High ns th' enamell'd cupola ; which towers All rich with Arabesques of gold and flowers: And the mosaic floor beneath shines through The sprinkling of that fountain's silvery dew, Like the wet, glist'ning shells, of ev'ry dye; That on the margin of the Red Sea lie. " Here too he traces the kind visiiings Of woman's love, in those fair, living things Of land and wave, whose fate — in bondage thro* For their weak loveliness — is like her own! On one side gleaming wiih a sudden grace 'I hrousrh watr-r. brilliant as ihr crystal vase .j In which It undulates, small fishes shine, j Like golden ingots from a fairy mine ! — I *«tkt ««sii MOORE'S LALLA ROOKH. 4S1 hile, on the other, lattic'd lightly in ith odorifrnus woods of Cotnorin, Ich brilliant bird that wings the air is seen ; — dy, sparkiing loories, such as gleam between 'le crimson blossoms of the coral tree 1 the warm isles of India's sunny sea : ;>cca's blue sacred pigeon ; and the thrush ( Hindostan, whose holy warblings gush, , evening, from the tail [lagoda's top ; — 'lose gold-en birds that, in the spice-time, drop ,iout the gardens, drunk with that sweet food "hose scent hath lur'd them o'er the summer jid those that under Araby's soft sun [flood ; — lild their high nests of budding cinnamon." pp. .53—56. The w-arrior youth looks round at first with (.dain upon those seductions, with which he sjposes the sage prophet wishes to try the tnness of his votaries. ' Vhile thus he thinks, still nearer on the breeze (nie those delicious, dreatn-like harmonies, Ich note of which but adds new, downy links *■. the soft chain in which his spirit sinks. I turns him tow'rd the sound ; and, far away 'trough a long vista, sparkling with the play ( countless lamps — like the rich track which Day lives on the waters, when he sinks from us ; 5 long the path, its light so tremulous ; — I sees a group of female forms advance, 6ne chain' d together in the mazy dance I fetters, forg'd in the green sunny bowers, /they were captives to the King of Flowers," &-c. ■ Awhile they dance before him ; then divide, Eaking, like rosy clouds at even-tide /mrid the rich pavilion of the sun — 1; silently dispersing, one by one. Trough many a path that from the chamber leads 1 gardens, terraces, and moonlight meads, l;ir distant laughter comes upon the wind. Ai but one trembling nymph remains behind, Ek'ning them back in vain, — for they are gone, .^i she is left in all that light, alone ! ^ veil to curtain o'er her beauteous brow, I ts young bashfulness more beauteous now; E a light, golden chain-work round her hair S h as the maids of Yezd and Shiraz wear, V ile her left hand, as shrinkingly she stood, t d a small lute of gold and sandal wood, Viich, once or twice, she touch'd with hurried I'.n took her trembling fingers oflT again, [strain, B when at length a timid glance she stole .AAzim, the sweet gravity of soul S saw through all his features, calm'd her fear ; ^1, like a half-tam'd antelope, more near, 'niigh shrinking still, she came; — then sat her Im a musnud's edge, and bolder errown, [down Iihe pathetic mode of Ispahan 'Iich'd a prekiding strain, and thus began : — " "he following picture of the grand arma- ntit of the Caliph shows the same luxuri- a;e of diction and imagination, directed to d erent objects : — '' ^hose are the gilded tents that crowd the way, \ ere all was wa-^te and sileiu yesterday? M City of War which, in a few short hours, nil sprung up heri', as if the magic powers •JHim who, in the twinkling of a star, B t the high pillar'd halls of Chilminar, H coiijur'd up, far as the eye can see, fs world of tents and domes and sun-bright armory I — P :cely pavilions, screen'd by many a fold 0:rimson cloth, and topp'd with balls of gold ;— ^jds, with their housings of rich silver spun, 1 ir chains and poiirels glitt'ring in the sun ; A camels, tufted o'er with Yemen's shells, ^liiDg in every breeze their light-ton'd bells ! " Ne'er did the march of Mahadi display Such pomp before ; — not ev'n when on hia way To Mecca's Temple, when both land and sea Were spoil'd to feed the Pilgrim's luxury ; \yhen round him, mid the burning sands, he saw l''ruits of the North in icy freshness thaw, And cool'd his thirsty lip, beneath the glow Of Mecca's sun, with urns of Persian snow : — Nor e'er did armament more grand than that Pour from the kingdoms of the Caliphat. First, in the van, the J'eopic of the Rock, ()n their light mountain steeds, of royal stock; Then, Chiufiains of Damascus, proud to see The flashing of their swords' rich marquetry," &c. pp. 8G— 89. We can afford room now only for the con- clusion — the last words of the dying Zelica ; which remind us of those of Campbell's Ger- trude — and the catastrophe of Azim, which is imaged in that of Southey's Roderick. " ' But live, my Azim ; — oh ! to call thee mine Thus once again ! — my Azim-^ream divine ! Live, if thou ever lov'dst me, if to meet Thy Zelica hereafter would be sweet, Oh live to pray for her ! — to bend the knee Morning and night before that Deity, To whom pure lips and hearts without a stain. As thine are, Azim, never breath'd in vain — And pray that He may pardon her — may take Compassion on her soul for thy dear sake, And, nought rememb'ring but her love to thee, Make her all thine, all His, eternally ! Go to those happy fields where first we twin'd Our youthful hearts together — every wind That meets thee there, fresh from the well-known flowers, Will bring the sweetness of those innocent hours Back to thy soul, and thou may'st feel again For thy poor Zelica as thou didst then. So shall thy orisons, like dew that flies To heav'n npon the morning's sunshine, rise With all love's earliest ardour to the skies !' Time fleeted ! Years on years had pass'd away, And few of those who, on that mournful day Had stood, with pity in their eyes, to see The maiden's death, and the youth's agony, Were living still — when, by a rustic grave Beside the swift Amoo's transparent wave, An aged man, who had grown aged there By one lone grave, morning and night in prayer, For the last time knelt down ! And, though the shade Of death hung dark'ning over him, there play'd A gleana of rapture on his eye and cheek. That brighten'd even death — like the last streak Of intense glory on th' horizon's brim. When night o'er all the rest hangs chill and dim '.— His soul had seen a Vision, while he slept ; She, for whose spirit he had pray'd and wept So many years, had come to him, all drest In angel smiles, and told him she was blest ! For this the old man breath'd his thanks, — and died 1 — And there, upon the banks of that lov'd tide, He and his Zelica sleep side by side." pp. 121—123. The next piece, which is entitled "Paradise and the Peri," has none of the faults of the preceding, [t is full of spirit, elegance, and beauty ; and, though slight enough in its struc- ture, breathes throughout a most pure and engaging morality. It is, in truth, little more than a moral apologue, expanded and adorned by the exuberant fancy of the poet who recites it. The Peris are a sort of half-fallen female angels, who dwell in air, and live on perfumes ; and, though banished for a time from Para- POETRY. disCj go about in this lower world doing good. One of these — But it is as short, and much more agreeable, to give the author's own in- troduction. " One morn a Peri at the gate Of Eden stood, disconsolate ; And as she listen'd to the Springs Of Life within, like music llowine ; And caught the light upon her wings Through the half-npen^iortal glovcing ! She wept to ihitik her recreant rare Should e'er have lost that glorious place !" p. 133. The Angel of the Gate sees her weeping, and — " ' Nymph of a fair, but erring line !' Gently he said — ' One hope is thine. 'Tis written in the Book of fate, The Peri yet may he forgiven Who hri)igit to thig Etcntul Gale The gift that is most dear to Heaven .' Go, seek it, and redeem thy sin ; — 'Tis sweel to let the Pardou'd in V " — p. 135. Full of hope and gratitude, she goes eagerly m search of this precious eift. Her first quest is on the plains of India — the luxuriant beauty of which is put in fine contrast with the havoc and carnage which the march of a bloody conqueror had then spread over them. The Peri comes to witness the heroic death of a youthful patriot, who disdains to survive the overthrow of his country's independeirce. — She catches the last drop which flows from his breaking heart, and bears that to he^aven's gate, as the acceptable propitiation that was required. For " ' Oh ! if there be. on this earthly sphere, A boon, an ofTfring Heaven holds dear, ■Tis the last libation Liberty draws From the heart that bleeds and breaks m her cause !' " — p. 140. The angel accept.^ the tribute with respect : But the crj-stal bar of the portal does not move ! and she is told that something holier even than this, will be required as the price of her admission. She now flies to the source of the Nile, and makes a delightful but pensive survey of the splendid renjoiis which it waters ; till she finds the inhabitants of the lovelv garden.* of Rosetta dying by thousands of the plague — the selfish desertine their friends and benefactors, and the generous, when struck with the fatal malady^ seekin opposite to him a stern wayfaring man. restin: from some unhallowed toil, with the stamp o all evil pas.sions and evil deeds on his face. " But hark ! the vesper-call to prayer, As slow the orb of daylight sets, Is rising sweetly on the air. From Syria's thousand minarets ! The boy has started from the bed Of flowers, where he had laid his head. And down upon the fragrant sod Kneels, with his forehead to the south Lisping ih' eternal name of God From purity's own cherub mouth. And looking, while his hands and eyes Are lifted to the glowing skies, Like a strav babe rful. With all tb' richness and beauty of diction what belong •' likrtofl Sk: ^ ''^\^ MOORE'S LALLA ROOKH. le best parts of Mokanna, it has a far more iterestinir story ; and is not liable to any of le objections we have been obli^eil to bring piinst the contrivance and structure of that ading poem. The outline of the story is lort and simple. — Al Has.^an, the bigotted id sansuinary Emir of Persia, had long waged furious and exterminating war against the )taries of the ancient religion of the land — e worshippers of IVIithra, or his emblem, je — then and since det^iijnated by the name Ghebers. The superior numbers of the vader had overcome the heroic resistance ■ the patriots, and driven them to take refuse a precipitous peninsula, cut otf from the ;id by what was understood to be an im- ^ssable ravine, and exposins nothing but Ire rocks to the sea. In this fastness the tmty remnant of the Ghebers maintain them- jlves. under the command of their dauntless lider, Hafed, who is still enabled, by sudden td daring incursions, to harass and annoy Uir enemy. In one of those desperate en- tprises, this adventurous leader climbs to I; sunrunit of a lofty cliff, near the Emir's ilace, where a small pleasure-house had 3n built, in which he hoped to surprise this I'Otted foe of his country ; but found only I fair daughter Hinda, the loveliest and gen- t^t of all Arabian maids — as he himself e.x- {•ssesit. He climb'd the gory Vulture's nest, And found a trembling Dove within!" This romantic meeting gives rise to a rau- til passion — and the love of the fair Hinda isnevitably engaafed. before she knows the n ae or quality of her nightly visitant. In the nile heart of Hafed, however, love was but a;condary feeling, to devotion to the free- di and the faith of his country. His little b;d had lately suffered further reverses, and 8e- nothing now before them but a glorious 8(-sacrifiee. He resolves, therefore, to tear ahentler feelings from his breast, and in one la interview to take an eternal farewell of tLmaid who had captivated his soul. In his mancholy aspect she reads at once, with the ininctive sag-acity of love, the tidings of their ajroaching separation ; and breaks out into th following sweet and girlish repinings: — " knew, I knew it mtilii not last — 'whs bright, 'iwas henvenly — hiit 'tis past ! h ! ever thus, from childhood's hour, I've seen my fondest hopes decay ; jiever lov'd a tree or flower, But 'twas the first to fade away, ■lever nurs'd a dear gazelle, To glad me with its soft black eye, It when it came to know me well, And love me, it was sure to die ! iw too — the jov most like divine Of all I ever dreamt or knew, '» see thee, hear thee, call thee mine, — _0h mis'ry ! must T lose Ihot too ? "m 50 ! — on peril's brink we meet ; — Those frightful rocks — that treach'rous sea — .), never come again — though sweet. Though heav'n, it may be death to thee.' " pp. 187, 188. hen he smiles sternly at the idea of dan- gSishe urges him to join her father's forces, and earn her hand by helping him to root out those impious Ghebers whom he so much ab- hors. The spirit of the patriot bursts forth at this ; and, without revealing his name or quality, he proudly avows and justifies the conduct of that luckless sect ; and then, re- lenting, falls into a gentler and more pathetic strain. " ' Oh I had we never, never met ! Or could this heart e'en now forget ! Flow link'd, how bless'd we might have been, Had fate not trown'd so dark between ! Hadst thou been born a Persian maid ; In neighb'ring valleys had we dwelt. Through the same fields in childhood play'd, At the same kindling altar knelt — Then, then, while all those nameless ties, In which the charm of Country lies. Had round our hearts been hourly spun. Till Iran's cause and thine were one ; While in thy lute's awak'ning sigh I heard the voice of days gone by, And saw in ev'ry smile of thine Returning hours of slory shine ! — While the wrong'd Spirit of our Land [thee ! — Liv"d, look'd, and spoke her wrongs through God ! who could then this sword withstand? Its very flash were victory ! Rut now' Estrang'd, divorc'd for ever, Far as tiv^ grasp of Fate can sever ; Our only ties what love has wove — Faiih, iriends, and country, sunder'd wide ; — And then, then only, true to love. When false to all that's dear beside ! Thy father Iran's deadliest foe — Thyself, perhaps, ev'n now — but no — Hate never look'd so lovely yet ! No ! — sarred to thy soul will be The land of him who could forget All but that bleeding land for thee! When other eyes shall see, unmov'd, Her widows mourn, her warriors fall, Thou'lt think how well one Gheber lov'd, And for his sake thou'lt weep for all !" pp. 193, 194. He then starts desperately away; regains his skiff at the foot of the precipice, and leaves her in agony and consternation. The poet now proceeds to detail, a little move par- ticularly, the history of his hero ; and recounts some of the absurd legends and miraculous attributes with which the fears of his enemies had invested his name. " Such were the tales, that won belief. And such the colouring fancy gave To a young, warm, and dauntless Chief, — One who, no more than mortal brave, Fought for the land his soul ador'd. For happv homes and altars free ; His only talisman, the sword, — His only spell-word. Liberty I 'Twas not for him to crouch the knee Tamely to Moslem tyranny ; — 'Twas not for him. whosie soul was cast In the bright mould of ages past, Whose melancholy spirit, fed With all the glories of the dead ; — 'Twas not for him. to swell the crowd Of slavish heads, that shrinking bow'd Before the Moslem, as he pass'd. Like shrubs beneath the poison-blast — No — far he fled — indignant find The pageant of his country's shame ; While every tear her children shed Fell on his soul, like drops of flame ; And. as a lover hails the dawn Of a first smile, so welcom'd he 454 POETRY. The sparkle of the first sword drawn For vengeance and for liberty !"— pp. 206, 207. The song then returns to Hinda — " Whose life, as free from thought as sin, ■Slept like a lake, till Love threw in His talisman, and woke the tide, And spread its trembling circles wide. Once, Emir I thy unheeding child, Mid all this havoc, bloom'd and smil'd, — 'i'ranquil as on some battle-plain The Persian lily shines and towers. Before the combat's reddening stain Has fall'n upon her golden flowers. Far other feelings Love has brought — Her soul all flame, her brow all sadness," &c. " Ah I not the Love, that should have bless'd So young, so innocent a breast ! Not the pure, open, prosp'rous Love, That, pledg'd on earth and seal'd above. Grows in the world's approving eyes. In friendship's smile, and home's caress. Collecting all the hearts sweet ties — Into one knot of happiness 1" — pp. 215 — 217. The Emir now learns, from a recreant pri- soner, the secret of the pass to the Gheber's retreat ; and when he sees his daughter faint with horror at his eager anticipation of their final extirpation, sends her, in a solitary gal- ley, away from the scene of vengeance, to the quiet of her own Arabian home. "And does the long-left home she seeks Light up no gladness on her cheeks ? The flowers she nurs'd — the well-known groves. Where oft in dreams her spirit roves — Once more to see her dear gazelles Come bounding with their silver bells ; Her birds' new plumage to behold, And the gay, gleaming fishes count. She left, all filleted with gold. Shooting around their jasper fount — Her little garden mosque to see. And once aaain, at ev'ning hour, To tell her ruby rosary. In her own sweet acacia bower. — Can these delights, that wait her now, Call up no snn.shine on hor brow ? No — silent, from her train apart — As if ev'n now she felt at heart 'I'he chill of her approaching doom — She sits, all lovely in her gloom As a pale Angel of the Grave." — pp. 227, 228. Her vessel is first assailed by a violent tempest, and, in the height of its fury, by a hostile bark ; and her senses are extinguished with terror in the midst of the double conflict. At last, both are appeased — and her recollec- tion is slowly restored. The following pas- Mge appears to us extremely beautiful and characteristic : — " How cnlm. how beautiful comes on The stilly hour, when storms are gone ; When warring winds have died away. And clouds, beneath the glancing ray. Melt off, and leave the land and sea Sleeping in bright tranquillity — Fresh aa if Day again were born. Again upon the lap of Morn ! When, 'stead of one unchanging breeze. There blow a thousand gentle airs. And each a difli'reiit periuine bears — As if the loveliest plants and trees Had vassal breezes of their own To watch and wau on thetTi ali'ne. And waft no other breath than theirs I Hi ol lie fat l^<»ni to I ■ll'leflak It wooni fealed fr( When the blue waters rise and fall. In sleepy sunshine mantling all ; And ev'n that swell the tempest leaves Is like the full and silent heaves Of lover's hearts, when newly blest ; Too newly to be quite at rest I — " Such was the golden hour that broke Upon the world, whin Hinda woke From her long trance ; and heard around No motion but the water's sound Rippling against the vessel's side, As slow it mounted o'er the tide. — But w here is she ? — Her eyes are dark, Are wilder'd still — is this the bark, The same, that from Harmozia's bay Bore her at morn — whose bloody way The sea-dog tracks ? — No ! — Strange and new Is all that meets her wond'ring view Upon a galliot's deck she lies. Beneath no rich pavilion's shade, No plumes to fan her sleeping eyes. Nor jasmin on her pillow laid. But the rude litter, rouehly spread With war-cloaks, is her homely bed, And shawl and sash, on javelins hung, 'na For awning o'er her head are flung. "-p. 233-236 She soon discover.s, in short, that she is • captive in the hands of the Ghebers ! aii< shrinks with honor, when she finds that shi is to be carried to their rocky citadel, andU , the presence of the terrible Hafed. The fflljg;|';; ley IS rowed by torchlight through inghniljlif,,ejaii)'(i rocks and foaming tides, into a black abyM UfKiw'liey of the promontory, whore her eyes are ban] JowHaWs daged — and she is borne up a long and ruggetj ^'.loi-l"; ascent, till at last she is desired to look oniM™''*^ and receive her doom from the formidablii'.y "^ji' chieftain. Before she has raised her eyes,thtj \\^4(^ well known voice of her lover pronounceshe; "IlieiMrkf: name ; and she fi.nds herself alone in the anirt 'Klyywsli of her adoring Hafed! The first emotion B ^"w«i(i, « ecstasy.— But the recollection of her fathen ^l^fl'"t vow and means of vengeance comes 'i^e a j[^||j' "/ thundercloud on her joy : — ,=he tells her loTe! ;i,[orp^j of the treachery by which he has been sacrij "klitksilie ficed; and urges him, with passionate eagei' tikie ness, to fly whh her to some place of safety. " ' Hafed, my own beloved Lord,' She kneeling cries — ' first, last ador'd ! If in that soul thou'st ever felt Half what thy lips impassion'd swore, Here, on my knees, that never knelt . To any but their God before ! ( I pray thee, as thou lov'st me, fly — , Now, now — ere yet their blades are nigh. Oh haste ! — the liark that bore me hither • Can waft us o'er yon dark'ning sea ' East — west — alas I I care not whither, I So thoii art safe. — and I with thee I j Go where we will, this hand in thine, Those eyes before me beaming thus, I Through good and ill, thronrrh .storm and shinti The world's a world of love for us ! On some calm, blessed shore we'll dwell. Where 'tis no crime to love too well I — Where thus to worship tenderly An erring child of light like thee Will not be sin — or. if it be. Where we may weep our faults away. Together kneeling, night and day, — Thou, for my sake, at All I's shrine, .And I — at ant/ god's, lor thine !' Wildly these passionate words she spoke — Then hunp her liead, and wept for shame ; Sobbing, ns if a henrt-sirins broke Withev'ry dcep-heav'd sob that came. pp, 261,262. "infoitnia '^ffliefoi, •^•ftkelofr MOORE'S LALLA ROOKH. 45$ Hafed is more shocked with the treachery t which he is sacrificed than with the fate to Aiich it consigns him : — One moment he |es up to softness and pity — assures Hinda, ■\lh compassionate equivocation, that they eill soon meet on some more peaceful shore -places her sadly in a litter, and sees her Ine down the steep to the galley she had li^ly quitted, anil to which she still expects 1 1 he is to follow her. He then assembles Jb brave and devoted comptmions — warns t 'm of the fate that is approiiching — and ex- lits them to meet the host of the invaders iithe ravine, and sell their lives dearly to t ir steel. After a fierce, and somewhat too sgiiinary combat, the Ghebers are at last ine down by numbers; and Hafed finds iJiself left alone, with one brave associate. Brtajly wounded like himself. They make aesperate eflbrt to reach and die bes'ide the c secrateil fire which burns for ever on the samit of the cliff. ""he crags are red they've clamber'd o'er, 'he rock-weed's dripping with their gore — I'hy blade loo, Hafed, false at length,' ■,Iow breaks beneath ihy tott'ring strength — •Taste, hasie ! — the voices of the Foe 'onie near and nearer fmm below — [ne etTort more — thank Heav'n ! 'tis past, 'hey've gain'd the topmost steep at last, .nd now they touch the temple's walls, Now Haled sees the Fire divine — k^hen, lo I — his weak, worn comrade falls Dead, on the threshold of the Shrine. .'^las ! brave soul, too quickly fled ! ' And must I leave thee wiih'ring here, The sport of every ruffian's tread, ^ The mark for every coward's spear ? N'o, by yon altar's sacred beams!' e tries, and, with a strength that seems 'ot ot this world, uplifts the frame f the fall'n chief, and tow'rds the flame ears him along ! — With death-damp hand The corpse upon the pyre he lays ; hen lights the consecrated brand, And fires ihe pile, whose sudden blaze ike lightnirg burs's o'er Oman's Sea — \ow Freedom's God ! I come to Thee !' he youth exclaims, and wiih a smile f triumph, vaulting on the pile, -I that last effort, ere the fires ave harm'd one glorious limb, e.xpires !" pp. 278, 279. he unfortunate Hinda, whose galley had b«n detained close under the cHfT by the me of the first onset, had heard with agony th sounds which marked the progress and hama bear a remarkable aflinity to mai in the work before us— in the brighliiessi the colourinji, and the amplitude and beau' of the d(-tails. It is in his de.^icriptioiis of lov and of female loveliness, that there is li strongest resemblance to Lord Byron— at Ici' to the larger poems of that noble author, the powerful and condensed expressioa < JteimiB" ailvariet ;j(|(fer,aM .jiaieofM' jiliiifiisif: [lillespint [Ijihe Irairjioii ■■Mk WORDSWORTH'S EXCURSION. 457 •ong emotion, Mr. Moore seems to us rather have imitated the tone of his Lordship's laller pieces — but imitated them as only an i^'inal genius could imitate — as Lord Byron rnself may be said, in his later pieces, to live imitated those of an earlier date. There less to remind us of Scott than we can very jbII account for, when we consider the great nge and variety of that most fascinating and jwerful writer ; and we must say, that if .r. Moore could bring the resemblance a tie closer, and exchange a portion of his su- ■rfiuous images and ecstasies for an equiva- iit share of Mr. Scott's gift of interesting and flighting us with pictures of familiar nature, id of the spirit and energy which never rises 1 extravagance, we think he would be a jiner by the exchange. To Mr. Crabbe 1?re is no resemblance at all ; and we only i^ntion his name to observe, that he and Mr. .i)ore seem to be the anlipodies of our present jetical sphere; and to occupy the extreme ]ints"of refinement and homeliness that can 1 said to fall within the legitimate dominion ( poetry. They could not meet in the mid- e. we are aware, without changing their na- fe, and losing their specific character ; but .> of a moij active practice. A man who has been for twenty years ove all, the victory is most sure I i lie f( For Him who, seeking faith by virtue, strives u ^w To yield entire submission to the law !Tr.l/,j« Of Conscience; Conscience reverenc'd and obey'. As God's most intimate Presence in the soul. And his most perfect Image in the world." p. 151. We have kept the book too long open, how ever, at one place, and shall now take a di' •" -t nearer the beginning. The following ao n « count of the Pedlar's early training, and lonel |jj,j f,j| meditations among the mountains, is a goa alii,^, example of the force d and a flfected ecstagia Jniiai in which this author abounds. liiitnigie! ufmtt " Nor did he fail. While yet a Child, with a Child's eagerness Incessantly to turn his ear and eye On all things which the moving seasons brougl: To feed such appetite : nor this alone Appeas'd his yearning : — in the after day Of Boyhood, many an hour in caves forlorn. And 'mid the hollow^ depths of naked crags. He sate, and even in their fix'd lineaments. Or from the pow'r of a peculiar eye. Or by creative feeling overborne, Or by predominance of thought oppress'd, Ev'n in their fix'd and steady lineaments He trac'd an ebbing and a flowing mind. "-p. 1! »»»ta 'mm We should like extremely to know what iii jJW meant by tracing an ebbing and flowing min t kkiWjn in the fixed lineamtMits of naked cragS l^bt ■ kmaii this is but the beginning of the raving fit. ' i 'liiliiieu In these majestic solitudes, he used also t|'l read his Bible ; — and we are told that — -' t.„. There did he see the wriiivt; ! — All things then if Hi.lfot Breath'd immortality, revolving life And greatness still revolving ; infinite! There littleness was not ; the least of things Seem'd infinite ; and there his spirit shap'd Her prospects; nor did he believe, — he saw What wonder if his being thus became Sublime and comprehensive ! Low desires, Low thoughts had there no place ; yet was hiL heart ' Lowly ; for he was meek in gratitude. "-pp. 14, 1 What follows about nature, triangles, star WORDSWORTH'S EXCURSION. 463 id the laws of light, is still more incompre- jnsible. " Yet still uppermost aturc "as at his heart, as if he felt, [hough yet he knew not how, a wasting pou) r all thin'a;s whicli from her sweet influence ight tend to wean him. Therefore with her hues, sr forni-^. and with the spirit of her forms, e cloth"d the nakedness of austere truth. I'hile yet he linger'd in the rudiments if science, and among her simplest laws, '9 triamrlcs — they were the stars of heav'n, !ie silent stars I Oft did he take deHght J) measure th' altitude of some tall crag ihich is the eagle's birthplace, or some peak ,;miliar with forgotten yeass, that shows 'scrib'd, as with the silence of the thought, )on its bleak and visionary sides ; — and I have heard him say 'pat often, failing at this time to gain 'le peace requir'd. he scanti'd the Inius of light .nid the roar of torrents, where they send iom hollow ciefis up to the clearer air .cloud of mist, which in the sunshine frames .lasting tablet — for the observer's eye '.ryiiig its rainbow hues. But vainly thus, .id vainly by all other means, he strove ') mitigate the fever of his heart." — pp. 16 — 18. [The whole book, indeed, is full of such fiff. The following is the author's own iblime aspiration after the delight of be- (.Tiiiig a Motion, or aj'resenc e, or an Enersv . , . , luftl'tiidinous streams ^1^" object^hat entic'd my steps aside aong mi '3h 1 what a joy it were, in vi^'rous health, 'i have a Body (this our vital Frame 'lith shrinking sensibility endu'd, jid'all the nice regards of flesh and blood) .'.d to the elements surrender it, ., if it were a Spirit .' — How divine 'Jie liberty, for Jrail, for mortal man, '« roam at large among unpeopled glens iid mountainous retirements, only trod ] devious footsteps ; regions consecrate ^ oldest lime I and, reckless of the storm ■^ at keeps the raven quiet in her nest, 1 as a Fresence or a Motion ! — one iiong the many there ; and, while the Mists I/ing, and rainy Vapours, call out Shapes I d Phantoms from the crags and solid earth 1 fast as a Musician scatters sounds < t of an instrument ; and, while the Streams — (5 at a first creation and in haste exercise their untried faculties) Iscending from the regions of the clouds, lA starting from the hollows of the earth lire multitudinous every moment — rend '.eir way before them, what a joy to roam .i eqrial among mightiest Energies ! lA naply sometimes with articulate voice, iiid the deaf'ning tumult, scarcely heard f| him that utters it, exclaim aloud Ij this con I inu'd so from day to day, I'r let it have an end from month to month !" : pp. 164, 16.5. ke " The tenor Which my life holds, he readily may conceive Whoe'er hath stood to watch a mountain Brook In some still passage of its course, and seen, Within th« depths of its capacious breast. Inverted trees, and rocks, and azure sky ; .\nd, on its glassy surface, specks of foam, And conglobated bubbles undissolv'd. Numerous as stars ; that, by their onward lapse, Betray to sight the motion of the stream, Else imperceptible ; meanwhile, is heard Perchance a roar or murmur; atid the sound Though soothing, and the little floating isles Though beautiful, are boili by Nature cliarg'd With the same pensive office ; and make known Through what perplexing labyrinths, abrupt Precipitations, and untoward straits. The earth-born wanderer hath pass'd ; and quickly, That respite o'er, like traverses and toils Must be again encounter'd. — Such a stream Is HuinanLife."— pp. 139, 140. The following, however, is a better example of the useless and most tedious minuteness with which the author so frequently details circumstances of no interest in themselves, — of no importance to the story, — and possess- ing no graphical merit whatsoever as pieces of description. On their approach to the old chaplain's cottage, the author gets before his companion, when behold as an Entry, narrow as a door ; A passage whose brief windings open'd out Into a platform ; that lay, sheepfold-wise, Enclos'd between a single mass of rock And one old moss-grown wall ; — a cool Recess, And fanciful I For, where the rock and wall Met in an angle, hung a tiny roof, Or penthouse, which most quaintly had been fraind, By thrusting two rude sticks into the wall And overlaying them with mountain sods ! To weather-fend a little turf-built seat Whereon a full-grown man might rest, nor dread The burning sunshine, or a transient shower; Btit the whole plainly wrought by Children's hands ! Whose simple skill had throng'd the grassy floor With work of frame less solid ; a proud show Of baby-houses, curiously arrang' d ! Nor wanting ornament of walks between. With mimic trees inserted in the turf, And gardens interpos'd. Pleas' d with the sight, I could not choose but beckon to my Guide, Who, having enter'd, carelessly look'd round. And now would have pass'd on ; when I exclaim'd, ' Lo ! what is here ?' and, stooping down, drew A Book," &,c. — pp. 71, 72. [forth And this book, which he " found to be a work In the French Tongue, a Novel of Voltaire," leads to no incident or remark of any value or importance, to apologise for this longstorj of its finding. There is no beauty, we think, 'e suppose the reader is now satisfied it must be admitted, in these passages ; and \\h. Mr. Wordsworth's sublimities — which so little either of interest or curiosity in the upy rather more than half the volume : — incidents they disclose, that we can scarcely ( his tamer and m ore creepin .^ prolLxity, we conceive that any man to whom they had ac- hre not the heart to load him with many tually occurred, should take the trouble to S'ciraens. The following amplification of recount them to his wife and children b^ his t vulgar comparison of human life to a idle fireside : — but, that man or child should s^am, has the merit of adding much ob- think t hem worth writ in,o- down in h1an k.vf--.';ej p rity to wordiness; at least, we have not and printing in magnificent quarto, we should ijenuity enough to refer the conglobated >TTifMtt^^^-hft¥e supposed altogether imyr«9si hMes and murmurs, and floating islands, I ble, had it not been for the ample proofs which t'|their Vital prototypes. ! Mr. Wordsworth has afforded to the contiary 464 POETRY. \ Sometimes their silliness is enhanced by a paltry attempt at effect and emphasis: — as in the following account of that very touching and extraordinary occurrence of a Igjaii^bleat- i ng amoiit^ the mountains. The poet would actually persuade us that he thought the mountains themselves were bleating; — and that nothing could be so grand or impressive. '• List !"■ cries the old Pedlar, suddenly break- ing off in the middle of one of his daintiest ravings — " ' List ! — I heard, From yon huge breast of rock, a solemn hleat .' Sent forth as if it were the Mountain's voice ! As if the visible Mountain made the cry I Again !' — The effect upon the soul was such As ho express'd ; for, from the Mountain's heart The solemn hlfdt appear'd to come ! There was No other — and the region all around Stood silent, empty ot all shape of life. — Il VHU a Lamb — ^left somewhere to itself!" p. 159. What we haVfe now quoted will give the reader a notiomaf the taste and spirit in which this volume is composed : And yet. if it had not contained something a good deal better, we do not know how we should have been justified in troubling him with any account of it. But the truth is, that Mr Wordsworth, with all his perversities, is a person of great powers; and has frequently a force in his moral declamations, and a tenderness in his pathetic narratives, which neither h is proljx ity nor his affectation can altogether deprive of their effect. We shall venture to give some extracts from the simple tale of the Weaver's solitary Cottage. Its heroine is the deserted wife : and its chief interest consists in the picture of her despairing despondence and anxiety, after his disappearance. The Pedlar, recurring to the well to which he had direct- ed his companion, observes, " As I stoop'd to drink. Upon the slimy foot-stone I espied The useless fragment ot a wooden bowl, Green with the moss of years; a pensive sight That mov'd my heart I — recalling former days. When I could never pass that road but She Who liv'd within these walls, at my approach, A Daughter's welcome gave me ; and I lov'd her As my own child ! O Sir ! the good die first I And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust Burn to the socket." "By some especial care Her temper had been fram'd, as if to make A Being — who by adding love to peace Might live on earth a life of happiness." pp. 27, 28. The bliss and tranquillity of these prosper- ous years is well and copiously describee!; — but at last came sickness, and want of em- ployment ; — and the effect on the kind- hearted and industrious mechanic is strikingly delineated. " At his door he stood, And whi^iPd many a snatch of merry tunes That had no mirth in ihem I or with his knife Carv'd uncouth figures on the heads of sticks — Then, not less idly, sought, through every nook In house or garden, any casual work Of use or ornament." — " One while he would speak lightly of his Babes, ^ And with a cruel tongue : at other limes , He toss'd them with a false uiniai'ral joy : And 'twas a rueful thing to see the looks ( Of the poor innocent children." — p. 31. At last, he steals from his cottage, and enlis as a soldier ; and when the benevolent Pedl: comes, in his rounds, in hope of a cheerf; welcome, he meets with a scene of despair. — — " Having reach'd the door I knock'd, — and, when I enter'd wiiii tlie hope Of usual greeting, Margaret look'd at me A little while ; then turn'd her head away Speechless, — and sitting down upon a chair Wept bitterly ! I wist not what to do. Or how to speak to her. Poor Wretch I at last She rose from off her seat, and then, — O Sir 1 I cannot tell how she pronounc'd my name.— With fervent love, and with a face ol grief Unutterably helpless'.-' — pp. 34, 35. Hope, however, and native cheerfulnes' were not yet subdued ; and her spirit still bor up against the pressure of this desertion. " Long we had not talk'd Ere we built up a pile ot better thoughts. And with a brighter eye she look'd around As if siie had been shedding tears of joy." " We parted. — 'Twas the time of early spring; I left her busy with her garden tools; And well rennember, o'er that fence she look'd, And. while I paced along the footway path. Called out, and sent a blessing after me. With tender cheerfulness; and with a voice That seem d the verv sound of happv ihousihts." pp. 36, 3' The gradual sinking of the spirit under th load of continued anxiety, and the destruc tion of all the finer springs of the soul by- course of unvarying sadness, are very feei ingly represented in the sequel of this simp) narrative. " I journey'd back this way Towards the wane of Summer; when the wheat Was yellow ; and the soft and bladed gra.