Literary Hours - The Art and Popular Culture Encyclopedia (2024)

From The Art and Popular Culture Encyclopedia

Literary Hours (1798) by Nathan Drake were highly popular early in the 19th century (4th ed., 1820).

Volume 1

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LITERARY HOURS.

LITERARY HOURSorSketchesCRITICAL and NARRATIVE,byNATHAN DRAKE, M. D.IN TWO VOLUMES.VOL. I.THE SECOND EDITION,corrected and greatly enlarged.Innocuas Amo Delicias Doctamque Quietem.SUDBURY:printed by j. burkitt,FOR T. CADELL, JUNIOR, AND W. DAVIES,STRAND, LONDON .-1800.

to theREV. FRANCIS DRAKE, B. D.fellow of maudlin college,oxford.DEAR SIR,I feel peculiar satisfaction in dedicating this little work, theproduct of my leisure hours, of hoursdevoted to elegant literature duringthe intervals ofprofessional study andemployment, to the companion ofmyearly years.Accept, dear Sir, this small testimony of my friendship, my respectand esteem .Hadleigh, Suffolk,August, 1798.NATHAN DRAKE.

EnglishBlackwell1·2·31230523V.PREFACEto theFIRST EDITION.As the principal part of the ensuing volumeconsists of critical disquisition, I have endeavoured to alleviate the dryness usually attendant upon such discussion, in the opinion of anumerous class of readers, not only by thebeauty and merit of the quotations selected forthe purpose of elucidation, but by the introduction likewise of original tales and pieces ofpoetry. These I have interspersed at nearlyequal distances with the view of breaking inupon that uniformity of diction and style whichmust necessarily be the result of long continuedattention to literary subjects, and I shouldii PREFACE.hope they may contribute something towardsacquiring popularity for the work, somethingtowards mitigating the didactic and severer toneof the pages devoted to criticism.In the present hour of difficulty and danger,when politics and finance appear so entirely tooccupy the public mind, it is little to be expected that subjects of fancy and mere elegantliterature should greatly excite attention, ormeet with adequate support. Long howeveras our eyes have been now turned on scenes ofturbulence and anarchy, long as we have listened with horror to the storm which has sweptover Europe with such ungovernable fury, itmust, I should imagine, prove highly grateful,highly soothing to the wearied mind, to occasionally repose on such topics as literature andimagination are willing to afford.PREFACE. iiiHappiness in this life certainly in a greatmeasure depends on our facility in acquiring ataste for innocent and easily procurable pleasures. He who possesses therefore a relish forliterature and science, will seldom complain ofthe tediousness and protraction of time, butmay in general affirm with a celebrated writer,that, excluding pain and sickness, " withbooks no day has been so dark as not tohave its pleasure. " +Tothe composition of the following papers,whatever may be their fate as to literary merit,the author, conscious that they contain nosentiment inimical to virtue or to religion,can, with sincerity, say, he is indebted formuch consolatory employment; that he hasfound in their formation a refuge from anxiety+ Aikin,bjv PREFACE.1and disappointment, and has been taught, byexperience, to think, that, surrounded as we allare with ever varying accidents and calamities,hours thus spent should be esteemed asSunny islands in a stormy main,As spots ofazure in a cloudy sky.*Scott.

• Six ofthe following papers were published about eight years ago in

a periodical paper. These however have now undergone very 'considerable additions and alterations.Advertisem*ntto theSECOND EDITION.1In this edition many of theformer numbers have been corrected andenlarged, and nine new ones have beenadded. An index also of those authorsand artists upon whose productions anycomment or criticism has been passed, isannexed to the second volume, and will,the author hopes, prove useful as an aidto reference.Hadleigh, Suffolk,April, 1800.1ERRATA.-VOL. I.Page 28, line 4, for copore, read, corpore.- 5, - obstroque, ostroque.75, 26,232,- 13 ,338,19,381,452,--16,1 ,sooth, sooths.- bossom, bosom.navite, naïveté.-- Then, Thou.ordours, adours.e CONTENTSOF THEFIRST VOLUME.NO. PAGE1. Observations on the Writings and Geniusof Lucretius with Specimens of a NewTranslation2. The same concluded3. On the Government of the Imagination;on the Frenzy of Tasso and Collins .4. On the Tender Melancholy which usuallyfollows the acuter feelings of Sorrow5. Wolkmar and his Dog, a Tale. The Tempest, a Poem. Lucy, a Poem6. On Sonnet-Writing. Four Sonnets7. On Inscriptive Writing •35· 51· 73· · · 87• 103• 1198. On Gothic Superstition. Ode to Superstition9. Henry Fitzowen, a Gothic Tale10. The same continued ·· 137• • · 155· 179ii CONTENTS.11. The same concluded12. On the Fleece of Dyer13. The same concluded··14. On the Dark Ages of Christian Europe ascontrasted with the Caliphats of Bagdadand Cordova15. The same concluded16. On Pastoral Poetry. Edwin and Orlando,a Pastoral •17. On Objects of Terror. Montmorenci, aFragment195209·• 235257· 285• 325· 35318. Observations on the Calvary ofCumberland 37519.The same continued20. The same continued21. The same concluded•·. 401· 419433Literary Hours.

NUMBER I.Carmina sublimis tunc sunt peritura LucretîExitio Terras cum dabit una Dies. *Ovid.This prediction of Ovid, with regard to thedurability of the Poems of Lucretius, was ineminent danger ofbeing compleatly overthrownthrough the barbarism of modern Europe.Lucretius had, for several centuries, disappeared, and had entirely escaped the researchesof the few who were interested in the preservation of ancient literature, until the commencement of the fifteenth century, when the

• This second line of my, motto is a verbal copy from Lucretius, and

in thus using the very phraseology of the philosophic poet, Ovid appearsto have thought that the intrinsic merit of this tribute of respect wouldbe doubled. Lucretius in lib. v. 93 , 96, thus expresses himself:-terrasUna dies dabit exitio,BLITERARY NO. I.philosophic poet was restored to the admirationof the world through the indefatigable perseverance of Poggio Bracciolini. A history ofthe discovery of ancient manuscripts has beenfrequently mentioned as a work that wouldprove highly interesting to the scholar and theman of taste; and, in such a volume, Poggiowould merit every encomium which gratitude.could furnish. It is from the following linesin a latin elegy by Christoforo Landino, onthe death of this celebrated ornament of hisage, that we learn where to pay our acknowledgements for the first of philosophic poems.Landino, recording the discoveries of hisfriend, exclaimsIllius—manu nobis, doctissime rhetor,Integer in Latium, Quintiliane, redis;Illius atque manu, divina poemata SiliItalici redeunt, usque legenda suis:Et ne nos lateat variorum cultus agrorum,Ipse Columellæ grande reportat opus:Et te, Lucreti, longo post tempore, tandemaCivibus et Patriæ reddit habere tuæ.We are likewise indebted to Poggio forPlautus, parts of Statius, and Valerius Flaccus,but in rescuing from oblivion the sublimeNO. I. HOURS.disciple of Epicurus, he has conferred an obligation of incalculable extent. It is astonishinghow numerous have been the imitations, inalmost every european language, of this exquisite poet, and that Virgil possessed a high relishof, and a desire to copy his beauties, everypage of the Georgics affords proof.Whether Lucretius can lay claim to perfectoriginality in the conception and execution ofhis poem, is a subject of considerable uncertainty; little of the didactic poetry of theGreeks is left, and the Opera et Dies ofHesiod, or the Alieuticon and Cynegeticon ofOppian, though conveying precepts in verse,can with scarce any probability be consideredas furnishing a model for the philosophic geniusof the Roman. That verses, however, inculcating the tenets of the different schools ofphilosophy existed in Greece, wants not thefullest testimony, and the poem ofEmpedocleson the doctrines of Pythagoras, was so celebrated for its energy and harmony, that it waspublicly recited, along with the works ofHomer and Hesiod, at the Olympic Games.Many, indeed, have not hesitated to avow, thatthe Roman Bard found his prototype in this4 LITERARY NO. I.production ofthe Sicilian: but the assertion isfounded merely on conjecture, and, perhaps,the whole controversy may be now deemedbeyond the limit of enquiry.We shall, therefore, consider this work ofLucretius as the earliest specimen which hasdescended to us of the philosophic poetry ofthe ancients, for though, in common with thewritings of Hesiod and Oppian, it may be in,cluded under the Genus Didactic, as endeavouring to teach and instruct through themedium of versification, yet, as aspiring todevelope the principles of natural and moralphilosophy, it takes a higher station than anypoem on Agriculture, Fishing, or Hunting canever hope to attain. To combine the mostexquisite poetry with the clashing and reconditedogmata ofthe grecian schools, was an arduoustask, and to which very few, even in the firstranks of genius, could be supposed equal.However various and hostile may be the ideaswith regard to the tenets of Lucretius, of hismerit as a poet, I should imagine, there can bebut one opinion. He who has acquired a justtaste for sublime sentiment and luminous description, will find his highest gratification inNO. I. 5HOURS.the perusal of his pages, nor will he hesitate toplace him at the head of Roman poetry. EvenVirgil, deservedly celebrated as he is for pictoresque delineation, has not surpassed, eitherin design or colouring, the glowing landscapesof the elder bard. How rapturous must havebeen the enjoyment of the poet of Mantua incontemplating and dwelling upon the beautifuland highly finished pictures of his predecessor!What a study for intellect so congenial, socapable of emulating the excellence it delightedto admire! Numerous passages in the Georgics breathe the very spirit of Lucretius, andshould the curious reader undertake the taskof comparison, he would soon perceive howconscious Virgil must have been that the verywords of his Master were of worth too great tobe superseded. In fact, not onlythe imagery,but almost every epithet, in the digressionaland episodic parts of this wonderful poem, isso appropriate, so imbued with a tint essentialto the harmony of the whole, that, to attemptit* change were to destroy the effect of thepiece. The same judgment which led Virgilto study and to imitate the works of Lucretius,as models for descriptive poetry, has influenced too the poets of England, and Spenser,6 LITERARY NO. I.Milton, Thomson and Gray, have frequentlycaught the manner, and copied the hues andgrouping, of this enchanting artist. "ThePersians," observes Dr. Warton, " distinguishthe different degrees ofthe strength of fancy indifferent poets, by calling them, painters orsculptors. Lucretius, from the force of hisimages, should be ranked among the latter.He is, in truth, a Sculptor- Poet. His imageshave a bold relief."* Dropping, however, thelanguage of a sister art, though frequentlyhappily employed in illustrating the beautiesand defects of poetry, it may be remarked,that the diction of Lucretius is peculiarlyadapted to the nature of his theme; whenexplaining the abstruse theories of philosophy,his phraseology is uniformly plain and perspicuous, yet often possessing due dignity fromthe subject, and, in many instances, exhibitingan admirable specimen of simple grandeur.In his similes and episodes, the richest ornaments of style, the boldest metaphors andfigures, and a construction of verse that evenVirgil has not exceeded, unite to develope and

• Warton on the Writings and Genius of Pope,

vol. ii. page 195.NO. I. HOURS. 7convey a fertility, accuracy and amenity indescription, a sublimity of imagination andsentiment, which no criticism can do justice to,which elicit the involuntary exclamations ofrapture, and which can only be enjoyed bythe enthusiasm of genius.It must, however, be confessed, that thenumerous pages devoted to the analysis ofdoctrines varied and profound in the extreme,will, in a poetic view, often press heavy onthe patience of the reader; but, perhaps, thesevery passages, pure in their diction, and correctly expressed, though rigidly chastised instyle, and free from all intrusive ornament,add, by the charm of contrast and variety, newgraces to those parts on which embellishmenthas been bestowed with a more liberal hand.After luxuriously enjoying scenes lighted upby all the blaze and splendour of exaltedfancy, the plain but not inelegant detail of philosophic disquisition, gives a necessary relief,and prepares the mind for the keener relish ofsucceeding beauties. When emerging fromthe intricate and eccentric mazes of elaboratedisputation, what a pleasing horror thrillsthrough the veins on the magnificent prosopo-LITERARY NO. 1.peia of Nature, who, with a majesty whicharrests the deepest attention, chides her ungrateful children, and upbraids their impiousdiscontent, and with what exquisite delight welisten to the commencement and progress ofthe Arts, during which so many deliciousscenes are unfolded, so many striking and impressive descriptions occur.After this encomium on the poetry of Lueretius, it will probably be demanded, why hiswritings have not been more popular? why,to the generality of classical scholars, he isnearly unknown? why, whilst Virgil, Horaceand Tibullus are perused with avidity, theanimated effusions of this sublimest of romanbards, should lie neglected on the shelf? Itmay be answered, I think, that a fate so undeserved, has been occasioned by a misrepresentation of his morals, and by a puerile andinjudicious dread of his philosophical tenets.The morality of Epicurus, so far from favouring the indulgence of sensuality, holds outevery incentive to temperance. It is true,See the conclusion of the third book.Book the fifth towards the end.NO. I. 9HOURS.that he maintained all happiness to consist inpleasure, but, at the same time, taught, thatgenuine and durable pleasure could only arisefrom the cultivation of the mental powers, andthe strictest attention to every social and domestic virtue. Diogenes and Galen representthis much-injured Philosopher as a person ofconsummate virtue, who despised the sordidcares and luxuries of life, and contemned.every excess in eating, drinking, and apparel.Unfortunately for the pure fame of Epicurus,Horace, adopting the accusation which envyand calumny had conspired to broach, the veryname of him who taught the purest morals,the most rigid chastity and sobriety, has becomean epithet to convey the idea of every sensualand voluptuous enjoyment.Lucretius, in conformity to the moral precepts of his Master, uses every dissuasiveagainst vice, every incentive towards virtue.Profusion, avarice and ambition, cruelty, injustice and revenge, the disordered passions ofthe mind, the pampered pleasures of the body,alike require and meet his severest reprobation.The sweetest passages in his poem are employedin the delineation of rural simplicity, andC10 LITERARY NO. I.domestic happiness, of innocent and contentedpoverty; and, in short, the moral purport ofhis system may be comprized in the two following lines of one of our most pathetic poets:Man wants but little here below,Nor wants that little long. †and which are, indeed, but a compressed translation of four beautiful ones in Lucretius:-Corpoream ad naturam pauca videmus.Esse opus omninò, quæ demant quemque dolorem ,Delicias quoque uti multas substernere possint,Gratius interdum neque Natura ipsa requirit.§That the philosophical and religious principles of our Epicurean Bard are not so defensible as his moral, will be readily admitted.In these days, when contrasted with soundphilosophy and pure religion, many of hisdoctrines appear baseless and absurd, but assuredly not more so than the gross mythologyof Homer, Virgil and Ovid, and why we stillperuse these authors with rapture, careless oftheir impious opinions, yet refuse to taste the-+ Goldsmith's Edwin and Angelina.§ Lib. ii. 1. 20.NO. I. HOURS. 11exquisite poetry of Lucretius because occasionally tinged with metaphysic error, is aninconsistency not easily accounted for. Theidea of Epicurus, that it is the nature of theGods, to enjoy an immortality in the bosomof perpetual peace, infinitely remote from allrelation to this globe, free from care , fromsorrow, and from pain, supremely happy inthemselves, and neither rejoicing in the pleasures, nor concerned for the evils of humanity,though perfectly void of any rational foundation, yet possesses much moral charm, whencompared with the popular religions of Greece.and Rome; the felicity of their deities consisted in the vilest debauchery, nor was therea crime, however deep its dye, that had notbeen committed, and gloried in, by some oneof their numerous objects of worship . TheImmortals of Epicurus, on the other hand, arevirtuous and innocent, but he has, unfortunately, exempted them from the toil of creation ,and snatched the universe from their grasp.To these tenets of the Grecian, Lucretius hasadded the Infinite of Anaximander, and theAtomic theory of Democritus: doctrines suchas these, which lead to the fortuitous formationof the world, are perfectly incapable of making12 LITERARY NO. I.any impression upon a mind either imbuedwith religion, or familiar with the progress ofphilosophy and science. He, therefore , whoshould refrain from a perusal of the poet, under the apprehension of becoming a convert tohis religious opinions, would, in the presentperiod of scientific improvement, be considered as either naturally imbecile in intellect,or, verging towards a state of insanity.Futile, however, as the data, on which thepeculiar system of Lucretius is built, mayjustly be deemed, his work abounds with avast variety of philosophical doctrines, perhapsincluding every sect among the ancients . Thesubtile hypotheses of Epicurus, Heracl*tus,Empedocles, Anaxagoras and Democritus,of Anaximander, Pythagoras, Anaximenes,Thales, Pherecydes, Aristotle and Plato, passin review before him, and it affords some astonishment, and much curious speculation to thereflecting mind, that, probably, not a systemofphilosophy exists among the moderns, whichhas not had its foundation laid upon some oneopinion or other of these ancient theorists, andthe outlines of which may not be found in thepages of Lucretius. Even the NewtonianNO. I. HOURS. 13doctrine of Gravitation was not unknown toour poet, for, in his first book, he attempts torefute the idea, that the universe has a centreto which all things tend by their natural gravity.That the central spot had the strongest powerof attraction was equally an hypothesis of SirIsaac Newton and the ancient Stoics.It is not a little extraordinary, therefore,that an ancient composition, pregnant with suchexquisite poetry, and unfolding such a curiousmass of philosophical conception, should nothave been more generally studied . Men ofpoetic genius, indeed, have frequently hadrecourse to these materials, and have drawn,from the splendid creations of the Roman,many of their most brilliant and beautiful designs, and with the greater air of originality, asthe model from whence they sketched, had,comparatively, attracted but a small portion ofthe attention of the mere classical scholar. Itis only, indeed, within these few years, that inour island, as a writer at once elegant, interesting, and sublime, Lucretius has been honouredwith due notice. Dr. Warton, with muchtaste, pointed out many ofthe noble images sothickly sown throughout the poem, and the14 LITERARY NO. I.late magnificent edition by Gilbert Wakefield,who to great critical acumen adds all that sensibility and enthusiasm so essential to a justrelish of the higher beauties of poetry, togetherwith the elegant' Translation we are about togive some specimens of, will ensure the reputation, and familiarise the excellencies of ourhitherto neglected Bard.To translate with harmony and fidelity suchan author as Lucretius, is an enterprise of nosmall difficulty, and requires the utmost command of language, not only to transfer theglowing scenery of the poem, but to transmit,with melody and precision, the diction of theschools. Few, therefore, have been the attempts, in England, to naturalize this poet,and of these few, the greater part has been preeminently unfortunate. Mr. Evelyn with theutmost admiration of his original, and withevery wish to excel, commenced the arduoustask exclaimingI saw a fruitful soil , by none yet trod ,Reserv'd for heroes, or some demi-god ,And urg'd my fortune on-

Lines addressed to Mr. Creech.NO. I. HOURS. 15but, after struggling through the first book,he relinquished the undertaking in despair.Creech, however, had more perseverance, andhas given us an entire version, but so little hashe preserved of the dignity, of the sublimity,and descriptive powers of the poet, that it isimpossible to form any idea of the beautifuloriginal from his coarse, and ill-executed copy.Some couplets which have merit, might beselected from the volume, and a few passageswhich attempt the delineation of rural easeand happiness, but take it as a whole, it isutterly deficient in one of the most strikingcharacteristics of the Roman, grandeur andfelicity of expression. Dryden has ratherparaphrased than traslated, and though in thesmall portion he has favoured us with, hisversification be, as usual, spirited and easy, itwants the majesty and solemn colouring ofLucretius; and towards the conclusion of thefourth book he is more licentious, broad andopen, than the text, faulty as it undoubtedlyis, in this respect, will warrant. Toward themiddle of the last century, a version in prosewas published, together with the original, andwith plates, engraved by Guernier: it is evidentthat an attempt of this kind can have few pre->16 LITERARY NO. I.tensions to any other merit than that whicharises from a literal adherence to the sense ofthe original; in this view, it appears not to bedeficient, and, as Lucretius, from the natureof his subject, is, occasionally, intricate, mayhave its use.These being the only efforts hitherto made.to clothe in a British dress the first, perhaps,of Roman Poets, a translation, which to elegance and energy of diction, should add thecharms of versification, and a fidelity as wellwith regard to the manner, as matter of thepoet, has become a desideratum in englishliterature, and I feel peculiar pleasure in beingable to inform the literary world that a version,which appears to me, as far as I am able toestimate its merits, fully capable of supplyingthe deficiency , is in preparation for the public.Mr. Good, of London,* has, for some years,devoted his leisure hours to this elaborateundertaking, and, if friendship hath not biassedmyjudgment, with the happiest success.my readers, however, may be enabled to forman opinion for themselves, I shall place before

• Caroline Place, Guildford Street.

ThatNO. I. HOURS. 17them some extracts from the different books,accompanied by the original, and as these havenot been selected from any preference discoverable in their translation, they may be considered as a fair specimen of the whole.The Sacrifice of Iphigenia is a picture ofhigh rank in the gallery of the poet, and demands our notice. Lucretius, after celebrating the genius of Epicurus whose doctrine firstput to flight the terrors of superstition, thusproceeds:Illud in his rebus vereor, ne forte rearisImpia te rationis inire elementa, viamqueEndogredi sceleris: Quod contra, sæpius olimReligio peperit scelerosa atque impia facta,Aulide quo pacto Triviaï virginis aramIphianassaï turparunt sanguine fædeDuctores Danaûm, delecti, prima virorum.Cui simul infula virgineos circumdata comptusEx utraque pari malarum parte profusa ' st,Et mæstum simul ante aras adstare parentemSensit, et hunc propter ferrum celare ministros;Aspectuque suo lacrymas effundere civeis;Muta metu terram genibus summissa petebat;Nec miseræ prodesse in tali tempore quibat,Quod patrio princeps donârat nomine regem.Nam sublata virûm manibus tremabundaque ad arasD18 LITERARY NO. 1 .Deducta ' st, non ut, solenni more sacrorumPerfecto, posset claro comitari Hymenæo:Sed casta inceste nubendi tempore in ipsoHostia concideret mactatu mæsta parentis ,Exitus ut classi felix, faustusque dareturTantum Religio potuit suadere malorum.Lib. i. l. 81.Nor deem the truths Philosophy revealsCorrupt the mind, or prompt to impious deeds.No: Superstition may, and nought so soon,But Wisdom never. Superstition ' twasUrg'd the fell Grecian chiefs with virgin bloodTo stain the virgin altar: —barb'rous deed,And fatal to their laurels! Aulis saw,For there Diana reigns, th ' unholy rite.Around she look'd, the pride of Grecian maids,The lovely Iphigenia, —round she look'd ,The sacred fillet o'er her tresses tied ,And sought in vain protection . She survey'dNear her her weeping sire, a band ofpriestsRepentant half, and hiding the keen steel;And crowds of citizens and damsels paleFixt in each tragic attitude of woe.Dumb with alarm, with supplicating knee,And lifted eye, she sought compassion still ,Fruitless and unavailing! —Vain her youth,Her innocence and beauty: vain the boastOf regal birth; and vain that first herselfLisp'd the dear name of father, eldest born.NO. I. HOURS. 19Forc'd from her suppliant posture, straight she sawThe altar full prepar'd: not there to blendConnubial vows, and light the bridal torch;But at the moment, when mature in charms ,While Hymen call'd aloud, to fall, e'en then,Afather's victim, and the price to payOf Grecian navies ' favour'd thus with gales.—Such are the crimes that Superstition prompts!The lines in Italics, both in the original andtranslation, are equally pathetic and strong.Some of the most pleasing passages in Lucretius are those in which he commemorateshis poetical and philosophical predecessors;the two ensuing extracts have immortalizedEnnius and Empedocles: they are written withall the enthusiasm of admiration, and glow withwarmth and beauty. I cannot forbear too,expressing a high sense of the merits of theversion which is given con amore, with a felicity,indeed, that leaves little to wish for.Ignoratur enim quæ sit natura animaï ,Nata sit, an, contra, nascentibus insinuetur,Et simul intereat nobiscum morte dirempta ,An tenebras Orci visat, vastasque lacunas,An pecudes alias divinitus insinuet se,20 LITERARY NO. I.Ennius ut noster cecinit, qui primus amænoDetulit ex Helicone perenni fronde coronam ,Per genteis Italas hominum quæ clara clueret,Et si præterea tamen esse Acherusia templaEnnius æternis exponit versibus, edens:Quo neque permanent animæ, neque corpora nostra;Sed quædam simulacra modis pallentia mirisUnde sibi exortam semper- florentis HomeriCommemorat speciem, lacrumas et fundere salsasCœpisse, et rerum naturam expandere dictis .Lib. i. 113.Yet doubtful is the doctrine, and unknownWhether, coeval with th' external frame,The soul first lives when lives the body first,Or boasts a date anterior: whether doom'dTo common ruin and one common grave,Or thro' the gloomy shades, the lakes, the cavesOf Erebus to wander: or, perchance,As Ennius taught, immortal Bard! whose browsUnfading laurels bound, and still whose verseAll Rome recites entranc'd, perchance condem'dThe various tribes of brutes, with ray divine,To animate and quicken: tho' the bard,In deathless melody has elsewhere sungOf Acherusian temples, where nor soulNor body dwells, but images of men.Mysterious shap'd, in wond'rous measure wan.Here Homer's spectre roam'd, of endless fameI. NO. I. HOURS. 21Possest: his briny tears the bard survey'd,And drank the dulcet precepts from his lips.Quorum Acragantinus cum primis Empedocles est:Insula quem Triquetris terrarum gessit in oris:Quam fluitans circum magnis amfractibus æquorIonium glaucis aspergit virus ab undis:Angustoque fretu rapidum mare dividit undisItaliæ terraï oras á finibus ejus:Hîc est vasta Charybdis, et hîc Ætnæa minanturMurmura flammarum rursum se conligere iras,Faucibus eruptos iterum ut vis evomat igneis:Ad cœlumque ferat flammaï fulgura rursum;Quæ cùm magna modis multis miranda videturGentibus humanis regio, visendaque fertur,Rebus opima bonis, multa munita virûm vi:Nil tamen hoc habuisse viro præclarius in se,Nec sanctum magis, et mirum, carumque videtur.Carmina quin etiam divini pectoris ejusVociferantur, et exponunt præ clara reperta;Ut vix humana videatur stirpe creatus.Lib. i. 717.Thus sung Empedocles—in honest fameFirst of his sect; whom Agrigentum boreIn cloud- capt Sicily. Its sinuous shoresTh' Ionian main, with hoarse, unwearied waveSurrounds, and sprinkles with its briny dew:And, from the fair Italian fields , dividesV22 LITERARY NO. I ,With narrow frith that spurns th' impetuous surge.Here vast Charybdis raves: here Etna rearsHis infant thunders, his dread jaws unlocks,And heaven, and earth with fiery ruin threats.Here many a wonder, many a scene sublime,As on he journeys, checks the traveller's steps;And shews, at once, a land in harvests rich,And rich in sages of illustrious fame.But nought so wond'rous, so illustrious nought,So fair, so pure, so lovely, can it boast ,Empedocles, as thou! whose song divine,By all rehears'd, so clears each mystic lore,That scarce mankind believ'd thee born of man.So numerous are the passages in which thedescriptive powers of our poet are called forth,that the task of selection becomes difficult.I have chosen, however, a couple of sceneswhose leading features are perfectly opposed,the first displaying the utmost sweetness, amenity, and repose, the second the turbulenceand fury of elemental war.-pereunt imbres, ubi eos pater ÆtherIn gremium matris Terraï precipitavit;At nitidæ surgunt fruges, ramique viresc*ntArboribus; cresc*nt ipsæ, fœtuque gravantur:Hinc alitur porro nostrum genus, atque ferarum:NO. I. HOURS. 23Hinc lætas urbeis pueris florere videmus ,Frondiferasque novis avibus canere undique sylvas,Hinc fessæ pecudes pingues per pabula lœtaCorpora deponunt, et candens lacteus humorUberibus manat distentis; hinc nova prolesArtubus infirmis teneras lascivaper herbasLudit, lacte mero menteis percussa novellas.Lib. i. 251.When on the bosom of maternal earth,His showers reduntant genial Ether pours,The dulcet drops seem lost: but harvests riseJocund and lovely; and with foliage fresh,Smiles every tree, and bends beneath it's fruit.Hence man, and beast are nourish'd: hence o'erflowOurjoyous streets with crowds of frolic youth,And with fresh songs th' umbrageous groves resound.Hence the herds fatten, and repose at ease,O'er the gay meadows, their unweildy forms;While from each full-distended udder dropsThe frequent milk spontaneous: and hence, too,Fed from the same pure fount, their own wild young,With tottering footsteps, print the tender grass,Joyous at heart, unwearied in their sport.The artubus infirmis in the above quotationthrow forcibly on the eye a minute but verynatural and pleasing circ*mstance, and whichhas escaped the attention of every preceding24 LITERARY NO. I.english translator. Mr. Good has well preserved the beauty of the imageWith totteringfootsteps print the tender grass.In the nervous lines which follow, and whichbreathe the inexorable spirit of the storm theydescribe, the powers of the poet have beenexerted with peculiar energy.Venti vis verberat incita pontum,Ingenteisque ruit naveis, et nubila differt:Interdum rapido percurrens turbine camposArboribus magnis sternit, monteisque supremosSilvifragis vexat flabris: ita perfurit acriCum fremitu, sœvitque minaci murmure pontus.Sunt igitur Venti nimirum corpora cœca,Quæ mare, quæ terras, quæ denique nubila cœliVerrunt, ac subito vexantia turbine raptant.Nec ratione fluunt alia, stratagemque propagantAc cum mollis aquæ fertur natura repenteFlumine abundanti, quod largis imbribus augetMontibus ex altis magnus decursus aquaï:Fragmina conjiciens sylvarum, arbustaque tota;Nec validi possunt pontes venientes aquaïVim subitam tolerare: ita magno turbidus imbriMolibus incurrens validis cum viribus amnisDat sonitu magno stragem; volvitque sub undisGrandia saxa, ruit quà quidquid fluctibus obstat,NO. I. HOURS.. 25Sic igitur debent Venti quoque flamina ferri:Quæ, veluti validum flumen, cum procubuereQuamlibet in partem, trudunt res ante, ruuntqueImpetibus crebris; interdum vertice tortoCorripiunt, rapidoque rotantia turbine portant.Lib. i. 272-Th' excited wind torments the deep,Wrecksthe tough bark, and tears the shiv'ring clouds.Now, with wide whirlwind, prostrating alike,O'er the waste champain, trees, and bending blade:And now, perchance, with forest- rending force,Rocking the mighty mountains on their base:So vast it's fury!—But that fury flowsAlone from viewless atoms, that combin'd,Thus form the fierce tornado raging wildO'er heaven, and earth, and ocean's dread domain.As when a river, down it's verdant banksSoft-gliding, sudden from the mountain roundSwells with the rushing rain—the placid streamAll limit loses; and, with furious force,In its resistless tide, bears down, at once,Shrubs, shattered trees, and bridgesLoud roars the raging flood, and triumphs still,O'er rocks, and mounds, and all that else contends.So roars th' enraged wind: so, like a flood,Where'er it aims, before its mighty tide,Sweeps all created things: or, round, and round,In its vast vortex curls their tortur'd forms.E26 LITERARY NO. 1.It has ever been a custom, among the votaries of the Muses, to conceive themselves asunder the influence of inspiration, and to address the supposed dispenser of their poeticenergies, in strains the most musical and choice.Lucretius has not deviated from the establishedform, but, in grateful, and rapturous language,frequently acknowledges the powerful impulse,and boasts the enjoyment ofa theme untouchedby any ofthe tuneful train.Nec me animi fallit quam sint obscura, sed acriPercussit thyrso Laudis spes magna meum cor,Et simul incussit suavem mi in pectus amoremMusarum: quo nunc instinctus mente vigentiAvia Pieridum peragro loca, nullius anteTrita solo: juvat integros accedere fonteis,Atque haurire: juvatque novos decerpere floresInsignemque meo capiti petere inde coronam ,Unde prius nulli velârunt tempora Musæ.Lib. i. 921 .Obscure the subject, but the thirst of fameBurns all my bosom; and thro' every nerveDarts the proud love of letters, and the muse.I feel the inspiring power; and roam resolv'dThro' paths Pierian never trod before.Sweet are the springing founts with nectar new;NO. I. HOURS. 27Sweet the new flowers that bloom; but sweeter stillThose flowers to pluck, and weave a roseat wreathThe Muses yet to mortals ne'er have deign'd.One of the most beautiful and pleasing features in the poetry of Lucretius is , the pureand self-denying morality which pervades almost every page. The opening of the secondbook is, in fact, a declamation on the vanityof all sublunary things, and the lines immediately succeeding, and which are taken from thisintroduction, place in the clearest point of viewthe futility of luxury and wealth, and displaythe warmest attachment and sensibility to thecharms of simple and unsophisticated nature.It is a passage, among a multitude to be foundin the poem, which, combining the most exaltedpoetry with the chastest precepts of virtue, hasattracted admirers and imitators in every european nation.Si non aurea sunt juvenum simulacra per ædeisLampadas igniferas manibus retinentia dextris ,Lumina nocturnis epulis ut suppeditentur,Nec domus argento fulget, auroque renidet;Nec citharis reboant laqueata aurataque templa:Attamen inter se prostrati in gramine molliPropter aquæ rivum, sub ramis arboris altæ,28 LITERARY NO. I.Non magnis opibus jucundè corpora curant:Præsertim cum tempestas arridet, et anniTempora conspergunt viridanteis floribus herbas,Nec calidæ citiùs decedunt copore febresTextilibus si in picturis ,obstroque rubentiJactaris, quam si plebeia in veste cubandu ' st.Lib, ii . 24.What tho' the dome be wanting, whose proud wallsAthousand lamps irradiate , propt sublimeBy frolic forms of youth, in massy gold,-Flinging their splendours o'er the midnight feast:Tho ' gold, and silver blaze not o'er the board,Nor music echo round the gaudy roof: —Yet listless laid the verdant grass alongNear gliding streams, by shadowy trees o'er-arch'd,Such pomps we need not: such still less when springLeads forth her laughing train; and the warm yearPaints the green meads with roseat flowers profuse.On down reclin'd, or wrapt in purple robe,The thirsty fever burns with heat as fierceAs when its victim lingers in a cot.Virgil in his Georgics, and Thomson in hisSeasons, have imitated this delightful piece ofmoral scenery. No attempt, however, to copythe admirable original has succeeded better,perhaps, than the following by Lorenzo deMedici.NO. I. HOURS. 29Cerchi chi vuol, le pompe, e gli alti honori,Le piazze, e tempii , e gli edificii magni,Le delicie, il tesor, qual accompagniMille duri pensier, mille dolori:Un verde praticel pien di bei fiori,Un rivolo, che l'herba intorno bagni,Un augelletto, che d'amor si lagni,Acqueta molto meglio i nostri ardori:L'ombrose selve, i sassi , e gli alti monti,Gli antri oscuri e le fere fuggitive,Quivi veggo io con pensier vaghi;Qui me le toglie hor una, hor altra cosa.Seek he who will in grandeur to be blest,Place in proud halls , and splendid courts his joy;For pleasure, or for gold, his arts employ,Whilst all his hours unnumbered cares molest.Alittle field in native flow'rets drest,A rivulet in soft murmurs gliding by,Abird whose love-sick note salutes the sky,With sweeter magic lull my cares to rest.And shadowy woods, and rocks, and towering hills,And caves obscure, and nature's free - born trainEach in my mind some gentle thought instills;Ahgentle thoughts! soon lostthe city cares among.Roscoe.30 LITERARY NO. I.TheAttamen inter se prostrati in gramine molliPropter aquæ rivum sub ramis arboris altæof the poet, bring strongly to recollection twoexquisite morsels in Gray:Where'er the oak's thick branches stretchAbroader browner shade,Where'er the rude and moss-grown beechO'er canopies the glade,Beside some water's rushy brink,With me the Muse shall sit, and thinkAt ease reclin'dThere at the foot of yonder nodding beechThat wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,His listless length at noontide would he stretch ,And pore upon the brook that babbles by.Many passages which powerfully appeal tothe heart, and which may, indeed, be esteemedvery striking instances ofthe pathetic, Lucretius has interspersed through his poem, andwith one or two of these I shall decorate mypages. The lines which follow have beenimitated by Spenser in his Fairy Queen.Nec ratione alia Proles cognoscere Matrem,Nec Mater posset Prolem: quod posse videmus,NO. 1.31 HOURS.Nec minùs atque homines inter se nota cluere.Nam sæpe ante Deûm vitulus delubra decoraTuricremas propter mactatus concidit aras,Sanguinis exspirans calidum de pectore flumen,At mater virideis saltus orbata peragrans,Linquit humi pedibus vestigia pressa bisulcis,Omnia convisens oculis loca, si queat usquamConspicere amissum Fætum: completque querelisFrundiferum nemus adsistens; et crebra revisitAd stabulum, desiderio perfixa Juvenci:Nec teneræ salices, atque herbæ rore vigentes,Fluminaque ulla queunt summis labentia ripis,Oblectare animum, subitamque avertere curam:Nec Vitulorum aliæ species per pabula lætaDerivare queunt aliò , curaque levare:Usque adeo quiddam proprium, notumque requirit.Lib. ii . 349.-hence alone,Hence the fond mother knows her tender young,The tender young their mother: ' midst the brutesAs clear discern'd, as man's sublimer race.—Thus oft, before the sacred shrine, perfum'dWith spires of frankincense, th' unweeting calfPours, o'er the altar, from his breast profound,The purple flood of life: but, wand'ring wildO'er the green sward, the plaintive dam bereftBeats, with her hoof, the deep- indented dale;Each spot exploring, if, perchance, she still32 LITERARY NO. I.May trace her idol: thro' th' umbrageous groveWith well-known voice she moans, and oft re- seeks,Urg'd by a mother's love, th' accustom'd stall.Nor shade for her, nor dew- distended grass,Nor stream soft-gliding down its banks abrupt,Yield aught of solace; or the carking careAvert that preys within: nor the gay youngOf others soothe her o'er the joyous green.—So deep she longs, so lingers for her own.Descriptions of this kind impress us with avery favourable idea of the tenderness andhumanity of the poet. What can more deliciously paint the ardours of domestic affectionthan the ensuing lines:At jam non domus accipiet te læta; neque uxorOptima, nec dulces occurrent oscula natiPræripere, et tacita pectus dulcedine tangent.Lib. iii . 907.They have not escaped the pathetic Virgil:Interea dulces pendent circum oscula nati .Geo. ii. 523.and the elegiac Muse of Gray has imbibed thevery' spirit of the Roman:NO. I. HOURS. 33For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,Or busy housewife ply her evening care:No children run to lisp their sire's return,Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.Thomson has thus depicted circ*mstancesof a congenial nature:In vain for him the officious wife preparesThe fire fair- blazing and the vestment warm:In vain his little children, peeping outInto the mingling storm, demand their sireWith tears of artless innocence. Alas!Nor wife, nor children , more shall he behold,Nor friends, nor sacred home.Winter, 311.F

NUMBER II.LucretiusDoctrina solers idem, clarusque Poeta,Antiqui vatis reparat solennia jura.Huic, simul ac rerum Primordia pandere tentat,Naturamque Deûm, flammantia mænia mundiExtra et procedit, Musarum captus amore,Ipsa Venus, votis blanda, arridere videtur,Nympharumque Chorus; tantus lepor insinuat seVerbis, tanta viri est celebris vis insita menti.Dyer.As a considerable portion of the poem DeRerum Natura is occupied in the detail ofargument, and the display of various and contending doctrines, it may be deemed necessaryto adduce a specimen or two of the pure didactic style and manner of Lucretius, and of thesuccess which has attended his Translator inthis, perhaps his most difficult and laborious,36LITERARYNO. II.department. * Independent of perspicuity of.arrangement and harmony of verse, Lucretiushas rendered the most abstruse passages in hiswork pleasing from the peculiar propriety ofhis expression, and the beauty of his metaphors;these excellencies have, in my opinion, beentransferred with singular felicity to the englishversion, and the extracts I have now to bringforward, will probably induce the reader toconcur in the encomium.Some philosophers of the present day have,with no little extravagance, inferred the perfectibility of human nature; they have evengone so far as to assert that the physical conse-'quences of our existence, sleep and death, areno necessary result, but the effects of our ownignorance, and of acquired imbecillity; that asreason and knowledge advance, the agency ofvolition will be unlimited, and that ultimatelythe corporeal functions will be rendered completely subservient to the powers of intellect.The Monthly Reviewer, to whom I am indebted for an elaborateand candid critique on the first edition of the Literary Hours, being ofopinionthat a specimen ofthe translation should have been drawn fromthe more abstruse parts of Lucretius, I have in this paper carried hissuggestion into execution.NO. II. HOURS.37Lucretius has wisely rejected this day-dreamof philosophy, for, though he appear to believethat man may by his own efforts approachtoward perfection, and emulate the gods inhappiness, yet he has taken care to qualify thisopinion by affirming that the seeds of vice andimperfection cannot be altogether eradicated;that man, in fact, cannot shake offthe imbecillities incident to materiality, nor can he annihilate those passions which the deity has, forwise purposes, attached to our system.Sic Hominum genus est: quamvis Doctrina politosConstituat pariter quosdam, tamen illa relinquitNaturæ cujusque Animæ vestigia prima.Nec radicitùs evelli mala posse putandum ' st,Quin proclivius Hic iras decurrat ad acreis;Ille metu citiùs paullo tentetur: at IlleTertius accipiat quædam clementiùs æquo.Inque aliis rebus multis differre necesse ' stNaturas hominum varias, moresque sequaceis:Quorum ego nunc nequeo cæcas exponere causas,Nec reperire figurarum tot nomina, quot suntPrincipiis, unde hæc oritur variantia rerum. ,Illud in his rebus videor firmare potesse,Usque adeo Naturarum vestigia linquiParvola, quæ nequeat Ratio depellere dictis:Ut nihil impediat dignam Diis degere vitam.Lib. iii. 308.38LITERARYNO. II,Thus varies man: tho' education oftAdd its bland polish, frequent still we traceThe first deep print of nature on the soul,Nor aught can all - erase it. Hence, thro' time,This yields to sudden rage, to terror that,While oft a third beyond all right betraysA heart of mercy. Thus in various modes ,The moral temper, and symphoneous lifeMust differ; thus from many a cause occultThe sage can ne'er resolve, nor human speechFind phrase to explain; so boundless, so complexThe primal sources whence the variance flows!Yet this the Muse may dictate , that so fewThe native traces wisdom ne'er can raseMan still may emulate the gods in bliss.The doctrine of Pyrrho which inculcatesperfect scepticism, and discredits even the testimony ofthe senses, Lucretius held in utter anddeserved contempt, and in the following passage he has in a striking manner laid open theabsurdity of his tenets. It is a lesson stillapplicable at the commencement of the nineteenth century, and may with equal proprietybe addressed to the disciples of Berkley andof Hume, for he who denies the existence ofmatter, must in almost every instance disbelievethe evidence of sense.NO. II. HOURS. 39Denique, nil sciri siquis putat, id quoque nescit,An sciri possit, quoniam nihil scire fatetur:Hunc igitur contra mittam contendere causam,Qui capite ipse suo in statuit vestigia sese.Et tamen hoc quoque uti concedam, scire, at idipsumQuæram, quom in rebus veri nil viderit ante,Unde sciat, quid sit scire, et nescire vicissim:Notitiam veri quæ res, falsique creârit;Et dubium certo quæ res differre probârit?Invenies primis ab sensibus esse creatamNotitiam veri, neque sensus posse refelli:Nam majore fide debet reperirier illud,Sponte sua veris quod possit vincere falsa.Quid majore fide porro, quam sensus haberiDebet? An ab sensu falso ratio orta valebitDicere eos contra, quæ tota ab sensibus orta ' st?Qui nisi sint veri, ratio quoque falsa fit omnis,An poterunt oculos aures reprehendere? an aureisTactus? an hunc porro tactum sapor arguet oris?An confutabunt nares, oculive revincent?Non (ut opinor) ita 'st: Nam seorsum quoique potestasDivisa ' st: sua vis quoique ' st: ideoque necesse ' st,Et, quod molle sit, et gelidum, fervensque videri;Et seorusm varios rerum sentire colores,Et quæcunque coloribu ' sunt conjuncta, necesse ' st.Seorsus item sapor oris habet vim, seorsus odoresNasc*ntur, seorsum sonitus: ideoque necesse ' st,40 LITERARY NO. IINon possint alios alii convincere sensus.Nec porro poterunt ipsi reprendere sese,Æqua fides quoniam debebit semper haberi.Proinde, quod in quoque ' st his visum tempore, verum ' st.Lib. iv. 471.Who holds that nought is known, denies he knowsE'en this, thus owning that he nothing knows.With such I ne'er could reason, who, with faceRetorted, treads the ground just trod before.Yet grant e'en this he knows, since nought existsOf truth in things, whence learns he what to know.Or what not know? what things can give him firstThe notion crude of what is false or true?What prove aught doubtful, or of doubt devoid?Search, and this earliest notion thou wilt findOf truth and falsehood, from the senses drawn;Nor aught can' e'er refute them: for what once,By truths opposed, their falsehood can detect,Must claim a trust far ampler than themselves.Yet what than these an ampler trust can claim?Can reason, born forsooth of erring sense,Impeach those senses whence alone it springs?And, which if false, itself can ne'er be true?Can sight correct the ears? can ears the touch?Or touch the tongue's fine flavour? or, o'er all,Can smell triumphant rise? absurd the thought.For every sense a separate function boasts,Apower prescribed; and hence or soft, or hard,NO. II. HOURS. 41Or hot or cold, to its appropriate senseAlone appeals. The gaudy train of hues,With their light shades, appropriate thus alikePerceive we; tastes appropriate powers possess;Appropriate, sounds and odours; and hence, too,One sense another ne'er can contravene,Nor e'en correct itself; since every hour,In every act, each claims an equal faith;So what the senses notice must be true.It being my intention to quote from thesixth book some lines descriptive of a diseasethe most dreadful that afflicts humanity, I havechosen on an intervening page, and with a viewto gratify the mind by the charm of contrast,as well as to evince the exquisite beauty of theoriginal and translation , to present a picturetaken from the conclusion of the fifth book,where the poet is expatiating on the origin ofman, and on the progress of the useful andelegant arts. It is a design which has all thatamenity of conception, harmony of colouringand delicacy of finish which distinguish thepencil of Albani.At specimen sationis, et insitionis origoIpsa fuit rerum primùm Natura creatrix.Arboribus quoniam baccæ, glandesque caducæTempestiva dabant pullorum examina subter.G42 LITERARY NO. II.Unde etiam libitum ' st stirpeis committere ramis:Et nova defodere in terram virgulta per agros:Inde aliam, atque aliam culturam dulcis agelliTentabant, fructusque feros mansuescere terraCernebant indulgendo, blandèque colendo.Inque dies magis in montem succedere sylvasCogebant, infraque locum concedere cultis:Prata, lacus, rivos , segetes, vinetaque lætaCollibus, et campis ut haberent, atque olearumCærula distinguens inter plaga currere possetPer tumulos, et convalleis, camposque profusa:Ut nunc esse vides vario distincta leporeOmnia, quæ pomis intersita dulcibus ornant:Arbustisque tenent felicibus obsita circùm.At liquidas avium voces imitarier oreAntè fuit multo, quàm lævia carmina cantuConcelebrare homines possent, aureisque juvare.Et Zephyri cava per calamorum sibila primumAgresteis docuere cavas inflare cicutas,Inde minutatim dulceis didicere querelas,Tibia quas fundit digitis pulsata canentum,Avia per nemora, ac sylvas saltusque reperta,Per loca pastorum deserta, atque otia dia:Sic unum quicquid paullatim protrahit ætasIn medium, ratioque in luminis eruit oras .Lib. v. 1360.But nature's self the race of man first taughtTo sow, to graft; for acorns ripe they saw,And purple berries, shattered from the trees,Soon yield a lineage like the trees themselves.NO. II. HOURS. 43Whence learn'd they, curious, thro' the stem matureTo thrust the tender slip, and o'er the soilPlant the fresh shoots that first disorder'd sprang.Then, too, new cultures tried they, and, with joy,Mark'd the boon earth , by ceaseless care caress'd,Each vagrant fruitage sweeten, and enlarge.So loftier still , and loftier, up the hillsDrove they the woodlands daily, broadening thusThe cultur'd landscape, that the sight might traceMeads, corn-fields , rivers, lakes and vineyards gay,O'erhills and mountains thrown; while wound belowThe purple scene of olives; as ourselvesStill o'er the grounds mark every graceful hueWhere blooms the dulcet apple, and aroundTrees of like lustre spread their loaded arms.And from the liquid warblings of the birds.Learn'd they their first rude notes, ere music yetTothe rapt ear had tun'd the measur'd verse;And zephyr, whispering thro' the hollow reeds,Taught the first swains the hollow reeds to sound:Whence woke they soonthose tender-trembling tonesWhich the sweet pipe, when by the fingers prest,Pours o'er the hills, the vales, and woodlands wild,Haunts of lone Shepherds and the rural gods.So growing time points, ceaseless , something new,And human skill evolves it into day.The ravages of the plague, and the symptoms of fever form subjects little calculatedfor the decorations of the Muse, yet has Lucretius, by the magic of his poetry, rendered a44 LITERARY NO. II.description peculiarly susceptible ofhorror anddisgust, productive of emotions the most sublime and pathetic. Thucydides had with greataccuracy furnished the facts, being himself notonly a spectator of, but a sufferer under thisdreadful calamity. To the elegant and faithful detail of the Historian the Roman Bard hasadded all that was necessary to convert thedescription into pure poetry. Than the prosopopæia of Medicine,-mussabat tacito Medecina timore,what can be more striking and terrific , and theexternal symptoms of approaching dissolution,the facies Hippocratica, are depicted withequal harmony, fidelity and spirit. A smallportion of this admirable description, for toinsert the whole would occupy too much space.in a work of this kind, will convey no inadequate idea ofthe general merits of the episode.Hæc ratio quondam morborum, et mortiferæ visFinibus in Cecropiis funestos reddidit agros,Vastavitque vias, exhausit civibus urbem.Nam penitus veniens Ægypti è finibus ortus,Aëra permensus multum, camposque'; natanteis,Incubuit tandem populum Pandionis omnem.Inde catervatim morbo mortique dabantur.Principiò, caput incensum fervore gerebant:Et dupliceis oculos suffusa luce rubenteis,NO. II. HOURS.45Sudabant etiam fauces, intrinsecus atræ,Sanguine, et ulceribus vocis via septa, coibat;Atque animi interpres manabat lingua cruore,Debilitata malis , motu gravis, aspera tactu.Nec requies erat ulla mali, defessa jacebantCorpora, mussabat tacito Medecina timore,Quippe patentia quom totiens , ardentia morbis,Lumina versarent oculorum expertia somno,Multaque præterea mortis tum signa dabantur,Perturbata animi mens in mærore, metuque,Triste supercilium , furiosus voltus, et acer,Sollicitæ porro plenæque sonoribus aures,Creber spiritus, aut ingens, raroque coortus,Sudorisque madens per collum, splendidus humos,Tenuia sputa, minuta, croci contineta colore,Salsaque per sauceis rauca vix edita tusse:In manibus vero nervi trahier, tremere artus:Apedibusque minutatim succedere frigusNon dubitabat, item ad supremum denique tempusCompressæ nares, nasi primoris acumenTenue, cavati oculi, cava tempora, frigida pellis ,Duraque, inhorrebat rictum, frons tenta meabatNec nimio rigidâ post artus morte jacebant:Octavoque ferè candenti lumine solis,Aut etiam nona reddebant lampade vitam.Lib. vi. 1136.A plague like this, a tempest big with fateOnce, ravaged Athens, and her sad domains;Unpeopled all her city, and her pathsSwept with destruction. For amid the realms.46LITERARYNO. II.Begot of Egypt, many a mighty tractOf ether travers'd, many a flood o'erpast,At length here fixt it; o'er the hapless houseOf Pandion hovering, and th' astonish'd race.Dooming by thousands to disease and death.The head first flam'd with inward heat, the eyesRedden'd with fire suffus'd; the purple jawsSweated with bloody ichor; ulcers foulCrept o'er the vocal path, obstructing close;And the prompt tongue, expounder of the mind,O'erflowed with gore, enfeebled in its post,Hoarse in its accent, harsh beneath the touch.——Nor e'er relax'd the sickness; the rack'd frameLay all-exhausted, and, in silence dread,Appall'd, and doubtful mus'd the Healing Art.For the broad eye-balls, burning with disease,Roll'd in full stare, for ever void of sleep,And told the pressing danger; nor aloneTold it, for many a kindred symptom throng'd .The mind's pure spirit, all- despondent, rav'd;The brow severe; the visage fierce and wild;The ears distracted, fill'd with ceaseless sounds;Frequent the breath; or ponderous oft and rare;The neck with pearls bedew'd of glistening sweat;Scanty the spittle, thin, of saffron dye,Salt, with hoarse cough scarce labour'd from thethroat.The limbs each trembled; every tendon twitch'dSpread o'er the hands; and from the feet extremeO'er all the frame a gradual coldness crept.NO. II. HOURS. 47Then, towards the last, the nostrils close- collaps'd;The nose acute; eyes hollow; temples scoop'd;Frigid the skin, retracted; o'er the mouthA ghastly grin; the shrivell'd forehead tense;The limbs outstretch'd, for instant death prepar'dTill with the eighth descending sun, for fewReach'd his ninth lustre, life for ever ceas'd.Were it not that the description of theplague by Thucydides would occupy too.much room, its insertion here, as an objectof comparison with the Roman Bard, mightgratify the curious; the concluding lines, however, ofthis last quotation from Lucretius willequally prove the poet's faithful attention tonature and his models; they are a transcriptfrom the celebrated passage in Hippocrates,who has admirably thrown into one picture thevarious symptoms of dissolution, symptoms«well known to those that tend the dying. ”Ρὶς ἐξεῖα , ὀφθαλμοι κοιλοι , κροταφοι ξυμπεςελωκότες, ώτα ψυχρά και ξυνεταλμένα , καιὁ λόβοι τῶν ἐτῶν ἀπεςραμμένοι , και τὸ δέρματὸ περι το μέτωπον , σκληρὸν τε και τε και περί]εζαςμένον και καρφαλέον ἐον , και τὸ χρώμα τοξύμπαλος πρόσωπο χλωρον τε ἢ και μέλανἐὰν και τελιὸν ἢ μολιβδῶδες.το48LITERARYNO. II.From the extracts now given the reader willbe able to appreciate the merits both of theoriginal and translation. It is with peculiarpropriety that blank verse has been chosen asthe medium of the latter; for though the controversy still exist with regard to the superioraptitude of blank or rhymed verse for theEpopee, there can be little doubt that in a philosophic poem, where much depends upon thefidelity of the representation , this species ofmetre, freed as it is from the shackles of similartermination, and possessing a dignity and varietyunknown to the couplet, has very powerfulclaims to preference. It is impossible on asubject so multiform and intricate as that ofthis poem to employ rhyme, though even in thehands of a master, without great redundancy,and circumlocution, and imparting rather theair of a feeble paraphrase than of a spirited andfaithful version. In the translation by Creechthe couplet has led, in almost every page, tothe most ridiculous redundancies; a want oftaste, however, in the selection of language, isas conspicuous in Creech as a deficiency ofskill and address in the management of hisversification. One pleonasm out of a thousand will be adequate to shew the absurditiesNo. 11. HOURS. 49into which he has fallen from the dire necessityof providing a rhyme. In the sixth book,Lucretius has observed that "when an ardentfever pervades the frame, the odour of winebecomes so intolerable as to occasion, for atime, the deprivation of sense."

Cúm membra hominis percepit fervida febris ,

Tum fit odor vini plagæ mactabilis instar.Lib. vi. 804.which Creech has thus elegantly versified:To those whom fevers burn, the smellOf vigorous wine is grievous, Death and Hell.In the construction of Blank Verse, however, the utmost attention is required, and thenicest ear must be exercised, in forming andarranging the style, in varying and adjustingthe pauses. The mechanism of rhyme, however polished, may be acquired by practice,whereas the harmony demanded from the poetwho rhymes not, is usually the result of a combination of very many lines, and not only moredifficult as being more complicated, but mustnecessarily be accompanied with a beauty ofdiction and a vigour of thought which, in thecouplet, are but too often compensated for, inH50 LITERARY NO. II.the opinion ofthe generality of poetical amateurs, by the monotonous jingle which attendsit. Few, therefore, have attained to excellencein this species of composition; Shakspeare,Milton and Dyer, Akenside, Mason and Cowper, may be considered as furnishing the best.models, and in their school Mr. Good seemsto have studied with success. His blank versestrikes me as meriting much praise for melodyand variety of rythm, for that disposition ofcadence and pause which gratifies a correctear, and which even in the longest compositionloses not the charm that first attracted.An undertaking so difficult as a poetic version of Lucretius must assuredly be deemed,cannot fail, I should hope, of meeting withdue encouragement from the literary world.Should the observations and quotations whichhave been given in this paper, have the smallesttendency to place in a clearer point of view themerits of the Roman and his Translator, itmay, I think, with confidence be asserted, thatthe public will be benefited by the attempt.NUMBER III.The lunatic, the lover, and the poet,Are of imagination all compact.Shakspeare.Imagination, that fruitful source of thebeautiful and sublime, when duly temperedand chastised by the strict ratiocination ofscience, throws a fascinating charm over all thewalks of life; unveils, as it were, scenes offairy texture, and draws the mind, with salutaryinfluence, from the sordid cares, and selfishpursuits, the sanguinary tumult, and materialized enjoyments of the herd of mankind, torepose on all that is good and fair, on all thatthe Almighty Architect, in animate or inanimate nature, has poured forth to excite theadmiration, the love and gratitude of his intellectual creatures.52 LITERARY NO. III,But should this brilliant faculty be nurturedon the bosom of enthusiasm, or romanticexpectation, or be left to revel in all its nativewildness of combination, and to plunge into allthe visionary terrors of supernatural agency,undiverted by the deductions of truth, or thesober realities of existence, it will too oftenprove the cause of acute misery, of melancholy, and even of distraction.In the spring of life, when reason and experience are necessarily confined, almost everyobject rises clothed in vivid hues; earth appearsa paradise, and its inhabitants little short ofperfection; alas! as the man advances, as hebecomes acquainted with his fellow man, howare all these splendid visions scattered on thewinds! he beholds passions the most banefuldevastate this beauteous globe, and witnesses,with horror and dismay, its wretched inhabitants immolate each other on the altars ofavarice, and ambition. Starting from thedream of youth, he turns disgusted from theloathsome scene; perhaps, retires to communewith himself, to pause upon the lot ofmortality,NO. III. HOURS.53To this important crisis many of the characters which adorn or blot the records ofhumanity, owe their origin. He, who can callreligion and literature to his aid, will pass alongthe road of life intent on other worlds, andalone employed in this, in accelerating thepowers of intellect, and in meliorating the condition of his species. From the crimes andfollies of mankind, from the annals of blood,and the orgies of voluptuousness, will this manfly to no unprofitable solitude; here will hetrace the finger of the Deity, and here amidthe pursuits of science, the charms of music,and the pleasures of poetry, with simplicity ofheart, and energy of genius, will adore theGod who gave them.Effects, however, such as these, are, unfortunately, no common result; for that intensityof feeling and ardour of expectation whichusually accompany our early years, meetingwith a sudden and unexpected check, sometimes lead to a train of idea the very reverseof all that pleased before, and misanthropy,and even scepticism close the scene, and chillevery social and benevolent exertion. But farmore common is that character which when54 LITERARY NO. III.once awakened from the delusion of inexperience, and become acquainted with the vices.of mankind, passes on with wily circ*mspection, intent only on moulding the crimes andpassions which surround it, to instruments ofpecuniary gain, or desolating ambition . Manyof this class there are, whose principal objectbeing the accumulation of property, preserve,as a mean toward its attainment, an imposingexterior, and travel through life with, what iscalled, a fair character, yet possessing no onebenevolent feeling or liberal sentiment that canproperly designate them for man, or rank thembeyond the animal they consume.But some there are gifted with an imagination ofthe most brilliant kind; who are accustomed to expatiate in all the luxury of an idealworld, and who possess a heart glowing withthe tenderest sensations. These men too frequently fall a sacrifice to the indulgence of awarm and vigorous fancy, and which is, unhappily, not sufficiently corrected by a knowledgeof mankind, or the rigid deduction of scientificstudy. The lovely scenes they had so rapturously drawn, and coloured, find no architypeNO. III. HOURS 55 .in the busy paths of life, but fade beneath thegloomy touch of reality, and leave to theastonished visonary, a cheerless and a barrenview; or the mind long and intensely employedin giving form and place to the fascinatingfictions of fancy, or the wild delusions ofsuperstition, is apt, on the first pressure of neglect and misfortune, to suffer derangement,and to assume for truth, the paintings of enthusiasm. Thus, the clear current of exaltedthought, or generous feeling, driven from itscourse by sudden opposition, and vexed withunexpected tempests, not seldom spreads terrorand amazement in its progress.Many instances might be adduced of thefatal effects of giving up the reins to imagination, and of cherishing a morbid sensibility;but I shall confine myself, in this sketch, tothree, and these shall be taken from the classof poets.Poetry, to attain its highest point of perfection, demands an invention fertile in theextreme, and practised in the art of combination, and which, seizing hold ofthe superstitions56LITERARYNO. fir.and fears of mankind, pours forth fictions ofthe most wild and horrible grandeur. Theactions and conceptions of superhuman Beingspreserve, in the creations of Genius, a certainverisimilitude which rivets attention, and winseven upon incredulity itself; and he who wishespowerfully to impress upon others the mingledemotions of terror and delight, must himselfbe tinctured with some portion of belief in theinterference of immaterial agency. The metaphysic wonders of gothic superstition were inthe sixteenth century absolutely a part of thecreed of all ranks of society, and the poeticproductions ofthat period, being deeply tingedwith the popular ideas, operated an effect uponthe mind nearly, or, perhaps, altogether unfeltin our sceptical and philosophic age. Theideas, however, relative to the re-appearanceof the departed, still linger among us, and areoccasionally known to exert all their wontedinfluence; and he who has a true taste forpoetry, yet dwells, with unsated rapture, onthe dreadful and mysterious imagery of ourelder bards.But it is greatly to be lamented that, in someinstances, the noblest mind has been laid inNO. III. HOURS. 57ruins by suffering a train of idea of this kind .so far to intrude upon the common occurrences of life, as, in the end, to induce eitherprofound melancholy, or absolute frenzy.The celebrated Tasso flourished in an erawhen the gothic mythology still retained itsfull influence, and possessing a vast and prolificimagination, together with an hypochondriacaltemperament, and greatly attached, at the sametime, to the Platonic philosophy, whose beautiful, but visionary doctrines, have misled themost superior minds, he mingled the two superstitions, and cherished his partiality for all thatwas greatly wonderful and singular. The composition of his immortal epic by giving scopeto the boldest flights, and calling into effect,the energies of his exalted and enthusiasticfancy, whilst, with equal ardour, it led him toentertain hopes of immediate and extensivefame, laid, most probably, the foundation ofhis succeeding derangement. His susceptibility, too, and tenderness of feeling, were great,and when his sublime work met with unexpected opposition, and was even treated withcontempt and derision, the fortitude of thepoet was not proof against the keen sense ofdisappointment. He twice attempted to pleaseI58LITERARYNO. III.his ignorant and malignant critics by recomposing the poem, and, during the hurry, theanguish, and irritation attending these efforts,the vigour of a great mind was entirely exhausted, and in two years after the publicationof his Gerusalemme Liberata, the unhappy Bard became an object of pity and ofterror!According to Giovanni Battista Manso, thegreat Friend and Biographer of Tasso, andfrom whom the causes of his alienation ofmind, we have just assigned, are drawn, hismadness was accompanied with the persuasionof his being under the influence of witchcraft,and attended by an apparition, and Tassohimself, in a letter to Mauritio Cataneo, thusnotices this very extraordinary supernaturalBeing, whom he terms, folletto.know that I was bewitched, and have neverbeen cured; and, perhaps, have more need ofan exorcist than of a physician; because mydisorder proceeds from magical art. I wouldlikewise write a few words respecting my dæmon: the rascal hath lately robbed me ofmany crown pieces; I know not the amount,as I am by no means a miser in reckoning" You mustNO. III. HOURS. 59" Thismy money, but, I dare say, they amount totwenty. He hath likewise turned all my bookstopsy-turvy; opened my chests; robbed meof my keys, which I could not keep from him.I am at all times unhappy, but especially inthe night. I know not whether my diseaseproceeds from frenzy, or not." After he hadleft the Hospital of St. Ann's at Ferrara ,whither he had been sent by Duke Alfonzo,and where he had been attended by the mosteminent physicians, he again, in a letter toCataneo, mentions this spiritual thief.day, the last of the year, the brother of thereverend Signior Licino has brought me twoof your letters; but one of them was takenfrom me, as soon as I had read it, and, Ibelieve, the folletto must have carried it off,because it is that in which he is mentioned:and this is one of the miracles which I haveseen often in the Hospital. These things Iam certain are done by some magician; and Ihave many arguments of it; particularly of aloafvisibly stolen from me one afternoon , and aplate offruit taken from before me the other day,when a Polish gentleman came to see me, worthy, indeed , to be a witness of such a wonder. "*

• Vita di Torquato Tasso scritta da Gio. Battista

Manso.60 LITERARY NO. III."Manso afterwards tells us that Tasso wouldfrequently in company be quite abstracted inhis frenzy; would talk to himself, and laughprofusely; and would fix his eyes keenly uponvacancy for a long time, and then say that hesaw his familiar spirit; and describe him asunder the semblance of an angelic youth, suchas he paints him in his dialogue of Le Messagiero. Manso particularly mentions that onceTasso, angry at his incredulity, told him thathe should see the spirit with his own eyes.Accordingly next day, when they were talkingtogether and sitting by the fire, Tasso suddenlydarted his eyes to a window in the room, andsat so intent, that, when Manso spoke to him,he returned no sort of answer. At last heturned to him and said. ' Behold the friendlyspirit, who is courteously come to conversewith me; look at him, and perceive the truthof my words.' Manso immediately threw hiseyes toward the spot; but with his keenestvision could see nothing, but the rays of thesun shining through the window into the chamber. While he was thus staring, Tasso hadentered into lofty discourse with the spirit, ashe perceived from his share of the dialogue:that of the spirit was not audible to him; butNO. III. HOURS. 61he solemnly declares that the discourse was sogrand and marvellous, and contained such loftythings, expressed in a most unusual mode, thathe remained in extacy, and did not dare toopen his mouth so much as to tell Tasso thatthe spirit was not visible to him. In sometime, the spirit being gone, as Manso couldjudge, Tasso turned to him with a smile, andsaid, he hoped he was now convinced. Towhich Manso replied, that he had, indeed,heard wonderful things; but had seen nothing.Tasso said, ' Perhaps you have heard and seenmore than ,' he then paused; andManso, seeing him in silent meditation, did notcare to perplex him with further questions. "*Had Tasso not formed extravagant schemesof happiness and fame which are seldom, ifever, realized, and had corrected the fervor ofan imagination too prone to admit the præternatural and strange, by cultivating thosesciences which depend upon demonstrativeevidence, or by mingling more with the world,and discriminating its various characters andfoibles, the integrity of his mind had, most proVide Letters of Literature p. 379.•62 LITERARY NO. III.bably, been preserved. Shakspeare possessedin a far superior degree, if I may be allowedthe term, the powers of superhuman creation ,and no poet ever enjoyed such an unlimiteddominion over the fears and superstitions ofmankind. Yet the acuteness, the inexhaustiblevariety of his genius, his talents for humour,and his almost intuitive penetration into thefollies and vices of his species, enabled him toavoid, in a great measure, that credulity whichhis wild, terrific , yet delightful and consistentfictions, almost rivetted upon others. Milton,too, had a peculiar predilection for traditionarytales, and legendary lore, and, in his earlyyouth, spent much time in reading romanticnarratives; but the deep and varied eruditionwhich distinguished his career, for no man inEurope, at that time, possessed a wider field ofintellect, sufficiently protected him from theirdelusive influence, though, to the latest periodof life, he still retained much of his originalpartiality. Ossian, however, that melancholybut sublime Bard of other times, seems to havegiven implicit credit to the superstitions ofhiscountry, and his poems are, therefore, repletewith a variety of immaterial agents; but theseare of a kind rather calculated to soothe andNO. III. HOURS. 63support the mind, than to shake and harrow it,as the gothic, with malignant and mysteriouspotency.In the present century when science andliterature have spread so extensively, the heavyclouds of superstition have been dispersed, andhave assumed a lighter and less formidable hue;for though the tales of Walpole, Reeve andRadcliffe, or the poetry of Wieland,* Burgerand Lewis, still powerfully arrest attention, andkeep an ardent curiosity alive, yet is theirmachinery, by no means, an object of popularbelief, nor can it, I should hope, now lead todangerous credulity , as when in the times ofTasso, Shakspeare and even Milton, witchesand wizards, spectres and fairies, were nearly asimportant subjects of faith as the most seriousdoctrines of religion.Yet have we had one melancholy instance,and toward the middle of the eighteenth cen-

• The Oberon of this exquisite poet which, in sportive play of fancy,

mayvie with the Muse of Shakspeare, and which, in the conduct of itsfable, is superior to any work extant, richly merits an english dress . Itis said that the late Mr. Sixt of Canterbury left a translation ofthisEpic. If it be well executed it would be a highly valuable present tothe public.64LITERARYNO. 111.tury, where disappointment, operating uponenthusiasm, has induced effects somewhat similar to those recorded of the celebrated Italian.In the year 1756 died our lamented COLLINS,one of our most exquisite poets, and of whom,perhaps, without exaggeration it may be asserted, that he partook of the credulity and enthusiasm ofTasso, the magic wildness of Shakspeare,the sublimity of Milton, and the pathos ofOssian. He had early formed sanguine expectations of fame and applause, but reapednothing but penury and neglect, and stung withindignation at the unmerited treatment his productions had met with, he burnt the remainingcopies with his own hands. His Cdes to Fear,on the Poetical Character, to Evening, thePassions, and on the Superstitions ofthe Highlands of Scotland, strongly mark the bias ofhis mind to all that is awefully wild and terrible.His address to Fear,Dark Power! with shudd'ring meek submittedthoughtBe mine to read the visions oldWhich thy awakening bards have told:And, lest thou meet my blasted view,Hold each strange tale devoutly true.•NO. III.. 65 HOURS.was prompted by what he actually felt, for,like Tasso, he was, in some measure, a convertto the imagery he drew; and the beautifullines in which he describes the Italian, might,with equal propriety, be applied to himself:Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mindBeliev'd the magic wonders which he sung. †His powers, however, in exciting the tenderemotions were superior to Tasso's, and, inpathetic simplicity, nothing, perhaps, can exceed his Odes to Pity, on the Death of ColonelRoss, on the Death of Thomson, and hisDirge in Cymbeline, which abound with+ Ode on the Popular Superstitions ofthe Highlands.

• The beautiful and tender imagery in a stanza of this little dirge

The Red-breast oft at evening hoursShall kindly lend his little aid,With hoary moss and gathered flowers,To deck the ground where thou art laid.has been so much a favorite with the poets that I am tempted to throw afew of their elegant descriptions into the form of a note. In the Anthołogia a somewhat similar idea is thus expressed in the Epitaph on Timon:Ως επ' εμοι μη δ'ορνις εν ειαρι κεφον ερείδοιIxv@.Nor print the feather'd warbler in the springHis little footsteps lightly on my grave.KWAKEFIELD.66 LITERARY NO. III.passages that irresistably make their way tothe heart.He who could feel, with so much sensibility,the sorrows and misfortunes of others, andcould pour the plaint of woe with such harmonious skill, was soon himself to be an object ofextreme compassion. His anxiety and distress,Horace has a passage of still greater similitude with regard to thewood-pigeon:Me fabulosæ Vulture in AppuloAltricis extra limen Apuliæ,Ludo fatigatumque somno,Fronde nova puerum palumbesTexere.- Carm. lib. iii. od. 4.And we all remember the ballad of our infancy, and which , perhaps,`more immediately gave rise to succeeding imitations:And Robin Red-breast carefullyDid cover them with leaves.Shakspeare has in the following lines of his Cymbeline tenderlyalluded to this bird, and which certainly suggested to Collins the stanzawe have quoted:-With fairest flowers,Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele,I'll sweeten thy sad grave: Thou shalt not lackThe flower that's like thy face, pale primrose; norThe azur'd hare-bell, like thy veins; no, norThe leaf of eglantine, whom not to slanderOut-sweeten'd not thy breath: the Raddock would,With charitable bill , bring thee all this;Yea, and furr'd moss besides, when flowers are none,To winter-gown thy corse.NO. III. HOURS. 67rendered doubly poignant by a very splendidimagination, in the event produced unconquerable melancholy, and occasional fits of frenzy,and, under the pressure of these afflictions,which gradually encreased, perished one of thesweetest of our poets, and who ever approachedthe lyre with a mind glowing with inspiration.On the monument lately erected to hismemory at Chichester, and executed withDrayton also thus notices it:Covering with moss the dead's unclosed eye,The little Red-breast teacheth charitie.The Muse of Gray, too, has honoured it with a tribute worthy itstender assiduity:There scattered oft, the earliest ofthe year,By hands unseen, are showers of violets found:The Red-breast loves to build and warble there,And little footsteps lightly print the ground.And lastly Mr. Hole, in his epic romance of Arthur, or the NorthernEnchantment, is not excelled by any of his predecessors in commemorating the charitable offices of this favorite:-Now Cador's corse he view'd,With hoary moss and faded leaves bestrew'd.In days ofold, not yet did we invadeThe harmless tenants of the woodland shade,The crimson-breasted warbler o'er the slainWhile frequent rose his melancholy strain,With pious care, ' twas all he could, suppliedThe funeral rites , by ruthless man denied.68 LITERARY NO. III.admirable taste by the ingenious Flaxman, thepoet is represented as just recovered from a fitof frenzy, and in a calm and reclining posture,seeking refuge from his misfortunes in the consolations ofthe gospel, while his lyre, and oneof the first of his poems lie neglected on theground. Above are two beautiful figures ofLove and Pity intwined in each others arms,and beneath, the following elegant and impressive epitaph from the pen of Mr. Hayley:Ye who the merits of the dead revereWho hold misfortune sacred, genius dear,Regard this tomb, where Collins' hapless nameSolicits kindness with a double claim;Tho' nature gave him, and tho ' Science taughtThe Fire of Fancy, and the reach of Thought,Severely doom'd to penury's extreme,He pass'd, in madd'ning pain, life's feverish dream;While rays of genius only serv'd to shewThe thick'ning horror and exalt his woe.Ye walls that echo'd to his frantic moan,Guard the due records of this grateful stone;Strangers to him, enamour'd of his lays,This fond memorial to his talents raise.For this the ashes of a bard require,Who touch'd the tenderest notes of Pity's lyre;Whojoin'd pure Faith to strong poetic powers,Who, in reviving Reason's lucid hours,NO. III. HOURS. 69Sought on one book his troubled mind to rest,And rightly deem'd the book of God the best.The same warm and eager expectations ofimmortality and fame, associated with similarfervor, and creative energy of genius, andaccompanied with still greater ignorance ofmankind, led the unhappy Chatterton to suicide. The fairy visions he had drawn wereblasted by the hand of poverty and neglect,and conscious of the powers which animatedhis bosom, and despising that world which hadfailed to cherish them, and of which he hadformed so flattering but so delusive an idea, ina paroxysm of wounded pride, and indignantcontempt, beheld in the grave alone a shelterfrom affliction.Oh, ill-starr'd Youth, whom Nature form'd in vain,With powers on Pindus' splendid height to reign!Oh dread example of what pangs awaitYoung genius struggling with maglignant fate!What could the Muse, who fir'd thy infant frameWith the rich promise of poetic fame; *Who taught thy hand its magic art to hide,And mock the insolence of Critic pride;What could her unavailing cares oppose,To save her darling from his desperate foes;70 LITERARY NO. III.From pressing Want's calamitous controul,And Pride, the fever of the ardent soul?Ah, see, too conscious of her failing power,She quits her Nursling in his deathful hour!In a chill room, within whose wretched wallNo cheering voice replies to Misery's call;Near a vile bed, too crazy to sustainMisfortune's wasted limbs, convuls'd with pain,On the bare floor, with heaven-directed eyes,The hapless youth in speechless horror lies;The poisonous vial, by distraction drain'd,Rolls from his hand, in wild contortion strain'dPale with life-wasting pangs, its dire effect,And stung to madness by the world's neglect,He, in abhorrence of the dangerous art,Once the dear idol of his glowing heart,Tears from his Harp the vain detested wires,And in the frenzy of despair expires!Hayley.He, therefore, who early possesses the characteristics of genius, and is desirous of placingbefore the public eye, its more happy effusions,should be assiduously taught the probability ofridicule, or neglect. Let not his wish to claimadmiration be repressed, but let him be trainedto expect it from a chosen few, and to despisethe malignancy, or the apathy of the many.NO. III. HOURS.71The most beautiful works of imagination arethe least understood, nor can an author, untilhe become fashionable from the recommendation ofa few leading critics, meet with generalapplause, nor, indeed, should he either hopefor, or value it. Ofthe multitudes who pretend to admire a Shakspeare, or a Milton, notone in a thousand, has any relish or properconception of the author, but merely echo theopinion that reaches them, though, by a common operation of vanity, they applaud theirown discernment and taste. In general, themost estimable compositions are written forposterity, and are little valued at the momentoftheir production. The Gerusalemme Liberata of Tasso, the Paradise Lost of Milton,and the Poems of Collins, bear testimony tothe truth of the assertion.It is, also, highly necessary to guard againstthose delusions which an exclusive study ofworks of imagination is apt to generate in amind predisposed to poetic combination. Letthe young poet be properly initiated into life,and led to mingle the severer studies with thevivid colourings of the muse, and neither7- LITERARY NO. III.disappointment, nor melancholy will then, probably, intrude upon his useful and rationalenjoyments.To correct the sanguine expectations whichyoung authors are too apt to form, or to divestof their too enchanting hues the dangerous anddelusive pictures sketched in early life , mayhave its use, but it is little to be apprehended,in the present day, that the wild workings ofpoetic imagination should lead to that obliquityofidea which may terminate in derangement.Philosophy and science have now taken toodeep root for such credulity to recur, nor isthe general character of our poetry that ofenthusiasm. What we have said may, however, account for the mental irregularities of aTasso and a Collins, though, perhaps, littleapplicable or essential to any modern bard.The subject, nevertheless, is curious, and will,probably, be thought not altogether destituteof entertainment.NUMBER IV.Can music's voice, can beauty's eye,Can painting's glowing hand supplyA charm so suited to my mind,As blows this hollow gust of wind,As drops this little weeping rill,Soft trickling down the moss-grown hill,While thro' the west where sinks the crimson dayMeek twilight slowly sails, and waves her bannersgrey?Mason.To meliorate the sufferings of unmeritedcalamity, to enable us to bear up against thepressure of detraction, and the wreck of tiesthe most endearing, benevolent Providencehath wisely mingled, in the cup of sorrow,drops of a sweet and soothing nature. If, whenthe burst of passion dies away; if, when theviolence of grief abates, rectitude of conduct,and just feeling be possessed, recollectionL74 LITERARY NO. IV.points not the arrow of misfortune, it adds notthe horrors of guilt; no, it gives birth to sensations the most pleasing, sweet, though fullof sorrow, melancholy, yet delightful, whichsoften and which calm the mind, which heal,and pour balm into the wounded spirit. Theman, whose efforts have been liberal and industrious, deserving, though unfortunate, whompoverty and oppression, whom calumny andingratitude have brought low, feels, whilst conscious innocence dilates his breast, that secretgratulation, that self-approving and that honestpride which fits him to sustain the pangs ofwantand of neglect; he finds, amid the bitterestmisfortunes, that virtue still can whisper peace,can comfort, and can bid the wretched smile.Thus even where penury and distress put ontheir sternest features, and where the necessariesof life are, with difficulty, procured, even hereare found those dear emotions which arise frompurity of thought and action; emotions fromwhose influence no misery can take away,from whose claim to possession no tyrant candetract, which the guilty being deprived of,sicken and despair, and which he who holds.fast, is comparatively blest,NO. IV. HOURS. 75But where the mind has been liberally andelegantly cultivated, where much sensibilityand strength of passion are present, and themisfortunes occurring, turn upon the loss ofsome tender and beloved connexion, in thiscase, what may be called the luxury of grief ismore fully and exquisitely displayed. Thatmild and gentle sorrow, which, in the bosomof the good, and of the feeling, succeeds thestrong energies of grief, is of a nature so soothing and grateful, so friendly to the soft emotionsof the soul, that those, whose friendship, orwhose love the hand of fate has severed, delightin the indulgence of reflections which lead topast endearment, which, dwelling on the virtues,the perfections of the dead, breathe the purespirit of melancholy enthusiasm .-ask the faithful youthWhythe cold urn of her, whom long he loved,So often fills his arms, so often drawsHis lonely footsteps at the silent hourTo pay the mournful tribute of his tears?Oh, he will tell thee that the wealth of worldsShould ne'er seduce his bosom to foregoThat sacred hour, when, stealing from the noiseOf care and envy, sweet remembrance sooth,76LITERARYNO. IV,With virtue's kindest looks, his aching breast,And turns his tears to rapture.AKENSIDE.Here, every thing which tends to soften andrefine the mind, to introduce a pensive train ofthought, and call the starting tear, will longand ardently be cherished. Music, the solaceof the mourner, that food of tender passion,which, while it sweetly melts the soul, correctseach harsh and painful feeling, will ever to thewretched be a source of exquisite sensation.Those writers who have touched the finestchords of pity, who mingling the tenderest simplicity with the strongest emotions ofthe heart,speak the pure language of nature, have elegantly drawn the effects of music on the mind;the Fonrose of Marmontelle, the Maria ofSterne, and the Julia de Roubignè of Mackenzie, but more especially the Minstrel of Beattie,sweetly evince this delightful and bewitchingmelancholy which so blandly steals upon thechildren of sorrow.That the contemplation of nature, of thevarious features of the sublime and of thebeautiful, often lead to reflections of a solemnNO. IV. HOURS. 77and serious cast, is a circ*mstance well established; and on this account, the possession ofromantic and sequestered scenery is a requisitehighly wished for by those who mourn the lossof a beloved object. The gloomy majesty ofantique wood, the awful grandeur of o'erhanging rock, the frequent dashing of perturbedwater, throw a sombre tint around, which suitsthe language of complaining grief. Perhapsto the wild and picturesque beauties of Valchiusa we owe much of the poetry, much ofthe pathos of Petrarch, the perpetuity ofwhosepassion for Laura was, without doubt, greatlystrengthened by such a retreat; where, freefrom interruption, he could dwell upon theremembrance of her virtue and her beauty,could invoke her gentle spirit, and indulge thesorrows of his heart. How strongly its romantic scenery affected him, how vividly it broughtto recollection those long-lost pleasures when,in the company of his beloved Laura, he wandered amid its friendly shades, and hung uponthe music of her lips, every reader of sensibilitywill judge from the following beautiful translation ofthe 261st. sonnet, transcribed from ananonymous Essay on the Life and Characterof Petrarch.-78LITERARYNÓ . IV.ON THE PROSPECT OF VALCHIUSA.Thou lonely vale, where in the fleeting yearsOf tender youth I breath'd my am'rous pain;Thou brook, whose silver stream receiv'd my tears,Thy murmurs joining to my sorrowing strain,I come, to visit all my former haunts again!O green-clad hills, familiar to my sight!O well- known paths where oft I wont to rove,Musing the tender accents of my love!Long use and sad remembrance now invite,Again to view the scenes which once could give delight.Yes, ye are still the same—To me aloneYour charms decay; for she, who to these eyesGave nature beauty , now for ever gone,Deep in the silent grave a mould'ring victim lies!Pathetic, almost to pain, must have been theimpression on the susceptible mind of Petrarch ,and, indeed, on every mind alive to pity andstruggling with distress such scenery will everproduce sensations of a similar kind: howdelightful to the bosom of sadness, are the stillsweet beauties of a moon-light evening, andwho, that has a heart to feel, is not struck bythe soft and tender scenery of a Claude, whoseNO. IV. HOURS.79setting suns diffuse such an exquisite melancholy, and whose shadowy fore-grounds dropsuch a grateful gloom, as are peculiarly captivating to the mind of taste and sensibility.But nothing will better prove how greatlyavaricious the soul of Petrarch was of thismingled perception of pleasure and of pain,this luxury of grief, than presenting the readerwith a note translated from the margin of amanuscript of Virgil, preserved in the Ambrosian Library at Milan, and formerly inPetrarch's possession It is enriched with manylatin annotations in the poet's hand-writing, andon the first page is the following interestingpassage."Laura, illustrious by the virtues she possessed, and celebrated, during many years, bymy Verses, appeared to my eyes for the firsttime, on the sixth day of April, in the yearthirteen hundred and twenty- seven, at Avignon,in the church of St. Claire, at six o'clock inthe morning. I was then in my early youth.In the same town, on the same day, and at thesame hour, in the year thirteen hundred andforty- eight, this light, this sun, withdrew from80 LITERARY NO. IV.the world. I was then at Verona, ignorant ofthe calamity that had befallen me. A letter Ireceived at Parma, from my Ludovico, on thenineteenth ofthe following month, brought methe cruel information . Her body, so beautiful,so pure, was deposited on the day of her death,after vespers, in the church of the Cordeliers.Her soul, as Seneca has said of Africanus, Iam confident, returned to heaven, from whenceit came."For the purpose of often dwelling on thesad remembrance of so severe a loss, I havewritten these particulars in a book that comesfrequently under my inspection. I have thusprepared for myself a pleasure mingled withpain. My loss ever present to my memory,will teach me, that there is now nothing in thislife which can give me pleasure—That it isnow time I should renounce the world, sincethe chain which bound me to it, with so tenderan attachment, is broken. Nor will this, withthe assistance of Almighty God, be difficult.My mind, turning to the past, will set beforeme all the superfluous cares that have engagedme; all the deceitful hopes that I have enter-NO. IV. HOURS. 81tained, and the unexpected and afflicting consequences of all my projects."But, independent of a train of thoughtproduced by adverse circ*mstances, scenery ofa stupendous and solitary cast, will ever have,upon a person of acute feeling, somewhat of asimilar effect; it will dispose to contemplation,it will suggest a wish for seclusion, a romanticand visionary idea of happiness abstracted fromsociety. Those, who possess a genius of whichimagination is the strongest characteristic, are,ofall others the most susceptible of enthusiasm;and, if placed amid scenes of this description ,and where civilization has made little progress,they will eventually be the sons of poetry,melancholy, and superstition. To these causeswe may ascribe the peculiarities of Ossian, hisdeep and uninterrupted gloom, his wild butimpressive mythology. I do not, indeed,deny, that even in the most polished periods ofsociety much of this cast of mind may beobserved; it is ever, I think, attendant upongenius, but, at the same time, so tempered bythe sober tints of science and philosophy, thatit seldom breaks in upon the province ofjudgM82 LITERARY NO. IV.ment and right ratiocination, The melancholyof Milton, Young, and Gray, was so repressedby the chastening hand of reason and education, as never to infringe upon the duties oflife; the spirit, the energy of Milton's comprehensive soul, the rational and sublime piety ofYoung, the learning and morality of Gray,powerfully withheld the accession of a state ofmind so inimical to the rights of society. Ispeak here, as I have before hinted, of a constitutional bias of mind, not of that deep sorrowwhich arises from the loss of a beloved relative,or from the unmerited pressure of adversity.In addition to what has been observed concerning the effect of scenery, let it be added,that those whom misfortune has bowed down,and who have fled into retirement to indulgethe luxury of grief, that those take peculiarpleasure in being witness to the decay and sadvicissitudes of nature, that the commencementand decline of autumn, the ravages of winter,the fury of the mountain torrent, the howlingof the midnight storm, the terrors of a sultrynoon, the burst of thunder and the flash oflightning, are to them sources of sympathy andNO. IV. HOURS 83 .consolation. What sublime and pensive images may they not derive from the melancholysighing of the gale, particularly from "thatpause," observes Mr. Gray, "as the gust isrecollecting itself, and rising upon the ear in ashrill and plaintive note, like the swell of anÆolian harp. There is nothing," adds he,"so like the voice of a spirit." And, indeed,however inconsiderable, in itself, such a soundmay be, yet, from the association of ideas, and,from the general knowledge of its being thepresage of a storm, it derives a degree of awfuland impressive grandeur, admirably adapted tothe nurture of reflection. In such a situationas this, every thing is in unison with their feelings, each object seems to suffer; and to amind pregnant with images of distress, little is.wanting to immediate personification; theymay exclaim, in the beautiful and descriptivelanguage of Miss Seward,'Twas here, e'en here! where now I sit reclin'd,And winter's sighs sound hollow in the wind;Loud, and more loud, the blast of evening raves,And strips the oaks of their last ling'ring leaves,The eddying foliage in the tempest flies,And fills with duskier gloom the thick'ning skies,84LITERARYNO.IV,Red sinks the sun behind the howling hill ,And rushes with hoarse stream, the mountain rill,And now with ruffling billows, cold and pale,Runs swoln and dashing down the lonely vale;While to these tearful eyes, Grief's faded formSits on the cloud, and sighs amid the storm .That this amiable and tender sorrow so frequentlythe concomitant of the best disposition.and principles, and the certain test of a generousand susceptible heart, that this should be sooften carried to an extreme, should so oftenmilitate against our social and domestic duties,is an event which merits the most serious attention. It is not however uncommon; he, towhom these sweet but melancholy sensationshave been once known, will not easily be persuaded to relinquish them; he shuns society,and, dwelling on the deprivations he has suffered, seeks to indulge what, when thuscherished, is but childish imbecility. It is themore necessary, perhaps, that an error of thiskind be corrected, as from the fashionable rageof affected sensibility, many otherwise wouldsuppose themselves evincing an undoubtedclaim to feelings " tremblingly alive, " by amode of conduct which convicts them of follyand hypocrisy.NO. IV. HOURS. 85At the same time that the author reprobatesthe excess of grief, as detracting from ourpublic and our private duties, he, by no means,wishes to restrain those pensive and those softemotions which arise from just affection fordeparted excellence, or from the consciousnessof rectitude of conduct and unmerited adversity; onthe contrary, he is their advocate, theysupport us under our misfortunes, they affordus a luxury most soothing to the mind: butlet us take care it degenerates not into weakness, that it leads not to unprofitable solitude:for, as hath been justly observed, "it is notgood for man to be alone."

NUMBER V.E'quanto à dir qual era, è cosa dura,Questa "valle" selvaggia ed aspra e forteChe nel pensier rinnuova la paura.—Tanto è amara, che pocco è più morte:Ma per trattar del ben, ch'i vi trovai,Dirò del altre cose, ch'i v'ho scorte.Dante.The place I know not, where I chanc'd to rove;It was a "vale" so wild, it wounds me soreBut to remember with what ills I strove:Such still my dread, that death is little more.But I will tell the good which there I found:High things ' twas there my fortune to explore.Hayley.It was evening, when Wolkmar and his dog,almost spent with fatigue, descended one ofthemountains in Switzerland; the sun was dilatedin the horizon, and threw a tint of rich crimsonover the waters of a neighbouring lake; on88 LITERARY NO. V.each side rocks of varied form, their greenheads glowing in the beam, were swarded withshrubs that hung feathering from their summits,and, at intervals, was heard the rushing of atroubled stream.Amid this scenery, our traveller, far fromany habitation, wearied, and uncertain of theroad, sought for some excavation in the rock,wherein he might repose himself, and havingat length discovered such a situation, fell fastasleep upon some withered leaves. His dogsat watching at his feet, a small bundle oflinen and a staff were placed beside him, andthe red rays of the declining sun, havingpierced through the shrubs that concealed theretreat, gleamed on the languid features of hisbeloved master.And long be thy rest, O Wolkmar! maysleep sit pleasant on thy soul! Unhappyman! war hath estranged thee from thy nativevillage; war, unnatural war, snatched theefrom thy Fanny and her infant. Where artthou, best of wives? thy Wolkmar lives!report deceived thee, Daughter of affliction!for the warrior rests not in the narrow house.NO. V. HOURS. 89Thou fled'st; thy beauty caught the eye ofpower; thou fled'st with thy infant and thyaged father. Unhappy woman! thy husbandseeketh thee over the wilds of Switzerland.Long be thy rest, O Wolkmar; may sleep sitpleasant on thy soul.Yet not long did Wolkmar rest; starting, hebeheld the dog, who, seizing his coat, hadshook it with violence; and having thoroughlyawakened him, whining licked his face, andsprang through the thicket. Wolkmar, eagerlyfollowing, discerned at some distance a mangently walking down the declivity of theopposite hill, and his own dog running withfull speed towards him. The sun yet threwathwart the vale rays of a blood- red hue, thesky was overcast, and a few big round dropsrustled through the drooping leaves. Wolkmar sat him down; the dog now fawned uponthe man, then bounding ran before him. Thecuriosity of Wolkmar was roused, he rose tomeet the stranger, who, as he drew near,appeared old, very old, his steps scarce supporting with a staff; a blue mantle was wrappedaround him, and his hair and beard, white assnow, and waving to the breeze of the hill,N90 LITERARY NO. V.received from beneath a dark cloud, the lastdeep crimson of the setting sun.WolkmarThe dog now ran wagging his tail , first tohis master, and then to the stranger, leapingupon each with marks of the utmost rapture,till too rudely expressing his joy, the old mantottering fell at the foot of a blasted beech,that stood at the bottom ofthe hill.hastened to his relief, and had just reached thespot, when starting back, he exclaimed, " Myfather, O my father! " Gothre, for so the oldman was called, saw and knew his son, a smileof extasy lighted up his features, a momentarycolour flushed his cheek, his eyes beamedtransport through the waters that suffused them,and stretching forth his arms, he faintly uttered,"My beloved son! " Nature could no more:the bloom upon his withered cheek fled fastaway, the dewy lustre of his eye grew dim,the throbbing of his heart oppressed him, andstraining Wolkmar with convulsive energy,the last long breath of aged Gothre fled coldacross the cheek of his son.The night grew dark and unlovely, the moonstruggled to appear, and by fits her pale lightNO. V. 91 HOURS.streamed across the lake, a silence deep andterrible prevailed, unbroken but by a wildshriek, that at intervals died along the valley.Wolkmar lay entranced upon the dead body ofhis father, the dog stood motionless by hisside; but, at last alarmed, he licked their faces,and pulled his master by the coat, till havingin vain endeavoured to awaken them, he ranhowling dreadfully along the valley; the demonof the night trembled on his hill of storms, andthe rocks returned a deepening echo.Wolkmar at length awoke, a cold sweattrickled over his forehead, every muscle shookwith horror, and, kneeling by the body ofGothre, he wept aloud."Where is myFanny," he exclaimed, " Where shall I findher; oh! that thou hadst told me she yet lived,near: the night isunknown to me. "good old man! if alive, my God, she must bedark, these mountains areAs he spoke, the illuminededge of a cloud shone on the face of Gothre, asmile yet dwelt upon his features; " Smilestthou, my father," said Wolkmar, " I feel it atmy heart; all shall yet be well." The nightagain grew dark, and Wolkmar, retiring a fewpaces from his father, threw himself on theground.92 LITERARY NO. V.He had not continued many minutes in thissituation, before the distant sound of voicesstruck his ear; they seemed to issue from different parts of the valley; two or three evidentlyapproached the spot where Gothre lay, and thename of Gothre was at length loudly and frequently repeated. Wolkmar, starting fromthe ground, sighed with anxiety and expectation, leaning forward, he would have listened ,but the beating of his heart appalled him . Thedog who, at first alarmed, had crept to hismaster's feet, began now to bark with vehemence; suddenly the voices ceased , and Wolkmar thought he heard the soft and quick treadof people fast approaching.At this moment,the moon burst from behind a dark cloud, andshone full on the dead body of Gothre. Ashrill shriek pierced the air, and a youngwoman rushing forward fell on the body ofGothre. " Oh, my Billy!" she exclaimed toa little boy, who ran up to her out of breath,"see your beloved Gothre! he is gone forever, gone to heaven and left us. O my poorchild! " clasping the boy, who cried mostbitterly, what shall we do without him,what will become of us—we will die also, myBilly!"NO. V. HOURS.93Wolkmar, in the mean time, stood enveloped with shade, his arms stretched out, motionless, and fixed in silent astonishment; histongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and hefaintly and with difficulty uttered, " My Fanny,my child! " His accents reached her ear, shesprang wildly from the ground, " It is myWolkmar's spirit," she exclaimed. The skyinstantly cleared all around, and Wolkmarburst upon her sight. They rushed together;she fainted. "God of mercies," cried Wolkmar, " if thou wilt not drive me mad, restoreher to life -she breathes, I thank thee, O myGod, she breathes! the wife of Wolkmarlives! " Fanny recovering, felt the warm embrace of her beloved husband; " dear, dearWolkmar," she faintly whispered, "thy Fanny-I cannot speak—my Wolkmar, I am toohappy—see our Billy! " The Boy had creptclose to his father, and was clasping him roundthe knees. The tide of affection rushed impetuously through the bosom of Wolkmar, "itpresses on my heart, " he said, " I cannot bearit." The domestics, whom Fanny had broughtwith herfor protection, crowded round. " Letus kneel," said Wolkmar, "round the body94 LITERARY NO. V.of aged Gothre. " They knelt around; themoon shone sweetly on the earth, and theSpirit of Gothre passed by—he saw his children.and was happy.NO. V. HOURS.95Of the following little poems it is my intention that simplicity and pathos should be thecharacteristics; how far these have been obtained it is not my province to decide, I willonly say with the poetic friends, Gray andMason,Enough for me, if to some feeling breastMy lines a secret sympathy impart;And as their pleasing influence flows confest,A sigh of soft reflection heave the heart. *THE TEMPEST.All bloody sank the evening sun,And red the wild wave gleam'd,And loud, and bellowing o'er the deep,The angry tempest scream'd.When Mary weeping, kiss'd her babes,And laid them down to rest,As slow the sad thought pal'd her cheek,And chill'd her heaving breast.

• This stanza, left incomplete by Gray, was finished by Mason.

96 LITERARY NO. V."Blow, blow," she cried, " thou wintry wind,"Then cast her streaming eyes,Where foaming on the rocky cliff,The bursting breaker dies:"Ah me! to Mary's harrass'd heart," How welcome yon rude tone," That swells on Sorrow's sadd'ning ear," And wailing seems to moan." Tho' many a day be past and gone," Tho' many a month be fled," Since Henry left his tender wife," And shar'd her faithful bed." I've seen his form, when still at eve," The moon on ocean slept," I've heard his voice when o'er the rock," The dying breeze hath crept.99She scarce had said, when from the deep,Slow peal'd the sullen swell,Dark grew the heav'ns, and dark the wave,And fast the chill rain fell.Then Mary thought on Henry dear,And breath'd the tender sigh,NÓ. V. 97 HOURS.When, wild as screams th' untimely ghost,Was heard the seaman's cry.She left her cot, and toward the cliff,Where plain'd the dismal soundShe flew, on hapless Henry call'd,And wav'd her hand around.That moment rush'd the billowy surge,And o'er the rough rock roll'd,And far thro' ocean's viewless depths,The knell of Mary toll'd.Her children slept till morning's dawn,Then kiss'd each other's cheek,As pouring o'er their guileless heads,They heard the tempest break.They wept, they call'd for Mary dear,Her soft embrace delay'd,Then turn'd their dewy eyes to heav'n,And claspt their hands and pray'd.The wild winds ceas'd, the sun beam'd forth,Red shone the tinted ray,The children rose; and Edward smil'dHis Charlotte's griefs away.98LITERARYNO. V.They went to seek their lost Mamma,They reach'd the craggy shore,When lo! to land poor Mary's corse,The tide deep-heaving bore.When nought she answer'd, their fond heartsDid almost burst with grief," And wont mamma then speak to us," And wont she bring relief? "They kiss'd her pale lips , kiss'd her hands,And laid down by her side,Their cheeks to her cold cheek they plac'd,And, weeping still, they dy'd.NO. VI. 99 HOURS.LUCY.Cold was the night, and drear the heath,And high the ocean roll'd,And shrill upon the frighted gloom,The tortur'd spirits howl'd.Around the Abbey's ivy'd wall,The boding owlet flew,By fits upon the moulder'd bone,The moon-beam flash'd to view.When hapless Lucy left her cot,And wander'd forth unseen,Whilst gently on her throbbing breastHer sleeping babe did lean." Ah cruel," cried she, " was the youth," That could this bosom fly," Ah cruel left these faithful arms,"Nor breath'd one parting sigh! "Then rush'd she madd'ning o'er the heath,Deep heav'd the swelling storm,The chill rain fell, the cold wind beat,And shrank her gentle form.100 NO. V,LITERARY"Where shall I fly," she oft exclaim'd," Where shall I seek for aid?" Ah! would that in the narrow cell" This broken heart were laid."" Hark! hark! thro' yonder cloister'd isle," How shrieks the northern blast!" See, see! oh saw ye not my babe?" Thy ruthless father past! "Thus said she, and with sudden step,Sprang forward to pursue,When, dreadful, from her heedless graspHer little infant flew.Ah me! upon the rocky ground,See gor'd its tender breast!It scream'd—it writh'd, then stretch'd its arms,And sigh'd its soul to rest.Ah Lucy, then how swell'd thine heart,How did thy breast heave high!Pale grew thy features, pale thy lip,And pale thy sinking eye." Tis past, " she cried, " and I will go" To my eternal home;NO. V. HOURS. 101To where thy little spirit's fled," I come, my child, I come! "Then wildly to the sounding surge,And shrieking did she fly,Despair upon her pallid cheek,Distraction in her eye." I come, my child, my lovely child," I come!" was heard once more,And loudly roar'd the tumbling tide,And lash'd the rocky shore.Then Lucy leapt from off the cliff;Her eye was bent on heav'n,And sure as mercy dwelleth there,Shall Lucy be forgiv'n .Now darker gloom'd the lurid sky,And louder groan'd the storm,And white upon the turbid wave,White floated Lucy's form." Forgive my Love," she faintly cried,As wild the waters swept,And deep beneath the billow's rage,In peace poor Lucy slept.

NUMBER VI.La brevità del sonetto non comporta, che una solaparola sia vana, ed il vero subietto e materia delsonetto debbe essere qualche acuta e gentile sentenza,narrata attamente, ed in pochi versi ristretta, e fuggendo la oscurità e durezza.Comment. di Lor. de Med. sopra i suoi Sonetti.Lorenzo de Medici has thus, in few words,accurately defined the true character of theSonnet, a species of composition which haslately been cultivated with considerable successin England. Italy, however, may boast thehonour of giving birth to this elegant andelaborate little poem, which, confined as it isto a frequent return of rhyme, and limited to acertain number of lines, imposes no smalldifficulty on the poet.104 LITERARY NO. VI.Among the Ancients nothing makes so nearan approach to the Sonnet, as the GreekEpigram; the simplicity, sweetness and perspicuity ofthese compositions, which are generallyoccupied in illustrating a single idea, want littlebut the metrical arrangement and restriction ofthe Italians, to form the legitimate sonnet.The praise of a picture, a statue, or a poem,will be found in the Anthologia to be a commonsubject of these exquisite pieces, which, inmany instances, display so much beauty ofsentiment, and such a delicious vein of expression, that with all who possess great delicacy oftaste, they must ever be favourites. Yet fewtouches of the picturesque, or of what has beentermed still-life painting, so common in theeffusions of the modern writer of sonnets, arediscoverable in the Greek Epigram . Thereare, however, two short greek poems that, inthis respect, have infinite merit, namely, thefifth and seventh Idyllia of Moschus, which, aswell in sentiment, as in description, may bedeemed indeed unrivalled; they are, in fact,merum nectar.§There is a beautiful imitation of the seventh Idyllium of Moschusin Dodsley's Collection, in an Ode to Cynthia, by Miss FNO. VI. HOURS. 105Dante, though not the inventor* ofthe sonnet,was the first illustrious Italian who succeededin the composition of it. The same severeand sublime spirit which pervades his wonderful production, the Comedia, may be perceivedin these smaller poems, though a few, writtenin early life, sparkle with pleasure, and youthful gaiety. Astriking similitude exists betweenthis great poet and our immortal Milton, whosesonnets partake much more of the genius ofDante than of Petrarch. Both were fond ofthe gloomy and the terrible, both were judgesand lovers of music, both were deeply immersed in the politics of their times, and bothfelt the vengeance of irritated faction. ThatMilton was familiar with the writings of hisgreat Predecessor the following beautiful passage in his Epistles will fully evince. "Egocertè istis utrisque linguis non extremis tantummodò labris madidus; sed siquis alius, quantumper annos licuit , poculis majoribus prolutus,possum tamen nonnunquam ad illum Dantem,et Petrarcham, aliosque vestros complusculos,libenter et cupidè comessatum ire. Nec me

• Guitone d' Arezzo , who flourished about the year 1250, first used

the peculiar measure ofthe sonnet.P106 LITERARY NO. VI.tam ipsæ Athenæ Atticæ cum illo suo pellucidoIlisso, nec ilia vetus Roma suâ Tiberis ripâretinere valuerunt, quin sæpe Arnum vestrum ,et Fæ ulanos illos Colles invisere amem. "+The sonnets of Milton, like those of Dante,are frequently deficient in sweetness of dictionand harmony of versification , yet they possess,what seldom is discernable in compositions ofthis kind, energy and sublimity of sentiment.The sonnets to Cyriac Skinner, to Fairfax,Cromwell and Vane, are remarkable for thesequalities, and for vigour of expression, whilstthose addressed to the Nightingale and to Mr.Laurence, can boast, I may venture to assert,both of melody in language and elegance inthought. It should also be observed thatMilton has altogether avoided the quaint andmetaphysic concetti of Petrarch.The sonnets of this far-famed Italian havemet with more applause perhaps than theydeserve. Simplicity, that first of all graces incomposition, he has usually violated , and considering the multitude of his productions in+ Epist. viii.NO. VI. HOURS. 107this species of poetry, it is astonishing how fewcan be selected which have any just claim tonovelty of illustration, or variety in idea.Were twenty culled by the hand of Taste, theresidue would have little, except purity andgrace of style, to recommend it. In these,however, Petrarch is a model.One of the best and earliest attempts in Eng.land to naturalize the sonnet, is to be found inthe pages ofthe gallant Surrey, whose compositions in this department, making due allowancefor the imperfect state of the language in whichhe wrote, have a simplicity and chastity intheir style and thought which merit everyencomium. Our romantic Spenser, likewise,has endeavoured to transfuse the ease andamenity of the Petrarchian stanza. It isscarcely necessary to say that he has completely failed. In his long series of sonnets,the critic will recognise many of the triflingconceits ofthe Italian, but find little to recompense the trouble of research.These Opuscula of the gentle poet of theFairy Queen are, however, far superior to theattempts of the mighty Father of the English108 LITERARY NO. VI.Drama. The sonnets of Shakspeare are buriedbeneath a load of obscurity and quaintness;nor does there issue a single ray of light toquicken, or to warm the heavy mass, Mr. Malone has once more given them to the press,but his last Editor has, I think, acted withgreater judgment in forbearing to obtrude suchcrude efforts upon the public eye; for whereis the utility ofpropagating compositions whichno one can endure to read.The Author of our motto, the patrioticLorenzo De Medici, has lately, through thesplendid eloquence and well-directed exertionsof Mr. Roscoe, attracted much of the attentionof the Literary world. His poetry, hithertolittle noticed, either in his own, or other countries, has now been brought forward withmerited applause; and numerous pieces, unknown even to the Literati of Italy, have, forthe first time, been published in the elegantvolumes of our countryman. Lorenzo hasadmirably exemplified the truth of his owndefinition, by writing a number of beautifulsonnets in accordance to its precepts . If hislanguage be not so pure as that of Petrarch,his sentiments are more natural, and his descrip-NO. VI. HOURS.109tions more spirited, and more faithfully drawn."If, " remarks his ingenious Biographer, "theproductions of Dante resemble the austeregrandeur of Michael Angelo, or, if those ofPetrarca remind us ofthe ease and gracefulnessof Raffaello, the works of Lorenzo may becompared to the less correct, but more animated and splendid labours of the Venetianschool."Camöens, the Homer of Portugal, condescended to the production of a vast numberof these elegant morsels. Mr. Hayley hasfavoured the public with a translation of threewhich certainly possess considerable merit.This small specimen, however, being the onlyone I have seen of the minor poems of thisaccomplished Bard, and which are so numerousas to occupy, along with the Commentary ofManuel di Faria, two volumes in folio, I shallonly add that Hayley, when applauding the epicpowers of the portuguese poet, has regrettedthat our country is still a stranger to the lightergraces and pathetic sweetness of his shortercompositions.

• Life of Lorenzo de Medici the Magnificent.

110 LITERARY NO. VI.辱Among the Spaniards numerous have beenthe cultivators of Sonnet-Writing, and severalof their poets have attained great excellence inthe composition of these beautiful and oftenspirited little pieces. That prolific versifierLope de Vega, has written some hundred,though few are entitled to much celebrity.An elder bard, Garcilaso de la Vega, has aclaim to superior notice, several of his sonnetsbeing truly elegant and interesting; but noneof the spanish poets, in this province of themuse, rival the efforts of Lupercio Leonardode Argensola and his brother Bartolome.These very amiable relations lived in the sixteenth century, and their productions, thoughincorrect and inartificial in design, possess manya pleasing, many a brilliant and pathetic passage.Some of their sonnets have been well translatedin a valuable monthly publication. * Two, byLupercio, beautiful for their reflection andsentiment, can require no apology for theirintroduction into this essay.By a gentleman in the Monthly Magazine, whose signature is T. Y.and to whom I am indebted for the motto to my second volume, astranslated fromthe spanish of Francisco de Rioje.NO. VI. HOURS. 111IThe sun has chas'd away the early shower,And now upon the mountain's clearer height,Pours o'er the clouds, aslant, his growing light.The husbandman, loathing the idle hour,Starts from his rest, and to his daily toil,Light-hearted man, goes forth; and patient nowAs the slow ox drags on the heavy plough,With the young harvest fills the reeking soil.Domestic love his due return awaits ,With the clean board bespread with country cates;And clust'ring round his knee his children press;His days are pleasant, and his nights secure.Oh, cities! haunts of power and wretchedness.Who would your busy vanities endure.II.Content with what I am, the sounding namesOf glory tempt not me; nor is there oughtIn glittering grandeur that provokes one wishBeyond my peaceful state .What tho' I boastNo trapping that the multitude adoresIn common with the great; enough for meThat naked, like the mighty of the earth,I came into the world, and that like themI must descend into the grave, the houseFor all appointed; for the space between,What more of happiness have I to seekThan that dear woman's love, whose truth I know,And whose fond heart is satisfied with me?112 LITERARY NO. VI.The first among the poets of Great Britain.who attained to excellence in the formation ofthe sonnet was Drummond of Hawthornden;and it may, without hazard of contradiction ,be asserted, that many of his pieces equal, ifnot excel, the more celebrated effusions of theItalian school. "If any poems," observesMr. Pinkerton, "possess a very high degree ofthat exquisite doric delicacy which we so muchadmire in Comus, &c. those of Drummond do.Milton may often be traced in him; and he hadcertainly read and admired him. And if wehad no Drummond, perhaps we should neverhave seen the delicacies of Comus, Lycidas,Il Penseroso, L'Allegro. "* To the charms ofsimplicity in these little poems is frequentlyadded that attractive tenderness in sentimentand expression which usually accompanies theman of genius, and which was in Drummond,from early disappointment in love, cherishedwith more than common enthusiasm .Various have been the efforts since the timeof Drummond to excel in these nugæ dificiles,as they have been termed; Milton we have

• Ancient Scotish Poems, vol. i. p. 123.

NO. VI. MOURS. 113already noticed. After his death a long chasmintervened in this department of poetry, butwithin the last forty years numerous cultivatorsof sonnet writing have sprung up. Amongthese we may mention with peculiar distinction ,Charlotte Smith and Mr. Bowles.As the singular arrangement, and frequentreturn of rhyme in the Italian sonnet, suit notwell the genius of english poetry, the twoauthors last mentioned have in general, dismissed such restrictions, still, however, confining themselves to the number of fourteenlines, but assuming the elegiac measure. Theyhave, on this plan, acquired for the sonnetgreater sweetness and harmony of versification,and, as their subjects are usually of the plaintive kind, the tender tones of the elegy havehappily been chosen, In unaffected eleganceof style, and in that pleasing melancholy whichirresistably steals upon and captivates the heart,they have excelled all other writers of the sonnet, and have shewn how erroneous are theopinions of those who deem this species ofg114 LITERARY NO. VI.composition beneath the attention of genius. *The four sonnets which are appended tothese observations, are merely introduced herein pursuance of the plan chalked out in thepreface, and with no presumptuous idea oftheirchallenging a comparison with the definitionof Lorenzo.A

• Since these pages were given to the world Miss Seward has presented the public with a large and valuable collection of sonnets.

great majority ofthese is composed after the Italian model, and this ladyhas certainly, in many instances, overcome the difficulties hitherto supposed inseparable from an imitation, in our language, of the peculiarlaws of this poem. Several of her sonnets are entitled to the appellations of sublime, pathetic and pictoresque, and few are deficient, eitherin choice ofdiction, or harmony of versification.NO. VI. HOURS. 115SONNET I.to a friend.Ah, cease to grieve! what tho' thy lowly homeBoast not the storied hall, or roof highwrought,What tho' no parian column richly fraught,Rear her bold head beneath the swellingdome,This be thy lot—hard by yon aged oak,Nigh the green valley and the murm'ring rill ,Where the cliff beetles and where towers thehill,Where the wood darkens—shall thy cottagesmoke;There, fir'd to rapture, shalt thou fold the fair,Shalt drink the breathings of her secret sigh,As flung on ether floats her golden hair,And wildly wanton rolls her azure eye:Ay, and thy hours ofbliss shall friendship share,Nor shall the Muse thy modest mansion fly.116 LITERARY NO. VI.SONNET II.TO THE MEMORY OF A FRIEND.What scenes of sorrow wake the soul to pain,What floods of anguish cloud the sick'ningeye!O Sons of Pity! pour the melting strain ,O Sons of Pity! heave the plaintive sigh!For cold is he, the youth of graceful frame,Whose deed of mercy spoke the feelingmind,To whose warm breast were friendship's hallow'd flame,The Bard's wild fancy and his fire assign'd:Say, gentle Spirit! whither art thou fled,To what pale region of the silent dead?Yet why inquire? where some sweet seasonblows,Sure Grief shall smile, and Friendship breatheher vows,Despair grow mild, Distraction cease to rave,And Love once more shall clasp the form hegave.NO. VI. HOURS. 117SONNET III.TO A LADY WITH MUSIC.Yes, I have heard thee wake the trembling note,Yes, I have heard thee pour the melting lay,Warm as at eve along the vales remote,The strains of fancy on the ear decay;But tho' thy voice, with magic power replete,Thy thrilling voice can call the gushing tear,Yet is the cadence of thy soul more sweet,Yet is the concord of thy life more dear:O Lady! if to sooth the throbbing pain ,To still the tumult of this anxious mind,Some gentle Maid, in tender pity, deignMy wounds of sorrow and of care to bind,Oh be she blest, and I will ne'er repine,As thou art blest, her form and temper thine.118 LITERARY NO. VI.SONNET IV.TO A FRIEND RETIRING TO FRANCE IN 1790.Go, gentle youth, to Gallia's patriot* shore,Go, drink the spirit of her balmy sky,Ah! ' twill be long alas! ere thou once moreShalt sooth my sorrows with the minglingsigh;Yet go—and with thee bear this parting strainWhilst down my cheek warm flows the silentdew,Be all that friendship's melting soul can feign," And all thy virtue dictates dare to do; "And now farewell! —in what wild distant clime,In what lone waste I draw the vital breath,Be thou belov'd! and when at length hoar timeShall plunge my spirit in the sleep of death,Say, where the long grass trembles o'er thypoet's head,Say, wilt thou drop the tear by sorrowingfriendship led?This epithet has, unfortunately, since the year 1790, becometotally inapplicable. The friends of legal liberty were, at that period,high in expectation of seeing France the seat of constitutional freedom:she has now, dreadful reverse given birth to a Government whosedespotism and ambition know no bounds, and which seems destined tocarry terror and desolation through the civilized world.May, 1798.NUMBER VII.Many an UrnThere too had place, with votive lay inscrib'dTo Freedom, Friendship , Solitude, or Love.Mason.To commemorate a deceased, or absent friend,to express the sensations and moral effectarising from the contemplation of beautifulscenery, to perpetuate the remembrance ofsome remarkable event, or inscribe the templeand the statue with appropriate address, appearto be the chief purposes of the Inscription.It is evident that no species of composition,when well written, can better answer the wishesof the friends to virtue and to goodness thanthis, and almost every polished nation , therefore, has made use of it to impress the feelingmind, and to excite it to emulation . Amongthe Greeks it was cultivated with success, and120 LITERARY MO. VII.Thethe Anthologia abounds in pieces of this kindwritten with the most elegant simplicity.grecian epigram, indeed, ( as the word imports)merely implies an inscription, and is of anature altogether different from the Epigramof Martial, or of modern days. No point, orsparkling wit was deemed essential, but a felicitous choice of words, a suavity of style, anda pathetic flow of sentiment were indispensible,and combined to form some of the happiestproductions of antiquity. Several of ourEnglish Poets, likewise, have exercised theirtalents in Inscriptive Writing, and many ofthe seats of our Nobility, and Gentry areembellished with the characteristic effusions oftheir genius; the Leasows and Hagley Parkmay be mentioned as well-known instances oftaste, and beautiful effect in the use of thisornament.It will not be an employment altogethervoid of interest, perhaps, to trace, and give afew specimens of these elegant compositions,which are calculated to awaken the purestaffections, to call forth the tear of friendship orof love, to rouse the patriot feelings, and tosoften and ameliorate the heart by giving aNO. VII. HOURS. 121moral charm to the features of cultivatednature. Nothing, however, requires moretaste, more discrimination of character, circ*mstance and place, than the attempt to decoratein this manner. Should the inscription be illchosen, or the scene ill-adapted to the impression meant to be conveyed, contempt, or disgust will infallibly follow, and the disappointedcontriver become an object of ridicule. Themost delicate and correct feelings, therefore,and a taste for picturesque beauty must everguide the experiment.The ostentatious display of sorrow is alwaysoffensive; in the scene, therefore, sacred todeparted genius, or friendship, the utmost simplicity should reign; sequestered and free frominterruption, nothing should appear to attractthe steps of the stranger, nothing that, by exciting his curiosity, may lead him to intrude.Should it be, for a moment, perceived that, byornament and singularity, care has been takento lead the wanderer to the spot, all the charmarising from the accidental discovery of a placeso hallowed in the estimation of the possessor,is, at once, precluded, and his vanity, not hissorrow becomes apparent. The inscriptionR122 LITERARY NO. VII.itself, likewise, should breathe the very spiritof tender melancholy, and by exquisite touchesof nature, elicit even the tear of the casualobserver. The following little piece by Leonidas of Tarentum, a mother deploring the lossof her son, is in the best style of the greekepigram, and imbued with its peculiar felicityof sentiment. We will suppose it inscribedupon an urn containing the ashes ofthe belovedyouth.Ah! dear hapless boy, art thou gone?Sole support of my languishing years!Hast thou left thy fond mother aloneTo wear out life's evening in tears?To forsake me thus old and forlorn,Ere thy youth had attain'd its gay bloom?Thy sun was scarce risen at morn,When it set in the night of the tomb.Alas! the fresh beam of the dayHappy mortals with thankfulness see;But I sicken, O Sun! at thy ray:It brings sadness and wailing to me!Oh! might the dear child but return,From despair his lost mother to save!Or might I but share in his urn!Might I flee in his arms to the grave.WAKEFIELD.NO. VII.123 HOURS.From our own store in this class I shall selectone of singular beauty, written by Shenstone ,and without doubt, the most equisite production of his genius. Nothing can exceed thetender sentiment which closes it. That fulljustice may be done to these pathetic lines, thescenery surrounding them should be described."The path begins gradually to ascend beneatha depth of shade, by the side of which is a smallbubbling rill, either forming little peninsulas,rolling over pebbles, or falling down smallcascades, all under cover, and taught to murmur very agreeably. This very soft andpensive scene is terminated with an ornamentedurn, inscribed to Miss Dolman, a beautiful andamiable relation of Mr. Shenstone's, who diedof the small-pox about twenty-one years ofa*ge.* On one side are the following words:Peramabili Suæ ConsobrinæM. D.On the other sideAh MariaPuellarum Elegantissima,Dodsley's Account ofthe Leasows.124 LITERARY NO. VII.1Ah Flore Venustatis Abrepta,Vale!Heu Quanto Minus EstCum Reliquis Versari,Quam TuiMeminisse!It is no uncommon circ*mstance to meetwith inscriptions placed amid the most beautiful scenery; if these are merely of the descriptive kind, nothing can well be more impertinent;or, should they suggest only trite moral, orcommon place sentiment, they will equallyoffend. The attempt to describe when thefeatures of nature are before you, is, in general,absurd, and he who wishes to delight by moralinsinuation must proceed with the utmost deli .cacy and caution; the thought should be natural, yet not obvious, immediately drawn fromthe scene, but of a kind that would not occur,probably, to one person in a hundred, yet themoment of perusal brings with it the convic.tion of its being the very dictate of nature,and, at the same time, no small surprize that ithad not previously occurred.In the landscape where all is of a characterNO. VII. HOURS. 125joyous and gay, to introduce a pensive train ofthought forms a most pleasing contrast; thepoet and the painter have alike availed themselves of the idea, and the pathetic inscriptionhas here an effect that appeals powerfully tothe heart. The most beautiful odes of Horaceowe their charm to this very circ*mstance, andthe poet never interests our feelings so muchas when amid the luxuriant colouring of springhe hints at the shortness of life, and the fleeting nature of our pleasures. In the fourthode of the first book, after describing thebeauties of the vernal season and the sprightlyrevels of the Graces and the Nymphs, heexclaimsO beate Sexti.Vitæ summa brevis spem nos vetat inchoare longam.Jam te premet nox, fabulæque Manes,Et domus exilis Plutonia: quò simul meâris,Nec regna vini sortiere talis ,Nec tenerum Lycidam mirabere, quo calet juventusNunc omnis, et mox virgìnes tepebunt.Again, after painting in vivid hues the returnof spring and the vicissitudes of the seasons, hepours forth the following pathetic complaint:126 LITERARY NO. VII.Damna tamen celeres reparant cœlestia Lunæ:Nos ubi decidimusQuò pius Æneas, quò Tullus dives, et Ancus;Pulvis et umbra sumus.Quis scit an adjiciant hodiernæ crastina summæTempora Dii superi?Cùm semel occideris, et de te splendida MinosFecerit arbitria;Non, Torquate, genus, non te facundia, non teRestituet pietas.Lib. iv. Od. 7.And here I cannot avoid quoting a few linesfrom the Abbe De Lille as given by his elegantTranslator; they breathe the very spirit oftheplaintive Moschus. The Abbe having in vainattempted the preservation of some venerabletrees, for whose existence he thus sweetlypleads:Oh! by those shades, beneath whose evening bowr's,The village dancers tripp'd the frolic hours;Bythose deep tufts, that shroud your fathers' tombs,Spare, ye profane, their venerable glooms!subjoins the annexed appostrophe:Ye saplins rise, and crowd the empty space,Ye dying trees forgive your dire disgrace!NO. VIL HOURS. 127The fate of short- liv'd, hapless man recal,For you have seen the brave, the learned fall;Corneille, Turenne, now sleep in dust; on youA hundred springs have shed their balmy dew;But man's best days , alas! are soonest fled,And those once gone, to ev'ry joy he's dead!Blest is the man whose trees for years have stood:More blest whose happier hands create a wood.He cries with Cyrus, as their shades disclose ,4.6 'Twas I , who planted all those stately rows."The GARDEN." LeThere cannot be a better example of thehappy effect of introducing amid gay and luxuriant landscape a pensive idea than the celebrated Arcadia of Poussin. The Abbe DuBos has been so peculiarly fortunate in describing this beautiful picture, that I shall makeno apology for transcribing his words.tableau représente le paysage d'une contréeriante. Au milieu l'on voit le monumentd'une jeune fille morte à la fleur de son âge:c'est ce qu'on connoît par la statue de cettefille conchée sur le tombeau, à la maniere desanciens. L'inscription sépulcrale n'est quede quatre mots Latins; Je vivois cependanten Arcadie, Et in Arcadia ego. Mais cette128 LITERARY NO. VII.inscription si courte fait faire les plus sérieusesréflections à deux jeunes garçons et à deuxjeunes filles parées de guirlandes de fleurs, etqui paroissent avoir rencontré ce monument sitriste en des lieux où l'on devine bien qu'ils necherchoient pas un objet affligeant. Un d'entreeux fait remarquer aux autres cette inscriptionen la montrant du doigt, et l'on ne voit plussur leurs visages, à travers l'affliction qui s'enempare que les restes d'une joie expirante. Ons'imagine entendre les réflections de ces jeunespersonnes sur la mort qui n'epargne ni l'age, nila beauté, et contre laquelle les plus heureuxclimats n'ont point d'azile. On se figure cequ'elles vont se dire de touchant, lorsqu'ellesseront revenues de la premiere surprise, et l'onl'applique à soi-même et à ceux à qui l'ons'intéresse. * "It is evident that in the moral inference tobe drawn from surrounding scenery, the handof a master is required, and that the poetshould not attempt to say every thing that theview suggests, but rather lead the mind of the

• Réflexions critiques sur la Poësie et sur la

Peinture, Section 6. 55.NO. VII. HOURS. 129Spectator to a train of association which, at thetime, appears to be the offspring of his ownintellect, yet what would not have been conceived without the original hint arising fromthe inscription.The little piece I am about to quote seemsto me a model for this species of inscriptivewriting; in delineation beautiful, in moralexquisite.for a tablet on the banks of a stream.Stranger! awhile upon this mossy bankRecline thee. If the sun ride high, the breeze,That loves to ripple o'er the rivulet,Will play around thy brow, and the cool soundOfrunning waters sooth thee. Mark how clearIt sparkles o'er the shallows, and beholdWhere o'er its surface wheels with restless speedYon glossy insect, on the sand belowHow the swift shadow flies. The stream is pureIn solitude, and many a healthful herbBends o'er its course and drinks the vital wave:But passing on amid the haunts of man,It finds pollution there, and rolls from thenceAtainted tide. Seek'st thou for Happiness?Go Stranger, sojourn in the woodland cotOf Innocence, and thou shalt find her there.SSOUTHEY.130 LITERARY NO. VIKMany national advantages might be derivedfrom the custom of erecting inscriptions toperpetuate the memory of any remarkableevent, or deed. Were the efforts of the patriotthus cherished, the exertions of tyranny, crueltyand oppression, thus held up to detestationand infamy; were the spot on which anymemorable struggle for the welfare, or libertyof mankind had occurred, thus gratefully consecrated; were the birth- place, or formerresidence of departed genius, the scene ofrenovated art or science, thus duly recorded,fresh motives to excel in all that is laudable,powerful incentives to virtue, to patriotism, tointellectual perfection, would be acquired, andthe national character, perhaps, amelioratedthrough the medium of emulation.The rustic and civic inscriptions of Akensideare well known, and possess considerablemerit; his language is nervous, impressive andchaste. Mr. Southey, however, seems to haverivalled him in these respects, while he evidentlysurpasses him in pathos. From his Letters onSpain and Portugal I have selected an Inscription for the Birth-place of Pizarro; in myopinion an excellent specimen of what, amongNO. VII. HOURS 131 .other moral purposes, pieces of this class.should effect—the reprehension of cruelty andinordinate ambition.inscription for a column at truxillo.Pizarro here was born: a greater nameThe list of Glory boasts not. Toil and WantAnd Danger never from his course deteredThis daring soldier; many a fight he won.He slaughter'd thousands, he subdued a richAnd ample realm; such were Pizarro's deedsAnd Wealth, and Power, and Fame were his rewardsAmong mankind. There is another World.Oh Reader! if you earn your daily breadBy daily labour, if your lot be low,Be hard and wretched, thank the gracious GodWho made you, that you are not such as he.When the ruins of the gothic castle andAbbey are so situated as to be drawn withinthe range of the pictoresque improver, nothingcan more happily accord with the wishes oftaste, and the genius ofthe surrounding scenery;they are appropriate to the soil, and suggestthe most interesting retrospect of the religion,manners, and customs of our ancestors; but asthese beautiful remains of antiquity can only132 LITERARY NO. VII.be the lot of a fortunate few, and the attemptto imitate them is always difficult, and seldom ,if ever, successful, the grecian temple, of anorder adapted to the scene, has been the usualdecoration of embellished ground. Ornaments of this kind, when under the controul ofjudgement, and not too profusely scattered,have a pleasing effect, and though not productive of reflections so national as the gothic styleof architecture, yet to the elegant and cultivated mind recal the earliest and most fascinating associations. Within these beautiful andairy structures inscriptions are generally found,dedicatory of the fabric, and not seldomreplete with every poetic excellence. Manyspecimens might be selected , either original,or happily chosen from ancient, or modernliterature; but none can, perhaps, exceed thefollowing admirable lines, translated by Mr.Bryant from the Hippolytus of Euripides:they are inscribed in an elegant Ionic templein Blenheim gardens, supposed to be dedicatedto Diana.1To thee, bright Goddess, these fair flowers I bring,A chaplet woven from th' untainted mead,Thy cool sequester'd haunt: where never yetNO. VII. HOURS. 133Shepherd approach'd, where the rude hind ne'erheav'dTh' unhallow'd axe; nor voice, nor sound is heard,Save the low murmuring of the vernal bee:The day- spring from above the dew distillsGenuine and mild, from the pure stream exhal'dOn ev'ry fragrant herb and fav'rite flower.To him who secedes exhausted from thebusy world, from the tumultuous cares andanxiety of public life, the most secret retirement charms in proportion to the force ofcontrast, and the rustic shed, or the streamwash'd hermitage have, for a season, irresistable attractions. The rocky glen, or deepsecluded valley, clothed with wood, andwatered by the freshening rill , then soothe topeace the wearied spirit, disperse each angryand injurious thought, and melt the heart toall the tender offices of humanity. In situations such as these, the lover of sequesterednature has delighted to conceive the piousanchorite had formerly dwelt, and cherishinga thought which opens new sources of reflection, and throws a more aweful tint upon thescene, he builds the rude dwelling of his fanciedhermit, and gives almost the features of reality.Many such scenes, the offspring of a romantic134 LITERARY NO. VII.imagination improving on the wild sketches ofnature, are scattered through our island, andheightened by inscriptions more or less adaptedto the occasion. One of these, valuable forits sweetness of style, but still more so for itsmoral imagery, may with propriety be adducedhere as an example.INSCRIPTION FOR AN HERMITAGE BELONGING TO SIR ROBERT BURDETT.O thou, who to this wild retreatShalt lead by choice thy pilgrim feetTo trace the dark wood waving o'erThis rocky cell and sainted floor;If here thou bring a gentle mindThat shuns by fits, yet loves mankind,That leaves the schools, and in this woodLearns the best science to be good,Then soft as on the deeps belowYon oaks their silent umbrage throw,Peace, to thy prayers by virtue brought,Pilgrim, shall bless thy hallow'd thought.Bagshaw Steevens.Anxious to preserve the memory of departedfriendship, or genius, Affection and Gratitudehave endeavoured to effectuate their wishesthrough the medium of sculpture, and theNO. VII. HOURS. 135·bust, the medallion, or the statue, claim ournotice, and give an interesting character to thescenery in which they are placed. Some ofthe mythological figures of Greece and Rome,and some personifications of the virtues andpassions, have also been adopted, but requiremuch judgement in the choice of scene, andmuch attention to classical minutiæ to producetheir due effect. Beneath sculpture of thiskind, inscriptions are common, though seldomattaining the end proposed. A curious felicityof expression, terse and pointed, brevity andoriginality of conception, should unite, requisites not easily obtained, though assiduouslysought for. Several excellent productions inthis class may be found in the Anthologia, intended for either pictures or statues; thatbeautiful one commencing Eλxε ταλαν, andwhich I have selected for the motto of one ofthese sketches, is beyond all praise. The following lines written by our late worthy poetlaureat, are in the true spirit of the greekepigram, and were meant to be placed beneatha statue of Somnus in the garden of the latelearned Mr. Harris of Salisbury. The translation, which does great justice to the original,is from the pen of the celebrated Peter Pindar,136 LITERARY NO. VII.and was produced, asserts Mr. Polwhele, in afew minutes.ad somnum.Somne levis , quamquam certissima mortis imago,Consortem cupio te, tamen, esse tori:Alma quies, optata veni; nam, sic, sine vitâVivere, quam suave est; sic , sine morte, mori. *to sleep.Come, gentle sleep, attend thy votary's prayer,And, tho' death's image, to my couch repair!How sweet, thus lifeless , yet with life to lie,Thus, without dying, O how sweet to die!•WOLCOT.This cursory view of the Inscription, andits various classes, will not, I flatter myself,prove unentertaining to the reader: the quotations are, certainly, of the most exquisitebeauty, and will tend, I hope, to support myassertion, that the cultivation of this species ofpoetry may produce the most pleasing, andeven the most salutary and beneficial effects.I have seen a copy in which the first and third lines are given thus:,Somne veni, et quamquam certissima mortis imago es—Huc ades, haud abiture cito: nam &c.´NUMBER VIII.There would he dream of graves, and corses pale;And ghosts, that to the charnel- dungeon throng,And drag a length of clanking chain, and wail,Till silenc'd by the owl's terrific song,Or blasts that shriek by fits the shuddering isles •along.-Anon in view a portal's blazon'd archArose; the trumpet bids the valves unfold;And forth an host of little warriors march,Grasping the diamond lance, and targe of gold:Their look was gentle, their demeanour bold,And green their helms, and green their silk attire;And here and there, right venerably old,The long rob'd minstrels wake the warbling wire,And some with mellow breath. the martial pipeinspire.Beattie.Of the various kinds of superstition whichhave in any age influenced the human mind,none appear to have operated with so mucheffect as what has been termed the Gothic.T138 LITERARY NO. VILI.Even in the present polished period of society,there are thousands who are yet alive to all thehorrors of witchcraft, to all the solemn andterrible graces of the appalling spectre. Themost enlightened mind, the mind free from alltaint of superstition , involuntarily acknowledges the power of gothic agency; and thelate favourable reception which two or threepublications in this style have met with, is aconvincing proof of the assertion . The enchanted forest of Tasso, the spectre of Camöens, and the apparitions of Shakspeare, are tothis day highly pleasing, striking, and sublimefeatures in these delightful compositions.And although this kind of superstition beable to arrest every faculty of the human mind,and to shake, as it were, all nature with horror,yet does it also delight in the most sportiveand elegant imagery. The traditionary talesof elves and fairies still convey to a warmimagination an inexhausted source of invention, supplying all those wild, romantic, andvaried ideas with which a wayward fancy lovesto sport. The Provençal bards, and theneglected Chaucer and Spenser, are the originals from whence this exquisite species ofNO. VITI. HOURS. 139fabling has been drawn, improved, and appliedwith so muchinventive elegance by Shakspeare.The flower and the leaf of Chaucer is repletewith the most luxuriant description of thesepræternatural beings.The vulgar gothic therefore, an epithet hereadopted to distinguish it from the regularmythology of the Edda, turns chiefly on theawful ministration of the Spectre, or the innocent gambols of the Fairy, the former, perhaps,partly derived from Platonic Christianity, thelatter from the fictions ofthe East, as importedinto Europe during the period of the Crusades;but whatever be its derivation, it is certainly amode of superstition so assimilated with theuniversal apprehension of superior agency, thatfew minds have been altogether able to shakeit off.Even to Philosophy admitting of thedoctrine of immaterialism, it becomes no easytask consistently to deny the possibility ofsuchan interference. Whilst it therefore gives considerable latitude to the imagination, it seemsto possess more rationality than almost anyother species of fabling; for confined by noadherence to any regular mythological system,but depending merely upon the possible, andX140 LITERARY NO. VIII.Xto some highly probable, visitation of immaterial agents, it has even in the present metaphysical period still retained such a degree ofcredit as yet to render it an important andimpressive machine beneath the guidance ofgenuine poesy . Ifto those who have paid themost subtile attention to the existence andrelative action of matter and spirit , it becomesa subject of doubt to deny the visible operationof spirit, surely in the bosom of the million itmust still preserve some portion of influence,and as, if such an agency exist, its laws anddirection must be to us altogether unknown, itfurnishes, if not the probable, at least the possible, at all times a sufficient basis, for the airystructure of the poet.It is remote from every wish of the Authorto encourage any superstition that may renderhis fellow creatures alive to unnecessary andpuerile terror, but allowing the existence andoccasionally the visible exertion of spirit uponmatter, with the wise and with the good nopainful emotion can arise, and if one morepang be added to the struggles of consciousguilt, the world, he should imagine, would beno sufferer; but it is here only as furnishingNO. VIII. HOURS. 141fit materials for poetical composition that awish for preserving such a source of imagery isexpressed. When well conducted, a gratefulastonishment, a welcome sensation of fear, willalike creep through the bosom of the Sage andof the Savage, and it is, perhaps, to the introduction of such well-imagined agency, or whennot introduced upon the scene, to a very frequent allusion to it, that Shakspeare, beyondany other poet, owes the capability of raisingthe most awful, yet the most delightful speciesof terror. No poet, adopting a machinery ofa similar kind, has wielded it with equal effect.Among the Italians it is too frequently addressed solely to the imagination, Ariosto ingeneral, and Tasso sometimes, descending toall the extravaganza of oriental fiction; conducted, as by Shakspeare, it powerfully movesthe strongest passions of the heart.Next to the Gothic in point of sublimityand imagination comes the Celtic, which, ifthe superstition of the Lowlands be esteemeda part of it, may with equal propriety, bedivided into the terrible and the sportive; theformer, as displayed in the poems of Ossian;the latter, in the songs and ballads ofthe Low142 LITERARY NO. VIII.Country. This superstition, like the gothic,has the same happy facility of blending its ideaswith the common apprehensions of mankind;it does not, like most mythological systems,involve every species of absurdity, but, floating loose upon the mind, founds its imageryupon a metaphysical possibility, upon theappearance of superior, or departed beings.Ossian has, however, opened a new field forinvention, he has given fresh colouring to hissupernatural agents, he has given them employments new to gothic fiction: his ghosts are notthe ghosts of Shakspeare, yet are they equallysolemn and striking. The abrupt and rapidfervour of imagination, the vivid touches ofenthusiasm, mark his composition, and hisspectres rush upon the with all the stupendous vigour of wild and momentary creation.So deep and uniform a melancholy pervadesthe poetry of this author, that, whether fromnatural disposition, or the pressure of misfortune, from the face of the country which heinhabited, or the insulated state of society, heseems ever to have avoided imagery of a lightand airy kind; otherwise, from the originalityof his genius, much in this way might havebeen expected. As to the superstition of theeyeNO. VIII. HOURS. 148Lowlands, it differs so little from the lightergothic, that I am not warranted in drawing anydistinction between them. It is not, however,peculiar to this district of Scotland, the Highlanders in many parts, especially in their beautiful little vales, being still enthusiastic in theirbelief of it.And here may I be pardoned if I offer afew strictures upon theOssian has assumed.pathos and sublime imagery of this Bard ofother times, I cannot but regret the style inwhich Mr. Macpherson has chosen to clothehim. A stiffness the most rigid, a monotonythe most tedious, are its general characteristics ,and were it not for the very powerful appealsto the heart and imagination few readers wouldbe tempted to a second perusal. That Dr.Blair, however, a Critic of acknowledged tasteand judgement, that he should approve of thismode ofcomposition, nay, should prefer it toany species of versification, is, to me, still moreextraordinary; nor can I any way account forsuch a remarkable, and as I should hopealmost insulated, opinion, for in other instances,the perfect judge of melody and rhythm indress which the BritishGreatly as I admire the144 LITERARY NO. VIFI.english poetry, is apparent. How had the pathos and sublimity of Ossian been heightened,how mingled with every variety of harmonyand rhythmical cadence, had the versificationof Cowper and Milton been adopted. Mr.Macpherson has termed his translation a literalone, but if really built upon oral tradition,upon a species of legendary poesy sang andset to music in a manner calculated to assistthe memory, how monstrously must it havedeviated from the originals; had it been hiswish to have given us a faithful copy of theseinteresting fictions, the ballad stanza would,perhaps have afforded the choicest vehicle,but if ambitious of founding a structure of hisown on these tales, the boundless variety ofblank verse would surely have done morejustice to his conceptions; they certainly merita better style, and when this desideratum isobtained I shall not hesitate in placing Ossian(whether of ancient or modern production isto me perfectly indifferent) on the same shelfwith Homer, Shakspeare, and Milton.—— But to return. These are then (the vulgargothic and the Celtic) the only two species ofsuperstition which are still likely to retain theirNO. VIII. HOURS. 145ground; founded chiefly on the casual interference of immaterial beings, and thereforeeasily combining with the common feelings ofhumanity, they may yet with propriety docorate the pages of the poet, when the full-formedsystem of mythology, will be rejected , as involving too much fiction. Some attempts,however, have been lately made to revive theScandinavian or Islandic mythology, and thesublime effusions of Gray and Sayers havethrown a magic lustre round the daring creations of the Edda. That they will ever becomepopular must, I should imagine, be a matter ofconsiderable doubt, but these authors havewritten for the few, for the lovers of genuinepoetry, and with their suffrage they will certainly be contented.It has been however too much the fashionamong critical writers to condemn the introduction of any kind of supernatural agencyalthough perfectly consonant with the common Xfeelings of mankind; and the simple, yet powerful superstitions recommended to the poet inthis paper, seem to bid fair for sharing the fateof more complex systems: but whilst they arethus formed to influence the people, to surU146 LITERARY NO. VIII.prise, elevate, and delight, with a willing admiration, every faculty of the human mind, howshall criticism with impunity dare to expungethem? Genius has ever had a predilection forsuch imagery, and I may venture, I think, topredict, that if at any time these romanticlegends be totally laid aside, our nationalpoetry will degenerate into mere morality,criticism, and satire; and that the sublime, theterrible, and the fanciful in poetry, will nolonger exist. The recent publication of Mr.Hole's Arthur has, indeed, called the attentionof the public to many of these fertile sourcesof invention, but although the work has greatmerit, it is confessedly built too much uponthe Italian mode of fabling; the machinery isnot sufficiently aweful to excite eager attention,and throughout the whole poem, perhaps, theheart is too little engaged. Imagery of thiskind should not only awaken surprise, but, toleave a lasting impression, both pity and terror.Should Arthur, however, in a future editionbe enlarged, and what enlargement may not awork of pure imagination admit of, a more frequent introduction of the pathetic would, mostprobably, seal it for immortality, for it isneverthelessNO. VIII. HOURS. 147In scenes like these, which daring to departFrom sober truth, are still to nature true,And call forth fresh delight to Fancy's view,Th' heroic muse employ'd her Tasso's art!How have I sat , when pip'd the pensive wind,To hear his harp, by British Fairfax strung,Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mindBeliev'd the magic wonders which he sung!Hence at each sound imagination glows;Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows;Melting, it flows, pure, num'rous, strong and clear,And fills th' impassion'd heart, and wins th' harmonious ear.Collins.Although so great a disparity evidentlyobtains between the two species of Gothicsuperstition, the terrible and the sportive; yetno author, that I am acquainted with, has, fornarrative machinery, availed himself of thiscirc*mstance, and thrown them into immediatecontrast. In a beautiful fragment lately published by Mrs. Barbauld, under the title of SirBertrand, the transition is immediately fromthe deep Gothic to the Arabic or Saracenicsuperstition; which, although calculated tosurprise, would have given more pleasure,perhaps, and would have rendered the pre-148LITERARYNO. VIII.ceding scenes of horror more striking, had itbeen of a light and contrasted kind. Struck,therefore, with the propriety of the attempt,and the exquisite beauty that would probablyresult from such an opposition of imagery, Ihave determined to devote a few papers to thisdesign, and in the following Ode* and Tale,which are solely amenable to the tribunal ofFancy, much of both species of the vulgargothic superstition is introduced . Entirelyrelinquished to the guidance of imagination theauthor has not only employed the possibilitiesof immaterial agency, but the more obsoleteand preternatural terrors of witchcraft, andenchantment; the latter are, perhaps, exceptin some secluded parts of the country, nearlybanished from the popular creed, but at thesupposed period of our story, and for twocenturies afterwards Witches were thoughtreally to exist, and Spenser most probablydrew from nature, having actually seen such ashed, the reputed abode of a witch, when hepenned the following descriptive lines:

• I have attended to the strictures of the British Critic on this Ode,

and its diction and imagery have, in three or four instances, beenaltered.NO. VIII. HOURS. 149There in a gloomy hollowe glen she foundAlittle cottage built of stickes and reedes,In homely wise, and wall'd with sods around,In which a witch did dwell, in loathly weedes,And wilfull want, all carelesse of her needes.B. iii. cant. 7. st. 6.At all events it was thought necessary toacquaint the reader with the machinery of thesucceeding ode and tale, that provided hechoose not to venture among their horrors, hemay pass forward to scenes of a more tranquilnature.150 LITERARY NO. VIII.ODE TO SUPERSTITION.Quid iste fert tumultus? Aut quid omniumVultus in unum me truces?Horatius.Saw ye that dreadful shape? heard yescreamThat shook my trembling soul?theE'en now, e'en now, where yon red lightningsgleamWan forms of terror scowl—I know thee, Superstition, fiend whose breathPoisons the passing hours,Pales the young cheek, and o'er the bed ofdeathThe gloom of horror pours;Ofghastly Fear, and darkest Midnight born,Far in a blasted dale,Mid Lapland's woods, and noisome wastesforlorn,Where lurid hags the moon's pale orbit hail:NO. VIII. 151 HOURS.There, in some vast, some wild and cavern'dcell,Where flits the dim blue flame,They drink warm blood, and act the deed ofhell,The " deed without a name. "With hollow shriek and boding cry,Round the wither'd witches hie,On their uncouth features dire,Gleams the pale and livid fire;The charm begins, and now ariseShadows foul, and piercing cries,Storm and tempest loud assail,Beating wind and rattling hail;Thus, within th' infernal wood,Dance they round the bubbling blood,Till sudden from the wond'ring eye,Upborne on harpy wing they fly,Where, on the rude inhospitable wild,Fir'd by the light'ning's arrowy stroke,Oft at the balmy close of evening mild,They're seen to hurry round the blasted oak:Then rise strange spectres to the pilgrim's view,With horrid lifeless stare,And gliding float upon the noxious dew,And howling rend the air.152 LITERARY NO. VIII.Oft near yon leaf- clad solitary fane,Whilst morn yet clasps the night,Some ghost is heard to sound his clanking chain,Beheld mid moon-beam pale and dead to sight;Nor less unfrequent the lone trav'ller hearsThe sullen- sounding bell,And the dim-lighted tow'r awakes to fearsOf haunted mansion, brake, or darkling dell.Haste thee, Superstition fly!Perish this thy sorcery!Why in these gorgon terrors clad,But to affright, afflict the bad,'Tis thee, O Goddess! thee I hail,Of Hesper born, and Cynthia pale,That wont the same rude name to bear,Yet gentle all and void of fear;O come, in Fancy's garb array'd,In all her lovely forms display'd,And o'er the poet's melting soul ,Bid the warm tide of rapture roll,To dying music, warbling gales,Mid moon-light scenes, and woody vales,Where Elves, and Fays, and Sprites disport,And nightly keep their festive court;There, mid the pearly flood of light,In tincts cerulean richly dight,NO. VIII. HOURS. 153Light-sporting o'er the trembling green,Glance they quick thro' the magic scene,And from the sparkling moss receive,Shed by the fragrant hand of Eve,The silver dew, of matchless pow'r,To guard from harm, at midnight hour,The lonely wight, who lost, from far,Views not one friendly guiding star,Or one kind lowly cottage door,To point his track across the moor;Whilst the storm howling, prompts his mindDark Demons ride the northern wind,And, ' plaining, mourn their cruel doom,On tempest hurl'd, and wint'ry gloom:Oft too, along the vales at eve,Shall Sprites the songs of gladness weave,With many a sweet and varied slight,Soft warbling hymn the setting light,Heard far th' echoing hills among,Whilst chaunting wild their heav'nly song:Till lost in ether dies away,The last, long, faint and murm'ring lay;These on the lonely Bard attend,With him the mountain's side ascend,Or in the valley's lowly plain,To Rapture breathe the melting strain;X154 LITERARY NO. VIII.These lift his soul beyond her clime,To daring flights of thought sublime,Where, warm'd by Fancy's brightest fire,He boldly sweeps the sounding lyre:Come then, with wild flow'rs, come array'd,O Superstition, magic maid!And welcome then, suggesting pow'r!At evening close, or midnight hour. *

• The two species of gothic superstition , the gloomy andthe sportive,

are, in this Ode, represented as the offspring of different parents; theformer being produced by Fear and Midnight, the latter by Hesper andthe Moon. The idea is founded on a commonly received opinion,among the ancient mythologists, that there were two Cupids, one amiableand tender, the son of Jupiter and Venus, the other debauched andrevengeful, the son of Nox and Erebus. Eros and Anteros, notwithstanding the derivation of the latter name, UTI Epws were both godsof mutual love.1NUMBER IX.But when he reach'd his castle gateHis gate was hung with black.Percy's Reliques, Vol. iii.In the north of England towards the commencement ofthe reign of Edward the Fourth,lived Henry Fitzowen. He had lost his parents early in life, and had been educated withan only sister under the care of his guardian.Henry was the heir of considerable propertywhich had been under his sole management fornear four years, having arrived at that periodof life when the character of the man fullyunfolds itself, when at five and twenty he hadgratified the wishes, and fulfilled the predictions of his friends. Possessed of an activeand liberal mind, of a tender and grateful heart,he was equally an object of love and esteem tohis companions and his tenants; and combined,likewise, the energies of youth, its vigour and156LITERARYNO. IX .vivacity with, what were rare attainments inthat age of anarchy and ignorance, the elegantaccomplishments of the scholar and the poet.In his person he was rather athletic, yet was itgracefully formed, and had much of that chivalric air so highly prized at that time whenwarfare and civil discord still raged throughoutthe island. When rushing to the field no heroin the army of the youthful Edward burnt withsuperior ardour, or managed his horse andarms with equal ease and spirit; when seatedmid the circle ofhis peaceful friends none couldrival his powers of intellect and sweetness ofmanner, the courtesy of his demeanour to themen, the gallantry of his attentions to the fair.With his sister, who superintended theeconomy of his household and a few friends hespent the major part of the year at his paternalcastle in Yorkshire, a piece of fine old gothicarchitecture, and seated in the bosom of aromantic glen. Here, in his great hall, hunground with the arms and trophies of his ancestors, and presiding at his ancient, oaken andhospitable table, he delighted to accumulatehis neighbours, and view the smile of satisfaction and pleasure play mid the charms of innoNO. IX. HOURS. 157cence and beauty, or gladden the features ofindustrious dependence. Here, also, on avisit to his sister and usually accompanied byher mother, would frequently appear AdelineDe Montfort. Adeline was the only daughterof an officer of great worth and bravery, andwho fell contending for the Yorkists at thedreadful battle of Towton. Dying, however,in embarrassed circ*mstances, his widow wasunable to support the establishment they hadhitherto maintained, and therefore took a smallbut elegant house on the skirts of the forestadjoining to the Fitzowen estate. A shorttime sufficed to produce an intimacy betweenthe two families, and from similarity of disposition and pursuits, Adeline and Clara Fitzowen soon became almost inseparable companions. The daughter of Montfort was inher twentieth year, and had been gifted bynature with more than common charms, herperson was elegantly formed, her eyes blue asthe sky of summer, her hair of a nut-brown,and her cheeksThe roses white and red resembled wellWhereon the roary may-dew sprinkled lies,Whenthe fair Morn first blusheth from her cell,And breatheth balm from opened Paradise. *

• Fairfax's Tasso.

158LITERARYNO. IX.The most unaffected modesty too, and adisposition peculiarly sweet, united to thegraces of a mind polished by unusual taste,rendered her personal beauties doubly interesting, and there were few of the opposite sexwho, having once witnessed her attractions, didnot sigh to appropriate them. That Henry,therefore, who had such frequent opportunitiesof conversing with this amiable girl, shouldadmire and love her, was an event to be expected; indeed such was his affection for herthat deprived of his beloved Adeline, existencewould have lost all its allurement.womanTo love thus ardent and sincere, and professed by a youth of the most winning mannersand superior accomplishments, nocould long be insensible, and in the bosom ofAdeline glowed the sweet emotions of reciprocal passion. Amid the wild and picturesquebeauties of Ruydvellin, where the vast solitudeand repose of nature, or the luxuriant andsoftened features of the secluded landscapeawoke the mind to aweful or to tender feelings,the sensations of mutual attachment were forsome time cherished undisturbed, and an unionthat would, probably, fix for life the felicity ofNO. IX . HOURS. 159the lovers, had been projected and determinedupon, when an incident accompanied with circ*mstances of the most singular kind threw abar in the way of its completion.Atthe distance of about twelve miles fromthe castle of Ruydvellin, resided WalleranEarl of Meulant, a nobleman of Normandescent, and of great hauteur and family pride.He had reached the age of forty, was unmarried, and though, from motives of ostentation,supporting a considerable and even splendidestablishment, his disposition was gloomy andunsocial. In his person he was gigantic anddisproportioned, and his features betrayed astern and unrelenting severity, whilst from hiseyes usually darted so wild and malignant anexpression that the object on which they fellinvoluntarily shrank from their notice.habits of life too were such as to excite muchwonder and very horrid reports; he constantlyinhabited one turret of his extensive castle,where, all night long, for many years, the glareof torches had been visible, yet his servantsdeclared that, notwithstanding this perpetualillumination, his agitation and terror were,frequently, as the twilight closed, so dreadful,His160 LITERARY NO. IX.that they fled his presence, and often at midnight from his chamber, in which he alwayslocked himself up and forbade interruption,half stifled groans, and wailing sounds wereheard as from a person under torture. Atstated periods he visited a forest ofvery antiqueoak which stood about a mile from the castle:such was the massy size of these trees that theywere generally esteemed coeval with the druidictimes, and the gloom of their foliage was sodense and impenetrable, that the country people feared to approach the wood, and believedit to be haunted by preternatural Beings; foroften at the dead noon of night shrill anddemoniacal shrieks, and appearances of themost ghastly and tremendous kind had terrifiedthe belated traveller, and once, it is said, whenone ofthe servants of Walleran, from motivesof curiosity, had traced the footsteps of hismaster to this enchanted forest, he dared toenter its infernal shade, and since that hour noeye has witnessed his return.Though Walleran was thus an object ofdread and aweful surmise to all around him,yet, from being possessed of very large property, and having numerous relations whoseNO. IX. HOURS. 161interest it was to pay him every respect, hiscastle was occasionally filled with , the firstranks of society, who were banqueted in asumptuous manner, and amused with the mostsplendid diversions of the age, such as tournaments, mysteries, the chace, &c. On theseoccasions the neighbouring families were invited to the castle, and Henry Fitzowen withhis Sister and Adeline usually graced the festival. Henry was one of the most expert andelegant tilters in the school of chivalry, andwhen Adeline's Champion and, according toetiquette, by her conducted into the lists , heperformed prodigies of valour, and unhorsedalmost every opponent. Adeline had then tobestow the envied prize on the object of heraffections, and in these moments, her featureswere lighted up with peculiar animation, andher form displayed the most fascinating allurements. None beheld her without emotion,but in the breast of Walleran burnt the mostintense desire, and accustomed to overcomeevery opposition in his amours by open force,or insidious stratagem, he had long determined,and without the smallest scruple or compunction, to get possession of the person of Adeline,for in her heart, such was the brutality of hisY162 NO. LÝ.LITERARYappetite, he had neither wish nor hope to finda place. Indeed, he was well acquainted withthe connection, and had heard ofthe approaching union, between her and Henry, and thelatter, on this account, became an object ofthe most malignant hatred. Frequently hadhe meditated on the means of conveying herfrom her own villa, or the castle of Ruydvellin,and one attempt through the medium of hisservants the vigilance of Henry had alreadyrendered abortive, who suspected, though hecould not prove, for the villains were disguised,the machinations ofhis infamous and too potentneighbour.Apprehensive, at length, he should for everlose her, if the nuptials, the day for which wasfixed, should take place, the Earl becameresolved, whilst Adeline was now at Ruydvellin, to seize the earliest opportunity, and toemploy all the resources of his art in effectinghis diabolical purposes. It was not long erethe opportunity he had so anxiously awaitedwas given, for, in about a week after, Henrywith a large party of his friends, the nobilityand gentry of the neighbourhood, met togetherfor the stag-hunt, and were, as usual, joinedNO. IX. HOURS. 163by Walleran. The morning chace affordedthe finest diversion, but was very long, andcarried them to such a distance from homethat they agreed to dine in the forest upon theprovisions which they had providently broughtwith them, and endeavour to start fresh gameafter their meal. Walleran, it was observed,had retired before dinner, but as this was noextraordinary occurrence, little attention waspaid to it, and a stag being shortly after roused,the chase was resumed with fresh vigour andalacrity. Nothing could exceed the spirit andswiftness of the animal, and Henry, who wasgenerally foremost on these occasions, so faroutstript his companions, that, having pushedinto an intricate part of the forest with a viewto reach the stag in a more direct line, andbeing led farther into its recesses than he wasaware , at length neither the sound of hounds,horses, nor men any longer reached his ear,and perceiving his path more difficult as heproceeded, he paused, and listened with deepattention, but nothing save theevening breeze, as it rustledbranches of the oak, was heard.sighing of thethrough theThe sun wasnow approaching the horizon, and had shot hisfiery beams into the forest, when Henry,164 LITERARY NO. IX .reflecting on the distance he was, probablyfrom home, and on the impending gloom ofnight, immediately determined to retrace hissteps, and regain, if possible, the open country.With this intention , therefore, he turned hissteed, and carefully pursuing the path he came,at length reached the plain, when, to his greatsurprise, he once more beheld, and in a direction directly contrary to what he could haveexpected, or thought possible, the very stag hehad been chacing so long in vain .He appeared lightly bounding at a distance, and asthe sun shone upon his dappled sides made -a pleasing and conspicuous figure . Neitherdogs, nor horses, nor a single human being werein view, and Fitzowen, more from curiositythan any other motive, put spurs to his horse,and pursued him. The animal seemed perfectly at his ease, and went on gently, as ifholding his chacer in contempt, when, crossingthe dale, he turned into a narrow road withHenry almost at his heels, who followed himin this manner, between three and four miles.through a series of winding and intricate lanes,and, had just reached him, as he conceived,when he suddenly struck to the left, and thelane closing, a vast and apparently interminablęNO. IX. HOURS. 165heath rushed upon his view, but to his utterastonishment, for no shelter, or cover of anykind was present for concealment, not the leastvestige ofthe animal he had so closely pursuedcould now be seen. All was nearly silent andsunk in repose; twilight had spread her greytint over the plain, and scarce a breath of airmoved the thistle down. Some clouds, however, gathered dark in the west, and were tingedwith a dusky red, whilst a few large drops ofrain were, now and then, heard, as they fellsullen and heavy on the heath, or shook thewithered broom.Unable to ascertain the distance from Ruydvellin, and unacquainted with the features ofthe country, Henry now rode impatiently forward, in hopes of discovering some road ortrack which might lead him to a cottage, andgive him a chance for enquiry. The strangeness of the preceding incident too had occasioned some uneasiness in his bosom, and hemore than once adverted to the arts and thedesigns of Walleran; the night also was approaching, and threatened to be stormy, and hedwelt upon the anxiety of his female friends.Whilst thus meditating, he had reached a spot166 LITERARY NO. IX.where several rugged paths seemed to stretchacross the heath, and one appearing morebeaten than the rest, he was about to enterupon it, when he thought he beheld, at a distance, a human figure, as of a man wrapped indark garments, and walking swiftly on. Highlypleased with the circ*mstance, and anticipatingample information, he immediately quitted thetrack, and pushed after him. As he drew nearthe figure, which appeared to dilate into morethan common proportion, had the garb andaspect of a monk, and glided on with suchrapidity that Henry found it necessary toquicken his pace, when the plain graduallycontracting, and some trees shooting up in thehorizon, afforded him hopes of its termination.He now called loudly to the monk, requestinghim to stop, but no answer was returned, andhis form , dimly seen through the encreasinggloom, still glided noiseless along the heath,till having reached its verge, where rose theskirts of a pine forest, he, for several minutes,hurried along its border, and then suddenlydisappeared. Henry was, by this time, convinced that the Being he had so long endeavoured to overtake, was nothing human, andresolved, if possible, to return to the track heNO. IX. HOURS. +67had so rashly quitted, was wheeling round,when a light not far distant glimmered amongsome trees, and though nearly in the samedirection the delusive monk had taken, yetonce more animated with the hopes of obtaining a guide, he again ventured to trust hissenses, and made immediately for the spotwhence the rays appeared to stream.The light, as he advanced, glowed steadyand brilliant, but required more time and effortto attain than he expected, for having left thecommon, he was now amid cultivated land,which consequently opposed many an obstacleto his progress. At length, however, he approached within a few hundred yards of it,still flattering himself it issued from someneighbouring hamlet, when, rising slowly fromthe ground, it began to expand and yield a veryvivid light, then diffusing itself, and meltinginto air, it gradually assumed a paler tint, anddisappeared.The night now became extremely dark, thethunder growled at a distance, and the rain fellheavy, whilst Henry shocked at the delusionshe had been subjected to, and tormented with168 LITERARY NO. IX.apprehension for the safety of his belovedAdeline, wandered from field to field , hisimagination busy in suggesting the most dreadful events, and filled with horror and resentmentas he called to mind the wild and lawless character of Walleran, to whose infernal machinationshe could not avoid attributing the singularincidents which had lately befallen him.Whilst thus situated, and in little hope ofreceiving either information or shelter untilbreak of day, his attention was aroused by thebarking of dogs, and making up to the soundwith as much precision as the storm wouldpermit, to his great joy he discovered a farmhouse whose inhabitants welcomed him withthe utmost promptitude and kindness. Herehe learnt that he was better than twenty milesfrom Ruydvellin, and that it wanted scarce anhour of midnight, but that the principal road,and which would soon lead him into that whichwent direct for his castle, ran within two milesof their cottage. Highly delighted with thislast piece ofintelligence, and extremely anxiousto hasten forward, he engaged one of the farmer's sons to conduct him to the road, andthen partaking of some refreshment, andNO. IX. HOURS. 169heartily regaling his steed, he made manyacknowledgements to his host for his well-timedhospitality and departed.The rain beat furiously on our travellers,and the lightning played strongly in the horizon, whilst the thunder continually muttering,and pealing louder as they advanced, gavetoken of a dreadful tempest. The road, however, was now before them, and the youngfarmer parting on his return, Henry rapidlypursued his journey, and within two hours,notwithstanding the darkness of the night,reached the border of his own domain. Witha boding mind and palpitating heart he passedthe well- known grounds, every now and thenvividly illuminated by the glare of intenselightning, whilst the thunder rolled awfullyalong the vault of heaven, or burst over headin loud and repeated claps. He had nowapproached within view of his castle, whosenumerous towers and turrets, as the lightningflashed, were distinctly seen, and made a beautiful appearance; but in the pitchy darknesswhich immediately succeeded, no lights couldbe distinguished in any part of its vast extent,a circ*mstance which occasioned him muchZ170 LITERARY NO. IX .surprise, and added not a little to his apprehensions. These, however, were increased to apainful degree when, on his arrival at the fosse,no wardens were perceived on the walls, norwas any porter at the barbacan, † which beingAs this and several other words descriptive of gothic architecture,will occur in the course of the narrative, and which to some of myreaders may prove unintelligible , or obscure, the following brief, but accurate account of the common structure of a gothic castle, in which theseterms are explained, cannot fail of being acceptable. The whole siteof the castle was surrounded by a deep and broad ditch, sometimes filledwith water, and sometimes dry, called the fosse. Before the great gatewas an outwork, called a barbacan, or antemural, which was a strong andhigh wall, with turrets upon it, designed for the defence of the gate anddraw-bridge. On the inside of the ditch stood the wall of the castle,about eight or ten feet thick, and between twenty and thirty feet high,with a parapet, and a kind of embrazures, called crennels, in the top.On this wall at proper distances square towers of two or three stories highwere built, which served for lodging some of the principal officers oftheproprietor of the castle, and for other purposes; and on the inside wereerected lodgings for the common servants or retainers, granaries, storehouses, and other necessary offices. On the top of this wall, and on theflat roofs of these buildings, stood the defenders of the castle, when itwas besieged, and from thence discharged arrows, darts, and stones, onthe besiegers. The great gate of the castle stood in the course of thiswall, and was strongly fortified with a tower on each side, and roomsoverthe passage, which was closed with thick folding doors of oak, oftenplated with iron, and with an iron portcullis or grate let down from above.Within this outward wall was a large open space or court, called , in thelargest and most perfect castles, the outer bayle or ballium, in which stoodcommonly a church or chapel. On the inside of this outer bayle wasanother ditch, wall, gate, and towers, inclosing the inner bayle or court,within which the chief tower or keep was built. This was a very largeNO. IX . HOURS. 171open, he hurried over the draw-bridge, and wasabout to strike upon the great gate, when,starting back with horror, he observed, as thelightning glared, that it was hung with black .This, in the periods of chivalry, being a signalof misfortune,* was sufficient to strike terrorinto the stoutest chief, when returning to hiscastle he beheld the portentous monument ofdisaster, and Henry, whose fears had been longalive, now felt that all his hopes were blasted,for that some dreadful event had taken placehe well knew, and the uncertainty of the moment giving full scope to the powers of imagination, it came forward wrapt in the mosttremendous colouring.square fabric, four or five stories high, having small windows in prodigious thick walls , which rendered the apartments within it dark andgloomy. This great tower was the palace of the prince, prelate, orbaron, to whom the castle belonged, and the residence ofthe constableor governor. Under ground were dismal dark vaults, for the confinement of prisoners, which made it sometimes be called the dungeon. Inthis building also was the great hall, in which the owner displayed hishospitality, by entertaining his numerous friends and followers.Henry's History of England, vol. vi. 8vo. edit.

• It was formerly the custom on any unfortunate accident, or event,

to hang the castle gates with black; and it was usual for the traveller,on observing this sign of misfortune, to enquire into its nature and cause.The motto of this paper, is taken from a ballad in the Reliques of Ancient English Poetry which discovers a very intimate acquaintance withthe usuages and rites of chivalry.172 LITERARY NO. IX.When the agitation of his frame, however,had somewhat subsided he again drew near,and, lifting the massy knocker, was going tostrike when the gate yielded to the impulse,being left a little open, a circ*mstance whichits sable covering, and the momentary light ofheaven, had not before given him an opportunity ofperceiving. He now, therefore, enteredthe outer ballium and was slowly and cautiouslyproceeding when a deep groan, as from one inacute pain, struck his ear, and the lightning, atthat instant, glancing across him, he beheld theground moistened with blood, and two of hisservants stretched dead at his feet. A sight soshocking, fixed him for some moments to thespot, but the groan being repeated, he started,and advanced to the place whence it issued,when a voice, whose tones he well recollectedas those of an old and faithful domestic, intremulous accents implored his mercy. Henry,tothe infinite joy of the poor man, immediatelydiscovered himself, and impatient to learn thecause of events so horrible, urged him to anexplanation. Faint, however, with the loss ofblood, racked with pain, and overwhelmedwith the most tumultuous sensations on recogmising his beloved master, he was unable toNO. IX . HOURS.173articulate a word, but grasping Henry's hand,as he stooped to assist him, he pressed it withconvulsive energy, and, uttering a deep sigh,reclined upon his master, and expired.The most acute anguish now seized theunhappy Henry, who called down the bitterestimprecations on the author of his misfortunes;but conscious that all now depended upon hispersonal activity, and tortured with anxiety forthose he held most dear, he once more endeavoured to proceed, for the darkness was soprofound, that, except when the lightningstreamed, not a single object could be discerned. From his knowledge of the place,however, he contrived to pass into the innerballium, and then soon reaching the keep,entered his great hall, which he found compleatly deserted, not a single being returninghis repeated calls; yet at intervals, he thoughthe could distinguish low groans, which seemedto issue from a considerable distance. Crossing the hall he now ascended the windingstaircase, and, having attained the gallery, perceived a light which glimmered through thecrevice at the bottom of a door, and makingthe castle again re-echo with the names of Ade-474 LITERARY NO. IX.line and Clara, was at last answered bythe shrilltones of the women, who, with rapture almosttoo great for utterance, hadtime, recollected his voice.now, for the firstRushing to thedoor, therefore, he made every exertion toopen it, but the lock being strong and massy,it resisted, for some time, his utmost efforts,though assisted by those within. At length,however, it did yield, and, the next moment,Clara Fitzowen was in his arms; but in vaindid he look round for Adeline, and dreadingeven the result of enquiry, sank into a chairsilent and racked with anxiety and disappointment; a few minutes, however, gave him theinformation he apprehended, for her mother,in an agony of distress, which drew tears fromall present, soon accounted for the loss of herbeloved child.It appeared from her relation that about thedusk of the evening, a party of armed men,their features concealed in masks, had surprisedthe castle, a circ*mstance of easy occurrencewhen no hostile attempt was suspected, andentering the great hall, where the females werethen assembled, seized upon Adeline, and wereforcing her away, when some of the servantsNO. IX. HOURS. 175interfered, and a severe struggle took place,but which, as the ruffians were prepared foropposition, soon terminated in their favour.They then bound the men they had subdued,and threw them into the dungeon of the keep,and compelling the women, and their servants,to go up stairs , locked them in an inner room, ´though with a light, and carried off Adeline intriumph.This event, though it had frequently occurred to the mind of Henry since his approachto the castle, yet now that it was fully ascertained, occasioned him as much distress as ifit had not been for a moment apprehended.As soon, however, as the violence of his emotion had, in some degree, abated, he accusedWalleran as the author of the atrocious deed,and proposed an immediate expedition to, andattack upon his castle; then presently recollecting the dreadful scenes he had witnessed atthe great gate, he requested an explanation ofhis sister, but Clara being totally ignorant ofthe circ*mstances he alluded to, he lighted atorch, and descended to release his servantsfrom their dungeon, which he effected throughthe medium of a private passage, the principal176 LITERARY NO. IX.entrance being left too well secured for hisefforts to overcome. He found several ofthem wounded, but so rejoiced at seeing theirmaster again that for some minutes they com ·pletely forgot their situation and sufferings.Many, however, were still absent, and helearnt that whilst those who had been confinedwere still contending with the villains, a partyof their fellow servants had gone round tosecure the great gate, but of their fate theyknew nothing. Henry now requesting thosewho were able, to follow him, procured somemore torches, and issued forth to search theouter ballium. Here weltering in their bloodwere found slain the two men whom he hadseen by the glare of the lightning, and, a littlefurther, his old steward who had expired in hisarms. Close by the gate, also, wounded, andon the ground, they discovered the porter andhis assistant; these, on receiving some refreshment, and due attention to their injuries,speedily revived, and had soon strength enoughto inform Henry, that when the struggle commenced in the great hall, they had flown to thesupport oftheir friends, but perceiving it wouldbe vain to continue the contest without betterarms, they, with three or four others, separatedNO. IX! HOURS. 177to procure them, and to secure the great gateand barbacan, which, in their hurry and alarm,they had left open and unguarded. Hither,however, they had not arrived many momentsbefore the ruffians, having subdued oppositionin the hall, approached with the unhappyAdeline, whose prayers and entreaties were invain addressed to beings who knew no touchof pity. A severe engagement now took place,but the numbers proving very unequal, andthemselves and their companions shortly eitherwounded or slain, the villains with their helplesscharge passed on, nor could it be ascertainedin what direction they travelled. The porter,however, it seems, had sufficient strengthremaining to crawl to the lodge, where seizingthe black mantle, the omen of disaster, he hadjust power to suspend it on the gate, and thendropt exhausted by its side. This he did witha view to alarm any passenger, or pilgrim whomight in the morning be journeying that way,and induce him to inquiry, and the offer ofassistance.The thunder had, by this time, passed off;twilight began to dawn, and Henry, notwithstanding the fatigues of the preceding day2 A178 LITERARY NO. IX.determined to push forward immediately to thecastle of Walleran, in hopes of taking him bysurprise. Accordingly, arming those of hisservants who had not been injured in theprevious contest, and entrusting the woundedto the care of the women, he clothed himselfin mail, and mounting a fresh steed , reachedthe magnificent halls of Walleran in little morethan an hour. Here, however, to his greatdisappointment, he learnt, that Walleran hadnot returned from the chace, but that abouttwo hours after noon, a man, who to them wasa stranger, and mounted on a horse bathed infoam, had arrived to say, that the Earl wouldnot revisit his castle for some weeks, but refusedto give them any information with regard to hispresent place of residence.Henry oppressed in body and mind, nowslowly returned to Ruydvellin pondering onthe plan he should pursue; and on his arrivalat the castle, hastened to consult his sister, andthe mother of his Adeline.NUMBER X.-What is thisSo wither'd and so wild in its attire;That looks not like an inhabitant o' the earth,And yet is on 't?.SHAKSPEARE.THOUGH no present intelligence could beobtained relative to the abode of Walleran,yet as it was most probable that where he was,there Adeline would be found, Henry determined, with the concurrence of his family, tospare no effort in detecting his residence .After a few hours rest, therefore, he armedhimself compleatly, and bidding adieu to hisdisconsolate friends, to whom, assuming achearful tone, he promised the speedy restoration of Adeline, he mounted his favorite roan,and issued from the great gate whilst the sun,now verging towards noon, smote full upon hisplumed casque.180 LITERARY NO. X.Not willing, however, to alarm the neighbouring country, where his person and accoutrements would be known wherever he shouldstop for enquiry, and secrecy being likewisenecessary toward the completion of his views,he carefully concealed his features beneath hisvisor, assumed unusual arms, took a differentdevice, and no retinue whatever, resolved,should he find Walleran surrounded by hismyrmidons to hasten back to Ruydvellin, andcollecting his faithful followers, return andattack him in full force, placing no confidencein his honour, should a single combat ensue,when thus supported by banditti . That notime might be lost in the pursuit, he dismissedtwo of his confidential servants on differentroutes, and under similar precautions.These measures being taken, Henry carriedhis researches through the neighbouring seats,and made every inquiry that could lead todetection, but in vain; striking further intothe country, therefore, he unexpectedly cameinto very wild scenery, and it was with difficultyhe could procure the most homely provision ina tract so thinly inhabited, and where a shepherd's hut, or the cottage of a peasant provedΝΟ . Χ . HOURS. 181Some weeks had thusAthis only places of rest.passed, when toward the sunset of a very fineday, after having traversed a lone and unfrequented part, he arrived at the edge of a thickand dark forest; the sky became suddenlyovercast, and it began to rain; the thunderrolled at a distance, and sheets of livid lightning flashed across the heath. Overcome withfatigue and hunger, he rode impatiently alongthe border of the forest, in hopes of discoveringan entrance, but none was to be found.length, just as he was about to dismount withan intention of breaking the fence, he discerned, as he thought, something moving uponthe heath, and, upon advancing towards it, itproved to be an old woman gathering peat,and who, overtaken by the storm, was hurryinghome as fast as her infirm limbs could carryher. The sight of a human creature filled theheart of Fitzowen with joy, and, hastily ridingup, he inquired how far he had deviated fromthe right road, and where he could procure anight's lodging. The old woman now slowlylifting up her palsied head, discovered a set offeatures which could scarcely be called human,her eyes were red, piercing and distorted, androlling horribly, glanced upon every object182 LITERARY NO. X.but the person by whom she was addressed,and, at intervals, they emitted a fiery disagreeable light; her hair, of a dirty grey, hungmatted in large masses upon her shoulders, anda few thin portions rushed abrupt and horizontally from the upper part of her forehead,which was much wrinkled, and ofa parchmenthue; her cheeks were hollow, withered, andred with a quantity of acrid rheum, her nosewas large, prominent, and sharp, her lips thin,skinny and livid, her few teeth black, and herchin long and peaked, with a number of bushyhairs depending from its extremity; her nailsalso were acute, crooked, and bent over herfingers, and her garments, ragged and flutteringin the wind, displayed every possible varietyof colour. Henry was a little daunted, butthe old woman having mentioned a dwelling atsome distance, and offering to lead the way,the pleasure received from this piece of intelligence effaced the former impression, and,alighting from his horse, he laid hold of thebridle, and they slowly moved over the heath.The storm had now ceased, and the moonrising gave presage of a fine night, just as thissingular conductor, taking a sudden turn,NO. X. HOURS. 183plunged into the wood by a path narrow, andalmost choaked up with a quantity of briar andthorn. The trees were thick, and save a fewglimpses of the moon, which, now and then,poured light on the uncouth features of hiscompanion, all was dark and dismal; the heartof Fitzowen misgave him, neither spoke, andhe pursued his guide merely by the noise shemade in hurrying through the bushes, whichwas done with a celerity totally inconsistentwith her former decrepitude. At length thepath grew wider, and a faint blue light, whichcame from a building at some distance, glimmered before them; they now left the wood,and issued upon a rocky and uneven piece ofground, whilst the moon struggling through acloud, cast a doubtful and uncertain light,and the old woman, with a leer which madethe very hair of Fitzowen stand on end, toldhim that the dwelling was at hand. It was so,for a gothic castle, placed on a considerableelevation, now came in view; it was a largemassy structure, much decayed, and some parts.ofit in a totally ruinous condition; a portion,however, of the keep, or great tower, was stillentire, as was also the entrance to the court or184 LITERARY NO. X.enclosure, preserved probably by the ivy,whose fibres crept round with solicitous care.Large fragments of the ruin were scatteredabout, covered with moss and half sunk in theground, and a number of old elm trees, throughwhose foliage the wind sighed with a sullen andmelancholy sound, dropped a deep and settledgloom, that scarce permitted the moon tostream by fits upon the building . Fitzowendrew near, ardent curiosity mingled with awedilated his bosom, and he inwardly congratulated himself upon so singular an adventure,when turning round to question his companion,a glimpse of the moon poured full upon hiseye so horrid a contexture of feature, so wildand preternatural a combination, that, smotewith terror and unable to move, a cold sweattrickled from every pore, and immediately thisinfernal being seizing him by the arm, andhurrying him over the draw-bridge to the greatentrance of the keep, the portcullis fell with attremendous sound, and the astonished youth,starting as it were from a trance, drew his swordin act to destroy his treacherous guide, wheninstantly a horrible and infernal laugh burst.from her, and in a moment the whole castle.NO. X. HOURS. 185was in an uproar, peal after peal issuing fromevery quarter, till at length growing faint theydied away, and a dead silence ensued.Fitzowen, who, during this strange tumult,had collected all his scattered powers, nowlooked round him with determined resolution;his terrible companion had disappeared, andthe moon shining full upon the portcullis convinced him that any escape that way wasimpracticable; the wind sighed through theelms, and the scared owl, uttering his discordantnote, broke from his nest, and, sweepingthrough the vale beneath, sought for more.secure repose. Having reasoned himself,therefore, into a state of cool fortitude, andbent up every power to the appalling enterprise, our Adventurer entered the great tower,from a loop hole near the summit of which adim twinkling light could be just discerned.He extended his sword before him, for it wasdark, and proceeded carefully to search around,in hopes, either of discovering some aperturewhich might lead to the vestibule, or staircase,or of wreaking his vengeance on the wretchwho had thus decoyed him. All was still asdeath, but as he strode over the floor, a dull,2 B186 LITERARY NO. X.hollow sound issued from beneath, and rendered him apprehensive of falling through intosome dismal vault, from which he might neverbe able to extricate himself. In this situation,dreading the effect of each light footstep, asound, as of many people whispering, struckhis ear; he bent forward, listening with eagerattention, and as it seemed to proceed from alittle distance only before him, he determinedto follow it; he did so, and instantly fellthrough the mouldering pavement, whilst atthe same time peals of horrid laughter againburst, with reiterated clamour, from everychamber of the castle.Fitzowen rose with considerable difficulty,and much stunned with the fall, although,fortunately, the spot he had dropped upon wascovered with a quantity of damp and softearth, which gave way to his weight. He nowfound himself in a large vault, arched in thegothic manner, and supported by eight massypillars, down whose sides the damp moistureran in cold and heavy drops, the moon shiningwith great lustre through three iron gratedwindows, which, although rusty with age, werestrong enoughto resist his utmost efforts, andNO. X. HOURS. 187having in vain tried to force them, he nowlooked around for his sword, which, during thefall, had started from his grasp, and in searching the ground with his fingers, he laid hold of,and drew forth, the fresh bones ofan enormousskeleton; he started back with horror; a coldwind brushed violently along the surface ofthe vault, and a ponderous iron door, slowlygrating on its hinges, opened at one corner, anddisclosed to his wondering eye a broken staircase, down whose steps a blue and faint lightflashed by fits, like the lightning of a summer'seve.Appalled by these dreadful prodigies, Fitzowen felt, in spite of all his resolution, a coldand death-like chill pervade his frame, andkneeling down, he prayed fervently to thatpower without whose mandate no being is letloose upon another, and feeling himself morecalm and resolved, he again began to searchfor his sword, when a moon-beam, falling onthe blade, at once restored it to its owner.Having thus resumed his wonted fortitudeand resolution, he held a parley with himself,and perceiving no way by which he could188 LITERARY NO. X.Theescape, boldly resolved to brave all the terrorsof the staircase, and, once more recommendinghimself to his maker, began to ascend.light still flashed, enabling him to climb thoseparts which were broken or decayed . He hadproceeded in this manner a considerable way,mounting, as he supposed, to the summit ofthe keep, when suddenly a shrill and agonisingshriek issued from the upper part of it, andsomething rudely brushing down grasped himwith tremendous strength; in a moment hebecame motionless and cold as ice, and felthimself hurried back by some irresistableBeing; but, just as he had reached the vault, aspectre of so dreadful a shape stalked by withinit, that, straining every muscle, he sprang fromthe deadly grasp: the iron door rushed inthunder upon its hinges, and a deep hollowgroan resounded from beneath. No soonerhad the door closed, than yelling screams, andsounds which almost suspended the very pulseof life, issued from the vault, as if a troop ofhellish furies, with their chains untied, weredashing them in frenzy, and howling to theuproar. Henry stood fixed in horror, a deadlyfear ran through every vein, and the throbbingof his heart oppressed him. The tumult,NO. X. HOURS. 189however, at length subsiding, he recoveredsome portion of strength, and immediatelymaking use of it to convey himself as far aspossible from the iron door, presently reachedhis former elevation on the stair- case, which,after ascending a few more steps, terminatedin a winding gallery.The light, which had hitherto flashed incessantly, now disappeared, and he was left inalmost total darkness, except when, now andthen, the moon threw a few cool rays throughsome shattered loophole heightening the horrorof the scene. He felt reluctant to proceed,and looked back with apprehension lest someyelling fiend should again plunge him into thevault. A mournful wind howled through theapartments of the castle, and listening, hethought he heard the iron door grate upon itshinges; he started with terror, the sweat stoodin big drops upon his forehead, and he rushedforward with desperate despair, till havingturned a corner of the gallery, a taper, burningwith a faint light, gleamed through a narrowdark passage; approaching the spot whence itstreamed, he perceived it arose from an extensive room, the folding doors of which were190 LITERARY NO. X.wide open: he entered; a small taper in amassy silver candlestick stood upon a table inthe middle of the room, but gave so inconsiderable an illumination; that one end waswrapped in palpable darkness, and the otherscarcely broken in upon by a dim light thatglimmered through a large ramified windowcovered with thick ivy. An arm chair, shattered and damp with age, was placed near thetable, and the remains of a recent fire were stillvisible in the grate. The wainscot of blackoak, had formerly been hung with tapestry,and several portions still clung to those partswhich were near the fire; they possessed somevivacity of tint, and with mush gilding yetapparent on the chimney piece, and severalmouldering reliques of costly frames and paintings, gave indisputable evidence of the ancientgrandeur of the place. Henry closed the folding doors, and, taking the taper, was about tosurvey the room, when a half-stifled groan fromthe dark end of it smote cold upon his heart,at the same time the sound as of somethingfalling with a dead weight, echoed through theroom, and a bell tolled deep and hollow fromthe tower above. He replaced the taper, theflame of which was agitated; now quivering,NO. X. HOURS. 191 7sunk, now streaming, flamed aloft, and as thelast pale portion died away, the scarce distinguished form of some terrific Being floated.slowly by, and again another dreadful groanran deepning through the gloom, and the bellswung solemn from the keep. Henry stoodfor some time incapable of motion; at lengthsummoning all his fortitude, he advanced withhis sword extended to the darkest part of theroom: instantly burst forth in fierce irradiations a blue sulphureous splendour, and themangled body of a man distorted with theagony of death, his every fibre racked withconvulsion, his beard and hair stiff and mattedwith blood, his mouth open, and his eyes protuding from their sockets, rushed upon hismaddening senses; he started, uttering a wild.shriek, and hurrying he knew not whitherburst through the folding doors.Darkness again spread her sable pall overthe unfortunate Fitzowen, and he trode alongthe narrow passage with a feeble and a faultering step. His intellect shook, and overwhelmed by the late appalling objects, had notyet recovered any degree of recollection, andhe wandered, as in a dream, a confused train192 LITERARY NO. Xof horrible ideas passing unconnected throughhis mind; at length, however, memory resumedher function, resumed it but to daunt him withharrowing suggestions; the direful horrors ofthe room behind, and of the vault below, werestill present to his eyes, and, as a man whomhellish fiends had frightened, he stood trembling, pale and staring wild. All was nowonce more silent and dark, and he determinedto wait in this spot the dawn of day, but a fewminutes had scarce elapsed, when the iron doorscreaming on its hinges, bellowed through themurmuring ruin. Henry nearly fainted at thesound, which, pausing for some time, againswelled upon the wind, and at last died awayin shrill melancholy shrieks; again all wassilent, and again the same fearful noise struckterror to his soul. Whilst his mind was thusagitated with horror and apprehension, a feeble .light streaming from behind accompanied witha soft, quick and hollow tread, convinced himthat something was pursuing, and struck withwildering fear, he rushed unconscious downthe steps; the vault received him, and itsportals swinging to their close, sounded as thesentence of death. A dun foetid vapour filledthe place, in the centre of which arose a faintNO. X. HOURS. 193and bickering flame. Fitzowen approached,and beheld a corse suspended over it by theneck, whilst the flame flashing through thevault, gleamed on a throng of hideous andghastly features that came forward through thesmoke. With the desperate valour of al manwho sees destruction before him, he ran furiously forward; an universal shriek burst forth,and the fire rising with tenfold brilliance,placed full in view the dreadful form of hisinfernal guide, dilated into horror itself; herface was pale as death, her eyes were wideopen, dead and fixed, a horrible grin sate uponher features, her lips black and tumid weredrawn back, disclosing a set of large blue teeth,and her hair, standing stiffly erect, was of awithered red.Fitzowen felt his blood freeze within him;his limbs became enervated, and at this momentwhen resistance on his part appeared almostimpossible, a door bursting open at the extremity of the vault, in rushed the form ofWalleran, who wielding a battle axe, aimed ablow at Henry that, situated as he then was,and rendered torpid through the influence of2 C194 LITERARY NO. X.preternatural agency, he conceived would beeffectual for his destruction . In this, however,he was, fatally for himself, mistaken, for nosooner was he perceived than the effect of theenchantment ceased; indignation swelling atthe heart of Henry, impelled the lingeringfluid, his cheek flushed with the crimson tide,his limbs recovered their elasticity and tone,and avoiding with active vigour the death thatwas intended him, he sheathed his falchion inthe breast of his opponent, who, having wastedhis impetuous strength upon the air, had thusexposed himself to instant ruin.NUMBER XI.-Fairy elves,Whose midnight revels by a forest side,Or fountain, some belated peasant sees,Or dreams he sees, while over-head the moonSits arbitress , and nearer to the earthWheels her pale course, they on their mirth and danceIntent, with jocund music charm his ear;At once with joy and fear his heart rebounds.Milton.Walleran dropt lifeless on the ground, andthe dreadful appearances in the vault, the fireand all its apparatus, immediately vanished,whilst loud howlings and lamentations wereheard at a distance in the air. A profoundsilence, however, now ensued throughout thecastle, and Henry by the light of the moon, asit streamed through the grated window, beheldat his feet the bleeding corpse of his antagonist.Starting from the contemplation of his fallenenemy, he resolved to explore the ruins in196LITERARYNO. XI.search of Adeline, of whose concealment, insome part of the building, he entertained notthe smallest doubt, and, apprehensive now oflittle opposition, he once more attempted thosestairs in ascending which he had formerlyencountered so many terrors. He reached thegallery without any interruption, and passingthrough the folding doors into the apartmentalready described, discovered at one end, andon the very spot where he had beheld thetremendous vision of the agonising wretch, anarrow, winding and arched passage, and whichtaking a circular direction probably passed intothe opposite portion of the great tower. -Herehe entered, but had not proceeded far beforethe sound as of soft and very distant musicreached his ear, and shortly afterward was distinctly heard the murmur of falling water.Sounds such as these, and in such a place,greatly surprised him, and hastening forwardto ascertain from what quarter they originated,he found himself suddenly immersed in a verycold and damp vapour, whose density was suchthat for a short time it totally suffocated thesmallest ray of light; in a few minutes, however, it began, in some measure, to clear awayaccompanied with a whispering noise, whilstNO. XI. HOURS. 197vast eddies and gusts of thin vapour passed himwith a whirling motion. He now perceivedhimself in a kind of large cavern whose sideswere of unhewn stone, and from the roof werependent numbers of beautiful stalactites, fromwhose points fell, at intervals, with a tinklingsound, large drops of water, whilst the dyingnotes of distant harps, the gurgling of obstructed currents, and the sighings ofthe restlessvapour, formed a harmony so singular, yet sosoothing, that when united to the surroundingchill and torpid atmosphere, seemed calculatedto inspire the most profound repose. Fitzowen now advanced a little further into thecavity, and, through the chasms of the everfluctuating mist, discerned, hanging from thecentre of the roof, a vast globe, which emittedrays of the palest hue, and which in passingthrough the turbid vapour shed a kind oftwilight.Whilst pondering on the purport of this verypeculiar scene, he felt a heaviness, and a tendency to sleep creep upon him, accompaniedwith an indistinctness and confusion of intellect;at this instant, however, a mass of vapour rushing by him, the light gleamed more steadily,198 LITERARY NO. XI.and he beheld in an excavation of the adjacentwall, and recumbent on a couch, what he conceived to be a human body. Curiosity wasnow so powerfully excited, as compleatly toexpell the approaching torpor, and drawingnearer the object of his attention, he could hearthe deep breathings of a person in profoundsleep; the next moment he could perceive thegarments of female attire, and in the succeeding instant hung with rapture and astonishmentover the well-known features of his belovedAdeline. The globe shed a silvery and preternatural whiteness over her form, and therose had left her cheek; she lay with her headreclined upon her hand, and the utmost tranquillity sate upon her countenance, though,nowandthen, a deep-drawn sigh would indicatethe tissue of idea.Henry stood, for some moments, rivettedto the spot, then, starting from his reverie, hewound his arms about her beauteous frame,and impressed upon her lips a glowing kissshe awoke, and instantly a tremendous tempestburst upon them, loud thunder shook the earth,and a whirlwind, rushing through the pile, toreit from its foundations.NO. XI. HOURS. 199The lovers recovering from a trance whichthe conflict of the elements had occasioned,found themselves seated on some mossy turf,and around them the soft, the sweet and tranquil scenery of a summer's moon-light night.Enraptured with this sudden and unexpectedchange, they rose gently off the ground; overtheir heads towered a large and majestic oak,at whose foot they believed some kind and compassionate being had placed them. Delightand gratitude dilated their hearts, and advancingfrom beneath the tree whose gigantic branchesspread a large extent of shade, a vale, beautifuland romantic, through which ran a clear anddeep stream , came full in view; they walkedto the edge of the water, the moon shone withmellow lustre on its surface, and its banks ,fringed with shrubs, breathed a perfume moredelicate than the odours of the east. On oneside, the ground covered with a vivid, soft anddowny verdure, stretched for a considerableextent to the borders of a large forest, which,sweeping round, finally closed up the valley;on the other, it was broken into abrupt androcky masses swarded with moss, and fromwhose clefts grew thick and spreading trees,the roots of which, washed by many a fall of200 LITERARY NO. XI.water, hung bare and matted from their craggybeds.Henry and his Adeline forgot in this delicious vale all their former sufferings, andgiving up their minds to the pleasing influenceof curiosity and wonder, they determined toexplore the place by tracing the windings ofthe stream. Scarcely had they entered uponthis plan, when music of the most ravishingsweetness filled the air, sometimes it seemed tofloat along the valley, sometimes it stole alongthe surface of the water, now it died awayamong the woods, and now, with deep andmellow symphony, it swelled upon the gale.Fixed in astonishment, they scarce ventured tobreathe, every sense, save that of hearing,seemed absorbed , and when the last faintwarblings melted on the air, they started fromthe spot, solicitous to know from what beingthose more than human strains had parted; butnothing appeared in view; the moon, full andunclouded, shone with unusual lustre; andfilled with hope, they again pursued the windings of the water, which, conducting to thenarrowest part of the valley , continued theircourse through the wood. This they enteredNO. XI. HOURS. 201by a path smooth, but narrow and perplexed,where, although its branches were so numerousthat no preference could be given, or any directroute long persisted in, yet every turn presented something to amuse, something tosharpen the edge of research. The beauty ofthe trees through whose interstices the moongleamed in the most pictoresque manner, theglimpses of the water, and the notes of thenightingale, who now began to fill the valleywith her song, were more than sufficient totake off the sense of fatigue, and they wanderedon, still eager to explore, still ardent for further discovery.The wood now became more thick andobscure, and at length almost dark, when thepath, taking suddenly an oblique direction,they found themselves on the edge of a circularlawn, whose tint and softness were beyondcompare, and which seemed to have beenlightly brushed by fairy feet. A number offine old trees, around whose boles crept theivy and the woodbine, rose at irregular distances, here they mingled into groves, andthere, separate and emulous of each other, viedt2 D202 LITERARY NO. XI.in spiral elegance, or magnitude ofform. Thewater, which had been for some time concealed, now murmured through a thousandbeds, and visiting each little flower, addedvigour to its vegetation, and poignancy to itsfragrance. Along the edges of the wood, andbeneath the shadows of the trees, an innumerable host of glow- worms lighted their innocuousfires, lustrous as the gems of Golconda, anddesirous yet longer to enjoy the scene, theywent forward with light footsteps on the lawn;all was calm, and, except the breeze of night,that sighed soft and sweetly through the worldof leaves, a perfect silence prevailed. Notmany minutes, however, had elapsed, beforethe same enchanting music, to which they hadlistened with so much rapture in the vale, againarrested their attention , and presently they discovered on the border of the lawn, just risingabove the wood, and floating on the bosom ofthe air, a being of the most delicate form;from his shoulders streamed a tunic of thetenderest blue, his wings and feet were clothedin downy silver, and in his grasp he had a wandwhite as the mountain snow. He rose swiftlyin the air, his brilliance became excessive fromNO. XI. HOURS. 203the lunar rays, his song echoed through thevault of night, but having quickly diminishedto the size and appearance ofthe evening star,it died away, and the next moment he was lostin ether. The lovers still fixed their view onthat part of the heavens where the vision haddisappeared, and shortly had the pleasure ofa*gain seeing the star-like radiance, which in aninstant unfolded itself into the full and finedimensions ofthe beauteous being, who, havingcollected dew from the cold vales of Saturn,now descended rapidly towards the earth, andwaving his wand as he passed athwart thewoods, a number of like form and garb flewround him, and all alighting on the lawn, separated at equal distances on its circumference,and then shaking their wings, which spread aperfume through the air, burst into one generalsong.Henry and Adeline who, apprehensive ofbeing discovered, had retreated within theshadow of some mossy oaks, now waited witheager expectation the event of so singular ascene. In a few moments a bevy of elegantnymphs dancing two by two, issued from the204 LITERARY NO. XI.wood on the right, and an equal number ofwarlike knights, accompanied by a band ofminstrels, from that on the left. The knightswere clothed in green; on their bosoms shonea plate of burnished steel, and in their handsthey grasped a golden targe, and lance ofbeamy lustre. The nymphs, whose form andsymetry were beyond the youthful poet'sdream, were dressed in robes of white, theirzones were azure dropt with diamonds, andtheir light brown hair decked with roses, hungin ample ringlets. So quick, so light, andairy was their motion, that the turf, the flowersshrunk not beneath the gentle pressure, andeach smiling on her favourite knight, he flunghis brilliant arms aside and mingled in thedance.Whilst they thus flew in rapid measuresover the lawn, the lovers, forgetting theirsituation, and impatient to salute the assembly,involuntarily stept forward, and instantaneouslya shrill and hollow gust of wind murmuredthrough the woods, the moon dipt into a cloud,and the knights, the nymphs, and aerial spiritsvanished from the view, leaving the astonishedNO. XI.. HOURS. 205pair to repent at leisure their precipitate intrusion; scarce, however, had they time to determine what plan they should pursue, when agleam of light flashed suddenly along the horizon, and the beauteous being whom they firstbeheld in the air, stood before them; he wavedhis snow-white wand, and pointing to the wood,which now appeared sparkling with a thousandfires, moved gently on. Henry and his amiable companion felt an irresistible impulsewhich compelled them to follow, and havingpenetrated the wood, they perceived manybright rays of light, which darting like thebeams of the sun through every part of it,most beautifully illumined the, shafts of thetrees. As they advanced forward, the radiancebecame more intense, and converged towardsa centre, and the fairy being turning quicklyround, commanded them to kneel down, andhaving squeezed the juice of an herb into theireyes, bade them now proceed, but that nomortal eye, unless its powers of vision wereadapted to the scene, could endure the glorythat would shortly burst upon them. Scarcelyhad he uttered these words when they enteredan amphitheatre; in its centre was a throne of206 LITERARY NO. XI.ivory inlaid with sapphires, on which sate afemale form of exquisite beauty, a plain coronet of gold obliquely crossed her flowing hair,and her robe of white satin hung negligent inample folds. Around her stood five andtwenty nymphs clothed in white and gold, andholding lighted tapers; beyond these were fiftyof the aerial beings, their wings of downy silverstretched for flight, and each a burning taperin his hand; and lastly, on the circumferenceof the amphitheatre shone one hundred knightsin mail of tempered steel, in one hand theyshook aloft a targe of massy diamond, and inthe other flashed a taper. So excessive wasthe reflection, that the targes had the lustre ofan hundred suns, and, when shaken, sent forthstreams of vivid lightning: from the gold, thesilver, and the sapphires rushed a flood oftinted light, that mingling threw upon the eyea series of revolving hues.Henry and Adeline, impressed with awe,with wonder and delight, fell prostrate on theground, whilst the fairy spirit advancing, kneltand presented to the queen a crystal vase. Sherose, she waved her hand, and smiling, badeNO. XI. HOURS. 207"shethem to approach. " Gentle strangers,exclaimed, " let not fear appal your hearts,for to them whom courage, truth, and pietyhave distinguished, our friendship and our loveare given. Spirits of the blest we are, oursweet employment to befriend the wretched andthe weary, to lull the torture of anguish, andthe horror of despair. Ah! never shall thetear of innocence, or the plaint of sorrow, thepang of injured merit, or the sigh of hopelesslove, implore our aid in vain. Upon themoon-beam do we float, and light as air, pervade the habitations of men, and hearken, Ofavoured mortals! I tell you spirits pure fromvice, are present to your inmost thoughts;when terror, and when madness, when spectresand when death surrounded you, our influenceput to flight the ministers of darkness; weplaced you in the moon-light vale, and nowupon your heads we pour the planetary dew:go, happy pair! from Hecate's dread agentswe have freed you, from wildering fear andgloomy superstition . "—She ended, and the lovers, impatient toexpress their gratitude, were about to speak,208 LITERARY NO. XI.when suddenly the light turned pale, and diedaway, the spirits fled, and music, soft andsweet, was heard remotely in the air. Theystarted, and, in place of the refulgent scene ofmagic, beheld a public road, Fitzowen's horsecropping the grass which grew upon its edge,and a village at a little distance , on whose spirethe rising sun had shed his earliest beams.NUMBER XII.Tale tuum carmen nobis, divine poeta,Quale sopor fessis in gramine—quale per æstumDulcis aquæ saliente sitim restinguere rivo.Virgil.This beautiful, but too much neglected poem,had ere this attracted the admiration it so justlymerits, had not the stern critique of Dr. Johnson intervened to blast its rising fame. Ajuster relish of the excellencies of poetry, anda more candid style of criticism, may be considered as characteristic of several of the firstliterary men of the present day, and but forthe harsh censure ofthe author ofthe Rambler,the pages of Dyer would now, perhaps, havebeen familiar to every lover and judge ofnervous and highly finished description . Asit is, however, they are seldom consulted, froman idea, that little worthy of applause, wouldgratify the enquirer. To remove, therefore,2 E210 LITERARY NO. XII.the prejudices which have been sown, and toplace before the reader some of the numerouspassages of the Fleece which are written inthe genuine spirit of poetry, form the purportof our paper.Johnson to occasional felicity of diction,great purity of moral, and energy of thought,united a very considerable portion of criticalacumen, and his Lives of Dryden and Pope,are noble specimens of his powers of discrimination; yet, notwithstanding this rare combination of striking qualities, he was deficient inthat sensibility to, and enthusiasm for thecharms of nature, in that relish for the simpleand pathetic, so absolutely necessary to justcriticism in poetry. To these defalcationswere superadded an unreasonable antipathy toblank verse, a constitutional ruggedness oftemper, and a bigotted, though well-meant,adhesion to some very extravagant politicaland religious tenets. His biographical detailshave suffered much from these peculiarities oftemper and oftaste, and a Milton, an Akenside,a Collins, a Dyer and a Gray, might upbraidthe Literary Dictator for his bitter and illiberalinvective, his churlish and parsimonious praise,his great and various misrepresentations.NO. XII. HOURS. 211To refute his strictures upon Dyer canprove a task of no very formidable kind, andmay restore to due rank a poem which containsavast variety of landscapes drawn and colouredin the most spirited and fascinating style." Of The Fleece," says our harsh critic,"which never became popular, and is nowuniversally neglected, I can say little that islikely to recall it to attention . The woolcomber and the poet appear to me such discordant natures, that an attempt to bring themtogether is to couple the serpent with the fowl.When Dyer, whose mind was not unpoetical,has done his utmost, by interesting his readerin our native commodity, by interspersingrural imagery and incidental digressions, byclothing small images in great words, and byall the writer's arts of delusion, the meannessnaturally adhering, and the irreverence habitually annexed to trade and manufacture, sinkhim under insuperable oppression; and thedisgust which blank verse, encumbering andencumbered, superadds to an unpleasing subject, soon repels the reader, however willingto be pleased."212 LITERARY NO. XII."Let me however honestly report whatevermay counterbalance this weight of censure.I have been told that Akenside, who, upon apoetical question, has a right to be heard, said," That he would regulate his opinion of thereigning taste by the fate of Dyer's Fleece, for,if that were ill received, he should not think itany longer reasonable to expect fame fromexcellence. "*In attending to these animadversions it may,in the first place, be observed, that few poeticalproductions of great and original merit everrapidly became favourites with the public.They, in general, require their more brilliant.passages to be developed and appreciated bymen of sound judgment and taste, before theycan be relished or understood bythe multitudeof those who read merely for amusem*nt, andwho possess, perhaps, no vigour of understanding, or power of selection , adequate to form ajust estimate for themselves. No great lengthof time had elapsed between the publication ofthe Fleece in 1757 and the critical effusionsof Johnson, and, if it be considered thatJohnson's Lives, Vol. iv. p. 321 ,NO. XII. HOURS. 213maydidactic poetry, as not immediately addressingthe passions, can never hope to vie with thedramatic in point of celerity of introduction,it be affirmed that a sufficient space hadnot been allowed for the acquisition of numerous admirers, when the Doctor passed sentenceupon the work, and thwarted its progresstowards public esteem. That it was universally neglected, however, at the period whenthe Biography of Johnson was published, is byno means the fact; Dr. Warton, perhaps thefirst of our critics, and whose merit Johnsonhas himselfacknowledged in the highest terms,has classed the Fleece, in every edition of hisEssay on Pope, among the excellent pieces ofthe didactic kind which the moderns haveproduced, and though, as we have alreadyobserved, its merits are not duly admitted,yet has it been occasionally quoted from theera of its publication to the present times, andeven a friend of our Biographer, Scott ofAmwell, has termed it the " noblest of didacticpoems." He who shall peruse the extractsfrom the Fleece appended to these observations, will hear, with no small indignation, thecritic asserting that he " can say little that islikely to recall it to attention . " Had the214 LITERARY NO. XII.beautiful passages selected for this sketch, andabout which, I should imagine, there can beno difference of opinion, been merely adducedin the pages of Johnson, the attention of everyman of taste and feeling had been fixed, andthe Doctor had been spared, perhaps, thetrouble and the reproach of censuring whatmust be pronounced excellent the moment itis known. I greatly suspect, however, thatthe work which is thus severely condemned,was little familiar to the critic, and had beenthrown aside, after a very cursory survey, withevery prejudice against the subject, and itsmode of versification. I cannot otherwiseaccount for a blindness so total toward someofthe finest specimens of descriptive poetry,To convey instruction in the garb of pleasure, is the aim of the didactic poet, and themore rugged and intractable the theme, thegreater skill and genius are required in smoothing its asperities, and in decorating it withflowers of choicest hue and odour. A difficulty removed affords no trivial delight, and indidactic poetry those bards have succeededbest who have chosen a subject neither tooelevated on the one hand, nor too mean andNO. XII. HOURS. 215despicable on the other. The Pleasures ofImagination excite expectations which are not,perhaps, fully gratified, whilst the poems ofLucretius and Virgil, and even the Syphilis ofFracastorius, and the Art of Preserving Healthof Armstrong, delight us with beauties whichcannot be anticipated, which seem the work ofenchantment, and possess a double fascinationfrom the grateful impulse of surprise. WhenDr. Johnson speaks of the discordance betweenthe wool-comber and the poet, he wouldinduce his readers to suppose that the employment of the former was the sole subject of thepoem under our consideration; but what mustbe their astonishment, on surveying the work,to discover that the labours ofthe loom occupybut a small portion of the third book! Inshort no theme, in this species of his art, seemsbetter adapted for the felicitous exertions ofthe poet than the one Dyer has chosen, and toshew how compleatly the learned biographerhas misrepresented the very nature ofthe poemhe was criticising, I shall briefly mention thechief topics of every book. The first isentirely employed in the breeding, tending andshearing of sheep, occupations intimately connected with all that is delightful in rural216 LITERARY NO. XIimagery, pastoral simplicity, and domesticenjoyment. The second describes the diversities and preservation of the Fleece; the countries in ancient and modern times esteemedfor wool; the history of the Argonantic expedition; the decay of arts and sciences; theirrevival at Venice; the discoveries of BishopBlaise; the dying of wool, and the advantagesand utility of trade. The opening of the thirdcontains a description of spinning, ofthe loom,and of weaving; then follow the praise ofcountry work-houses; a prospect of Burstaland Leeds; a history of the art of weaving, itsremoval from the Netherlands and settlementin England; an account of saracenic tapestry;a view of the arts and wealth of different countries; a view of the roads and rivers throughwhich our manufactures are conveyed; a comparison between our navigations and those ofother countries; a relation of the attempt tojoin the Nile and Red Sea, the Ocean andMediterranean through the medium of canals;an account of the union of the Trent andSevern with the Thames, and a view of theThames and of the Port of London. Thefourth displays a still more fertile field, for thepoet, in tracing the exportation of our manu-NO. XII. HOURS. 217factures, visits almost every part of the globe.Spain, the Mediterranean, the Baltic, Petersburg, the ancient and modern course to theIndies, Africa, Persia, Hindostan, the SpiceIslands and China are introduced and adornedwith various picturesque circ*mstances. Thejourney of the caravans also from Petersburgto Pekin, is related at considerable length, andabounds with many well-drawn and interestingscenes. A transition is then made to Northand South America, and the poem concludeswith some apposite reflections on the commerceand naval power of Great Britain.From this analysis it will be immediatelyperceived that Johnson has misled the public,that the idea he would insinuate is totally unfounded, and that few subjects can boast agreater variety of materials, or more calculatedfor poetic ornament than the Fleece.The next paragraph with which the Doctorhas favoured us contains a glaring inconsistency; after acknowledging that Dyer possesseda mind not unpoetical, he immediately adds,that he has also interested his reader in ournative commodity, that he has interspersed rural2 F218 LITERARY NO. XII.imagery and incidental digressions, yet, notwithstanding this extorted encomium, thesucceeding words give the extraordinary information, that although the reader be interestedin our native commodity, he is, neverthelessdisgusted and repelled by the subject, howeverwilling to be pleased, and that even the poethimself sinks under insuperable oppressionfromthe meanness and irreverence habitually annexedto it.Now, to interest the reader in the subject,to intersperse rural imagery, and incidentaldigressions, is the very definition of excellencein didactic poetry, and how the poet who hasdone this, can, at the same time, disgust andrepel his reader, or himself sink under insuperable oppression, appears to me a mostinexplicable position. The truth is, the meanness and irreverence are of Johnson's owncreation, for the outline of the work includes,as we have seen, especially in the last book,more splendid and magnificent scenery thanwere ever before attached to any didactic poem.When the Doctor accuses Dyer of clothingsmall images in great words, he has assuredlyNO. XII. HOURS. 19mistaken the character of his diction, which,for purity, simplicity, and freedom frombombast, is, perhaps, one of our first models.Nothing tumid, nothing in his phraseology toogreat for the occasion, can, I think, be discovered in the Fleece. In those parts whichare most purely preceptive, the language isplain, yet elegant, but never so elevated as tothrow an air of burlesque over the subject.From the digressional portion of the poem,where diction more lofty and elaborate couldbe used with propriety, I shall be able to selectsome passages which are truly sublime, andseveral which are justly entitled to the epithetspathetic and descriptive.As to the encumberance of blank verse, itis well known that Johnson, owing, perhaps,to the failure of the only attempt he made inthat species of versification, held it in utteraversion, and, in general, thought a poem hada claim to little mercy when clothed in thisforbiddeng dress. In reviewing the works ofDyer this unhappy prejudice has operated withits wonted force, and has precluded the perception of beauties, which, had they been220 LITERARY NO. XII.enveloped in rhyme, would, without doubt,powerfully have arrested his attention.The blank verse, however, of Dyer calls fordecided approbation; its style of compositionis rich and unbroken, and its tones, in general,sweet and varied.Much as I enjoy themelody of Pope and Goldsmith, I am clearlyconvinced that in epic and didactic poetry, themore solemn, dignified and plastic strains ofblank verse should ever be the poet's choice.The candid relation which the Doctor hasgiven of Akenside's opinion, should, however,mitigate the indignation which every lover ofelegant literature must feel in witnessing a poemso noble in its structure and execution bornedown by the weight of unjustifiable censure.Akenside was an adequate judge of the beauties or defects ofthe Fleece; his own versification is peculiarly harmonious, and he hadstudied in the same school of painting with thepoet he applauds, or in other words, his sceneryis much in the style of Dyer. There is, however, somewhat of elaboration and stiffness inthe blank verse of Akenside which is not discoverable in the versification of Dyer.NO. XII. HOURS. 221Though from motives of justice, from awishto rescue a genuine bard from the unmerited severity of his prejudiced Biographer, Ihave endeavoured to controvert the stricturesof Dr. Johnson, the attempt has been conducted, I trust, without the smallest petulance,or arrogance. No man can entertain a higheridea of Johnson's intellectual powers as a Lexicographer, a Teacher and a Moralist thanmyself; but poetical criticism was not his province, and though in point of style, his Livesbe superior perhaps to any of his precedingcompositions, they are infinitely more disgracedby the inexorable partialities of the man.following character of Johnson, written by acritic of true taste and acknowledged ability,strikes me as so discriminative, so accordant,for the most part, with my own opinion, that Ishall close these observations on the stricturesofour great Philologer by quoting it at length." If a vigorous understanding, a comprehensiveknowledge, and a capacity of sound judgment,were sufficient qualifications for a work ofgenuine criticism, no man was ever better furnished than he for such an undertaking; but acertain inelegance of taste, a frigid churlishnessof temper, unsubdued and unqualified by thatThe222 LITERARY NO. XII.melting sensibility, that divine enthusiasm ofsoul, which are essential to a hearty relish ofpoetical composition; and, above all, an invidious depravity of mind, warped by the mostunmanly prejudices, and operating in an unrelenting antipathy to cotemporary merit, toooften counteracted and corrupted the othervirtues of his intellect. Nor am I under anyapprehension of being charged with an unjustifiable partiality in this opinion of him, when Imake no scruple to declare, that, notwithstanding some very exceptionable passages, infinitelydisgraceful both to his understanding and hisheart, I esteem his Lives of the English Poetsto be the noblest specimen of entertaining andsolid criticism , that modern times have produced; well worthy of ranking on the sameshelfwith the most distinguished ofthe ancients,Aristotle and Quintilian."*VDyerhad, in the early part of his life, eagerlyembraced the art of painting; he had imbibedthe enthusiasm of the celebrated Richardson,under whom he had placed himself for instruction, and, on leaving his roof, rambled throughWakefield's Notes on Gray, p. 18.NO. XI. NOURS. 223South Wales sketching the romantic and pastoral scenery of that delightful province. Notcontent, however, with the progress he hadmade in this island, he determined on a voyageto Italy, where, besides studying the inestimableremains of Antiquity, and the best productionsof the greatest modern masters, he was accustomed to spend whole days in the country.about Florence and Rome, transferring topaper the pictoresque beauties so profuselyscattered over that classic soil.To this attachment to, and practice ofpainting, which, though he afterwards assumed theclerical profession, continued through life, weowe that accuracy, fertility and warmth ofdescription so conspicuous in all his poems.His Grongar Hill, his Ruins of Rome, and hisFleece, present a series of views not given inthe usual florid and unmeaning style, butfaithful to nature, and possessing an individuality which strongly interests.In every poem oflength, but more especiallyin one whose professed end is to instruct, astrict attention to method is essential. Aluminous arrangement of facts, with apposite224 LITERARY NO. XII.inference and deduction, ought to be as muchan object of attainment in a didactic poem asin a didactic essay in prose, and, happily, theproduction we are now reviewing, is as remarkable for a proper disposition and elucidationof all its various parts, as for its exquisiteimagery and appropriate ornament. The fourbooks of the Fleece are, in short, the fourexact stages of the progress of an useful andnational occupation, and the care of sheep,the preparation of wool, the labours of theloom, and the exportation ofthe manufacture,follow in a just and natural order.Having now terminated the preliminaryremarks I shall proceed to adduce such passages as may enable the reader to judgewhether the encomium passed upon the workhas been properly founded. Speaking of thedifferent pastures for sheep, the poet inculcatesthe necessity of avoiding the shelter of numerous trees, and of clearing the ground of thorns,furze and briars, and exemplifies the utility ofso doing by the relation of a fact which isclosed with an exquisite picture of rural anddomestic felicity.NO. XII. HOURS.225-I knew a careful swain,Who gave them to the crackling flames, and spreadTheir dust saline upon the deep'ning grassAnd oft with labour- strengthen'd arm he delv'dThe draining trench across his verdant slopes,To intercept the small meandering rillsOfupper hamlets: haughty trees, that sourThe shaded grass , that weaken thorn- set mounds,And harbour villain crows, he rare allow'd:Only a slender tuft of useful ash,And mingled beech and elm, securely tall,The little smiling cottage warm embow'r'd;The little smiling cottage, where at eveHe meets his rosy children at the door,Prattling their welcomes, and his honest wife,With good brown cake and bacon slice, intentTo cheer his hunger after labour hard .Book i.The pathetic simplicity ofthe following linesimpress us with a high idea of the author'sgoodness of heart, whilst the sweetness oftheversification, and the beauty of the expressiondo him equal honour as a poet.Ah gentle shepherd, thine the lot to tend,Of all, that feel distress, the most assail'd,Feeble, defenceless: lenient be thy care:2 G226 LITERARY NO. XII.But spread around thy tend'rest diligenceIn flow'ry spring-time, when the new dropt lamb,Tott'ring with weakness by his mother's side,Feels the fresh world about him; and each thorn ,Hillock or furrow, trips his feeble feet:O guard his meek sweet innocence from allTh' innumerous ills , that rush around his life;Mark the quick kite, with beak and talons prone,Circling the skies to snatch him from the plain;Observe the lurking crows, beware the brake,There the sly fox the careless minute waits;Nor trust thy neighbour's dog, nor earth, nor sky:Thy bosom to a thousand cares divide.Eurus oft slings his hail; the tardy fieldsPay not their promis'd food; and oft the damO'er her weak twins with empty udder mourns,Or fails to guard, when the bold bird of preyAlights, and hops in many turns around ,And tires her also turning: to her aidBe nimble, and the weakest, in thine arms,Gently convey to the warm cote, and oft,Between the lark's note and the nightingale'sHis hungry bleating still with tepid milk:In this soft office may thy children join,And charitable actions learn in sport.Nor yield him to himself, ere vernal airsSprinkle thy little croft with daisy flow'rs:Nor yet forget him: life has rising ills.B. i.NO. XII. HOURS. 227Lucretius is here very happily imitated, theartubus infirmis of that poet being not onlytranslated, but accompanied with additionalimagery, and, toward the conclusion , the ideaof teaching charity to the children by theirfeeding the little lamb, carries with it everymoral charm .That the english shepherd may more keenlyenjoy the blessings of his temperate clime, theauthor has contrasted them with the severity ofthe polar regions, the dangers of a more fervidsky, and the wandering life of the ArabianHerdsman. Virgil in his Georgics, and Thom-,son in his Summer and Winter, have hadrecourse to similar expedients, and have givenus extended descriptions of the polar andtropical parts of the globe, yet, notwithstandingthis anticipation , Dyer has finished his pieceswith several original and masterly touches, andthe Arabian scene, a picture perfectly his own,is of great value. This, and the northern landscape I shall now transcribe.With grateful heart, ye British swains, enjoyYour gentle seasons and indulgent clime.Lo, in the sprinkling clouds, your bleating hillsRejoice with herbage, while the horrid rage228 LITERARY NO. XII.Of winter irresistible o'erwhelmsTh' Hyperborean tracts; his arrowy frosts,That pierce through flinty rocks, the Lappian flies;And burrows deep beneath the snowy world;Adrear abode, from rose diffusing hours,That dance before the wheels of radiant day,Far, far remote; where, by the squalid lightOf fœtid oil inflam'd, sea monster's spume,Or fir- wood, glaring in the weeping vault,Twice three slow gloomy months, with various illsSullen he struggles; such the love of life!His lank and scanty lerds around him press,As, hunger-stung, to gritty meal he grindsThe bones of fish, or inward bark of trees,Their common sustenance.B. i.In this strongly featured sketch, the poet,perhaps, has given too gloomy a delineation.Though, in the eyes of the British shepherd,the Laplander seem deprived of every comfortof life, yet no being possesses greater independence, or is more satisfied with the pleasureshe obtains. Thomson has given a more cheerful view ofthese simple people, and terms thema "thrice happy race." " No farmer in themilder countries of Europe can more rejoiceat viewing his meadows cloathed with cheerfulgreen, than the Laplander at the sight of hisNO. XI. HOURS. 229dreary moors whitened over with the vegetablewhich is to be the sustenance of his herd. Inthese wild solitudes he passes day and night,abroad, in the bitterest inclemency of the seasons, securely wrapped in garments suppliedby his faithful Rein-deer; the milk and fleshof which is his principal food, and the numberhis only riches. This is the pastoral life inLapland; A striking contrast indeed to thatin the soft climates of Arcadia and Sicily; yetnot without its charms to the simple native,nor unprovided with subjects for descriptivepoetry. "* The celebrated Linneus appears tohave been greatly struck with the unsophisticated life of these virtuous savages, and, in hisFlora Lapponica, has introduced a passage, illustrative of their modes of existence,written with an elegance and an energy notusually discoverable in his productions: " Ofelix Lappo! qui in ultimo angulo mundi sicbene lates contentus et innocens. Tu nectimes annonæ charitatem, nec Martis prælia,quæ ad oras tuas pervenire nequeunt, sedflorentissimas Europæ provincias et urbes,

• Aikin's Essay on the Application of Natural

History to Poetry, p. 144.230 LITERARY NO. XII.unico momento, sæpe dejiciunt delent. Tudormis hic sub tuâ pelle ab omnibus curis,contentionibus, rixis liber, ignorans quid sitinvidia. Tu nulla nosti nisi tonantis Jovisfulmina. Tu ducis innocentissimos tuos annosultra centenarium numerum cuni facili senectute et summâ sanitate . Te latent myriadesmorborum nobis Europæis communes. Tuvivis in sylvis, avis instar, nec sem*ntem facis,nec metis, tamen alit te Deus optimus optime.Tua ornamenta sunt tremula arborum folia,graminosique luci. Tuus potus aqua crystallineæ pelluciditatis, quæ nec cerebrum insaniâadficit, nec strumas in Alpibus tuis producit.Cibus tuus est vel verno tempore piscis recens,vel æstivo serum lactis, vel autumnali tetrao,vel hiemali, caro recens rangiferina absque saleet pane, singulâ vice unico constans ferculo,edis, dum securus e lecto surgis, dumque eumpetis, nec nosti venena nostra, quæ latent subdulci melli. Te non obruit scorbutus, necfebris intermittens, nec obesitas, nec podagra,fibroso gaudes corpore et alacri, animoquelibera. O sancta innocentia, estne hic tuusthronus inter Faunos in summo septentrione,inque vilissimâ habita terra? numne sic præfersstragula hæc betulina mollibus serico tectisNO. XII. HOURS 231 .plumis? Sic etiam credidere veteres, necmale."The Arabians have been shepherds from theearliest ages of the world, and have preservedtheir manners and customs, their liberty anddominion, with an uniformity and successwhich partake almost of the miraculous.Their independent simplicity of life, and thecontinual migration of their tribes, have furnished their native poets with many pictoresqueand interesting descriptions. In our owncountry some attempts have been made tointroduce arabian imagery into the eclogue,but we seldom meet with it in poetry of ahigher cast. Dyer however has appositelyinterwoven into his Fleece a most delightfulpicture of these wandering people.The weary Arabs roam from plain to plain,Guiding the languid herd in quest of food;And shift their little home's uncertain sceneWith frequent farewell: strangers, pilgrims all,As were their fathers. No sweet fall of rainMay there be heard: nor sweeter liquid lapseOf river, o'er the pebbles gliding byIn murmurs: goaded by the rage of thirst,Daily they journey to the distant clefts232 LITERARY NO. XII.Of craggy rocks, where gloomy palms o'erhangThe ancient wells, deep sunk by toil immense,Toil of the patriarchs, with sublime intentThemselves and long posterity to serve.There, at the public hour of sultry noon,They share the bev'rage, when to wat'ring come,And grateful umbrage, all the tribes around,And their lean flocks, whose various bleatings fillThe echoing caverns: then is absent none,Fair nymph or shepherd, each inspiring eachTo wit, and song, and dance, and active feats;In the same rustic scene, where Jacob wonFair Rachel's bossom , when a rock's vast weightFrom the deep dark-mouth'd well his strengthremov'd,And to her circling sheep refreshment gave.B. i.The first book concludes with a descriptionof the rural festivities at a sheep- shearing onthe banks of the Severn.Beneath each blooming arbour all is joyAnd lusty merriment: while on the grassThe mingled youth in gaudy circles sport,We think the golden age again return'd,And all the fabled Dryades in dance.Leering they bound along, with laughing air,To the shrill pipe, and deep remurm'ring cordsOf th' ancient harp, or tabor's hollow sound.NO. XII. 233 HOURS.While the old apart, upon a bank reclin'd,Attend the tuneful carol, softly mixtWith every murmur of the sliding wave,And ev'ry warble of the feather'd choir;Music of paradise! which still is heard,When the heart listens..B. i.The close of these lines is pre-eminently.beautiful. A song, which displays someelegantly moral and rural imagery, is now sungby two shepherds, and the young men andmaidens, according to a custom in Wales,sprinkle the river with flowers. After thecelebration of these rites they retire to a banquet, which is thus described:-now the mossy bankIs gaily circled, and the jolly chearDispers'd in copious measure; early fruits,And those of frugal store, in husk or rind,Steep'd grain, and curdled milk with dulcet creamSoft temper'd, in full merriment they quaff,And cast about their gibes; and some apaceWhistle to roundelays: their little onesLook on delighted: while the mountain woods,And winding vallies, with the various notesOf pipe, sheep, kine, and birds, and liquid brooks,2 II234 LITERARY NO. XII.Unite their echoes: near at hand the wideMajestic wave of Severn slowly rollsAlong the deep- divided glebe: the flood,And trading bark with low contracted sail,Linger amongthe reeds and copsy banksTo listen, and to view the joyous scene.B. i.The whole of this first book may be considered as a kind of extended pastoral, interspersed with precepts relative to the rearingand tending of sheep. I know not, in therange of poetry, a subject more pregnant withall that is lovely in landscape, or engaging insimplicity of manners and sentiment.NUMBER XIII.tu nobisSuppeditas præcepta, tuisque ex chartisFloriferis ut apes in saltibus omnia limant,Omnia nos itidem depascimur aurea dicta,Aurea, perpetua semper dignissima vita.Lucretius.The second and third books of the Fleecehave not the advantage of a theme quite soinviting as the first, but the poet has taken careto adorn them with a variety of episodic parts,some of which will be ranked among thechoicest products of the muse.After noting the superiority of the combingwool of this island , the author expresses himselfanxious to prevent its fraudulent exportation; then, alluding to his clerical profession,he closes the passage with a precept of the236 LITERARY NO. XIII.purest morality, and delivered in a styleremarkably chaste and perspicuous.For me, ' tis time to pray, that men regardTheir occupations with an honest heart,And cheerful diligence: like the useful bee,To gather for the hive not sweets alone,But wax, and each material; pleas'd to findWhate'er may sooth distress , and raise the fall'n,In life's rough race: O be it as my wish!—For this, I wake the weary hours of rest;With this desire, the merchant I attend;Bythis impell'd, the shepherd's hut I seek,And, as he tends his flock, his lectures hearAttentive, pleas'd with pure simplicity,And rules divulg'd beneficent to sheep:Or turn the compass o'er the painted chart,To mark the ways of traffic; Volga's stream,Cold Hudson's cloudy streights, warm Afric's cape,Latium's firm roads, the Ptolemean fosse,And China's long canals; those noble works,Those high effects of civilizing trade,Employ me, sedulous of public weal:Yet not unmindful of my sacred charge;Thus also mindful, thus devising good,At vacant seasons, oft; when evening mildPurples the vallies, and the shepherd countsHis flock, returning to the quiet fold,With dumb complacence: for Religion, this,NO. XIII. HOURS. 237To give our ev'ry comfort to distress ,And follow virtue with an humble mind;This pure Religion.B. ii .The very impressive termination of thesefine lines is a copy from the last verse of thefirst chapter of the General Epistle of James;a verse which, for beauty of diction, fortenderness of precept, and moral, must be dearalike to virtue and to taste. " Pure religion,and undefiled before God and the Father, isthis, To visit the fatherless and widows intheir affliction, and to keep himself unspottedfrom the world. ".If the latter part of the ensuing quotation benot an instance of the true sublime, I mustconfess myself totally ignorant of its nature.The passage in Italics conveys to my mind,images truly magnificent and great.The powerful sunHot India's zone with gaudy pencil paints ,And drops delicious tints o'er hill and dale,Which Trade to us conveys. Not tints alone,Trade to the good physician gives his balms;Gives cheering cordials to th' afflicted heart;238 LITERARY NO. XIII.Gives, to the wealthy, delicacies high;Gives, to the curious, works of nature rare;And whenthe priest displays, in just discourse,Him, the all-wise Creator, and declaresHis presence, power, and goodness, unconfin'd,'Tis Trade, attentive voyager, who fillsHis lips with argument. To censure Trade,Or hold her busy people in contempt,Let none presume, --for theyThe clearest sense of Deity recieve,Who view the widest prospect of his works,Ranging the globe with trade thro ' various climes:Who see the signature of boundless love,Nor less the judgments of Almighty Power,That warn the wicked, and the wretch who ' scapesFrom human justice: who, astonish'd viewEtna's loud thunders and tempestuous fires;The dust of Cartharge; desert shores of Nile;Or Tyre's abandoned sum nit, crown'd of oldWith stately towr's; whose merchants, from theirisles,And radiant thrones, assembled in her marts;Whither Araba, whither Kedar, broughtTheir shaggy goats, their flocks, and bleating lambs;Where rich Damascus pil'd his fleeces white,Prepar'd and thirsty for the double tint ,And flow'ring shutt e . While th' admiring worldCrowded her streets; ah! then the hand ofprideSow'd imperceptible his poisonous weed,NO. XIII. HOURS. 239Which crept destructive up her lofty domes,As ivy creeps around the graceful trunkOfsome tall oak. Her lofty domes no more,Not ev'n the ruins ofher pomp remain,Not ev'n the dust they sunk in; by the breathOfthe Omnipotent offended hurl'dDown to the bottom ofthe stormy deep.B. ii.The five concluding lines of this extract mayvie with any in English poetry; their construction is bold and striking, and the last line butone peculiarly forcible in its expression.In treating ofthe different methods of spinning the poet observes that many yet adhere tothe use of the ancient distaff, which, beingfixed to the bosom, the spindle is cast as theperson walks.This was of old, in no inglorious days,The mode of spinning, when th' Egyptian princeAgolden distaff gave that beauteous nymph,Too beauteous Helen; no uncourtly giftThen; when each gay diversion of the fairLed to ingenious use.B. iii.240 LITERARY NO. XIII.This useful little machine has been likewiseimmortalised in the twenty- eighth Idyllium ofTheocritus, which, accompanied with the present of an ivory distaff, is addressed to theWife of Nicias, a Milesian Physician, and theintimate friend of the poet. It is, perhaps, themost interesting piece in the collection of theSicilian, and places the character of Theugenisin every amiable and domestic light. Thesensibility and affectionate esteem which illumine every line of this elegant productioninduce me to insert a portion of it in the versionof Mr. Polwhele. Theocritus, conveying hisinstructive gift, invokes Minerva, the patronessof the Woof, to transport him safe to thetowers of Nileus:Thither we ask fair winds to waft us o'er,That Nicias, by the sweet-ton'd Graces blest,Their hallow'd offspring, may with letter'd lore,.And friendly converse charm his welcome guest.Thee Distaff, thee of polish'd ivory fram'd,I bear, meet present to his lovely wife:So shall her frugal industry be fam'd,The genuine model of domestic life; —Nor would I bear thee, Distaff, to the dome.Where dissipation reigns, and idle mirth;NO. XIII. HOURS. 241Thee who, amidst Sicilia's pasture bloom,Tracest to Archia's city-walls thy birth,A happier mansion be thy lot to gain,Where lives my friend, whose health-restoring aidLulls with salubrious balms the throbs of pain,And guards Miletus' sons from Pluto's shade.Thus shall thy fair possessor rise in fame,By thee recall to mind her tuneful guest;And many a one, that marks thee, shall exclaim," Though but a trivial favour be possest," Tis for the giver's sake the gift we boast,66 And what a friend bestows we value most!About the period of the publication of theFleece, Work-houses for the poor had beenrecommended, and erected in several of themercantile parts of the kingdom, as Bristol,Birmingham, &c. &c. On these noble institutions, which every friend to humanity wouldwish to see conducted upon a scale of stillgreater utility and extension, our worthy author, whose heart expands with delight at theprospect of the happiness they are likely todiffuse, bestows unqualified praise, and exhortsthe pauper, in the following energetic strains,to avail himself of the offered blessing.!2 I242 LITERARY NO. XIII.-Ho, ye poor , who seek,Among the dwellings of the diligent,For sustenance unearn'd; who stroll abroadFrom house to house, with mischievous intent,Feigning misfortune: Ho, ye lame, ye blind;Ye languid limbs, with real want oppress'd,Who tread the rough highways and mountains wild,Through storms, and rains, and bitterness of heart;Ye children of affliction, be compell'dTo happiness: the long-wish'd day- light dawns,When charitable rigour shall detainYour step-bruis'd feet. Ev'n now the sons of trade,Where-e'er their cultivated hamlets smile,Erect the mansion: here soft fleeces shine;The card awaits you, and the comb, and wheel:Here shroud you from the thunder of the storm;No rain shall wet your pillow: here aboundsPure bev'rage; here your viands are prepar'd;To heal each sickness the physician waits,And priest entreats to give your Maker praise.B. iii.The celebration of Rivers has ever been afavorite topic with the poets; and Spenser,Drayton, Milton and Pope have vied witheach other, and the ancients, in descriptions ofthis kind. Neither the Scamander of Homer,the Tiber of Virgil, nor the Aufidus of Horace,have received more lavish praise than the Trent,NO. XIII. HOURS. 243the Severn and the Thames. With a view ofthe latter and its chief port terminates the thirdbook of the Fleece; the poet, however, intracing the progress of his manufacture throughthe country, in its way to the sea, has given abeautiful delineation of various smaller, thoughequally romantic streams, and the passage weare about to quote, especially in its close , will ,with the judicious critic, possess merit of noinferior kind. After noticing the public roadsalong which the labours of the loom must pass,the author says, they-thence exploreThrough ev'ry navigable wave, the sea,That laps the green earth round: thro' Tyne, andTees,Thro' Weare and Lune, and merchandising Hull,And Swale, and Aire, whose chrystal waves reflectThe various colours of the tinctur'd web;Thro Ken, swift rolling down his rocky dale,Like giddy youth impetuous, then at WickCurbing his train, and, with the sober paceOf cautious eld, meand'ring to the deep;Thro' Dart, and sullen Exe, whose murm'ring waveEnvies the Dune and Rother, who have wonThe serge and kersie to their blanching streams;Through Towy, winding under Merlin's tow'rs,And Usk, that frequent , among hoary rocks,244 LITERARY NO. XIII.On her deep waters paints th' impending scene,Wild torrents, craggs, and woods, and mountainsnows.B. iii.The fourth book offers such a multiplicityof passages worthy of selection, that, were wenot necessarily limited by the nature of ourwork, many sheets might be occupied in unfolding its beauties. The reader, however,must be contented with a few specimens,which are intended rather to allure him to theperusal of the entire poem than to satisfy hiscuriosity..Sea views make a conspicuous figure in thefirst-rate productions of some of the first poets;the Odyssey and the Æneid abound withthem , but the Lusiad of Camöens has, in thisspecies of painting, far excelled the boastedefforts of antiquity . Its storms and calms aredrawn with a spirit and precision which evenVandervelt has not exceeded. Among ourselves the Shipwreck of Falconer may bementioned with applause, and the lately published poem of Mr. Bidlake, entitled The Sea,has claims to considerable notice. Dyer, also,in this part of his Fleece, has presented us withNO. XIII. HOURS. 245some beautiful' sea pieces of the tranquil kind;two of these demand quotation.-In pleasing care the pilot steersSteady; with eye intent upon the steel ,Steady, before the breeze, the pilot steers:While gaily o'er the waves the mountain prowsDance, like a shoal of dolphins, and beginTo streak with various paths the hoary deep.-The fluctuating world of waters wide,-and nowIn boundless magnitude, around them swells;O'er whose imaginary brim, nor towns,Nor woods, nor mountain tops, nor aught appears,But Phoebus' orb, refulgent lamp of light,Millions of leagues aloft: heav'n's azure vaultBends over-head, majestic, to its baseUninterrupted, clear circumference;Till, rising o'er the flick' ring waves, the capeOf Finisterre, a cloudy spot, appears.B. iv.The turn upon the words, at the commencement of these lines, has a pleasing effect; Milton has frequently and judiciously made useof the same ornament, which, if it be not tooostentatiously employed, will ever delight.The latter part of the extract is an example ofthat calm sublimity which elevates and expands246 LITERARY NO. XIII.the mind without exciting the passions, oroccasioning the smallest tumult or agitation.A portion of the following description hasever been considered as an admirable instanceof the adaptation of the sound to the sense;and though, in many cases, this beauty beperfectly imaginary, in the present, I think, itwill be allowed, as far as possible, to have beenexemplified.See, through the fragrance of delicious airs ,That breathe the smell of balms, how traffic shapesA winding voyage, by the lofty coastOf Sofala, thought Ophir, in whose hillsEv'n yet some portion of its ancient wealthRemains, and sparkles in the yellow sandOf its clear streams, though unregarded now;Ophirs more rich are found . With easy courseThe vessels glide; unless their speed be stopp'dBy dead calms, that oft lie on those smooth seasWhile ev'ry zephyr sleeps: then the shrouds drop;The downyfeather, on the cordage hung,Moves not; theflat sea shines like yellow gold,Fus'd in thefire; or like the marblefloorOfsome old temple wide. But where so wideIn old or later time, its marble floorDid ever temple boast as this, which hereNO. XII. HOURS. 247Spreads its bright level many a league around?At solemn distances its pillars rise,Sofala's blue rocks, Mozambic's palmy steeps,And lofty Madagascar's glittering shores.B. iv.The infamous slave-trade meets, as it justlydeserves, the poet's reprobation. At a timewhen this indelible blot upon our species hadnot been rendered so conspicuous for itsatrocity as lately it hath been, through thewell-directed efforts of the good and wise,our amiable author viewed it with indignantabhorrence: surveying the coast of Guinea heexclaims:-The tradeAlong this barb'rous coast, in telling woundsThe gen'rous heart, the sale of wretched slaves;-wickedness is blind!vengeance executeTheir sable chieftains may in future timesBurst their frail bonds, andOn cruel unrelenting pride of heartAnd av'rice. There are ills to come for crimes!B. iv.No British Bard, however, on this subject,has equalled the nervous language of Dr. Dar-248 LITERARY NO. XIII.win, who, in his Botanic Garden, in lines,which, for strength of imagery and energy ofappeal, excite the warmest admiration, thusproclaims the miseries of violated humanity:Hark! heard ye not that piercing cry,Which shook the waves and rent the sky!—E'en now, e'en now, on yonder Western shoresWeeps pale Despair, and writhing Anguish roars:E'en now in Afric's groves with hideous yellFierce Slavery stalks , and slips the dogs of hell;From vale to vale the gathering cries rebound,And sable nations tremble at the sound! -Ye Bands of Senators! whose suffrageswaysBritannia's realms, whom either Ind obeys;Who right the injur'd, and reward the brave,Stretch your strong arm, for ye have power to save!Thron'd in the vaulted heart, his dread resort,Inexorable Conscience holds his court;With still small voice the plots of Guilt alarms,Bares his mask'd brow, his lifted hand disarms;But, wrapp'd in night with terrors all his own,He speaks in thunder, when the deed is done.Hear him, ye Senates! hear this truth sublime," HE WHO ALLOWS OPPRESSION , SHARESTHE CRIME. ” *Botanic Garden, p. 131.NO. XIII. HOURS. 249To tyrants of every species Dyer was adetermined foe, and seizes every opportunity,not only of lashing these brutalisers of mankind, but of praising the mild constitution andlaws of his native country. Many diffusiveinstances of this patriotism might be selected,but the introduction of Britain at the close ofthe following quotation, when mentioning theports of Surat, Goa and Bombay is so strikingly beautiful, and in so concise yet in soforcible a manner interests our feelings, that Igive it the preference to more elaborate detail.But what avails , or many ports or few?Where wild ambition frequent from his lairStarts up; while fell revenge and famine leadTo havoc, reckless of the tyrant's whip,Which clanks along the vallies: oft in vainThe merchant seeks upon the strand, whom erst ,Associated by trade he deck'd and cloath'd;In vain, whom rage or famine has devour'd,He seeks; and with encreas'd affection thinks .On Britain..B. iv.The route of the trading caravans fromPetersburgh to Pekin next leads the poetthrough a vast variety of nations differing2 K250LITERARYNO. XIII.essentially in their manners, customs and climate, and he has happily availed himself ofthese particulars in many a sketch of animateand inanimate nature. On their leaving ontheright the flowery realms bordering on the Caspian Lake, he recollects, with sorrow, they are-The hauntOf arbitrary rule, where regions wideAre destin'd to the sword; and on each handRoads hung with carcases, or under footThick strewn; while in their rough bewilder'd vales,The blooming rose its fragrance breathes in vain,And silver fountains fall, and nightingalesAttune their notes where none are left to hear.B. iv.The tenderly-pleasing thought in these lastfour lines has been a great favorite with ourpoets, thus Pope:Like roses that in deserts bloom and die.Rape of the Lock, iv. 157.a similar idea is met with in Thomson andGray:realms unknown, and blooming wilds,And fruitful deserts, worlds of solitude,NO. XIII. HOURS. 251Where the sun smiles, and seasons teem in vain,Unseen and unenjoyed.Summer, 847.Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,And waste its sweetness on the desert air.Elegy, v. 55.Dyer's description is, after all, perhaps, themost full and pathetic.In passing through the territory of the OstiacTartars, a people immersed in the most savagebarbarism, and indolent to an extreme, theauthor expatiates on their wretched state.-Miserable tribeVoid of commercial comforts: who, nor corn,Nor pulse, nor oil, nor heart- enliv'ning wine,Know to procure; nor spade, nor scythe, nor share,Nor social aid: beneath their thorny bedThe serpent hisses, while in thickets nighLoud howls the hungry wolf.B. ivAfter this bold and animated passage heimmediately proceeds to mark the further progress of the caravans, and presents us with apiece of scenery whose chief features are thoseof mingled terror and sublimity.252 LITERARY NO. XIII.So on they fare,And pass by spacious lakes, begirt with rocks.And azure mountains; and the heights admireOf white Imaus, whose snow-nodding craggsFrighten the realms beneath, and from their urnsPour mighty rivers down, th' impetuous streamsOf Oby, and Irtis , and Jenisca swift,Which rush upon the northern pole upheaveIts frozen seas, and lift their hills of ice.B. iv.Were it necessary many more quotations ofequal beauty with the preceding, might begiven, for I may justly say, there is scarce apage in the whole poem, but what conveys,directly, or indirectly, some interesting sentiment, or illustrative imagery; even in the mostdidactic parts, the close ofa paragraph generallyintroduces a picture which rivets attention, andthrows such a glow of animation over theprecept, that he must be fastidious indeed, whois not delighted with the poet's art. Two orthree ofthese miniature sketchings, as furnishing a strong idea of the author's mode ofembellishing the dryest portions of his subject,I shall now transcribe. Treating of the different value of the fleeces, he mentions thosewhich have been injured by the moth, andobservesNO. XIII. HOURS. 253Our ancestorsSelected such for hospitable bedsTo rest the stranger, or the gory chief,From battle or the chase of wolves return'd.Bii.The cotton groves of India he remarks produce mere luxuries, mere " gauds and dressesof fantastic web, "-but our kinder toilsGive cloathing to necessity; keep warmTh' unhappy wand'rer, on the mountain wildBenighted, while the tempest beats around.B. iii.He advises the merchant to neglect not eventrifles, for that from highly-finished labour,they are frequently held in great estimation.Nor what the peasant, near some lucid wave,Pactolus, Simöis, or Meander slow,Renown'd in story, with his plow upturns,Neglect; the hoary medal, and the vase,Statue and bust, of old magnificenceBeautiful reliques!B. iv.Inculcating the necessity of varying themerchandise according to the varied modes and254 LITERARY NO. XI11.wants of mankind, he enforces his precept withthis among other instances:Nor frequent are the freights of snow- white woofs,Since Rome, no more the mistress of the world,Varies her garb, and treads her darken'd streetsWith gloomy cowl, majestical no more.B. iv.Such is the poem which the tasteless criticismof Dr. Johnson has contributed to plunge intoneglect.The exquisite specimens however, which wehave now brought forward, will, it is to behoped, induce many readers of the LiteraryHours to pay due attention to the volume ofDyer; they will find it written in a true classical style, and with several happy imitations ofthe ancients. But let it be recollected that thebeautiful and elaborate effusions of genius,pregnant with classical and historical allusion,and chastised by refined taste, are not to beunderstood, or relished from a superficial perusal. To form an estimate of excellencies suchas these, reiterated efforts, and no small portionof poetical erudition will be found essential;NO. XIII. HOURS. 255an enjoyment, however, of the highest rankawaits him who studiously elevates his mind toa perception ofthe noblest energies of imagination, and to a keen sense of the finer beautiesof composition.From such the Fleece of Dyer, having onceobtained attention, will receive its long-delayedreward, nor, though mingled, like every humanwork, with occasional error, has it much toapprehend from the most acute yet candidcritic.

NUMBER XIV.-The timeWhen Superstition cherish'd every crime;When "barb'rous " Priests pronounc'd with falt'ringtongue,Nor knew to read the jargon which they sung;When L Nobles, train'd like blood-hounds to destroy,In ruthless rapine plac'd their savage joy;And Monarchs wanted ev'n the skill to frameThe letters that compos'd their mighty name.Hayley.During the eighth, ninth and tenth centuries,while onthe banks of the Thames, the Tiberand the Seine, a profound and almost impenetrable darkness hovered, those of the Tigris.were lighted up by the splendor of science andof literature. To contrast and to describe theleading features of these periods, the superstitious ignorance of Christian Europe with2 L258LITERARYNO. XIV.the literary energy and magnificence of theeastern world, will perhaps afford no unentertaining sketch, nor one unproductive ofsalutaryreflection.Upon the demolition of the western empirein the sixth century of the Christian era, itsrude and untutored conquerors, hurrying overthe most fertile parts of Europe, ignorant ofletters, and altogether addicted to the love andexercise of arms, soon utterly neglected whatever remained of the taste, of the literature andelegance of the Roman; and to cut off allresource, all speedy probability of dispellingso dreadful a gloom, the Arabians, in thecourse of a few years after this event, headedby the daring and enthusiastic Mahomet,rushed from their savage deserts to enforce theprecepts ofhis religion, and, under his immediate successors, rashly dared to consume theinvaluable library of Alexandria, the richdeposit of whatever the best and wisest of theancient world had been amassing for ages.Thus, within the space of a hundred years,every vestige of human learning was nearlydestroyed, and a barbaric ignorance, whichNO. XIV. HOURS. 259attained its height during the eighth, ninth andtenth centuries, degraded Europe. In theselatter periods, with one exception or two,every species of tyranny which could deformhumanity, and every superstition which coulddebase the light of human reason, universallyprevailed, and from Christianity mingled withbarbarism, the rights of the priesthood withthose of the empire, the prerogative of thesovereign with that of the nobility, such anarchyand confusion arose, as altogether impeded thediffusion of letters. Among the clergy also,where literature more especially ought to havebeen cherished, an ignorance the most excessive was to be found; and it is not uncommonto discover in the deeds of a synod, a sentencelike the following: "As my lord the bishopcannot write himself, at his request I havesubscribed. " Even Charlemagne, that farfam'd monarch, the theme of minstrels, andthe hero of romance, was unable to write hisown name, and forty-five years of his lifeelapsed ere he attempted any progress inliterature.What materially contributed to quench thelast glimmerings of philosophy and science, was260 LITERARY NO. XIV .the extreme scarcity of books; in this islandwhat libraries had been left by the Romans,were destroyed by the ravages of the Picts andSaxons, and the search for, and the purchaseofthem upon the continent, were attended withgreat fatigue and enormous expence. In theyear 690, king Aldfred gave an estate of eighthides, or as much land as eight plows couldlabour, to Benedict Biscop, founder of themonastery ofWeremonth in Northumberland,for a single volume on cosmography,* and atRome their value was equally extravagant.†In France likewise, Louis the eleventh wasobliged to deposit a considerable quantity ofplate, and to get one of his nobility to joinwith him in a bond, under a high penalty, torestore it, before he could procure the loan ofone volume which may now be purchased fora few shillings. Independent, however, ofthedifficulty in acquiring manuscripts, not theleast desire or inclination for study prevailedin these unhappy periods. In the ancientcapitol of the world itself, the lamp of scienceBed. Hist. Abbat. Wermuthen. p. 297, 8.+ Murator. Antiq. tom. 3 , p. 811 .Hist. de Louis xi . par Comines, t. 4, p. 281 .NO. XIV. HOURS. 261was expiring, and the plainest rules of grammar, the first rudiments of letters, even amongthose who pretended to extraordinary information, were unknown. The vilest wretches thatever disgraced humanity filled the papal throneduring the tenth century, alike ignorant ofliterature as of moral rectitude. " O miserableRome! " exclaims a contemporary writer,"thou that formerly didst hold out so manygreat and glorious luminaries to our ancestors,into what prodigious darkness art thou nowfallen, which will render thee infamous to allsucceeding ages. " In France, in the eighthcentury, Charlemagne could not find a singleteacher of the liberal arts, nor did she improvein this respect during the two succeeding ages,and in Christian Spain they were compelled toissue canons against ordaining men priests orbishops who could neither read, nor singpsalms. Three or four beautiful lights, however, in this gloomy and dark-shaded pictureshould not be omitted; Bede, Alcuin andCharlemagne in the eighth, and Alfred in theninth century, were possessed of extraordinaryArnoldus Orleanensis , apud du Pin, Hist. Eccles.cent. 10.262 LITERARY NO. XIV.genius; men whom history has delighted tohold up to our admiration, whom it has, embalmed with grateful praise, and whose abilities,as brilliant as they were solid, burst throughthat cloud of ignorance with a splendor thatdazzled, though they failed to inform, theunderstandings of their contemporaries. Theywere, in fact, but as meteors that flash on thesurrounding gloom, are gazed at for a momentwith stupid wonder, and are then lost in thedarkness of returning night. " The death ofBeda," says William of Malmsbury, " wasfatal to learning and particularly to history;insomuch that it may be said, that almost allknowledge of past events was buried in thesame grave with him, and hath continued inthat condition even to our times." " At myaccession to the throne, " ( A. D. 871 ) observesAlfred, " all knowledge and learning wereextinguished in the English nation: insomuchthat there were very few to the south of theHumber who understood the common prayersof the church, or were capable of translating asingle sentence of Latin into English; but tothe south of the Thames, I cannot recollect soW. Malms. 1. i. c. 3.NO. XIV. HOURS. 263much as one who could do this."* After thedeath of this incomparable man, the torch ofscience, which he had taken so much pains torelumine, was totally extinguished, and thedemon of ignorance and superstition spreadher dreadful pall over the barbarous sons ofprostrate Europe. "We now enter," complains Baronius, " on the history of an age,which, for its barbarism and wickedness, maybe called the age of iron; for its dulness andstupidity, the age of lead; and for its blindnessand ignorance, the age of darkness. " + " Thetenth century, " says Genebrard, " is commonly and justly called the unhappy age; forit was almost quite destitute of men of geniusand learning, had few great princes or good.prelates, and hardly any thing was performedin it that merits the attention of posterity. " +The dreadful devastation of the Danes previous to the reign of, and after the demise ofAlfred, and the original contempt of the ancientGermans and Saxons for literature, undoubt-

• Spelman Vita Alfredi, append, 3, p. 196.

Baron. Annal. ad an. 900.+ Genebrard, p. 552.264 LITERARY NO. XIV.edly operated considerably in producing thisdeplorable defalcation of knowledge; but thedegraded state of christianity, which consistedmerely in the accumulation of relics, the performance of pilgrimage to Rome, and in monastic seclusion, accompanied with the moststupid credulity, was of itself sufficient toannihilate all energy of mind, for, by depreciating science, and requiring implicit faith inthe most wretched and absurd doctrines andlegends, all discrimination of truth and record,all the sources of history and philosophy, allpower and wish to detect error, however gross,were effectually destroyed, and the noblerfaculties of the mind laid waste and crushedbeneath the iron hand of ecclesiastic tyranny.The liberal and benevolent spirit of ourreligion, which, when rightly understood, conduces both to our present and our futurehappiness, was thus perverted and debased,and became in the hands of these stupid fanaticsa chief mean in poisoning the best and sweetestblessings of society. Monastic life, whetherconsidered in regard to the male or femalecharacter, appears equally contrary to soundreason and morality, for as the very firstNO. XIV. HOURS. 265principles of moral and religious duty consistin our relative conduct, in our mutual endeavours to assist each other and improve society,such a seclusion, it is evident, must be directlycalculated to overthrow whatever nature hasordained should be our chief pursuits; andthe monstrous catalogue of enormities withwhich the early history of these monasteries isdeformed, clearly proves how derogatory theyare to the rights of mankind, how destructiveof the very ends for which they were erected,how productive of wretchedness and guilt.Not only the clergy of these times fled intothese nests of sloth and superstition, but kings,queens and nobles without number abandonedthe world, quitted their country as governorsand protectors, to dream out their days and beinterred near the reliques of some favoritesaint. Several individuals even, deserting theirfamilies and friends, fled into perpetual solitude, where, actuated by the most absurdenthusiasm , they inflicted upon themselves, asdue to the conceived enormity of their transgressions, every species of punishment andself-denial, all the sufferings of poverty andguilt. The most singular instance perhaps inthe world of self-inflicted, severe and long2 M266 LITERARY NO. XIV .continued suffering, occasioned by enthusiasmof this kind, took place during the fifth century,in Syria, and seems to have given birth to thenearly similar extravagancies that for severalcenturies afterwards disgraced the provinces ofEurope. "Simeon Stylites at the age ofthirteen, deserted the profession of a shepherd,and threw himself into an austere monastery.After a long and painful noviciate, in whichSimeon was repeatedly saved from pioussuicide, he established his residence on amountain, about thirty or forty miles to theeast of Antioch. Within the space of amandra, or circle of stones, to which he hadattached himself by a ponderous chain, heascended a column, which was successivelyraised from the height of nine, to that of sixtyfeet, from the ground. In this last, and loftystation, the Syrian Anchorite resisted the heatof thirty summers, and the cold of as manywinters. Habit and exercise instructed himto maintain his dangerous situation withoutfear or giddiness, and successively to assumethe different postures of devotion. He sometimes prayed in an erect attitude, with his outstretched arms, in the figure of a cross; buthis most familiar practice was that of bending

NO. XIV. HOURS. 267Thehis meagre skeleton from the forehead to thefeet: and a curious spectator, after numberingtwelve hundred and forty four repetitions, atlength desisted from the endless account.progress of an ulcer in his thigh might shorten,but it could not disturb, this celestial life; andthe patient Hermit expired, without descendingfrom his column. "*This custom so ridiculous in itself, andfounded upon an error so glaring, has continued, with the features indeed somewhatsoftened, until nearly the present period.During the fifteenth, sixteenth and seventeenthcenturies, the hermit, although he did not retire.to the savage and unexplored desert, thoughhe did not expose his naked body, festeringwith ulcers from the consequence of his ownrigid discipline, to the injuries of the weather,yet he equally contemned society, though toenjoy, perhaps, a spot rich in beautiful andsequestered scenery, where giving way to amind, either heated by religious fervor, orsoured by misfortune and perfidy, he spent his

• Gibbon's Decline and Fall ofthe Roman Empire,

vol. vi. 8vo. edition, p. 265.268 LITERARY NO. XIV.1days in indolence and prayer.Such a solitarysituation our amiable and romantic poet hasthus graphically drawn:Alittle lowly hermitage it wasDown in a dale, hard by a forest's side,Far from resort of people that did pasIn traveil to and froe: a little wydeThere was an holy chappell edifyde,Wherein the hermite dewly wont to sayHis holy things each morne and eventyde;Thereby a christall streame did gently play,Which from a sacred fountaine welled forth alway.Spenser.There were no crimes in these periods, however enormous, but what might be expiated bypurchased absolutions, or by pilgrimages;murders and pollutions of all kinds were thusabsolved, and few thought themselves safe, orsecure of the joys of heaven, without havingpaid their devotions at the shrines of St. Peterand St. Paul; " for such reasons," says Dr.Henry, kings, queens, nobles, prelates,monks, nuns, saints, and sinners, wise men andfools, were impatient to undertake these religious journies; and all the roads betweenRome and England were constantly crowdedNO. XIV. HOURS 269 .with English pilgrims. It appears indeed, thatthe morals of these superstitious vagabonds,especially of the ladies, were not much improved by these peregrinations. Boniface,archbishop of Mentz, an Englishman, in aletter which he wrote to Cuthbert archbishopof Canterbury, A. D. 745 , exhorts him,-"to prevent such great numbers of Englishnuns from going on pilgrimages to Rome;because so many of them lose their virtuebefore they return, that there is hardly a cityor town in Lombardy, France, or Gaul, inwhich there are not some English women wholive by prostitution, to the great reproach ofyour church. " ' It is not impossible, that theseladies, being certain of a plenary remission ofall their sins when they arrived at their journey's end, might think there could be no greatharm in adding a little to the number of themby the way. " Many of these pilgrimageswere undertaken for the sake of procuringrelics, which in this period were considered ofinestimable value, enclosed in caskets of goldand silver, and bestowed on their happy posHenry's History of Great Britain,vol. iv. 8vo, edit. p . 303.270 LITERARY NO. XIV.sessor a title to the veneration and almostworship of his contemporaries; scarce anycrime was shrunk from provided it led to theacquisition of these precious articles, and arotten bone, or a rusty nail, the thumb of anapostle, or a lock of the hair of Mary themother of God, obtained by falshood, theftor robbery, were held dear as existence itself,and thought capable of absolving the purloinerfrom all enormity in the means made use offor their acquirement. Nothing, in fact, canbe more astonishing than the credulity andinfatuation of Christian Europe during these.dark ages; the most monstrous and absurd,tales of apparitions and miracles, of enchantments and visions, were firmly confided in,and of these a large collection might be made,a singular, though perhaps not an unentertaining monument of the strange folly of ourancestors. One of the most respectable of ourancient Historians, William of Malmsbury,has recorded the following miracle as an indisputable fact, related in the very words, he says,of the persons on whom it was wrought, and ofwhich a formal deed, relating the particulars,and attesting the truth, was drawn up and subscribed by bishop Peregrine, the successor ofNO. XIV. HOURS. 271Hubert. "I Ethelbert, a sinner, will give atrue relation of what happened to me on theday before Christmas, A. D. 1012, in a certainvillage where there was a church dedicated toSt. Magnus the martyr, that all men may knowthe danger of disobeying the commands of apriest. Fifteen young women, and eighteenyoung men, of which I was one, were dancingand singing in the church-yard, when oneRobert, a priest, was performing mass in thechurch, who sent us a civil message, intreatingus to desist from our diversion, because wedisturbed his devotion by our noise. But weimpiously disregarded his request; upon whichthe holy man, inflamed with anger, prayed toGod and St. Magnus, that we might continuedancing and singing a whole year without intermission. His prayers were heard. A youngman, the son of a priest, named John, took hissister, who was singing with us, by the hand,and her arm dropped from her body withoutone drop of blood following. But, notwithstanding this disaster, she continued to danceand sing with us a whole year. During allthat time we felt no inconveniency from rain,cold, heat, hunger, thirst, or weariness, andneither our shoes, nor our clothes Wore out.272 LITERARY NO. XIV.Whenever it began to rain, a magnificent housewas erected over us by the power of theAlmighty. By our continual dancing we worethe earth so much, that by degrees we sunkinto it up to the knees, and at length up tothemiddle. When the year was ended, bishopHubert came to the place, dissolved the invisible ties by which our hands had been so longunited, absolved us, and reconciled us to St.Magnus. The priest's daughter, who had losther arm, and other two of the young women,died away immediately; but all the rest fellinto a profound sleep , in which they continuedthree days and three nights; after which theyarose, and went up and down the world, publishing this true and glorious miracle, andcarrying the evidences of its truth along withthem, in the continual shaking of their limbs. ”†This passion for the marvellous in religion,though mingled with more wildness of fancyand poetical invention , continued some centuries, for Giraldus Cambrensis, one of themost learned and intelligent authors of thetwelfth century, " tells us of a devil who acted+ W. Malms. p. 38. b. ii . c. 10 .NO. XIV. HOURS. 273a considerable time as a gentleman's butler withgreat prudence and probity; and of anotherwho was a very diligent and learned clergyman,and a mighty favorite of his archbishop . Thislast clerical devil was, it seems, an excellenthistorian, and used to divert the archbishopwith telling him old stories. One day whenhe was entertaining the archbishop with a relation of ancient histories and surprising events,the conversation happened to turn on theincarnation of our Saviour. Before the incarnation , said our historian, the devils had greatpower over mankind; but after that event theirpower was much diminished, and they wereobliged to fly. Some of them threw themselves into the sea; some concealed themselvesin hollow trees, or in the clefts of rocks; andI myself plunged into a certain fountain. Astsoon as he had said this, finding that he haddiscovered his secret, his face was covered withblushes, he went out of the room, and was nomore seen. "* The same historian, likewise,in his topography of Ireland, relates, that"when St. Kewen was one day praying withHenry's History of Great Britain, vol . vi. p. 343.Girald. Cambr. Hin. Cambr. 1. i. c. 12. p. 853.2 N274 LITERARY NO. XIV.both his hands held up to heaven, out ofthewindow of his chamber, a swallow laid an eggin one of them; and such was the patience andgood nature of the saint, that he neither drewin nor shut his hand till the swallow had builther nest, laid all her eggs, and hatched heryoung. To preserve the remembrance of thisfact, every statue of St. Kewen in Ireland hatha swallow in one of its hands. ":Excessive credulity is ever the companionof ignorance, and the specimens I have given,and a multitude of others still more absurdmight be adduced, sufficiently prove, that alove of the marvellous the most gross andstupid, unmingled with those sallies of fancyand mythology, that spirit of invention andfabling which, in succeeding centuries, engagealike the imagination of the poet, and, theresearch of the philosopher, was the unhappycharacteristic of this gloomy era; to such anincredible length indeed, were superstitionand folly sometimes carried, that in severalchurches, especially at Rouen, a ceremony wasperformed called the feast of the ass, at whichTopographia Hiberniæ, c. 28. p. 727,NO. XIV . HOURS. 275the ass, richly drest, was placed before thealtar, and the infatuated people sung beforehim the following exquisite anthem: " Eh, eh,eh, sire Ane! eh, eh, eh, sire Ane! "As curious as they were credulous, the inhabitants of Europe at this time, and of thenorthern nations in particular, supported atrain of magicians, diviners, and fortune-tellers,to whom they resorted upon any emergency,anxious either to avert present misfortune, orto penetrate into futurity. Many of thesewere old women, personages of high estimationamong the Anglo Saxons and Danes, and inwhom they conceived a portion of the divinityto reside. These venerable and withered hagstravelled with much state and with a largeretinue of servants, and those princes andnobles who invited them to their houses for thepurpose of exercising their profession , treatedthem with the utmost deference and attention.Bartholin has given a genuine and very curiousdescription of an interview of this kind, which,as it throws much light upon the manners ofthis period, and is indeed a singular picture oftheir simplicity, curiosity, and credulity, Ishall venture to transcribe. " There was in276 LITERARY NO. XIV .the same country an old woman namedThorbiorga, the only survivor of nine sisters,fortune-tellers, who was very famous for herknowledge of futurity, and frequented publicentertainments for the exercise of her art whenshe was invited. Earl Thorchill, who had thegreatest authority in that country, and wasmost desirous to know when the famine andsickness, which then raged, would come to anend, sent messengers to invite Thorbiorga tohis house, after he had made all the preparations which were usual for the reception ofsuch an honourable guest. In particular, aseat was prepared for the prophetess, raisedsome steps above the other seats, and coveredwith a cushion stuffed with hen's feathers.When she arrived on an evening conducted bythe messengers, she was dressed in a gown ofgreen cloth, buttoned from top to bottom;had a string of glass beads about her neck, andher head covered with the skin of a blacklamb, lined with the skin of a white cat: hershoes were made of a calf's skin, with the hairon it, tied with thongs, and fastened with brassbuttons: on her hands she had a pair of glovesof a white cat's skin, with the fur inward:about her waist she wore a Hunlandic girdle,NO. XIV. HOURS. 277at which hung a bag, containing her magicalinstruments; and she supported her feeblelimbs by leaning on a staff adorned with manyknobs of brass. As soon as she entered thehall, the whole company arose, as it becamethem , and saluted her in the most respectfulmanner; which she returned as she thoughtproper. Earl Thorchill then advanced, andtaking her by the hand, conducted her to theseat prepared for her. After some time spentin conversation, a table was set before hercovered with many dishes; but she eat only ofa pottage of goat's milk, and of a dish whichconsisted of the hearts of various animals.When the table was removed, Thorchill humbly approached the prophetess, and asked herwhat she thought of his house, and of hisfamily; and when she would be pleased to tellthem what they desired to know. To this shereplied, that she would tell them nothing thatevening, but would satisfy them fully next day.Accordingly on the day after, when she hadput all her implements of divination in proper order, she commanded a maiden, namedGodreda, to sing the magical song called .Vardlokur; which she did with so clear andsweet a voice, that the whole company were278 LITERARY NO. XIV .ravished with her music, and none so much asthe prophetess; who cried out, Now I knowmany things concerning this famine and sickness which I did not know before. Thisfamine will be of short continuance, and plentywill return with the next season, which will befavorable; and the sickness also will shortlyfly away. As for you, my lovely maid Godreda, you shall be married to a nobleman ofthe highest rank, and become the happy motherof a numerous and flourishing family. Afterthis, the whole company approached the prophetess one by one, and asked her what questions they pleased, and she told them everything that they desired to know. " *It will readily be imagined that in an age soincapable of ascertaining truth of any kind,the sciences would receive little or no cultivation; in short, it may with propriety be said,they had none; their grammar, rhetoric andlogic were despicable in the extreme, and inthe place of astronomy, astrology, divination ,and witchcraft croud upon our view. Ofgeography and chronology they had no idea,

• Erin's Rauga Saga, apud Bartholin, p. 691 .

NO. XIV . HOURS. 279for their monks and pilgrims, their only travellers, journeyed merely in pursuit of relics, andhad no conception of ascertaining the positionof the countries through which they passed.Indeed after the fall of the Roman empire theconnection between its former provinces wastotally dissolved: severed among a number ofhostile and illiterate barbarians, the geopraphyof Europe was lost, and the inhabitants of oneprovince were perfectly ignorant of the situation and extent of its immediate neighbour:intercourse of all kinds among these nationscompletely subsided, and the districts of thewestern world were to each other as terrœincognitæ.The arts, though cultivated in this periodwith more assiduity than literature and science,were still in a very rude and imperfect state.Agriculture and pasturage, as necessary toexistence, could not be greatly neglected, butarchitecture, was almost unknown; scarce afabric of brick or stone was to be found inEngland during these three centuries , the housesbeing altogether, and most of the churches andmonasteries, built of wood, and thatched withreeds. As a proof of this, after the middle of280 LITERARY NO. XIV.the tenth century, Edgar the Peaceable, on hisaccession to the throne, exclaims, that all themonasteries in England were in a ruinous condition, and consisted only of rotten boards.Alfred's most magnificent building, his monastery of Æthelingey, the admiration andwonder of the age, was constructed only, ofwood. Sculpture and painting could scarcebe said to give even a tolerable representationof nature animate or inanimate; slaves, however as they were to the corruptors of christianity, they certainly had attained sufficientexcellence for the employment they were destined to. Poetry indeed had not altogetherceased to breathe its magic influence, nor theart and its professors to excite admiration.Had the productions of the bards been adequate to the encouragement and honours theyreceived, we should, most probably, have beenable to display some splendid specimens oftheir talents, but they had greatly degeneratedfrom their predecessors, and though their barbarous effusions had power to delight a rudeand ignorant people, they are unworthy ofthenotice of more polished periods, otherwise than+ W. Malms. lib. ii. p. 32.NO. XIV. HOURS. 281as occasionally conveying some historical information, or elucidating the manners andcustoms of their age. If we can credit theauthenticity of the works of Ossian, a strain ofthe most pathetic and sublime poetry wasknown to this island long before the arrival ofthe Saxons; and from the mountains of Sweden, Denmark, Norway, and Iceland descended, in the fifth century, the wild and heroicfictions ofthe Edda, while about the same timeflourished in Wales, the renowned Taliesin,and his celebrated brother poets Ancurin,Cian, Llewellyn &c. The songs of thesevenerable and romantic bards are said to haveachieved the most astonishing effects, to haveinspired valour or compassion, joy or sorrow,magnanimity or revenge at pleasure, and fromthe reliques of their genius we now possess, itmust be affirmed, that they were imbued withthe genuine spirit of poetic enthusiasm . Butduring the eighth, ninth and tenth centuries ,though a love for poetry still existed, andAlfred, Aldhem, and a few other extraordinarymen gave every incitement toward its cultivation , their efforts were ineffectual to produceexcellence, and poetry partook of the general20282 LITERARY NO. XIV.imbecillity that during these unfortunate periods degraded Europe. The art of war, unhappily for mankind, too much an object ofattention in the dark ages, being destructive ofrather than capable of promoting literature orscience, I shall pass over without furthernotice, and hasten to conclude, what the historyof such ages must be deemed, the unpleasantpart of our subject.From the brief review we have now takenof the state of Christian Europe during thisdismal portion of its annals, it will not be tooharsh to say, that a superstition the most gross,a credulity the most excessive, an ignorancealmost total with regard to literature andscience, are its leading features; and, in conformity to this gloomy picture, all historianshave agreed in branding it with every epithetimagination could suggest as adequate toexpress their sense of its barbarism and degradation; turning, therefore, from an object sohumiliating to the lover of letters and ofcivilized life, let us devote our attention to themore fertile regions of the east, where, duringa great part of this period, the Caliphat oftheNO. XIV. HOURS. 283Abassides, in all its height of splendor, in allits luxury of literature, offers to the view thecharm of contrast. Our succeeding sketch.will therefore attempt a delineation of thecourt of Bagdad, and a transient survey of theOmmiades of Spain, who, whilst ChristianEurope was immersed in ignorance and slothgreatly encouraged all that was beneficial andornamental to human life.

NUMBER XV.Such the gay splendor, the luxurious state ,Of Caliphs old, who on the Tygris' shoreIn mighty Bagdad, populous and great,Held their bright court, where was of ladies store;And verse, love, music still the garland wore.Thomson.At the commencement of the eighth centuryof the christian era, the empire of the Caliphswas of immense extent, stretching from theconfines of India to the shores of the Atlanticocean. Over this vast tract a similarity ofreligion diffused a similarity of manners andopinions, and became a bond of union to thevarious, but otherwise discordant, nations, onits surface, and the inhabitants of Bagdad andCordova, of Cairo and Samarcand, were alikebelievers in the mission of the Prophet, and inthe eternity of the Koran. Uncirc*mscribed286 LITERARY NO. XV .in prerogative, uncontrolled by nobles, orcommons, combining the sacerdotal and theregal functions, the caliphs reigned the mostpowerful monarchs on the globe.That There Is Only One God, was the salutary and eternal truth imprinted by Mohammed on the minds of the rudest Idolators , andprayer, fasting and alms were the duties heenjoined; the simplicity of his doctrine andprecepts has never been corrupted, and in thesplendid dome of St. Sophia as in the humbletabernacle erected by the hands of the Prophet,the pure creed of Islam is preserved and professed inviolate. To the Son of Abdallah theArabs were indebted for an union of actionand sentiment of which they had no conceptionin any age previous to his existence; theiridols, the causes of religious difference, alwaysthe most implacable, " were broken before thethe throne of God," and a system of rewardsand punishments admirably adapted to theirignorance and appetites, stimulated the enthusiasm, and inflamed the imagination of theselords of the desert. Their valour was nowsolely directed against the unbelievers, and thesword of the Prophet, resistless as his tenets ofNO. XV. HOURS. 287fate and predestination, flashed terror to thehearts of his opponents; "a drop of blood "says the martial apostle, " shed in the cause ofGod, a night spent in arms, is of more availthan two months of fasting or prayer: whoeverfalls in battle, his sins are forgiven: at the dayof judgment his wounds shall be resplendentas vermilion and odoriferous as musk; andthe loss of his limbs shall be supplied by thewings of angels and cherubim . " Fired byrepresentations such as these, and by the powerful temptations of a sensual paradise, theroving tribes of Arabia awakened from their inglorious and solitary independence, coalesced,and with the view of extirpating polytheism,conquered half the globe. Greatly howeveras the Koran owes its extension to the powerof the sword, it can boast of a morality verypure; the mild virtues of hospitality andcharity are inculcated as indispensable duties,and its doctrines of the unity and perfectionsof the deity, and of a resurrection to immortallife, are at once rational and sublime. TheMusulman who wishes to be respectable mustfulfil the law of bestowing a tenth of his property, and, by strict temperance and frequentablution, prepare his soul and body in con-288 LITERARY NO. XV .formity to the commands of God and hisapostle; and though the idea of a carnal paradise has called forth the indignation of theAscetic, yet has the Prophet expressly declaredthat all meaner happiness of this kind will beabjured and despised by those holy men whoshall be admitted to the beatitude of the divinevision. Let us consider moreover, that fromthe rational faith and practice of Islam, allworship ofsaints, martyrs, relics and images, allmystery and metaphysical subtlety, all monastic seclusion, and enthusiastic pennance, werebanished, and that it superseded the idolatrousworship of the Caaba, the rites of Sabianism ,and the altars of Zoroaster.After these cursory remarks on the religionof Mohammed, I shall proceed to the moreimmediate purposes of this paper, and give ashort account of the magnificence and manners,'literature and science ofthe Caliphats of Bagdad and Cordova, during the eighth, ninth andtenth centuries, a period in which christianEurope, as we have seen, was immersed inthe profoundest ignorance and superstition.-Upon the expulsion of the Ommiades, Almansor, the second Caliph of the race of Abbas,NO. XV. HOURS. 289not willing to reside at Damascus, the formercapitol of the house of Ommiah, laid thefoundations of Bagdad A. D. 762, the seat ofhis posterity during a reign of five hundredyears. Nearly about the same time A. D.755, Abdalrahman, a royal youth of the raceof the Ommiades, escaping from the proscription of his kindred, took refuge in Spain, wasreceived with triumph by the people of Andalusia, and after a glorious struggle, planted thethrone of Cordova, and gave origin to theOmmiades of Spain, under whose prosperoussway this country attained a population andfertility which has not since been equalled.Bagdad was built on the eastern bank of theTigris, and its population during the ninth.century was so great that the funeral of apopular saint might be attended by eight hundred thousand men and sixty thousand womenof Bagdad and the neighbouring villages.Here, amid the luxuries of the east, the oncetemperate and simple Caliphs of Arabia, aspiredto rival and to surpass the magnificence ofthePersian Kings. The treasure left by Almansor, amounting to thirty millions sterling, wasin a few years exhausted by the munificence2 P290 LITERARY No. XV.and ostentation of his children, and his sonMahadi, in a single pilgrimage to Mecca,expended six millions of dinars of gold. " Apious and charitable motive," observes theHistorian of the Roman Empire, "may sanctify the foundation of cisterns and caravanseras,which he distributed along a measured road ofseven hundred miles; but his train of camels,laden with snow, could serve only to astonishthe natives of Arabia, and to refresh the fruitsand liquors of the royal banquet. Thecourtiers would surely praise the liberality ofhis grandson Almamon, who gave away fourfifths of the income of a province, a sum oftwo millions four hundred thousand golddinars, before he drew his foot from the stirrup.At the nuptials of the same prince, a thousandpearls of the largest size were showered on thehead of the bride, and a lottery of lands andhouses displayed the capricious bounty offortune." In the tenth century the magnificence and glories of the court had encreased,while the vital strength and power of the Caliphat were gradually diminishing. A. D. 917

• Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire,

vol. x, 36. 37.NO. XV. HOURS. 291an embassy was received at Bagdad from theGreek Emperor of Constantinople, " and theCaliph's whole army" says Abulfeda, " bothhorse and foot, was under arms, which togethermade a body of one hundred and sixty thousandmen. His state-officers, the favorite slaves ,stood near him in splendid apparel, their beltsglittering with gold and gems. Near themwere seven thousand eunuchs, four thousandof them white, the remainder black. Theporters or doorkeepers were in number sevenhundred. Barges and boats, with the mostsuperb decorations, were seen swimming ontheTigris. Nor was the place itself less splendid,in which were hung up thirty-eight thousandpieces of tapestry, twelve thousand five hundred of which were of silk embroidered withgold. The carpets on the floor were twentytwo thousand. An hundred lions were broughtout, with a keeper to each lion. Among theother spectacles of rare and stupendous luxury,was a tree of gold and silver spreading intoeighteen large branches, on which, and on thelesser boughs, sat a variety of birds made ofthe same precious metals, as well as the leaves.of the tree. While the machinery affectedspontaneous motions, the several birds warbled292 LITERARY NO. XV.their natural harmony. Through this sceneof magnificence, the Greek ambassador wasled by the visir to the foot of the caliph'sthrone. "Nor was the splendour of the Ommiades ofSpain at all inferior to the Abbassides ofBagdad; in the same period that Caliphatproduced a revenue of six millions of sterlingmoney, a sum which in the tenth century exceeded the combined revenues of the christianmonarchs. Cordova displayed six hundredmoschs, nine hundred baths, and two hundredthousand houses, and the caliph gave laws toeighty cities of the first, and to three hundredof the second and third order, and twelve thousand villages and hamlets decorated the beautiful banks of the Guadalquivir. " Three milesfrom Cordova, in honour of his favoriteSultana, the third and greatest of the Abdalrahmans constructed the city, palace, andgardens of Zehrar Twenty-five years, andabove three millions sterling were employedby the founder; his liberal taste invited themost skilful sculptors and architects ofthe age;Abulfeda, p . 237.NO. XV. HOURS. 293and the buildings were sustained or adornedby twelve hundred columns of Spanish andAfrican, of Greek and Italian marble. Thehall of audience was encrusted with gold andpearls, and a great bason in the centre, wassurrounded with the curious and costly figuresof birds and quadrupeds. In a lofty pavilionof the gardens, one of these basons and foun .tains, so delightful in a sultry climate, wasreplenished not with water, but with the purestquicksilver. The seraglio of Abdalrahman,his wives, concubines, and black eunuchs,amounted to six thousand three hundred persons; and he was attended to the field by aguard of twelve thousand horse, whose beltsand scymetars were studded with gold. "."Our imagination is dazzled by the splendidpicture," continues the philosophic historian,"and whatever may be the cool dictates ofreason, there are few among us who wouldobstinately refuse a trial of the comforts andthe cares of royalty. It may therefore be ofsome use to borrow the experience ofthe sameAbdalrahman, whose magnificence has perhapsexcited our admiration and envy, and to transcribe an authentic memorial which was foundin the closet of the deceased caliph." ' I have294 LITERARY NO. XV.now reigned above fifty years in victory orpeace; beloved by my subjects, dreaded bymy enemies, and respected by my allies.Riches and honours, power and pleasure, havewaited on my call, nor does any earthly blessingappear to have been wanting to my felicity.In this situation, I have diligently numbered thedays of pure and genuine happiness which havefallen to my lot: they amount to Fourteen:—O man! place not thy confidence in thispresent world.'tIn the most flourishing period of the Abasside dynasty, toward the latter end of the eighthand beginning of the ninth century, reigned theCaliph Haroun Alrashid, or the Just, a namefamiliar even to our infancy through themedium of the Arabian Tales. Haroun wasthe most potent monarch of his race, a lover oflearning, art and science, a warrior ofthe firstfame, and indefatigable in the administrationof the laws; he repeatedly travelled throughhis provinces from Chorasan to Ægypt; ninetimes he performed the pilgrimage of Mecca,and eight times he invaded the dominions ofGibbon, vol. x. p. 38, 39, 40..NO. XV.295 HOURS.Constantinople. His father Mahadi had compelled the Greeks to pay an annual tribute ofseventy thousand dinars of gold, but upon hisdeath, the Emperor Nicephorus resolving notto pay what his predecessors had so ingloriouslysubmitted to, sent an epistle to Alrashid refusing this badge of disgrace, and terminatingwith the following menace: ' Restore thereforethe fruits of your injustice, or abide the determination of the sword.' "At these words theambassadors cast a bundle of swords beforethe foot of the throne. The caliph smiled atthe menace, and drawing his scymetar, samsamah, cut asunder the feeble arms ofthe Greeks,without turning the edge, or endangering thetemper of his blade. He then dictated anepistle of tremendous brevity: In the nameof the most merciful God, Haroun Alrashid,commander of the faithful, to Nicephorus, theRoman Dog. I have read thy letter, O thouson ofan unbelieving mother. Thou shalt nothear, thou shalt behold my reply.' It waswritten in characters of blood and fire on theplains of Phrygia,"' * and Nicephorus wasultimately compelled to submit.Gibbon, vol . x. p. 54.296 LITERARY NO. XV.The epithet of the just applied to this caliphwas not undeservedly bestowed; he was attentive and impartial as a legislator, and in hisdomestic character he was mild and generous.One exception however there is to thisapplause which has sullied the brightness of hisfame, and covered his memory with reproach .He who could listen to the complaint of apoor widow who had been pillaged by histroops, and who dared, in a passage of theKoran, to threaten him with the judgment ofGod and posterity, instigated by ill -foundedpassion and intemperate revenge, slaughteredthe innocent Barinecides, the most illustriousfamily of the east. As the relation of thistransaction will throw somelight on the manners of the period, its insertion here will notbe inapposite. Yahi Ben Khaled, the first ofthis family who distinguished himself at Bagdad,and his four sons, Fadhel, Jaafer, Mohammedand Musa, were endowed with all the virtuesand talents that elevate and adorn humanity,were possessed of large property and influence,and beloved both by prince and people.Yahia had been preceptor to Haroun, and,upon his accession to the throne, was appointedhis visir, and when the infirmities of age com-NO. XV. HOURS. 297pelled him to retire, his son Jaafer succeededto that high office. The most eloquent andpleasing character of his age, Jaafer becamethe inseparable companion of the caliph, norcould existence charm without the presence ofthe son of Yahia. The affairs of government,however, necessarily withheld him from thewishes of the caliph, who to enjoy thereforethe entire society of a man so deservedlyesteemed, deprived him of his office, andcreated Fadhel grand visir in his room.these situations the two brothers for seventeenyears swayed the empire and the affections oftheir master, until a moment of imprudenceplunged them in the gulf of irretrievable ruin.The account of their disgrace is thus given:In"The caliph had a sister called Abassa, ofwhom he was passionately fond, and whosecompany he preferred to every thing but theconversation of Jaafer.""These two pleasures he would fain havejoined together, by carrying Jaafer with himin his visits to Abassa, but the laws of theHaram, which forbad any one, except a nearrelation, being introduced there, made that2 Q298 LITERARY NO. XV .impossible, and he was obliged to be absenteither from his sister or his favorite . At lengthhe discovered a method which he hoped wouldenable him to enjoy at the same time the societyof these two persons, who were so dear to him.This was to unite Jaafer and Abassa in maṛ.riage. They were married accordingly; butwith this express condition, that they shouldnever meet, except in the presence of thecaliph.""Their interviews however were very frequent, and as neither could be insensible ofthe amiable qualities which the other possessed,a mutual affection took place between them.Blinded by their passion, they forgot thecaliph's injunction , and the consequences oftheir intercourse were but too apparent.Abassa was delivered of a son, whom theyprivately sent to be educated at Mecca. ""For some time their amour was concealedfrom Alrashid; but the caliph having at lengthreceived intelligence of it, he gave way to hisrage, and determined to take the most severerevenge. In consequence ofthis cruel resolve,he immediately commanded Jaafer to be putNO. XV.299 HOURS.to death, and the whole race of Barmec to bedeprived of their possessions, and thrown intoprison. These orders were obeyed; Jaaferwas beheaded in the antichamber of the royalapartment, whither he had come to request aninterview with the implacable Haroun, and hisfather and brothers perished in confinement. "*To the Arabian Nights Entertainments,though in general merely considered as a workof extravagant fiction, their reader will beindebted for much genuine information relativeto the domestic habits of the court and peopleof Bagdad, as they are now fully ascertainedto convey a just picture of the manners andcustoms of the Caliphat during this splendidportion of its existence, and had the translationbeen more faithful to the idiom of the original,had better supported its peculiar spirit andstrong features, and not mutilated a productionof undoubted genius, these tales had still further merited the attention of the philosopherand historian. According to Colonel Capperthey are still " universally read and admiredthroughout Asia by all ranks of men both old

• Carlyle's Specimens of Arabian Poetry, p. 54.

300 LITERARY NO. XV.and young." "Before any person decides onthe merit of these books, " observes the colonel,"he should be eye witness of the effect theyproduce on those who best understand them.I have more than once seen the Arabians onthe desert sitting round a fire, listening tothese stories with such attention and pleasure,as totally to forget the fatigue and hardshipwith which an instant before they were entirelyovercome." Open as these romantic compositions are, however, to every class of readers, let us draw our illustrations from lessfamiliar sources, yet not without expressing awish that some elegant Orientalist would givethem a more appropriate dress.In the Specimens of Arabian Poetry withwhich Mr. Carlyle has lately favored the world,are three Songs by Mashdud, Rakeek andRais, Improvisatori Poets in Bagdad; theseare accompanied with a preface which as giving,in the opinion of the Professor, an excellentdelineation of Arabian manners during theObservations on the passage to India throughEgypt and across the great Desert.NO. XV. HOURS. 301flourishing period of the Caliphat, I shallquote here with its attendant poetry," I was one day going to the Mosque,"says Abou Akramah, an author who supportedhimself at Bagdad by the profits of his pen,"in order to see if I could pick up any littleanecdote which might serve for the groundwork of a tale. As I passed the gate of AbouIsy, son to the caliph Motawakkel, I sawMashdud the celebrated extempore poet,standing near it."" Mashdud saluted me, and asked whither Iwas going; I answered, to the mosque, andconfessed without reserve the business whichdrew me thither. The poet, upon hearingthis, pressed me to accompany him to thepalace of Abou Isy: I declined however complying with his solicitations, conscious of theimpropriety of intruding myself uninvited intothe presence of a person of such rank andconsequence. But Abou Isy's porter, overhearing our conversation, declared that hewould put an end to my difficulties in amoment, by acquainting his master with myarrival. "302 LITERARY NO. XV."He did so; and in a short time two servantsappeared, who took me up in their arms, andcarried me into a most magnificent apartment,where their master was sitting. Upon myintroduction, I could not help feeling a littleconfused, but the prince soon made me easy ,by calling out in a good natured manner;'Why do you stand blushing there, you simpleton? Take a seat. ' I obeyed: and in afew minutes a sumptuous collation was broughtin, of which I partook. Nor was the juice ofthe grape forgotten: a cupbearer, brilliant asthe morning star, poured out wine for us moresparkling than the beams of the sun reflectedby a mirror. "" After the entertainment I arose, andhaving invoked every blessing to be showereddown upon the head of my bounteous host, Iwas preparing to withdraw. But Abou Isyprevented me, and immediately ordered Mashdud, together with Rakeek and Rais, twomusicians, whose fame was almost equal toMashdud's, to be called in. They appearedaccordingly; and having taken their places,Mashdud gave us the following satyric song."NO. XV. HOURS 303 .MASHDUDON THE MONKS OF KHABBET.Tenants ofyon hallow'd fane!Let me your devotions share,There unceasing raptures reign—None are ever sober there.Crowded gardens, festive bowers,Ne'er shall claim a thought of mine;You can give in Khabbet's towers, —Purer joys and brighter wine.Tho' your pallid faces proveHow you nightly vigils keep,'Tis but that you ever loveFlowing goblets more than sleep .Tho' your eye-balls dim and sunkStream in penitential guise,'Tis but that the wine you ' ve drunkBubbles over from your eyes."He had no sooner finished, than Rakeekbegan, and in the same versification, and to thesame air, sung as follows: "304 LITERARY NO. XV.RAKEEKTO HIS FEMALE COMPANIONS.Tho' the peevish tongues upbraid, 'Tho' the brows of wisdom scowl,Fair ones here on roses laid,Careless will we quaff the bowl.Let the cup, with nectar crown'd,Thro' the grove its beams display,It can shed a lustre round,Brighter than the torch of day.Let it pass from hand to hand,Circling still with ceaseless flight,Till the streaks of grey expand.O'er the fleeting robe of night.As night flits, she does but cry," Seize the moments that remain "—Thus our joys with yours shall vie,Tenants of yon hallow'd fane!" It was Rais's turn next, who charmed uswith this plaintive little dialogue supposed topass betwixt himself and a lady:NO. XV. HOURS. 305DIALOGUE BY RAIS.rais.Maid of sorrow, tell us whySad and drooping hangs thy head?Is it grief that bids thee sigh?Is it sleep that flies thy bed?lady.Ah! I mourn no fancied wound,Pangs too true this heart have wrung,Since the snakes which curl aroundSelim's brows my bosom stung.Destin'd now to keener woes,I must see the youth depart;He must go, and as he goesRend at once my bursting heart.Slumber may desert my bed,'Tis not slumber's charms I seek—'Tis the robe of beauty spreadO'er my Selim's rosy cheek. *The stern and simple manners of the firstcaliphs, of Abubeker, Omar and Othman wereno longer in existence, nor was the enthusiasm

Carlyle's Specimens of Arabian Poetry, p. 67.2 R306LITERARYNO. XV.of the people cherished by temporal andspiritual conquest. Softened by prosperity,literature, and the tranquil pleasures of domestic life, Haroun and his immediate successorssunk upon the couch of luxury, and thoughthe scene was for some time splendid and fascinating around them, the seeds of destruction.lurked beneath " the robe of beauty," and inthe tenth century Radhi, the twentieth of theAbbassides was the last who deserved the titleof Commander of the Faithful.If we contemplate the philosophy andscience ofthis powerful people, it will be foundthat their age of learning continued for nearfive hundred years, and was coeval with thedarkest centuries of christian Europe. TheirAugustan period, however, if we may makeuse of the expression, certainly took placebeneath the auspices of the first caliphs ofthehouse of Abbas; beneath the munificent encouragement of Almansor, Mahadi, Hadi,Haroun, Almamon, and their immediate successors, who, during the eighth and ninth centuries, cherished and cultivated the sciences,and invited from all parts of the world men ofgenius and knowledge, whose abilities, secureNO. XV. 307 HOURS..ofmeeting honour and reward, cast a splendouron the court of Bagdad that has attracted theattention, the admiration and gratitude of everyfriend to intellectual improvement. Theseroyal lovers of literature collected with incredible pains the manuscripts of grecian science,and employed the most skilful interpretersin translating them into Arabic, strenuouslyrecommended to their subjects their perusal,and attended in person the assemblies of theliterati. They founded at Bagdad libraries ofthe most ample extent, containing some hundred thousand volumes, and atoned, in somemeasure, to the literary world, for the ignorantfanaticism ofthe caliph Omar, whose destruction of the Alexandrian collection plungedinto oblivion many an author of the ancientworld who had exalted his imagination withthe hopes of immortality. The visirs and theemirs of the provinces emulated the liberalityand patronage of the caliphs, and a taste forstudy, and for science was propagated throughout the vast extent of their empire. A collegewas established at Bagdad, through the munificence of a visir, who appropriated a sum oftwo hundred thousand pieces of gold to itsfoundation, and endowed it with an annual308LITERARYNO. XV.revenue of fifteen thousand dinars. Here sixthousand disciples ofevery rank were instructedat different times, in all the departments ofliterature; the indigent scholars were providedwith adequate stipends, and liberal salarieswere granted to the professors. Not onlycaliphs and emirs were encouragers of science,even in inferior life the same avidity for copying and collecting manuscripts prevailed, anda private doctor refused the invitation of thesultan of Bochara, because the carriage of his.books would have required four hundredcamels.Amongthe various branches of human learn .ing cultivated by the Arabians, philosophy,astronomy and physic, occupied their chiefattention. The works of Aristotle and Plato,of Euclid, Apollonius and Ptolemy, werefamiliar to their schools, and their versions areascribed to Honain, a celebrated physician whoflourished at Bagdad, and died there A. D. 876.He founded a kind of Academy for translation,and the productions of his sons and discipleswere published under his name. The logicand metaphysics of Aristotle, mathematics andthe science of Algebra, the latter of which isNO. XV.809 HOURS.ascribed by the Arabs themselves to the Grecian Diophantus, were studied with profoundattention, and the two former commented uponwith great prolixity and acuteness. With stillgreater success did they cultivate "the sublimescience of astronomy, which elevates the mind.of man to disdain his diminutive planet andmomentary existence. The costly instrumentsof observation were supplied by the caliphAlmamon, and the land of the Chaldeans stillafforded the same spacious level , the sameunclouded horizon.and a second time in those of Cufa, his mathematicians accurately measured a degree of thegreat circle of the earth, and determined attwenty-four thousand miles the entire circumference of our globe. From the reign oftheAbbassides to that of the grand- children ofTamerlane, the stars, without the aid of glasses,were diligently observed; and the astronomicaltables of Bagdad, Spain, and Samarcand, correct some minute errors, without daring torenounce the hypothesis of Ptolemy,"In the plains of Sinaar,The science of medicine which had almostGibbon, vol, x. p. 47:310 LITERARY NO. XV.expired in the west, was revived and restored.to all its wonted lustre by the meritoriousindustry of the Arabians, and in the city ofBagdad eight hundred and sixty physicianswere licensed to exercise their profession.†Exposed to perpetual danger in the field, the,disciples of Mohammed were early taught toestimate the salutary powers of medicine andsurgery, and the prophet himself was not onlypractically skilled in this art, but composed abook of Aphorisms for the instruction of hisattendants and soldiers. The writings of Hippocrates and Galen were elaborately commented upon, and the names of Mesua, and,Geber, of Razis and Avicenna, no unworthydisciples of the celebrated grecian, have descended to posterity with the honours due totheir genius and industry. Many articles havebeen given by their research to the MateriaMedica; botany is indebted to them for numerous and valuable additions to the herbal ofDioscorides, and Al Beithar of Malaga, theirmost celebrated botanist, travelled over halfthe globe to enrich his favorite science. InAnatomy indeed they claim little merit, tread-+ Bibliot. Arabico-Hispana, tom. i . p. 438 .NO. XV. HOURS. 311ing servilely in the steps of Galen; theirsuperstitious reverence for the dead arrestedthe progress of discovery, and confined themto the dissection of quadrupeds, a circ*mstancewhich led into numerous and sometimes fatalerrors: but chemistry, as a science, may besaid to have been created beneath the hands ofthe Arabians, and to have operated a revolutionin the practice and theory of medicine: it metat first with vigorous opposition from thegalenic school, but the powerful and salutarymedicines it introduced, and extracted, as itwere, from the bosom of the most virulentpoisons in nature, soon crushed the timid andineffective practice of its opponents. Chemical theory indeed, notwithstanding the widerange of Arabian and European science andlearning, has not, until lately, offered any verysolid assistance towards the improvement ofmedicine; within these thirty years however,such has been the rapid progress of the science,such the beautiful and singular discoveries ithas produced, such a potent auxiliary has itproved to the physiologist, that combined withthe doctrine of irritability, as laid down byHaller, Fontana, Brown and Darwin, it seemscapable of establishing a system which, as1312 LITERARY NO. XV.drawn from broad and applicable facts, maybid defiance to the assault of time. Returning, however, to our Arabians, it will be foundthat in the pursuit of alchemy and the elixirof immortality, the most beneficial discoverieswere effected; the three kingdoms of naturewere analysed; the distinction and affinity ofalkalies ascertained; an excellent apparatusfor the purposes of chemistry invented; andthe miseries of mankind gave way to medicines;elaborated in the crucibles ofthe alchymists.The Ommiades of Spain were not lessattentive, at this period, to the prosperity andcultivation of learning; we are told, thoughperhaps with some exaggeration , that the caliphs of the west had formed a library of sixhundred thousand volumes, forty-four of whichwere employed in the mere catalogue . Wehave good authority however for asserting thatCordova, the metropolis of the commander ofthe faithful with its adjacent towns of Malaga,Almeria and Murcia, gave birth to better thanthree hundred writers, and that above seventypublic libraries were opened in the cities ofthe Andalusian kingdom. Agriculture, manufactures and commerce were likewise greatlyNo. XV. HOURS. 313encouraged, and a few years after the Mohammedan conquest, a map of the country, withits seas, rivers, and harbours, was publishedby command of the caliph, with an account ofits inhabitants and cities, climate, soil, andmineral productions. † Under the Abdalrahmans they rivalled the east in philosophy,astronomy and physic, and so great was thereputation of the Mohammedan physicians thatthe lives of the Catholic princes were entrustedto their care.The Arts, especially poetry, music andarchitecture, were in high esteem among thenations of the east, and long before the era oftheir prophet, the Arabs of the desert, and ofthe happier district of Yemen, vied in theproductions oftheir native bards. Their chiefpoems were affixed to the portal of the templeof Mecca, and challenged the admiration, orcalled forth the emulative abilities of the votaries of song. The seven poems of the Caabainscribed in letters ofgold were thus presented+ Cardonne, Hist. de l'Afrique et de l'Espagne,tom. i. p. 116, 117.Mariana, 1. viii. c. 7. tom. i. p. 318.12 $314 LITERARY NO . XV.to the people at the gate of the temple, andpowerfully appealing to their passions andnational virtues, inspired the love of valour,ofgenerosity and of fame. No virtue indeedamong the Arabs was held in so much estimation as that of generosity, which was carriedto a length almost unprecedented in the annalsof any other nation, and truly merits the appellation of heroic. " A dispute had arisen, whoamong the citizens of Mecca, was entitled tothe prize of generosity; and a successive application was made to the three who were deemedmost worthy ofthe trial . Abdallah, the son ofAbbas, had undertaken a distant journey, andhis foot was in the stirrup when he heard thevoice of a suppliant, ' O son of the uncle ofthe apostle of God, I am a traveller and indistress.' He instantly dismounted to presentthe pilgrim with his camel, her rich caparison,and a purse of four thousand pieces of gold,excepting only the sword, either for its intrinsicvalue, or as the gift of an honoured kinsman.The servant of Kais informed the second suppliant that his master was asleep; but he immediately added, ' Here is a purse of seventhousand pieces of gold, it is all we have in thehouse, and here is an order that will entitleNO. XV.315 HOURS.you to a camel and a slave; ' the master, assoon as he awoke, praised and enfranchised hisfaithful steward with a gentle reproof, that byrespecting his slumbers he had stinted hisbounty. The third of these heroes, the blindArabah, at the hour of prayer, was supportinghis steps on the shoulders of two slaves.Alas! ' he replied, my coffers are emptybut these you may sell; if you refuse, Irenounce them.' At these words, pushingaway the youths, he groped along the wallwith his staff. "* Of Hatem, the most beneficent character of Arabia, so many instances ofgenerosity are recorded, that to enumeratethem would fill a volume. He was also aneloquent poet, though prior to the promulgation of Mohammedanism, and his poemsexpressed the beneficence that reigned in hisheart.When such was the love for, and prevalenceof poetry, during what we may term , theilliterate age of Arabia, we shall not be surprised to find that under the splendid periodofthe Caliphats of Bagdad and Cordova, theGibbon, vol. ix. p. 242.316 LITERARY NO. XV.most lavish honours and rewards were bestowedon the favorites of the muse. For a singlepoem, Abou Teman, one of their most celebrated poets, received fifty thousand pieces ofgold, and was at the same time told, that thispecuniary reward was deemed very inadequateto the obligation he had conferred. Duringthis happy portion of Mohammedan literature,the simplicity of the bards of Yemen was combined with an elegance peculiar to the poets ofBagdad, and a series of beautiful poems formany centuries of the Hejra has been collected,translated and given to the public by the tasteand erudition of Professor Carlyle. Owingto a very strong attachment to and high opinionof their native language and poetic diction , theArabians disdained to study or translate theelegant literature of Greece or Rome, andamong their various philosophic and scientificworks familiarized to the idiom of the east,not one poet or orator can be found.has been lamented by some, whilst by others ithas been considered rather as a fortunate circ*mstance, the sources of servile imitationbeing thus cut off, and nature alone left to+ Carlyle, p . 63.ThisNO. XV.317 HOURS. }inspire the genius of the poet; for it is a justremark that, "true taste in composition is byno means restricted to certain ages or climates,but will be found in every country, which isarrived at that point in civilization where barbarism has ceased and fantastic refinement notyet begun." The poems translated by Professor Carlyle are ofthemselves a strong proofof the truth of his observation. Far frombeing loaded with bombastic expression andinflated metaphor, they in general breathe thepurest and chastest simplicity both in style andsentiment, and frequently touch the heart withthe tender tones of genuine pathos.Untilthe complete degradation ofthe caliphsof Bagdad and the extinction of the authorityof the Ommiades of Spain, the poetry oftheArabians preserved its claim to superior excellence, and under Almostakfi, the last caliph ofCordova, his daughter Waladata was as celebrated for the sweetness of her poetry as forthe beauty of her person. An Epigram ofhers has been preserved by Casiri , and is thuselegantly translated by Mr. Carlyle.Carlyle's Specimens, preface, p. iii.318LITERARYNO. XV.VERSES.ADDRESSED BY WALADATA TO SOME YOUNGMEN WHO HAD PRETENDED A PASSIONFOR HERSELF AND HER COMPANIONS.Whenyou told us our glances soft, timid, and mild ,Could occasion such wounds in the heart,Can ye wonder that yours, so ungovern'd and wild,Some wounds to our cheeks should impart? ·The wounds on our cheeks, are but transient I own,With a blush they appear and decay;But those on the heart, fickle youths , ye have shownTo be even more transient than they.*Nor was music less admired, or less ardentlycultivated than poetry. The caliph HarounAlrashid was passionately fond of it, and IsaacAlmousely, the most distinguished musician atthe court of Bagdad, was a necessary memberofevery party of amusem*nt. He is recordedas possessing the power of soothing or stimulating the passions of the caliph at his pleasure;and once, it is said, that Alrashid havingquarrelled with his favorite mistress, Meridah,left her with a determination to see her no

• Carlyle, p. 134.

NO. XV. HOURS.319more.Ignorant of the means of bringingabout a reconciliation, and almost in despair,she applied to her friend the visir Jaafer, who,sending for Almousely, gave him a songadapted to the purpose, with a request thathe would immediately perform it before thecaliph, and with all the pathetic powers he wascapable of exerting. The musician complied,and Haroun soothed by the melting tones ofAlmousely, bade adieu to his resentment, andrushing into the presence of his again belovedMeridah, confessed the impetuosity of histemper, and solicited an oblivion of the past.With not less success did the celebrated AbouMohammed fascinate the ears of the caliphWathek, who after listening to a specimen ofhis musical talents, threw his own robe overthe shoulders of the musician, and ordered hima present of an hundred thousand dirhems.The Architecture of the Arabians possessedneither the simplicity nor the unity of thegrecian orders, but it displayed an imposinggrandeur, and an air of vast magnificence.Gigantic in its outline, whilst its minuter partswere delicately finished, clothed with all thatgorgeous wealth could lavish, and decorated320 LITERARY NO. XV .with the meretricious wonders of art, it excitedadmiration though it failed to gratify a chastisedtaste. When Ferdinand and Isabella enteredin triumph the city of Granada, the inmostrecesses and glories of the Alhambra werethrown open to their view, and as it wasesteemed one of the noblest specimens ofSaracenic architecture, a short account of itsstructure will convey to the reader a lively ideaoftheir best and most splendid style, especiallyin interior decoration, for the exterior of theAlhambra presents but a rough and irregularappearance." Through a simple and narrow gate thespectator is conducted to a series of beautieswhich almost realize the fabulous Tales oftheGenii. The bath, the first object which strikeshis sight, consists of an oblong square, with adeep bason of clear water in the middle; twoflights of marble steps leading down to thebottom; on each side a parterre of flowers, anda row oforange trees. The court is encircledwith a peristile paved with marble; the archesbear upon very slight pillars, in proportionsand style different from all the regular ordersof architecture. The cielings and walls areNO. XV. HOURS. 321incrusted with fret-work in stucco, so minuteand intricate, that the most patient draftsmanwould find it difficult to follow it, unless hemade himself master of the general plan. Theformer are gilt or painted; and time has notfaded the colours, though they are constantly.exposed to the air; the lower part of the latteris Mosaic, disposed in fantastic knots andfestoons; a work new, exquisitely finished, andexciting the most agreeable sensations.""From the bath a second door opens intothe court of the lions, an hundred feet inlength, and fifty in breadth, environed with acolonnade seven feet broad on the sides, andten at the end; the roof and gallery are supported by slender columns of virgin marble,fantastically adorned; and in the centre of thecourt are the statues of twelve lions, whichbear upon their backs a large bason, out ofwhich rises a lesser. A volume of waterthrown up, falls again into the bason, passesthrough the beasts, and issues out of theirmouths into a large reservoir, whence it iscommunicated to the other apartments. ""These apartments are decorated with what2 T322 LITERARY NO. XV.ever the art of the age could invent, or commerce could supply. The floors glitter withmarble; the walls and the windows are encircled with Mosaic; and through the latter therays of the sun gleam with a variety of lightand tints on the former; the air is perpetuallyrefreshed by fountains; and the double roofequally excludes the extremes of heat and cold;from every opening shady gardens of aromatictrees, beautiful hills, and fertile plains meetthe eye; nor is it to be wondered that theMoors still regret the delightful gardens ofGranada, and still offer up their prayers forthe recovery of that city, which they deem aterrestrial paradise."*Thus, whilst a darkness almost palpablehovered over christian Europe, whilst scarceone friendly ray glimmered on the footsteps ofits barbarous inhabitants, the sun of scienceand of literature poured a steady light throughthe regions of the east, and through that partof the western world beneath the dominion ofthe worshippers of the Koran. In the courtsof Bagdad and Cordova the manuscripts of the

• History of Spain, vol. i . p. 440.

NO. XV. HOURS. 323ancients were accumulated; brought fromevery distant part of their own and the greekempire; translated and commented upon, bytheir most learned men; and some works nowlost in the original have been recovered in theversions of the east. To these oriental Unitarians we are indebted for the introduction andimprovement of algebra, for the creation almostof chemistry, for many new and effectivedrugs, for much accurate astronomical observation, and for several works of invention thathave more or less tinged the fictions and poetryof the west.The Arabians had thus the merit of preserving learning from a total wreck, and of cherishing and improving the arts and sciences, untilEurope, roused from her inglorious slumber,appropriated the intellectual treasure, andshortly after carried her literary exertionsto a degree of perfection unknown to, andunapprehended by the most learned of theMohammedan world.¡NUMBER XVI.I sat me down to watch upon a bankWith ivy canopied, and interwoveWith flaunting honey- suckle; and began,Wrapt in a pleasing fit ofmelancholy,To meditate my rural minstrelsy,Till fancy had her fill .Milton.O may the muse that loves to grieve,Her strains into my breast instill ,Melodious as the bird of eve,In Maro's lays that murmur still!Langhorne.In no species of poetry has imitation been,carried on with greater servility than, in whatis termed the Eclogue; yet it might readily besupposed that he who was alive to the beautiesof rural imagery; who possessed a just tastein selecting the more striking and pictoresque326LITERARYNO. XVI.features of the objects around him, would findin the inexhaustible stores of nature amplematerials for decoration, while incidents ofsufficient simplicity and interest, neither toocoarse on the one hand, nor too refined on theother, adapted to the country and tinged withnational manners and customs, might with nogreat difficulty be drawn from fact, or arrangedby the fancy of the poet. Such combinations,however, under the epithet of pastoral, havenot frequently occurred, owing, I conceive, tothe mistaken idea that one peculiar form, styleand manner, a tissue of hacknied scenery andsentiment, cannot with propriety be deviatedfrom. Under such a preposterous conceptiongenius must expire, a languid monotony pervade every effort, and the incongruity of theimagery and incident excite nothing but contempt. Theocritus, the father of pastoralpoetry, has done little more than paint the richand romantic landscape of Sicily, the languageand occupations of its rustic inhabitants; abeautiful and original picture and drawn fromthe very bosom of simplicity and truth; andhad succeeding poets copied himin this respect,and, instead of absurdly introducing the costume and scenery of Sicily, given a faithfulNO. XVI. 327 HOURS.representation of their own climate and ruralcharacter, our pastorals would not be the insipid things we are now, in general, obliged toconsider them, but accurate imitations of natureherself, sketched with a free and liberal pencil,and glowing with appropriate charms.Unfortunately, however, for those few authors who possess some originality in pastoralcomposition, the professed critics in this department, with the exception of one or two, haveexclusively and perversely dwelt and commented upon mere copyists, to the utter neglectofpoets who might justly aspire to contest thepalm of excellence with the grecian. In mostof our dissertations on pastoral poetry, afterdue encomium on the merits of the Sicilianbard, few authors save Virgil, Spenser, Pope,Gay and Phillips are noticed, all, except thesecond, translators, imitators or parodists ratherthan original writers in this branch of poetry.If rural life no longer present us with shepherds.singing and piping for a bowl or a crook, whypersist, in violation of all probability, to introduce such characters? Ifpastoral cannot existwithout them, let us cease to compose it, forto Theocritus these personages were objects of328LITERARYNO. XVI.hourly observation, and the peasants of Sicilya kind of Improvisatori. I am persuaded,however, that simplicity in diction and sentiment, a happy choice of rural imagery, suchincidents and circ*mstances as may even nowoccur in the country, with interlocutors equallyremoved from vulgarity or considerable refinement, are all that are essential to success. *Upon this plan the celebrated Gesner haswritten his Idyllia, compositions which havesecured him immortality and placed him on alevel with the Grecian. By many indeed,and upon no trifling grounds, he is preferred,having with much felicity assumed a mediumbetween the rusticity of Theocritus, and thetoo refined and luxuriant imagination of Bionand Moschus, preserving at the same time thenatural painting of the Sicilian , with thepathetic touches and exquisite sensibility ofthe contemporary bards.Since the first edition ofthese essays Mr. Southey has published sixEnglish Eclogues; these are avowedly written upon a plan similar tothat which I have taken much pains to recommend in this sketch. Insome ofthese pieces I think he has succeeded well. I would particularlydistinguish for their simplicity and beauty the " Old Mansion House,""The Witch," and " The Ruined Cottage. " The " Grandmother'sTale" appears to me to have too much of the horrid in it for this speciesof poetry.NO. XVI. 329 HOURS.Oneof the most harmonious and beautifullyplaintive passages perhaps in the whole compassof grecian poetry may be drawn from theEpitaph on Bion by Moschus; the comparisonbetween vegetative and human life, which,though in some measure foreign to the purportof this paper, I cannot avoid indulging myselfand my readers in quoting, with the additionof a couple of versions and one or two of themost happy imitations; they cannot fail ofbeing acceptable to feeling and to taste.Αι, αι , ται, μαλαχαι μεν επαν καλα καπονολωνται ,Η τα χλωρα σελινα , το 7' ευθαλες υλον ανηθον,Υσερον αν ζωοντι , και εις έξος αλλο φύονζιΑμμες δύο μεγαλοι και καρτεροι η σοφοι άνδρες,Οππότε πρώτα θανωμες ανακοοι εν χθονι κοιλαΕνδομές εν μαλα μακρον αζερμονα υηγρέζον ύπνον.Though fade crisp anise, and the parsley's green,And vivid mallows from the garden scene,The balmy breath of spring their life renews,And bids them flourish in their former hues!But we, the great, the valiant, and the wise,When once the seal of death has clos'd our eyes,330 LITERARY NO. XVI.Lost in the hollow tomb obscure and deep,Slumber, to wake no more, one long unbroken sleep!Polwhele.The meanest herb we trample in the field,Or in the garden nurture, when its leafAt winter's touch is blasted, and its placeForgotten, soon its vernal buds renews,And from short slumber wakes to life again,Man wakes no more! Man, valiant, glorious, wise,Whendeath once chills him sinks in sleep profound,A long, unconscious, never ending sleep .Gisborne.The same sentiment may be found in Catullus, Horace, Albinovanus, Spenser, &c. butnone have equalled Doctors Jortin and Beattie,in imitating, and even improving on this pensive idea.Hei mihi! lege rata sol occidit atque resurgit,Lunaque mutatæ reparat dispendia formæ:Sidera, purpurei telis extincta diei,Rursùs nocte vigent: humiles telluris alumni,Graminis herba virens, et florum picta propago,Quos crudelis hyems lethali tabe peredit;Cum Zephyri vox blanda vocat, rediitque sereniTemperies anni, redivivo è cespite surgunt.Nos, Domini rerum! nos, magna et pulchra minati!NO. XVI.331 HOURS.Cum breve ver vitæ robustaque transiit æstas,Deficimus: neque nos ordo revolubilis aurasReddit in ætherias , tumuli nec claustra resolvit .Jortin.Ah why thus abandon'd to darkness and woe,Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain?For spring shall return , and a lover bestow,And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain.Yet, if pity inspire thee, ah cease not thy lay,Mourn, sweetest Complainer, Man calls thee tomourn:O sooth him, whose pleasures like thine pass away—Full quickly they pass—but they never return.Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky,The Moon half extinguish'd her crescent displays;But lately I mark'd, when majestic on highShe shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze,Roll on thou fair orb, and with gladness pursueThe path that conducts thee to splendor again.—But Man's faded glory no change shall renew.Ah fool! to exult in a glory so vain!'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more;I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you;For morn is approaching, your charins to restore,Perfum'd with fresh fragrance and glittering with dew.Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn;Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save.-332 LITERARY NO. XVI.But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn!O when shall it dawn on the night of the grave!Beattie.The beginning ofthe quotation from Jortin,and the two first stanzas from Dr. Beattie, arebeautiful additions to the original idea . Thelines of Beattie indeed flow with the mostmelancholy and musical expression, steal intothe heart itself, and excite a train of pleasingthough gloomy association . *Closing, however, this long digression, letus return to our subject, and here we mayobserve, that some time before the age ofSpenser, a model of pastoral simplicity wasgiven us in a beautiful poem entitled Harpalus,and which is introduced by Dr. Percy into hisReliques of Ancient English Poetry. HadSpenser attended more to the unaffected easeand natural expression of this fine old pastoral,he would not, I presume, have interwoventheology with his eclogues, nor chosen such a

• This observation is only applicable to the lines here quoted, for

the concluding stanzas of this exquisite poem completely remove thecloud which hung over the prospects of the grecian poet, and present tothe reader the christian doctrine of a resurrection.NO. XVI. HOURS. 333barbarous and vulgar jargon to convey thesentiments of his shepherds in. Few poetsexceed Spenser in the brilliancy of his imagination, and there is a tender melancholy in hiscompositions which endears him to the reader,but elegant simplicity, so necessary in Bucolicpoetry, was no characteristic of the author ofthe Fairy Queen. In every requisite for thisprovince of his divine art, he has been muchexcelled by Drayton, whose Nymphidiamay be considered as one of the best specimens.we have of the pastoral eclogue. The presentage seems to have forgotten this once popularpoet; an edition indeed has been published ofhis Heroical Epistles, but various other portions of his works, and more especially hisNymphidia, merit republication.After the example of Tasso and Guarini,whose Aminta and Pastor Fido were highlydistinguished in the literary world, Fletcherwrote his Faithful Shepherdess, a piece thatrivals, and, perhaps, excels the boasted productions of the Italian muse. Equally possessingthe elegant simplicity which characterises theAminta, it has at the same time a richer vinof wild and romantic imagery, and disdains334 LITERARY NO. XVI.those affected prettinesses which deform thedrama of Guarini. This Arcadian Comedyof Fletcher's was held in high estimation byMilton; its frequent allusion, and with thefinest effect, to the popular superstitions, caughtthe congenial spirit of our enthusiastic bard.The Sad Shepherd of Jonson likewise, Browne'sBritannia's Pastorals and Warner's Albion'sEngland may be mentioned as containing muchpastoral description of the most genuine kind.Of the singular production of Warner, thereis, I believe, no modern edition, yet few amongour elder poets more deserve the attention ofthe lover of nature and rural simplicity. Somewell-chosen extracts from this work are to befound in the collections of Percy and Headley,and his Argentile and Curan has been the meanof enriching our language with an admirabledrama from the pen of Mason. Scott too, indescribing his favorite village of Amwell,"where sleeps our bard by Fame forgotten"has offered a due tribute to his memory.Numerous passages estimable for their simpleand pathetic beauty might be quoted from hisvolume; the following will convince the reader,that harmony of versification also, and a terseness and felicity of diction are among hisexcellences.NO. XVI. HOURS.335She casting down her bashful eyesStood senseless then a space,Yet what her tongueless love adjourn'dWas extant in her face.1With that she dasht her on the lips,So dyed double red:Hard was the heart that gave the blowSoft were those lips that bled,Whenin the holy-land I pray'dEven at the holy grave,Forgive me God! a sigh for sin,And three for love I gave.Each spear that shall but cross thy helme,Hath force to erase my heart:But if thou bleed, of that thy bloodMy fainting soul hath part,With thee .I live, with thee I die,With thee I lose or gain.Methinks I see how churlish looksEstrange thy cheerful face,Methinks thy gestures, talk and gait,Have chang'd their wonted grace:1336LITERARYKO. XVI.Methinks thy sometimes nimble limbsWith armour now are lame:Methinks I see how scars deformWhere swords before did maim:I see thee faint with summer's heat,And droop with winter's cold.Albion's England.That pleasing little poem, The Fishermen ofTheocritus, probably first suggested to Sannazarius the idea of writing piscatory eclogues,who has been followed with much success byPhineas Fletcher and Brown.Whatever maybe thought ofthe employment, as suited to theeclogue, of those who live on the sea-shoreand subsist by catching the produce of thedeep, it will readily be allowed that our riversat least, fertilise the most rich and romanticparts of our island, and that they display to thefisher lingering upon their banks the mostlovely scenery, such as mingling with the circ*mstances of his amusem*nt, and the detailof appropriate incident, would furnish verydelightful pictures, and in the genuine style ofBucolic poetry. Fletcher and Brown have inthis manner rendered their eclogues trulyinteresting, and even Isaac Walton, thoughno poet, has in his Complete Angler introducedNO. XVI. HOURS. 337some inimitably drawn pastoral scenes; whatcan be more exquisite than the followingdescription."Turn out of the way a little, good scholar,towards yonder high honey-suckle hedge; therewe'll sit and sing, whilst this shower falls sogently upon the teeming earth, and gives yet asweeter smell to the lovely flowers that adornthese verdant meadows. Look, under thebroad beech tree, I sat down, when I was lastthis way a fishing, and the birds in the adjoining grove seemed to have a friendly contention.with an echo, whose dead voice seemed to live,in a hollow tree, near to the brow of thatprimrose hill; there I sat viewing the silverstreams glide silently towards their center, thetempestuous sea; yet sometimes opposed byrugged roots and pebble stones, which broketheir waves and turned them into foam: andsometimes I beguiled time by viewing theharmless lambs, some leaping securely in thecool shade, whilst others sported themselves inthe chearful sun; and saw others craving comfort from the swollen udders of their bleatingdams. As I thus sat, these and other sightshad so fully possest my soul with content, that2 X338LITERARYNO. XVI.I thought, as the poet has happily exprest it,I was for that time lifted above earth;As I left this place and entered into the nextfield, a second pleasure entertained me; 'twasa handsome milk-maid, that had not yetattained so much age and wisdom as to loadher mind with any fears of many things thatwill never be as too many men too often do;but she cast away all care and sang like anightingale. " *In the pastoral song and ballad the moderns,and particularly the scotch and english, havegreatly excelled; Rowe's despairing shepherdis the sweetest poem of the kind we have inEngland, and Shenstone's ballad in four parts,though not equal in merit to the former, hasyet long and deservedly been a favorite withthe public. In artless expression of passion,however, in truth of colouring, and navitè ofdiction, nothing can rival the Scotch pastoralsongs; they originated in a country aboundingin a rich assemblage of rural images; " smooth

• Walton's Complete Angler, 1st . Edition by

Sir John Hawkins, p. 73.NO. XVI. HOURS 339 .and lofty hills," says Dr. Beattie, speaking ofthe southern provinces of Scotland, " coveredwith verdure; clear streams winding through.long and beautiful vallies; trees producedwithout culture, here straggling or single, andthere crowding into little groves and bowers; -with other circ*mstances peculiar to the districs I allude to, render them fit for pasturage,and favorable to romantic leisure and tenderpassions. Several of the old Scotch songstake their names from the rivulets, villages,and hills, adjoining to the Tweed near Melrose; a region distinguished by many charmingvarieties of rural scenery, and which, whetherwe consider the face of the country, or thegenius of the people, may properly enough betermed the Arcadia of Scotland. And allthese songs are sweetly and powerfully expressive oflove and tenderness, and other emotions.suited to the tranquility of pastoral life. "*Robene and Makyn, Ettric Banks, EubuchtsMarion, and several other scotch pieces, arestriking proofs of the Doctor's assertion .To rouse the imagination by the charms of

• Beattie on Poetry and Music, p. 173.

340 LITERARY NO. XVI.novelty, several of our poets have transferredthe eclogue to the vallies of Persia and thedeserts of Arabia, to breathe the odors ofYemen, or revel mid the groves of Circassia.The life ofthe wandering Arab abounds withevents which strike the fancy, and when clothedin the metaphorical and exuberant languageof the east cannot fail to interest our curiosityand excite our feelings. Their independence,hospitality and love of poetry are beautifulfeatures of their character, and form a strongcontrast with the more luxurious and servileexistence of the Persian . In Arabia itselfnothing can be more opposed than the twodistricts which are known by the epithets ofpetrea and felix; a dreary and boundless wasteof sand, without shade, shelter or water,scorched by the burning rays of the sun, andintercepted by sharp and naked mountains,which, instead of refreshing breezes, breathethe most deadly vapours and whirlwinds andwhich rasing the sandy ocean threaten to overwhelm the affrighted caravan, are descriptiveof the one part, while shady groves, greenpastures, streams of pure water, fruits of themost delicious flavour, and air of the mostbalmy fragrance characterise the other. From.NO. XVI. HOURS. 341the banks of the Tigris, from the deserts ofArabia, from the shaded plains of Georgia andCircassia has our inimitable Collins drawnhis scenery and characters, and no eclogues ofancient or modern times, in pathetic beauty,in richness and wildness of description, insimplicity of sentiment and manners can justlybe esteemed superior. His Hassan, or theCamel-Driver, is, I verily believe, one of themost tenderly sublime, most sweetly-descriptive poems in the cabinet of the Muses. TheSolyman of Sir William Jones, and theOriental Eclogues of Scott of Amwell, havealso considerable merit; the former is an exquisite specimen of the Arabian eclogue, andthe Serim and Li- Po of the latter have manypictoresque touches, and much pleasing moral.Apoet offine imagination, and great patheticpowers, has lately presented us with BotanyBay Eclogues, a subject fruitful in noveltyboth of scenery and character; nor has hefailed strongly to interest our feelings. InElinor, the first of his four eclogues, he hasmore particularly availed himself of the peculiar features of the country; the followingpassage vividly paints the state of this yetsavage land.342 LITERARY NO. XVI.Welcome ye marshy heaths! ye pathless woods,Where the rude native rests his wearied frameBeneath the sheltering shade; where, when thestorm ,As rough and bleak it rolls along the sky,Benumbs his naked limbs, he flies to seekThe dripping shelter. Welcome ye wild plainsUnbroken by the plough, undelv'd by handOf patient rustic; where for lowing herds,And for the music of the bleating flocks,Alone is heard the kangaroo's sad noteDeepening in distance.Southey.Mrs. West too, in imitation of the pastoralballad of Rowe and Shenstone, has given ussome elegant productions; one, in which thesuperstition and imagery of the Scotish Highlands are introduced, has the merit of originality.If what has been now observed, shouldinduce the unprejudiced reader to reperusethe authors alluded to, he will probably beinclined to admit that, in pastoral poetry,Virgil, Spenser, Pope, Gay and Phillips mustyield the palm to Tasso, Warner, DraytonNO. XVI. HOURS.343and the two Fletchers, to Rowe, Ramsay,*Shenstone, Gesner and Collins; yet most ofour critics in this department have consideredthe former as the only genuine disciples ofTheocritus, and have scarce deigned to mentionany of the latter. Some indeed have noticedthe Italians and the courtly Fontenelle, butnone, except Blair, though treating professedlyupon this subject, have applauded Gesner, andas to Warner and Drayton, save a few observations with regard to the latter from theelegant pen of Dr. Aikin, they have almostsuffered oblivion. Virgil, excluding his firstBucolic, is a mere, though a very pleasingimitator, and whatever may be thought ofSpenser, Pope has certainly nothing but hismusical versification to recommend him. Thepurport of Gay seems to have been parodyand burlesque, and Phillips, and I may herealso add Lytleton, though superior perhaps toPope, have little or no originality. It is nowonder, therefore, that modern pastoral poetryshould appear so despicable contrasted with

• Though I have not previously mentioned the name of Ramsay, I

consider his Gentle Shepherd as included under the reinarks made onScotish Pastoral Poetry.344 LITERARY NO. XVI.the ancient, when our best and most originalwriters are unappealed to; when to quote PopeGay and Phillips, Warner, Drayton, Collinsand Gesner are neglected. These four authorsassuredly rescue modern pastoral and ecloguefrom the charge of insipidity. Not servilelytreading in the footsteps of Theocritus andVirgil, they have chalked out and embellishedwith the most beautiful simplicity, paths oftheir own; their flowers are congenial to thesoil, and display their tints with a brilliancyand fragrance which no sickly exotic can everhope to emulate. To this remark the orientaleclogue may be opposed, but let it be observedthat the manners still exist, and have all thefreshness of living nature; the shepherds ofArabia are what they were a thousand years

• Dr. Aikin , in his Essay on ballads and pastoral songs, has mentioned the pastorals of a Mr. Smith: these, as I have had no opportunity

of perusing them, I must of course be silent with regard to; but injustice to perhaps a very ingenious poet, I think it necessary to transcribethe Doctor's opinion. " That there is still room for novelty in thiswalk, " observes he, "has lately been agreeably shown in the pastoralsof Mr. Smith, the landscape painter, which, however unequal and deficient in harmony and correctness, have infinitely more merit than Pope'smelodious echoes of an echo. Mr. Smith's pieces will also illustrate myformer remark, that the manners and sentiments of our rural vulgar cannot be rendered pleasing subjects for poetry; for where he paints themmost naturally, they are least agreeable. "NO. XVI. HOURS. 345ago, and a well- drawn picture of their pastoralcustoms and country must be highly relishedby the lovers of simple and independent life.In Warner and Drayton our own countrymanners, without exaggeration or much embellishment are naturally and correctly given, andin Gesner, the domestic affections, flowingfrom the bosom of more refined sensibility,and very pictoresque description, are clothedin language ofthe utmost simplicity.In pursuit of the idea started in the commencement of this sketch, that simplicity indiction and sentiment, a proper choice of ruralimagery, such incidents and circ*mstances asmay even now occur in the country, togetherwith interlocutors equally removed from vulgarity, or considerable refinement, are, in thepresent state of society in Europe, all that canbe requisite for the composition of the pastoral,I have ventured to append to these stricturesa small poem, which though it may fall shortof the precepts inculcated in the precedingessay, will yet, I trust, be tolerated by thereader, more especially when he shall recollect,that to lay down just critical rules, and to carry2 Y346LITERARYNO. XVI.those rules into execution frequently requirevery different powers, and that the latter isincomparably the most difficult task.NO. XVI. 347 HOURS.EDWIN AND ORLANDO.From scenes of wild variety , from whereQuick-glancing winds the stream the pine- hungvaleAlong, from where the madd'ning waters leapFrom rock to rock, from woods of druid oak,From groves where Love and rural Bliss reside,O Gesner deign to stray! for sure in scenesLike these thy gentle spirit rests. Sweet BardOf pastoral song! on whom the Graces shedTheir balmy dew, to whom they did impartTheir magic lore, thee, tender swain! ah theeThe wild woods and each murm'ring stream,the hill ,The dale, young Fancy's fair elysium, longShall moan, and oft the pensive pilgrim hauntThe turf that wraps thy clay. O haste lov'dshade,O hither wing thy airy flight, but grantOne modest wreathe from thy unfading laurel,Then shall the strain for ever melt the heart,For ever vibrate on the ravish'd ear.Calm and still grey eve came on, and silenceGirt the valley, save when the bird of night,348LITERARYNO. XVI.Sungto the list ning moon her sweet complaint,For, mid the cloudless vault of heav'n, fullorb'd,Pale Cynthia shone; in mellow lustre cladThe straw-roof'd cot, and tipt the quiv'ring leaf;Soft on the grass th' expansive silver slept,And on the trembling stream her radiancePlay'd, and many a fragrant sprite that dreamsOn flowr's the day, now stole the moon-lov'dgreenAlong, and danc'd upon the dewy ray.At this sequester'd and this lonely hour,When Melancholy loves to pause, and heaveThe plaintive sigh, or joys the dreary shadeTo haunt, or roam the wild, with folded armsWith pensive step and slow, two shepherdsstray'dTo where a thick-wrought grove embrown'dthe lawn,Where sweetly tinted by it's solemn gloomAtime-worn Abbey stood, its grey- ting'd stoneSeen thro' the parting leaves, whilst murm'ringroll'dIts waters clear the rapid stream and pierc'dThe wood's green shade; here careless stretch'dit's banksNO. XVI.' HOURS 349Along were Edwin and Orlando laid,The first a stranger to these sylvan scenes,When sudden rush'd upontheir wond'ring viewA female form, of beauty equisite,In flowing robe array'd of snowy white,That round her folded by a purple zone,In sweet disorder caught the breeze; her hairOflight brown hue hung mantling on her neckAnd in her arms she bore a smiling babe,O'er which she sigh'd most bitterly, and onIt's rosy cheek dropt tears of silent woe;Then to the heavens, in that bright moisturebath'd,Herfair blue eyes she ' d lift, then clasp her childIn agony of soul, and smile and weepBy turns; then leaning o'er it wildly chauntSome sad, some plaintive strain, then oft repeat"Where is my Love? oh, he is dead and gone!"No one to shrowd him from the rav'ningbird! "And then she'd run and shriek aloud, convuls'dWith visionary fear: Orlando sigh'd—Peace to thy troubled soul, sweet maid! 'exclaim'dHis gentle friend, yet scarce had spoke, when lo!Swift as the meteor courses thro' the gloom,She disappear'd and sank amid the shade-350 LITERARY NO. XVI.' Tell me, Orlando, ' then young Edwin cried,' O tell me why this lily droops beneathSo stern a fate? ah, would to heav'n my hand,'My fost'ring hand, could prop its fallingbloom!'I would sustain it with a lover's care,' And grace with all his favor.'orlando.Oh my friendThere dwelt not on our plains a lovlier maid,Or one of sweeter nature, modesty,Calm innocence, and mild simplicity,Spread their chaste colours o'er her tenderform;No care disturb'd the dimple on her cheek,But jocund health sprang lightly bounding on,With rapture moving to the note ofjoy,The boast of yon sad weeping cots, the prideAnd support of an aged sire, sole suitAnd fav'rite ofthe gen'rous youth, with worth,With honour, and affection blest , but ah!Misfortune crush'd this spotless flower, anddash'd itIn the dust! —ken'st thou, Edwin yonder hallsWhose turrets rise above the circling wood?Their Lord can vaunt of Fortune's lib'ral smile,NO. XVI. HOURS. 351Noble by birth, but of a soul as meanAs yon vile worm that creeps in slime along:By subtile fraud and flatt'ry's soothing charmsHe caught poor Mary's unsuspecting heart,And villian as he was, and under pleaOfholy rites betray'd the heart he won,Left herthe soul-tormenting pang to feelOf disappointed love, left her to proveMaternal care imbitter'd by remorse,To curse those charms that lur'd the spoiler'seyeAnd broke a parent's heart:—since that sadhourShe roams the fields, her infant in her arms,And oft will utter such wild strains of grief,Her base betrayer her continual theme,As those you ' ve lately heard—but hark myfriend!The gentle Mourner sings; it is her voiceBeneath the echoing arch; oft mid the aisleOfyonder Abbey will she sit and pourHer love-lorn sorrows o'er the mossy tomb.edwin.Blest be the soul that touch'd so sweetly wildThe tender note of woe! Ah, Mourner dear!Long as thou breath'st this vital air, so long1352 LITERARY NO. XVI.The ray of hope shall tint thy passing day,And when at length the wish'd for hour shallcomeThat giv'st thy sorrows to the mould'ring grave,Thou shalt not want the sympathetic tear,Nor yet the turf thy sprite delights to haunt,With all the fragrance of the blushing springForget to bloom.orlando.Mark yon grass-grown cloyster,Her lone, yet fav'rite walk! here oft at noon,At eve and dewy morn, with tearful eyeShe comes, to meditate past scenes of darkAnd pensive hue, and oft her fancy deemsThe dear deceiver dead, with all the sadAnd horrid circ*mstance of tragic woe.edwin.Poor Mary! fare thee well! oft shall EdwinstrayFrom yonder neighb'ring vale, oft gently tryTo dissipate thy cheerless gloom, and checkThy falling tear—till then, meek nature's child!Till then, thou pilgrim mourner! fare thee well.

NUMBER XVII.

Spelunca alta fuit, vastoque immanis hiatu,
Scrupea, tuta lacu nigro nemorumque tenebris;
Quam superhaud ullæ poterant impune volantes
Tendere iter pennis: talis sese halitus atris
Faucibus effundens supera ad convexa ferebat.

Virgil.

Objects of terror may with propriety bedivided into those which owe their origin tothe agency of super-human beings, and form apart of every system of mythology, and intothose which depend upon natural causes andevents for their production. In the essay ongothic superstition the former species has beennoticed, and a tale presented to the readerwhose chief circ*mstances are brought aboutthrough the influence of preternatural power;on the latter we shall now deliver a few observations, and terminate them with a fragmentin which terror is attempted to be excited bythe interference of simple material causation.Terror thus produced requires no smalldegree of skill and arrangement to prevent itsoperating more pain than pleasure. Unaccompanied by those mysterious incidents whichindicate the ministration of beings mightier farthan we, and which induce that thrilling sensation of mingled astonishment, apprehensionand delight so irresistibly captivating to thegenerality of mankind, it will be apt to createrather horror and disgust than the gratefulemotion intended. To obviate this result, itis necessary either to interpose picturesquedescription, or sublime and pathetic sentiment,or so to stimulate curiosity by the artful texture ofthe fable, or by the uncertain and suspended fate of an interesting personage, thatthe mind shall receive such a degree ofartificialpleasure as may mitigate and subdue what, ifnaked of decoration and skilful accompaniment, would shock and appal every feelingheart.

A poem, a novel, or a picture may however,notwithstanding its accurate imitation of nature,and beauty of execution, unfold a scene sohorrid, or so cruel, that the art of the painteror the poet is unable to render it communicative of the smallest pleasurable emotion.who could fix, for instance, upon the followingevent as a fit subject for the canvas, was surelyunacquainted with the chief purport of his art."Arobber who had broken into a repositoryof the dead, in order to plunder a corse ofsome rich ornaments, is said to have been soaffected with the hideous spectacle of mortalitywhich presented itself when he opened thecoffin, that he slunk away, trembling and weep.ing, without being able to execute his purpose."" I have met," says Dr. Beattie, " with anexcellent print upon this subject; but wasnever, able to look at it for half a minutetogether."* .In a collection of scotish ballads,published by Mr. Pinkerton, there is onetermed Edward, which displays a scene whichno poet, however great his talents, could rendertolerable to any person of sensibility.young man, his sword still reeking with blood,rushes into the presence ofhis mother at whosesuggestion he had the moment before destroyed

• Beattie on Poetry and Music, p. 115.

his father. A short dialogue ensues whichterminates by the son pouring upon this femalefiend the curses of hell. The MysteriousMother also, a tragedy by the late celebratedLord Orford labours under an insuperabledefect of this kind. The plot turns upon amother's premeditated incest with her own son,a catastrophe productive only of horror andaversion, and for which the many well- writtenscenes introductory to this monstrous eventcannot atone.

No efforts of genius on the other hand areso truly great as those which approaching thebrink of horror, have yet, by the art of thepoet or painter, by adjunctive and pictoresqueembellishment, by pathetic, or sublime ´emotion, been rendered powerful in creating themost delightful and fascinating sensations.Shakspeare, if we dismiss what is now generally allowed not to be his, the wretched playof Titus Andronicus, has seldom , if ever,exceeded the bounds of salutary and gratefulterror. Many strong instances of emotion ofthis kind unmingled with the wild fictions of

Select Scotish Ballads, vol. 1 .

superstition, yet productive of the highest interest, might, had we room for their insertion,be quoted from his drama, but perhaps thefirst specimen in the records of poetry is to befound in the works of an elder poet, in theInferno of Dante.A whole family perishing from hunger in agloomy dungeon, would appear to partake toomuch ofthe terrible for either poetry or painting, yet has Dante, by the introduction ofvarious pathetic touches rendered such adescription the most striking, original andaffecting scene perhaps in the world, and SirJoshua Reynolds by his celebrated picture ofUgolino, has shewn that, through the mediumof exalted genius, it is equally adapted to thecanvas. Michael Angelo too, an enthusiasticdisciple of Dante, and possessing similarpowers, has likewise executed a Bas-Reliefon the subject.

As every lover of the sublime Italian mustbe grateful for the insertion, no apology canpossibly be wanting for copying a portion ofthis admirable narrative as it has been literallytranslated by Dr. Warton. Ugolino is repre-

" The hourexpected toBut insteadThe

sented by the poet as detailing his own sufferings and those of his family.approached," says he, "when wehave something brought us to eat.of seeing any food appear, I heard the doorsofthat horrible dungeon more closely barred. Ibeheld my little children in silence, and couldnot weep. My heart was petrified!little wretches wept, and my dear Anselm said;father you look on us! what ails you? I couldneither weep nor answer, and continued swallowed up in silent agony, all that day, and thefollowing night, even till the dawn of day.As soon as a glimmering ray darted throughthe doleful prison, that I could view againthose four faces in which my own image wasimpressed, I gnawed both my hands, with griefand rage. My children believing I did thisthrough eagerness to eat, raising themselvessuddenly up, said to me, My father! our torments would be less, ifyou would allay the rageof your hunger upon us.I restrained myself,that I might not increase their misery. Wewere all mute that day, and the following.The fourth day being come, Gaddo, fallingextended at my feet, cried, My father, whydo you not help me? and died. The otherthree expired one after the other, between thefifth and sixth day, famished as thou seest menow! And I, being seized with blindness,began to go groping upon them with my handsand feet: and continued calling them by theirnames three days after they were dead; thenhunger vanquished my grief! "*In the productions of Mrs. Radcliffe, theShakspeare of Romance Writers, and who tothe wild landscape of Salvator Rosa has addedthe softer graces of a Claude, may be found xmany scenes truly terrific in their conception,yet so softened down, and the mind so muchrelieved, by the intermixture of beautiful description, or pathetic incident, that the impression of the whole never becomes too strong,never degenerates into horror, but pleasurableemotion is ever the predominating result. Inher last piece, termed The Italian, the attemptof Schedoni to assassinate the amiable andinnocent Ellena whilst confined with Bandittiin a lone house on the sea shore, is wroughtup in so masterly a manner that every nerve» Warton on the Genius and Writings of Pope.vol. i. p. 264.360LITERARYNO. XVII.vibrates with pity and terror, especially at themoment when about to plunge a dagger intoher bosom he discovers her to be his daughter:every word, every action of the shocked andself-accusing Confessor, whose character is,marked with traits almost superhuman, appalyet delight the reader, and it is difficult toascertain whether ardent curiosity, intensecommiseration, or apprehension that suspendsalmost the faculty of breathing, be, in the progress of this well-written story, most powerfully excited.Smollet too, notwithstanding his peculiarpropensity for burlesque and broad humour,has in his Ferdinand Count Fathom , painted ascene of natural terror with astonishing effect;with such vigour of imagination indeed, andminuteness of detail, that the blood runs cold,and the hair stands erect from the impression."The whole turns upon the Count, who isadmitted during a tremendous storm , into asolitary cottage in a forest, discovering a bodyjust murdered in the room where he is goingto sleep, and the door ofwhich, on endeavouring to escape, he finds fastened upon him.NO. XVII. HOURS. 361The sublime Collins likewise, in his lyricpieces, exhibits much admirable imagery whichforcibly calls forth the emotions of fear asarising from natural causes; the concludinglines of the following description of Dangermake the reader absolutely shudder, and present a picture at once true to nature and fullof originality.Danger, whose limbs of giant moldWhat mortal eye can fix'd behold?Who stalks his round, an hideous form!Howling amidst the midnight storm ,Or throws him on the ridgy steepOf some loose hanging rock to sleep. +The exquisite Scotch ballad of Hardyknute,so happily compleated by Mr. Pinkerton , maybe also mentioned as including several incidents.which for genuine pathos, and for that speciesof terror now under consideration, cannoteasily be surpassed. The close of the first,and commencement of the second part areparticularly striking.

Ode to Fear.

In the fragment annexed to these observations, it has been the aim of the author tocombine pictoresque description with some ofthose objects of terror which are independentof supernatural agency.

Henry De Montmorency

THE sullen tolling of the Curfew was heardover the heath, and not a beam of light issuedfrom the dreary villages, the murmuring Cotterhad extinguished his enlivening embers, andhad shrunk in gloomy sadness to repose, whenHenry De Montmorency and his two attendants rushed from the castle of A- -y .The night was wild and stormy, and the windhowled in a fearful manner. The moonflashed, as the clouds passed from before her,on the silver armour of Montmorency, whoselarge and sable plume of feathers streamedthreatening in the blast. They hurried rapidlyon, and, arriving at the edge of a declivity,descended into a deep glen, the dreadful andsavage appearance of which, was sufficient tostrike terror into the stoutest heart. It wasnarrow, and the rocks on each side, rising to aprodigious height, hung bellying over theirheads; furiously along the bottom of the valley, turbulent and dashing against huge fragments of the rock, ran a dark and swolntorrent, and farther up the glen, down aprecipice ofnear ninety feet, and roaring withtremendous strength, fell, at a single stroke, anaweful and immense cascade. From the cleftsand chasms of the crag, abrupt and stern thevenerable oak threw his broad breadth of shade,and bending his gigantic arms athwart thestream, shed, driven by the wind, a multitudeof leaves, while from the summits of the rockwas heard the clamor of the falling fragments.that bounding from its rugged side leapt withresistless fury on the vale beneath..Montmorency and his attendants, intrepid asthey were, felt the inquietude of apprehension;they stood for some time in silent astonishment,but their ideas of danger from the conflict ofthe elements being at length. alarmning, theydetermined to proceed, when all instantlybecame dark, whilst the rushing of the storm,the roaring of the cascade, the shivering of thebranches of the trees, and the dashing of therock assailed at once their sense of hearing.The moon, however, again darting from aNO. XVII. HOURS.365cloud, they rode forward, and, following thecourse of the torrent, had advanced a considerable way, when the piercing shrieks of atperson in distress arrested their speed; theystopped, and listening attentively, heard shrill,melancholy cries repeated, at intervals, up theglen, which gradually becoming more distant,grew faint, and died away. Montmorency,"ever ready to relieve the oppressed, couchedhis lance, and bidding his followers prepare,was hasting on, but again their progress wasimpeded by the harrowing and stupendousclash of falling armour, which, reverberatingfrom the various cavities around, seemed hereand there, and from every direction , to beechoed with double violence, as if an hundredmen in armour had, in succession, fallen downin different parts of the valley. Montmorency,having recovered from the consternation intowhich this singular noise had thrown him,undauntedly pursued his course, and presentlydiscerned, by thelight of the moon, the gleaming of a coat of mail. He immediately madeup to the spot, where he found, laid along atthe root of an aged oak, whose branches hungdarkling over the torrent, a knight woundedand bleeding; his armour was of burnished366 LITERARY NO. XVII.毋steel, by his side there lay a falchion, and asable shield embossed with studs of gold, and,dipping his casque into the stream, he wasendeavouring to allay his thirst, but, throughweakness from loss of blood, with difficulty hegot it to his mouth. Being questioned as tohis misfortune, he shook his head, and unableto speak, pointed with his hand down the glen;at the same moment the shrieks, which hadformerly alarmed Montmorency and his attendants, were repeated, apparently at no greatdistance; and now every mark of horror wasdepicted on the pale and ghastly features ofthe dying knight; his black hair, dashed withgore, stood erect, and, stretching forth hishands toward the sound, he seemed strugglingfor speech, his agony became excessive, andgroaning, he dropped dead upon the earth."YThe suddenness of this shocking event, thetotal ignorance of its cause, the uncouthscenery around, and the dismal wailings ofdistress, which still poured upon the ear withaggravated strength, left room for imaginationto unfold its most hideous ideas; yet Montmorency, though astonished, lost not his fortitude and resolution, but determined, followingNO. XVII. HOURS. 367the direction of the sound, to search for theplace whence these terrible screams seemed toissue, and recommending his men to unsheaththeir swords, and maintain a strict guard,cautiously followed the windings of the glen,until, abruptly turning the corner of an outjutting crag, they perceived two corses mangledin a frightful manner, and the glimmering oflight appeared through some trees that hungdepending from a steep and dangerous part ofthe rock. Approaching a little nearer, theshrieks seemed evidently to proceed from thatquarter, upon which, tying their horses tothe branches of an oak, they ascended slowlyand without any noise towards the light, butwhat was their amazement, when, by the paleglimpses of the moon, where the eye couldpenetrate through the intervening foliage, in avast and yawning cavern, dimly lighted by alamp suspended from its roof, they beheldhalf a dozen gigantic figures in ponderousiron armour; their vizors were up, and thelamp, faintly gleaming on their features, displayed an unrelenting sternness capable of themost ruthless deeds. One, who had the aspect,and the garb of their leader, and who, wavinghis scimetar, seemed menacing the rest, held368LITERARYNO. XVII.on his arm a massy shield of immense circumference, and which, being streaked with recentblood, presented to the eye an object trulyterrific. At the back part of the cave andfixed to a brazen ring, stood a female figure,and, as far as the obscurity of the light gaveopportunity to judge, of a beautiful and elegantform. From her the shrieks proceeded; shewas dressed in white, and struggling violentlyand in a convulsive manner, appeared to havebeen driven almost to madness from the conscious horror of her situation. Two of theBanditti were high in dispute, fire flashed fromtheir eyes, and their scimetars were half unsheathed, and Montmorency, expecting that,in the fury of their passion, they would cuteach other to pieces, waited the event, but asthe authority of their Captain soon checkedthe tumult, he rushed in with his followers, and,hurling his lance, " Villains," he exclaimed,"receive the reward of cruelty. " The lancebounded innocuous from the shield of theleader, who turning quickly upon Montmorency, a severe engagement ensued; they smotewith prodigious strength, and the valley resounded to the clangor of their steel. Theirfalchions, unable to sustain the shock, shiveredNO. XVII. HOURS. 369into a thousand pieces, when Montmorency,instantly elevating with both hands his shield,dashed it with resistless force against the head,of his antagonist; lifeless he dropped proneupon the ground, and the crash of his armourbellowed through the hollow rock.} In the mean time his attendants, althoughthey had exerted themselves with great bravery,and had already dispatched one of the villains,were, by force of numbers, overpowered, andbeing bound together, the remainder of theBanditti rushed in upon Montmorency just ashe had stretched their commander upon theearth, and obliged him also, notwithstandingthe most vigorous efforts of valour, to surrender. The lady who, during the rencounter,had fainted away, waked again to fresh scenesof misery at the moment when these monstersof barbarity were conducting the unfortunateMontmorency and his companions to a dreadful grave. They were led, by a long andintricate passage, mid an immense assemblageof rocks, which, rising between seventy andeighty feet perpendicular, bounded on all sidesa circular plain, into which no opening wasapparent but that through which they came.A3 B370 LITERARY NO. XVII.The moon shone bright, and they beheld, inthe middle of this plain, a hideous chasm; itseemed near a hundred feet in diameter, andon its brink grew several trees, whose branches,almost meeting in the centre, dropped on itsinfernal mouth a gloom of settled horror.66 Prepare to die," said one of the Banditti,"for into that chasm shall ye be thrown; it isof unfathomable depth, and that ye may notbe ignorant of the place ye are so soon to visit,we shall gratify your curiosity with a view ofit. "So saying, two of them seized the wretchedMontmorency, and dragging him to the marginof the abyss, tied him to the trunk of a tree,and having treated his associates in the samemanner, "look" cried a Banditto with a fiendlike smile, "look and anticipate the pleasuresof your journey." Dismay and pale affrightshook the cold limbs of Montmorency, and ashe leant over the illimitable void, the dew satin big drops upon his forehead. The moon'srays, streaming in between the branches, sheda dim light, sufficient to disclose a considerablepart ofthe vast profundity, whose depth layhid, for a subterranean river, bursting withtremendous noise into its womb, occasionedsuch a mist, from the rising spray, as entirelyསྙNO. XVII. HOURS. 371to conceal the dreary gulf beneath. Shuddering on the edge of this accursed pit stood themiserable warrior; his eyes were starting fromtheir sockets, and, as he looked into the dankabyss, his senses, blasted by the view, seemedready to forsake him. Meantime the Banditti,having unbound one of the attendants, preparedto throw him in; he resisted with astonishingstrength shrieking aloud for help, and, just ashe had reached the slippery margin, everyfibre of his body racked with agonising terror,he flung himself with fury backwards on theground; fierce and wild convulsions seized hisframe, which being soon followed by a state ofexhaustion, he was in this condition, unableany longer to resist, hurled into the dreadfulchasm; his armour striking upon the rock,there burst a sudden effulgence, and the repetition ofthe stroke was heard for many minutesas he descended down its rugged side.No words can describe the horrible emotions, which, on the sight of this shockingspectacle, tortured the devoted wretches. Thesoul of Montmorency sank within him, and,as they unbound his last fellow- sufferer, hiseyes shot forth a gleam of vengeful light, and372 LITERARY NO. XVII .he ground his teeth in silent and unutterableanguish. The inhuman monsters now laidhold of the unhappy man; he gave no opposition, and, though despair sat upon his features,not a shriek, not a groan escaped him, but nosooner had he reached the brink, than makinga sudden effort, he liberated an arm , and grasping one of the villains round the waist, sprangheadlong with him into the interminable gulf.All was silent—but at length a dreadful plungewas heard, and the sullen deep howled fearfullyover its prey. The three remaining Bandittistood aghast; they durst not unbind Montmorency, but resolved, as the tree to whichhe was tied grew near the mouth of the pit, tocut it down, and, by that mean, he would fall ,along with it, into the chasm. Montmorency,who, after the example of his attendant, hadconceived the hope of avenging himself, nowsaw all possibility of effecting that design,taken away, and as the axe entered the trunk,his anguish became so excessive that he fainted.The villains, observing this, determined, froma malicious prudence, to forbear, as at presenthe was incapable of feeling the terrors of hissituation. They therefore withdrew, and lefthim to recover at his leisure.་NO. XVII.373 HOURS.""Not many minutes had passed away when,life and sensation returning, the hapless Montmorency awoke to the remembrance of hisfate. " Have mercy, he exclaimed, thebriny sweat trickling down his pallid features,"oh Christ have mercy; " then looking aroundhim, he started at the abyss beneath, and,shrinking from its ghastly brink, pressed closeagainst the tree. In a little time, however, herecovered his perfect recollection , and, perceiving that the Banditti had left him, becamemore composed. His hands, which werebound behind him, he endeavoured to disentangle, and, to his inexpressible joy, aftermany painful efforts, he succeeded so far as toloosen the cord, and, by a little more perseverance, effected his liberty. He then soughtaround for a place to escape through, butwithout success; at length, as he was passingon the other side of the chasm, he observed apart of its craggy side, as he thought, illuminated, and, advancing a little nearer, he foundthat it proceeded from the moon's rays shiningthrough a large cleft of the rock, and at a veryinconsiderable depth below the surface.gleam of hope now broke in upon his despair,and gathering up the ropes which had beenA374 LITERARY NO. XVII.used for himself and his associates, he tiedthem together, and fastening one end to thebole of a tree, and the other to his waist, hedetermined to descend as far as the illuminatedspot. Horrible as was the experiment, hehesitated not amoment in putting it into execution, for, when contrasted with his late fears,the mere hazard of an accident weighed asnothing and the apprehension that the villainsmight return before his purpose was secure,accelerated, and gave vigour to his efforts.Soon was he suspended in the gloomy abyss,and neither the roaring of the river, nor thedashing of the spray, intimidated his daringspirit, but, having reached the cleft, he crawledwithin it, then, loosing the cord from off hisbody, he proceeded onwards, and, at last, witha rapture no description can paint, discernedthe appearance of the glen beneath him. Heknelt down, and was returning thanks to heavenfor his escape, when suddenly

NUMBER XVIII.

A work not to be raised from the heat of youth, orthe vapour of wine—nor to be obtained by theinvocation of Memory and her siren daughters;but by devout prayer to that eternal spirit , whocan enrich with all utterance and knowledge, andsends out his Seraphim with the hallowed fire ofhis alter to touch and purify the lips of whom hepleases.Milton.No species of poetry, perhaps, is more difficult ofexecution than the religious; the naturalsublimity of the subject cannot be heightenedbut by very superior powers, and demands animagination plastic in the extreme, vast andgigantic on the one hand, tender, luxuriant andbeautiful on the other, which can select, andvividly delineate, objects the most contrasted,the graceful inhabitant of heaven, or the appalling possessor of hell, which can, in short,376LITERARYNO. XVIII.combine the force and sublimity of MichaelAngelo with the sweetness and amenity ofGuido Rheni.The slightest failure too, either in point oflanguage or conception, will frequently, inthis province of the poetic art , destroy thewhole scope and purport of an elaborate work,for the subject being of the utmost importanceand solemnity, and essentially connected withall that is interesting to the mind of man, themost exquisite taste is required in adoptingthroughout the whole a diction appropriate tothe weight of sentiment, and in colouring witha chastity and even severity of style thosecreations of fancy which are necessary to theconstitution of the fable. Any unguardedlevity, any want of adaptation in phraseology,or in fiction will immediately be felt, and willnot only annihilate the effect intended of thepart in which they are introduced, but willmaterially injure, and throw an air of ridiculeover the entire poem. Imbecilities of thiskind perpetually disgrace the pages of Quarles,Crashaw, and most of the writers of sacredpoesy previous to the age of Milton, and nearlyobliterate the pleasure arising from their purerNO. XVIII.377 HOURS.passages. A vigour of imagination , indeed,and a simplicity in composition and ideaadequately combined for the production ofa sublime religious poem, form a faculty ofrare attainment, and which has been exertedwith felicity in only three or four instances.since the birth of Christianity, for the reiteratedattempts of the poets of Italy in the languageof either ancient or modern Rome, are by nomeans worthy of their subject.Our celebrated countryman, the immortalMilton, may therefore be considered as thevery first who with true dignity supported theweight ofhis stupendous theme,For Atlantean Spirit proper charge.Gifted with a mind pre- eminently sublime, andrichly stored with all the various branches oflearning and science , with an ear attuned toharmony, and a taste chastised by cultivation ,the divine bard projected and compleated apoem, which has challenged the admiration ofeach succeeding age, and is, without exaggeration, the noblest monument of human genius.With bow powers inferior to Milton, turgid,3 C378LITERARYNO. XVIII.obscure, and epigrammatic, yet with occasionalsallies of imagination, and bursts of sublimitythat course along the gloom with the rapidityand brilliancy of lightning, Young has in hisNight Thoughts become a favorite not onlywith the multitude here, but with many of thenations uponthe continent, for, with the bulkof mankind, there is little discrimination between the creative energy of Milton, and thetumid declamation of Young, or between thevaried pauses of highly-finished blank verseand a succession of monotonous lines. Younghas, however, the merit of originality, for fewauthors who have written so much have leftfainter traces of imitation, or in the happyhour of inspiration more genuine and peculiarexcellence.The felicity of producing a sacred epic thatmay be thrown into competition with theParadise Lost has been claimed, and justlyclaimed, by the literati of Germany. KLOPSTOCK, though possessing not the stern andgigantic sublimity of Milton, still elevates themind by the vigour and novelty of his fiction ,and is certainly more tender and pathetic thanthe English Bard. "The edifice of Milton,"NO. XVIII.379 HOURS.says the ingenious Herder, " is a stedfastand well-planned building, resting on ancientcolumns. Klopstock's is an enchanted Dome,echoing with the softest and purest tones ofhuman feeling, hovering between heaven andearth, borne on angels' shoulders. Milton'sMuse is Masculine—Klopstock's is a tenderwoman, dissolving in pious extacies, warblingelegies and hymns. —When music shall acquireamong us the highest powers of her art, whosewords will she select to utter but those ofKlopstock? "* Impartial posterity will probably confirm this opinion of the critic, butomit, as I have done, the epithet harsh asapplicable to Miltonic numbers; and it willassuredly annul the idea of Herder that Klopstock "has won for the language of his countrymore powers than the Briton ever suspectedhis to possess; " for the strength and energy,the varied harmony and beauty of the englishlanguage, the words that breathe and burn aredisplayed with prodigality in the pages ofMilton, nor will it be conceded that the language of Germany, as even now improved andpolished, is at all superior to the nervous yetHerder's Letters on Humanization.380 LITERARY NO. XVIII.harmonious diction of Great Britain. It is tobe lamented however that no version of theMessiah at all adequate to the merit of itscelebrated author has been yet introduced intoour island. Blank verse, cast in the Miltonicmould, would be the only suitable vehicle forthe bold and beautiful imagery of this poem,which, when thus clothed, could not fail ofexciting the admiration of the public.*

• It is remarkable that the third book of the Messiah opens with an

invocation to Light; it therefore immediately courts a comparison withthe celebrated address of Milton, in his third book, to the same element:both poets have traversed the infernal world, and are approaching theconfines of the terrestrial globe. The parallelism will confirm theopinion of Herder with regard to the superior sublimity of the Englishbard, who in this passage certainly excels himself, and when lamentinghis deprivation of sight, an adjunctive circ*mstance which Klopstockfortunately for himself had it not in his power to introduce, is morepathetic, perhaps, than any other poet. The German is tender, elegantand impressive, the characteristics of his style, according to the criticsof his country, throughout the whole of his elaborate work.For the following translation of the commencement of the third bookof the Messiah I am indebted to my friend Mr. Good. Every readerwill recollect the parallel invocation in Milton, *" Hail holy light " &c.& c.Once more I hail thee, once behold thee more,Earth! soil maternal! thee, whose womb of yoreBore me; and soon, beneath whose gelid breast,These limbs shall sink in soft and sacred rest.Yet may I first complete this work begun,And sing the covenant of th' ETERNAL SON.NO. XVIII. HOURS. 381From the brief mention of these three divinebards we pass on to the immediate subject ofour paper, The Calvary of Mr. CUMBERLAND, a work imbued with the genuinespirit of Milton, and destined therefore, mostO! then these lips , his heavenly love that told,These eyes that oft in streams of rapture roll'd,Shall close in darkness! —o'er my mouldering clayAfew fond friends their duteous rites shall pay,And with the palm, the laurel's deathless leafDeck my light turf, and prove their pious grief.There shall I sleep , till o'er this mortal dust,Springs, long announc'd, the morning of the just;Then, fresh embodied in a purer mold,Triumphant rise, and brighter scenes behold.Then! Muse of Sion! who, with potent spell,Thro' hell hast led me, and return'd from hell,Still shudd'ring at the voyage: —thou whose eyeCan oft the thoughts of God himself descry,And, thro' the frown that veils his awful face,Read the fair lines of love, and heav'nly grace, —Shine on this soul! that trembles at the sightOfher own toils, with pure celestial light;Raise her low powers, that yet, with loftier wing,The best of men, the Saviour God she sing.In a letter addressed to the Princess Royal of England in 1797 by theRev. Herbert Croft, he announces a version, line for line , of Klopstock'sMessiah in English hexameters, a specimen of which he has given in thisepistle. The completion of this undertaking is the more desirable, ashe enjoys the advantage of a personal and intimate acquaintance withthe German Homer, and can consult him on the meaning of everybscure passage.382 LITERARY NO. XVIII.probably, to immortality. On this, the latesteffort in sacred poetry, and which has not yetmet with the attention it so justly merits, wepropose offering some general observations, asrelative to fable, character, language, &c . andshall, afterwards proceed to notice the particular and more striking beauties of each book;a review, which, from the passages adduced ,will assuredly tempt the reader to peruse thewhole, and probably to place this performance.among the choicest products of the Muse.It has been objected to Milton that in hisParadise Regained he has taken too confineda view of the subject, and by restricting thetheatre of action to the Temptation in thewilderness, attributed solely to that event theredemption of mankind. To this Milton wasprobably induced by the charm of contrast, bythe desire of shewing the world that in thepreceptive and moral as well as in the grandand sublime epic, he was equally pre-eminent;and it must be confessed he has happily succeeded, for the mild yet majestic beauties ofthe Paradise Regained, its weight of precepand exquisite morality , its richness of sentiment and simplicity of diction, call as loudlyNO. XVIII.383 HOURS.for approbation and applause as the moresplendid and terrible graces, the whirlwind andcommotion of the prior poem.What the critics have very unjustly blamedMilton for not effecting, Mr. Cumberlandstretching a more ample canvas, has performed,and given to the Crucifixion and Resurrection of our Saviour, the importance and theconsequences they demand.That the action should be one, entire andgreat, has been repeated, and approved of,from the days of Aristotle to the presentperiod, and no argument human or divine.could better adapt itself to the axiom than theone we are now considering, pregnant as it iswith the greatest events, and terminated by acatastrophe, beyond all comparison, to manthe most interesting and propitious; for, instrict adhesion to the simple narrative of theEvangelists, the last supper and the resurrection.form the limits of the work, and produce therequisite unity. On a subject whose basis istruth itself, and involving the whole compassof our religion, any the smallest deviationfrom scriptural fact had been injudicious in384 LITERARY NO. XVIII.་ །The the extreme, and even disgusting.La bowalletresources of the poet, therefore, the materials.of fiction and imagination, were to be drawn sto aid from that mine which Milton had so fortunatelyopened, and which Mr. Cumberland has provedto be still productive of the finest ore, not lessrich, nor of inferior quality to that which wehave been accustomed so highly and so judiciously to value. The agency of angels anddemons, the delineation of the regions appropriated to the blessed or the damned, giveample scope to the genius of the poet, andspring as it were from the very nature of thetheme. The term fable, therefore, as appliedto a poem founded on the religion of Christ,can only with propriety be affixed to the conceptions ofthe poet, the rest being establishedon facts which ought to admit of no obliquityor modification. Taking it however as awhole, the result of truth and fiction, it willappear to possess every requisite for epicaction, unity, integrity and magnitude. Afteran assemblage of the devils to conspire thedestruction of Christ, and the delegation ofMammon as the tempter of Iscariot, the LastSupper takes place in strict conformity to therelation of St. John, and which is immediatelyNO. XVIII.385 HOURS.!followed by the treason of Judas, who, repairing to the Sanhedrim, proposes the betrayal ofhis master. The priests and elders, afteraccepting the offer, retire, and Satan and hispeers immediately assume their seats, anddecree, and perform an ovation to Mammonfor his success, but on the appearance ofChemos, who had been stationed as a spy onthe Mount of Olives, and had been woundedby the spear of Gabriel, Satan suddenly dissolves the assembly, and rushes forth toencounter that archangel. Christ meanwhile ,protected by Gabriel, undergoes the agony inthe garden, and upon the approach of Satanthis supporting angel prepares to chastise anddismiss him, when Christ, drawing near, by theword ofpower casts him to the ground in torAt this moment Judas advances, andChrist is seized , while Satan, unable to rise ,bursts into lamentation, till, at length, discovered through the gloom by Mammon, heis assisted, and once more stands erect. Conscious to the power of Christ he prophecies hisimpending doom, and immediately, lifted fromthe earth, is hurled by a tremendous tempestto the regions of the damned. The condemnation of Christ, the denial and contrition ofments.13 D386 LITERARY NO. XVIII.Peter now follow, with an implicit adherenceto the gospel narrative, and are succeeded bythe remorse of Judas Iscariot, who, instigatedby Mammon, destroys himself, whilst that evilspirit taking wing repairs to the wilderness,convenes the demons, informs them of Satan'sexpulsion from the earth, and warns them toflight ere the hour of Christ's crucifixion; theyaccordingly disperse and the crucifixion, witnessed by Gabriel and the angels who arestationed on the mount, immediately ensues.The poet next hastens to describe the descentinto the regions of Death whither Christ, borneon the wings of angels, is instantly, conveyed.Here, prostrate at the throne of that formidable phantom, whose person and palace aredescribed at large, and whose assistance theenemy ofmankind had been in vain imploring,Satan is discovered by the Messiah, and, athis command, hurled by the vindictive angel,into the bottomless pit; its horrors are described, and Death, conscious that his poweris overthrown, tenders his crown and key atthe feet of the Redeemer, and the revivificationof those saints who are destined to the firstresurrection immediately commences. Theseare now received by Christ, who appears toNO. XVIII.387 HOURS.them enveloped in glory; they pay himhomage, and are assured of immortality as thereward of virtue.. Abraham confers withChrist, and is shewn the vision ofthe heavenlyJerusalem, as described in the Apocalypse.Christ reascends to earth, and after an addressfrom Gabriel, explaining the purport of theresurrection, and a conference between Mosesand that angel, a paradise springs up within theregions of Death, and the poem terminateswith the departure of Gabriel.Such is the outline of this arduous undertaking which, though requiring much judgment.and genius to conduct with propriety, appearsto be well adapted for epic action, and is freefrom the objections commonly made to theParadise Lost of Milton, who has been frequently censured for its melancholy catastrophe, for the abject condition in which ourfirst parents are left, and for having chosen theDevil for his hero. Without enquiry concerning the justness of these remarks, we mayobserve ofCalvary, that it is not obnoxiousto similar spleen, the Messiah, though exposedto the machinations of Satan, and suffering allthat man could inflict, being repeatedly andfinally triumphant.388LITERARYNO. XVIDIANorwill it be any ground for rational objection, that the allegorical personage Death actsso conspicuous a part in this poem, for, thoughMilton has felt the lash of criticism for personification of this kind, in Calvary, the introduction of the King of Terrors was almost anecessary part of the action, few circ*mstancesbeing more frequently insisted upon by theauthors of our Testament than the conquestand humiliation of Death by the Messiah, andthe consequent resurrection of his saints.}If we now advert to the characters of Mr.Cumberland we may remark that, though notin possession of originality, they are well drawnand well supported. The materials he hasmade use of, and the models he has copiedfrom, are of transcendant excellence, and tohave woven these into a new whole, to haveimitated these sublime writings without losinga portion of their first spirit and raciness, is tohave achieved a work of difficulty and danger,that claims and will acquire both grateful anddurable praise. No characters in the wholerange of literature are so exquisitely conceived,so beautifully delineated and coloured, asthose of our Saviour in the writings of theNO. XVIII. 889 HOURS.2

Evangelists, and of Satan in the Paradise Lost.The tender mercy and compassion of ourRedeemer, the universal philanthropy andmeekness of his character, his pathetic appeals ,to the virtues and feelings of his auditors, hispatient and heroic suffering, his numerous actsof goodness and stupendous power, are givenwith such touching simplicity of language, withsuch minuteness and accuracy of detail, withsuch conviction of the truth and dignity of the.theme, that whilst no compositions are so interesting to the uncorrupted heart, none aremore pleasing to the purest taste. On theother hand, in a style elevated to the utmostpitch of grandeur, Milton has pourtrayed aBeing of terrible sublimity, author of everydreadful and gigantic evil, and contending forthe supremacy of heaven; breathing revenge,hatred and despair, armed with archangelicstrength, and clothed with the majesty ofpower. With these tremendous attributes hehas mingled such a portion of beauty andgrace, of mental activity and invincible courage, that while we gaze and tremble at theawful demon, we feel a thrilling sensation ofpleasurable wonder, of admiration and ofhorror stealing through every nerve. to390 LITERARY NO. XVIM.To bring forward therefore characters suchas these, to place them in new situations, to,support them in all their original vigour andeffect, is a task which superior genius only canperform, and which has been attempted, andwith success, in the poem under our consideration.The palace and person of Death too , Satanseized upon by the vindictive angel, and thepunishment to which he is subjected, arepainted with the strongest colours of imagination, and the delineation of, and the speechesascribed to the devils when assembled in thewilderness are characteristic of their attributes,and teem with appropriate imagery. Gabrieland Mammon likewise, are agents of consider.able consequence, and do their errands withconsummate energy and address, nor are theinferior actors, Caiphas, Iscariot, Peter andPilate less admirably supported, or pencilledwith diminished spirit, though the attitudes andgrouping are from scripture.Having cast a transient glance over the characters, we may proceed to remark, that thesentiments of this work are, in general, suchNO. XVIII. HOURS. 391as, in a composition assuming epic dignity, weexpect to meet with. The simplicity of thegospel history is seldom violated, and the sentiments attributed to the superhuman agentsare replete with Miltonic vigour and sublimity.There is however something very dreadful,and, we trust, something very much misapprehended, in dwelling upon the idea of eternaltorments, in teaching that the far greater partof the human race will liquefy in fire througheverlasting ages. In the seventh book myriadsof miserable beings are represented as plungedinto perpetual and unmitigated flames,-that sparkling blaz'dUp to the iron roof, whose echoing vaultResounded ever with the dolorous groansOf the sad crew beneath; Thence might be heardThe wailing suicide's remorseful plaint,The murderer's yelling scream, and the loud cryOf tyrants in that fiery furnace hurl'd,Vain cry! th' unmitigated furies urgeTheir ruthless task, and to the cauldron's edgeWith ceaseless toil huge blocks of sulpher roll,Pil'd mountains high to feed the greedy flames.All these, th' accursed brood of Sin, were onceThe guilty pleasures, the false joys, that lur'dTheir sensual votarists to th' infernal pit:Them their fell mother, watchful o'er the work,892 LITERARY NO. XVIII.Luckard:diWith eye that sleep ne'er closed, and snaky scourgeStill waving o'er their heads, for ever pliesTo keep the fiery deluge at its height, "And stops her ears against the clam'rous dinOf those tormented, who for mercy callAge after age, implor'd and still denied...Our Saviour at the sight of these agonisingwretches is described as drawing from his soulA sigh of natural pity as from manTo man although in merited distress.But this it seems was a transient sensation,for soon-his human sympathy gave placeTo judgment better weigh'd and riper thoughtsCongenial with the godhead.From conception such as this the mindshrinks back with horror, and incredulity alonecan sooth the pain it suffers , for, that sin andtorture should be eternal can neither accordwith the justice nor the mercy of the deity,and that a Being so loving to mankind, somelting soft to pity, as our Saviour is alwaysdelineated in scripture, should in' his divinenature throw off every particle of compassion,NO. XVIII.393 HOURS.would appear to many worthy and devoutchristians, and who seek out their salvationwith fear and trembling, to convert the Godthey should adore and love into a perfectDemon. Fortunately however, an opinion sorepulsive is neither accordant with reason, norwith religion, and the following observationsof the celebrated John Henderson, a man aspious as transcendant in intellectual ability,compleatly and unanswerably refute what everyman whose heart is not of adamant would wishto see refuted.

&•If agrow" I lay it down as a maxim, " says he, " tobe doubted by few, and denied by none, thatwhosoever doth any thing, foreseeing the certain event thereof, willeth that event.parent send children into a wood whereinpoisonous berries, and certainly know they willeat of them, it is of no importance in the consideration of common sense, that he,cautions,forbids, forewarns, or that they having freewill, may avoid the poison. Who will notaccuse him of their death in sending them intocirc*mstances where he foreknew it wouldhappen? God foreknows every thing, to hisknowledge every thing is certain. Let us 73 E394 LITERARY NOVXVIⱭKsuppose him about to create twenty men: heknows ten of them (or any number) willbecome vicious, therefore damned, thence insherit the unceasing penalty. Who doubts insuch a case that he wills the end, who beingallmighty and allknowing, does that withoutwhich it could not come to pass? But Hehath sworn by Himself, for He could swearby no greater, that He willeth not the death ofhim that dieth: that is, He willeth it not finallyor simply as death, or destruction irrecoverable.And if it occur it is a part of his economy ofgrace, a ministration unto life; for He hathdeclared, that his will is, that all should besaved; therefore the doctrine which forges anycontrary will, falsifies supreme unchangeabletruth. """" II. I lay it down as another indubitablemaxim, that whatsoever is done by a Being ofthe divine attributes, is intended by his goodness, conducted by his wisdom, and accomplished by his power to a good end. Now allpossible good ends may be enumerated underthree words —Honour Pleasure Benefit;and every one to whom good can accrue fromendless punishment must be either punisher, ˆNOXVIK HOURS! 395punished, or fellow-creature to the punished.Let us try every one of the former three toeach ofthe latter."ni ziddub v211. The Punisher. Would it be a greaterhonour to the punisher to have his creaturesmiserable than happy? I will venture to sayby proxy for every Heart,, No. Would it begreater pleasure? No. And benefit to Himcan be done "" 2. Punished. Endless punishment can beneither honour, pleasure, nor benefit to them,though punishment on my scheme will be ofendless benefit-""3. The Fellow -creatures.It will be ashonourable to them as to have one of theirfamily hanged. If they have pleasure in it,they must have a diabolical heart, and mustby the just searcher of hearts be committed tothe place prepared for the Devil and his Angels.Benefit they can have none, except safety, andthat is fully answered by the great gulph, byconfinement till reformation. "

• For the purpose of producing repentance and reformation,

396LITERARYNO. XVIII" As then unceasing torments can answer nopossible good end to any one in the universe,I conclude them to be neither the will norwork of God. Could I suppose them, Imustbelieve them to be inflicted by a wantonnessor cruelty, which words cannot express, nonheart conceive. But let this be the comfortof every humble soul, Known unto God areall his works; the Judge of all shall do right;and He ordereth all things well. It hathpleased Him to reconcile all things to Himself.Therefore to Him shall bow every knee; andevery tongue shall say, "In the Lord I havestrength, and I have righteousness." †!There appears to be an inconsistency likewise, in representing Judas Iscariot as a subtilemetaphysician, and soliloquising profoundlyon the doctrines of Free-Will and Philosophical Necessity. Milton, it is true, has painted+ A celebrated controversy of this kind, took place between Petitpierre and his brethren, the clergy of Neufchatel, in which the formerwassupported byFrederick the Great. The King however, Petit-pierre,and Marshal Keith, with their doctrine of final salvation were, afterlong discussion , obliged to quit the field; the clergy maintained theirprivileges, and the King declared that " puisqu'ils avoient si fort à cœurd'etre damnés eternellement," he should no longer oppose their determination.Williams's Tour in Switzerland, vol. ii . 148.NO. XVIII. HOURS.397his demons as disputing on these intricatetopics, and in his third book has introduced.the deity with a view to their solution, butMr.Cumberland should have rememberedthat Judas was both ignorant and uneducated,and consequently unapt for nice and subtile.disquisitions.Another impropriety, though of a differentkind, occurs in the character of Satan, who,notwithstanding his acute distress and torture,finds leisure for reference to the fables ofpaganantiquity, and draws a comparison betweenhimself and some of their most romanticpersonages.Ah! who will lift me from this iron bed,On which Prometheus-like for ever link'dAnd rivetted by dire necessityI'm doom'd to lie.-Who will unbraceThis scalding mail that burns my tortur'd breastWorse than the shirt ofNessus?Now it is contrary to nature and experienceto suppose that a person in acute pain shouldhave inclination thus fancifully to comment398LITERARYNO. XVIII.upon and compare his sufferings, and thoughancient mythology and fiction may, in the wayof ornament, embellish the narrative part of areligious poem , they should never be referredto as matters of undoubted fact, and especiallyin a speech of a chief character whilst labouringunder the utmost agony of mind and body.It hath already been observed that in general, Mr. Cumberland has copied the simplicity,and even adhered to the very words of scripture, but in a few instances he has deviatedfrom this judicious rule, and in no place morethan where, recording the denial of Peter, heexclaimsHark! againThe co*ck's loud signal echoes back the IyeIn his convicted ear; the prophet birdStrains his recording throat, and up to heaven.Trumpets the treble perjury and clapsHis wings in triumph o'er presumption's fall .How preferable, how simple, yet how beautiful and expressive the language of St. Luke,"Immediately the co*ck crew, and the Lordturned, and looked upon Peter, and Peterremembered the word of the Lord, and heNO. XVIII.399 HOURS.went out and wept bitterly." The imagery ofMr. Cumberland would make a figure in theworks of Marino, but is totally unworthy ofthe dignity and sublimity of the theme he haschosen. Immediately subsequent, however,to these faulty lines occurs a passage of themost exquisite taste and beauty, and which injustice to our author, we shall quote in thisplace. They form an admirable commentupon these words of the Evangelist "theLord turned and looked upon Peter. " Thepoet supposes himself addressing the erringdisciple and exclaimsLook upon his eyes!Behold they turn on thee: Them dost thou know?Their language canst thou read and from them drawThe conscious reminiscence thou disownst?Mark, is their sweetness lost? Ah! no; they beamCelestial grace, a sanctity of soulSo melting soft with pity, such a gleamOf love divine attemp'ring mild reproof,Where is the man, that to obtain that eyeOfmercy on his sins would not foregoLife's dearest comforts to embrace such hope?O death, death! where would be thy sting, or whereThese awful tremblings, which, thy coming stirsIn my too conscious breast, might I aspireTo hope my judge would greet me with that look?1NUMBER XIX.Tartaream intendit vocem; qua protinus omnisContremuit " tellus. "Come d'Autunno si levan le foglieVIRGIL.L'una appresso dell' altra, infin che' l rameRende alla terra tutte le sue spoglie;Similemente il mal seme—Gittansi- -ad una ad unaDANTE.The fable, characters and sentiments havingbeen noticed in the preceding number, a fewobservations on the versification and dictionof Calvary will conclude these preliminaryremarks, and, in the first place, let it beobserved, that of the various kinds of metre inwhichthe poets of Great Britain have delightedto compose, none is of such difficult executionas blank verse, none more requiring a practiced3 F402 LITERARY NO. XIX .ear, or a more extensive knowledge of languageand of style. Two great masters in this modeof composition we possess, Shakspeare andMilton, both pre- eminent in their respectivewalks, but the former perhaps more generallyharmonious. In Milton, a style elaborateand abounding in transposition, mingled withforeign idiom, and scientific terms, and frequently clogged with parenthesis, admits notof that facility and flow so conspicuous in thedramatic bard, whose works present us withthe most musical and felicitous specimens ofblank verse we can boast of. Not that Miltonis deficient in harmony, for his Paradise Lostdisplays, more than any other poem perhaps,every variety of pause and rhythm, but neitherhis subject, nor his genius led to that sweetnessand simplicity of diction so wonderfully captivating in the drama of his predecessor.Energy, majesty, a deeper and severer strainofharmony pervade the pages of Milton; histhe full-toned melody of the pealing organ,Shakspeare's the softer breathings of the luteor harp, for though surrounded by magic andincantation, and all the horrors of supernaturalagency, Shakspeare still preserves a style freefrom intricacy and melting with the sweetestcadence.NO. XIX. HOURS. 403To throw, therefore, these different modesofcomposition into one work; in the dramaticparts to assume the language and style ofShakspeare, in the more elevated and epicportion, the diction and manner of Milton,appears to have been the aim of Mr. Cumberland, and an attempt too, in which he has in agreat measure succeeded. The speeches ofthe Demons in the first book, and those ofMammon and Iscariot in the second and third,are woven in the loom of Shakspeare, and haveimbibed much of his colouring and spirit,whilst the latter part of the third and fourthbooks, and the greater part of the seventh, areadmirable copies of the Miltonic versificationand imagery. Various passages, which willshortly be selected from the different books,will fully prove the truth of this remark; a number of phrases likewise, interspersed throughthe body of the work, whisper whence theyhave been taken, and are often indeed exacttranscriptions, though well chosen and wellintroduced, from the leaves of our immortalDramatist. To quote many of these wouldbe superfluous; two or three being adequateto give the reader an idea of their nature andmanner, either as literal or liberal imitations.404 LITERARY NO. XIX .-Heav'n and earth!Must I remember?It leads to death, it marshals him the roadTo that oblivious bourne whence none return.I saw large drops and gouttes of bloody sweatIncarnadine the dust on which they fell.Weary days and nightsI've minister'd to him without reward,And weary miles full many travel'd o'er, "Fainting and pinch'd with hunger, then at night,When the wild creatures of the earth find restAnd covert in their holes, houseless have watch'dAmidst the shock of elements, and brav'dStorms, which the mail'd rhinoceros did not dareUnshelter'd to abide.Perspicuity, that first requisite of a goodstyle either in prose or verse, Mr. Cumberlandhas seldom violated , and his similies and metaphors are, for the most part, appropriate, boldand accurate. Some instances, however, mightbe culled in which the metaphor is obscure and4NO. XIX. HOURS. 405broken: the following may be adduced, andwill suffice, as a specimen of these defects.His voiceNow falter'd and his thoughts unsettled, wildAnd driv'n at random like a wreck, could graspNo helm of reason.A thought grasping the helm of reason iscertainly a strained and incongruous metaphor,but offaults of this kind there are but few, forit may be said of the general style of this poem,that it is chaste, clear and flowing; in its dramatic parts energic, in its epic, dignified andsublime, free from inflation, or harsh transposition, and forming a happy union between thestyles of Shakspeare and of Milton.We shall now proceed, according to promise,to select the more striking beauties of eachbook; from whence the reader will be enabledto judge for himself of the propriety of theabove observations, and ofthe real and peculiarmerits ofthe work itself.The first book, which is entirely occupiedby the assembling of the devils, forms a closer406LITERARYNO. XIX.copy of Milton than any of the succeedingones; the characters and employment of theseagents being very similar to those in the firstand second books of Paradise Lost. Weshall however find sufficient variety to attractattention, and to denote the operation ofconsiderable genius.[, * སྒྲ་Satan prowling the wilderness by night,arrives at the very spot on which he had formerly tempted Christ, which giving rise toreflection of no very pleasant nature, he ventshis despair in soliloquy. Determined howeverto revenge and repair his defeat be ascends alofty mountain, and calls together, from everyquarter ofthe globe, his fallen companions.So loud he call'd that to the farthest boundsOf pagan isle or continent, was heardHis voice re-echoing thro' the vault of heav'n.The demons, obedient to his command,flocking together, the poet beautifully addsNow glimm'ring twilight streak'd the Eastern skyn.For he, that on his forehead brings the morn,Star crowned Phosphorus, had heard the call ,And with the foremost stood.!NO. XIX . 407 HOURS.An invocation to his Muse now follows, inwhich allusions to Milton's blindness and hisown age are introduced in a pleasing manner.Come, Muse, and to your suppliant's eyes impartOne ray of that pure light, which late you pour'dOn the dark orbs of your immortal BardEclips'd by drop serene: Conduct me nowMe from my better days of bold emprizeFar in decline, and with the hoary handOf Time hard stricken, yet adventuring forthO'er Nature's limits into worlds unseen,Peopled with shadowy forms and phantoms dire:Oh! bear me on your pinions in this void,Where weary foot ne'er rested; and behold!All hell bursts forth: Support me, or I sink.No task is attended with so much dangerand difficulty as that of emulating the designand colouring of a great master; the comparison can be immediately drawn, and seldom isit to the advantage of the daring adventurerwho thus presumes to cope with acknowledgedexcellence. The consultations of the devils inParadise Lost and in Calvary bear the closestaffinity; the active personages are the same,Satan, Baal, Moloch, Belial and Mammon arethe speakers in both, nor was it possible forMr. Cumberland to deviate with propriety408LITERARYNO. XIX.from the manners and attributes which Miltonhas chosen to ascribe to them. There is however added, and with consummate taste, muchthat is pictoresque, much that is dramatic, andas the views with which the demons consultare not exactly the same, injury to God andman in Milton being attempted through thefall of Eve, in Cumberland through thedestruction of Christ, scope is left for, andhas been occupied by, new imagery and newargument. The author of Calvary therefore,notwithstanding the pre-descriptions of Miltonhas ventured to give new portraits of hisorators, and it will be necessary, that we mayjudge of his merit and success , to contrastthem with the pictures in Paradise Lost; acomparison that will furnish no inutile entertainment, and clearly shew what judgment mayachieve though in a walk already beaten by thefootsteps of Genius. These sketches therefore I shall place alternately and commencewith Milton.First Moloch, horrid king, besmear'd with bloodOf human sacrifice, and parent's tears,Though for the noise of drums and timbrels loudTheir children's cries unheard, that pass'd thro' fireTo his grim idol.MILTON.NO. XIX. HOURS. 409Moloch in the van,Mail'd at all points for war, with spear and helmAnd plumed crest, and garments roll'd in blood,Flam'd like a meteor,bas 12 .bas bad aCUMBERLAND.Next came oneWho mourn'd in earnest, when the captive arkMaim'd his brute image, head and hands lopt offIn his own temple, on the grunsel edge,Where he fell flat, and sham'd his worshippers:Dagon his name, sea monster, upward manAnd downward fish.MILTON,Dagon, giant god, amidst the ranks,Like Teneriff or Etna, proudly tower'd:Dagon of Gath and Askalon the boastIn that sad flight, when on Gilboa's mountThe shield of Saul was vilely thrown away,And Israel's beauty perish'd.91041 CUMBERLAND.Belial came last, than whom a spirit more lewdFell not from Heaven, or more gross to loveVice for itself: to him no temple stoodOr altar smok'd; yet who more oft than heIn temples and at altars, when the priestTurns atheist, as did Eli's sons, who fill'dWith lust and violence the house of God?"+ 3 G410 LITERARY NO. XIX .In courts and palaces he also reignsAnd in luxurious cities, where the noiseOf riot ascends above their loftiest towers,And injury and outrage: And when nightDarkens the streets , then wander forth the sonsOf Belial, flown with insolence and wine.Milton.But now a fairer form arrests the eyeOf hells despotic lord: his radiant vestOf Tyrian purple, studded thick with gems,Flow'd graceful: He for courts was form'd, for feasts,For ladies' chambers and for amorous sports;He lov'd not camps nor the rude toils of war;Belial his name; around his temples twin'dA wreath of roses, and, where'er he pass'dHis garments fann'd a breeze of rich perfume:No ear had he for the shrill-toned trump,Him the soft warble of the Lydian fluteDelighted rather, the love- soothing harp,Sappho's loose song and the Aonian MaidsAnd zoneless Graces floating in the dance;Yet from his lips sweet eloquence distill'd,As honey from the bee.Cumberland.In the two first quotations few, perhaps, willdeny to Mr. Cumberland a greater warmth andbeauty of conception, and in the third he isNO. XIX. HOURS. 411equal, though not superior to Milton, but in .the following portrait of Baal, he certainlysinks beneath his celebrated predecessor.With graveAspéct he rose, and in his rising seem'dA pillar of state, deep on his front engravenDeliberation sat and public care;And princely counsel in his face yet shone,Majestic though in ruin: sage he stoodWith Atlantean shoulders fit to bearThe weight of mightiest monarchies; his lookDrew audience and attention still as nightOr summer's noon-tide air.MILTON.-Beside him oneOf towering stature and majestic port,Himself a host: his black and curling locksDown his herculean shoulders copious flow'd;In glittering brass upon his shield he boreA kingly eagle, ensign of command,Baal his name, second to none in stateSave only his great chieftain, worshipp'd longIn Babylon, till Daniel drove him thence .With all his gluttonous priests; exalted sinceHigh above all the idol gods of Greece,Thron'd on Olympus, and his impious handArm'd with the thunder.CUMBERLAND.412 LITERARY NO. XIX .The debate now ensues, in which thespeeches though by no means so sublime asthose in Milton, are strongly characteristic andwell supported. Moloch, as in Paradise Lost,after making a furious oration, is succeeded byBelial, and as the passage in Milton delineatingthese demons has been justly admired, we shalltranscribe it here with the corresponding onein Calvary, nor have we any hesitation inaffirming that Mr. Cumberland has much improved upon our divine bard, and thrown hiscontrasted demons into much more pictoresqueand dramatic attitudes.He ended frowning, and his look denounc'dDesperate revenge, and battle dangerousTo less than Gods. On the other side uproseBelial, in act more graceful and humane;Afairer person lost not heaven; he seem'dFor dignity compos'd and high exploit:But all was false and hollow.Milton.Breathless he paus'd, so rapid was the pulse,Of his high-beating heart he stood as oneChoak'd and convuls'd with rage; when as he ceas'd,He smote his mailed habergeon so loud,Hell's armed legions heard, and shook their spearsBetok'ning war.-NO. XIX. HOURS. 413-Yet not longHis triumph, for now Belial from the ranksGraceful advanc'd, and as he put asideHis purple robe in act to speak, the throng,Such was the dazzling beauty of his form,Fell back a space.Cumberland.Belial in his speech having suggested thepropriety of employing Mammon as a tempterof Christ's disciples, Satan adopts the hint andcalls upon that Spirit to effect the seduction ofIscariot. Mammon accepts the office, andSatan filled with enthusiasm and fancied triumph exclaims-Prophetic visions burst upon me:I see the traitor Judas with a bandOf midnight ruffians seize his peaceful Lord:They drag him to the bar, accuse, condemn;He bleeds, he dies! Darkness involves the rest.The exultation of this tremendous Being,his self-delusion, and the obscurity that stillrests upon his hopes, are finely contrived, andgive additional interest to the part he performs.Mammon meanwhile departs on his embassy,414 LITERARY NO. XIX.1-no longer nowCrouching with age and pain, but nerv'd anew,As with a spell transform'd, erect he stoodWith towering stature tallest of the throng,And looks of high supremacy and state.And now from either shoulder he unfurl'dHis wide-stretch'd pinions, and uprising swiftTower'd in mid-air; the host with loud acclaimHail'd his ascent; he on the well- pois'd wingHover'd awhile, till from his cloudy heighthSweeping the wide horizon he descriedFar in the west the holy city of God,His destin'd port, then to the orient sunTurn'd his broad vans, and plied their utmost speed.Though the first book from the nature ofitsplan has, as we have already observed, necessarily the air of a copy, yet the oratoricalparts possess very considerable merit, and exhibit much adaptation both in style and sentiment. The language of Belial melts withvoluptuousness, and in strains of the softestcadence he still flatters himself with an eternalreign, whilst Moloch breathes nothing butinexorable revenge and hatred of the blackesthue, The terrific traits in the character ofSatan are strongly marked, and he maintainshis supremacy in the synod for matchless sinNO. XIX. HOURS. 415and subtlety, whilst Mammon embraces hisarduous mission, and expatiates on his indefatigable and avaricious labours with greatenergy and triumph. Chemos, the sin ofMoab, and the Zidonian Goddess Ashtoreth,are likewise distinguished in the croud, and theformer will again appear performing no unimportant part.The temptation of Judas and the Last Supper form the subjects of the second book,which opens with Mammon under the disguiseof a venerable Levite. With infinite addresshe stimulates the avarice and discontent ofIscariot, and obtains a promise of his finalanswer before the priests and elders that evening. The dialogue is carried on with muchart and spirit; the subtlety and eloquence ofthe Fiend, the envy, avarice and revengeof the Disciple, are strikingly drawn, andthe changes wrought upon him through theinfluence of this infernal agent marked with.precision, The language of Mammon is impressive and powerfully appeals to the rulingfrailty of his wretched auditor.Who serves a master, thatAlas for him416LITERARYNO. XIX.Makes poverty his passport into heaven,And bids us throw away life's present meansFor doubtful chance of interest after life;And art thou of all reason so bereftAs to account prosperity a crime,Or think none blest but him, whose every stepThrough misery's thorny path is mark'd with blood!O son of Simon, take thy last resolve;Either resign thy body to the worm,And die with Christ, or him renounce, and liveRich, honour'd, prosperous, and enjoy the world.-Throw asideThat beggar's purse, your starving office spurn,Serve God's high priest, whose treasury is full;-Cast those few mites away, the scanty doleOf some contaminating leper's hand,For which bid God heal him and pass on;youWhilst he, good credulous soul , cries out amain,As powerful fancy works, Lo! I am clean;Behold a miracle! But gold performsGreater and happier miracles than this:Gold with a touch can heal the mind's disease,Quickenthe slow-paced blood, and make it danceIn tides of rapture through each thrilling vein;Cast out that worst of demons, poverty,And with a spell exorcise the sad heart,Haunted with spectres of despair and spleen,If then this prize can tempt thee, if thy soulStill thirsts for life, for riches, for repose,If in thy breast there dwells that manly scorn,NO. XIX. HOURS. 417Which slighted merit feels, when envious prideThrusts it aside to build th' unworthy up,Now, now assert it; from a Master turn,Who turns from thee, who before thee exaltsThy meaner brethren, Peter, James and John:On them his partial smile for ever beams,They have his love, his confidence, his heart;Ofthem revolting he might well complain,Of thee he cannot; thine were just revenge:He is no traitor, who resents a wrong;Who shares no confidence, can break no trust .Bid conscience then be still, let no weak qualmsDamp thy reviving spirit; but when nightWraps her dark curtain round this busy world,Come thou to Caiphas.The remainder of the book is occupied inthe narration of the Last Supper, in whichthere is almost a literal adherence to the Gospelof St. John. To have materially altered thelanguage of Scripture on such a subject, or tohave tinged with the hues of fancy, events sosolemn and momentous, so accurately relatedand known, would have been highly injudicious. All that was left to the poet therefore,were the charms of versification , and the libertyof retouching and heightening those parts ofthe picture that seemed to demand more powerful expression. A most pleasing portrait of3 H418LITERARYNO. XIX .our Saviour, and which combines the chastesimplicity of Raphael with the sweetness ofCorregio, is thus finished from the outline ofscripture:AlleyesWere center'd on the Saviour's face divine,Which with the brightness of the Godhead mix'dTraces of human sorrow, and display'dThe workings of a mind, where mercy seem'dStuggling to reconcile some mortal wrongTo pardon and forbearance: Such a look.Made silence sacred, every tongue was mute;E'en Peter's zeal forbore the vent of words,Or spent itself in murmurs half supprest.At length the meek Redeemer rais'd his eyes,Where gentle resignation, tempering grief,Beam'd grace ineffable on all around.After an awful and pathetic address of Christto his disciples, and an invocation to the Fatherin their behalf, the poet thus, beautifully describes their effect:So spake the Lord, and with these gracious wordsHis faithful remnant cheer'd, for soft they fellAs heav'n's blest dew upon the thirsty hills,And sweet the healing balm which they distill'dOn sorrow-wounded souls..NUMBER XX.Itene maledetti al vostro regno,Regno di pene, e di perpetua morte:E siano in quegli a voi dovuti chiostriLe vostre guerre, et i trionfi vostriTasso.The necessity of strictly adhering to theevents, and frequently to the very words ofscripture, must unavoidably damp the excursive spirit of the poet, and compel him to thetask of mere imitation. In the last book littlecould with propriety be added to the circ*mstantial detail of the Evangelist, who, in a styleabounding in the most exquisite simplicity andpathos, has faithfully recorded every word andaction of his divine Master, but the treason ofJudas, the subject of the third, admitting moreembellishment from the stores of imagination,accordingly presents the reader with much420 LITERARY NO. XX .novel imagery, and much dramatic and epic machinery. The soliloquies of Iscariot, thoughrather too metaphysical, are well conceived,and the debates of the Sanhedrim are animatedand eloquent, whilst the harangue of Judaswhen proposing the betrayal of Christ, isthroughout nervous, and glows with Shaksperian energy and phrase. The fiery and bigottedCaiphas forms an excellent poetic character;his sentiments are inflamed with the fiercestenthusiasm and zeal, and his gestures betraythe wild agitation of his soul, rendered stillmore striking from the mild and rational opposition of Nicodemus, whose philanthropy andtolerating policy serve but to encrease thestorm which rages in the bosom of this implacable priest.On the breaking up of the unhallowedmeeting the poet has admirably conceived anddescribed Satan and his Peers occupying theseats of its persecuting members.+ Clear the hall,Yield up your seats, ye substituted fiends;Hence, minor demons! give your masters place!And hark! the King of Terrors speaks the word,NO. XX. HOURS. 421He calls his shadowy princes, they start forth,Expand themselves to sight and throng the hall,A synod of infernals: Forms more direImagination shapes not, when the wretch,Whom conscience haunts, in the dead hour of night,Whilst all is dark and silent round his bed,Sees hideous phantoms in his feverish dream,That stare him into madness with fix'd eyesAnd threat'ning faces floating in his brain.Mammon, having prospered in his attemptupon Iscariot, Satan in a speech of exultationand triumph bestows the most lavish encomiums on that spirit, and decrees an ovationin honour of his success. The followingdescription in which the Minstrels are represented as chanting their hymn, is given in verseofvery harmonious structure, and in a vein ofthe purest poetry; the concluding lines arepeculiarly excellent.From either side the throneUpon the signal a seraphic choirIn equal bands came forth; the minstrels strikeTheir golden harps; swift o'er the sounding stringsTheir flying fingers sweep, whilst to the strainMelodious voices, though to heavenly airsAttun'd no longer, still in sweet accordEcho the festive song, now full combin'd422 LITERARY NO. XX.Pouring the choral torrent on the ear,In parts responsive now warbling by turnsTheir sprightly quick divisions, swelling nowThrough all the compass of their tuneful throatsTheir varying cadences, as fancy prompts.Whereat the Stygian herd, like them of oldLull'd by the Theban minstrel, stood at gazeMute and appeas'd, for music hath a voice,Which ev'n the devils obey, and for a whileSweet sounds shall lay their turbid hearts asleep ,Charm'd into sweet oblivion and repose.The praise of Mammon the rapt seraphs sungAnd Gold's, almighty pow'r; free flow'd the verse;No need to call the Muse, for all were there,Apollo and the Heliconian Maids ,And all that pagan poet e'er invok'dWere present to the song. Above the flightOfbold Alcæus, Tisias bard divine,Or Pindar's strain Olympic, high it soardIn dithyrambic majesty sublime.Chemos now rushing in wounded by thespear of Gabriel, who had detected that demonas a spy on the Mount of Olives, puts an endto the plaudits of the Synod, and Satan, infuriated by the appearance and relation of Chemos, determines to encounter Gabriel, andboasts himself superior in prowess to that archangel in terms the most galling and spirited.NO. XX. HOURS 423 .The scars by this sharp sword in battle dealtAre the best honours Gabriel hath to vaunt;The brightest laurels on his brow are thoseI planted when in equal fight I deign'dTo measure spears with such inferior foe.Doth Gabriel think God's favour can reverseImmutable pre-eminence, and raiseHis menial sphere to that, in which I shoneSon of the morning? Doth he vainly hopeExil'd from heav'n we left our courage there,Or lost it in our fall, or that hell's firesHave parch'd and wither'd our shrunk sinews up?Delusive hope! the warrior's nerve is strungBy exercise, by pain, by glorious toil:The torrid clime of hell, its burning rock,Its gulph of liquid flames, in which we roll'd,Have calcin'd our strong hearts, breath'd their ownfiresInto our veins, and forg'd those nerves to steel,Which heav'n's calm ether, her voluptuous skiesAnd frequent adorations well nigh smooth'dTo the soft flexibility of slaves,Till bold rebellion shook its fetters off,And with their clangor rais'd so brave a storm,That God's eternal throne rock'd to its base.Dismissing the council, therefore, he callsfor his arms.424 LITERARY NO. XX.Tow'ring he stood, the Majesty of Hell,Dark o'er his brows thick clouds of vengeance roll'd,Thunder was in his voice, his eyes shot fire,And loud he call'd for buckler and for spear;These bold Azazel bore, enormous weight,For Atlantean spirit proper charge:With eager grasp he seiz'd the towering mast,And shook it like a twig, then with a frown,That aw'd the stoutest heart, gave sign for allStrait to disperse, and vanish'd from their sight.The idea of this infernal synod is bold andoriginal, and the triumph of Mammon withthe honours paid him, the indignation of Satan'on the appearance of Chemos, and his armingto encounter Gabriel, are highly wrought, anddilate the mind by the vigour and grandeur ofthe fiction. The character of Satan here unfolds itself wrapt in that terrible sublimity andsplendour we so much admire in the pages ofMilton, and whose lustre, we shall find notonly unimpaired as we proceed, but beamingwith still greater intensity, whilst the meekand gentle demeanour of our Saviour, thougharmed with unlimited power, his severe sufferings and unparalleled forbearance, form a contrast which extends throughout the work, andgreatly contributes to the general effect.NO. XX . HOURS. 425The fourth book, upon which we are aboutto enter, and the seventh, are perhaps the mostmagnificent in the work, abounding in thecreations of fancy, in the sublime and wildlyawful exertion of superhuman force and power.Our present subject, The Agony in the Garden, is worked up with great strength ofimagination, and with the most judicious embellishments on the hints of scripture . St.Luke in his narrative of this part of ourSaviour's sufferings, having recorded that"there appeared an angel unto him from heaven strengthening him," Mr. Cumberland hasgiven this office to Gabriel, whom we haveseen in the preceding book putting to flightChemos the spy of hell, and who in the presentis represented as discovering Satan near thesame place who, after the dispersion of thedemons in the hall of the Sanhedrim, had thusstationed himself in pursuance of his threats.The fiend confident in his own power and courage, and dreading no being save the Almighty,disdains concealment, and approaches the spotwhere Christ is praying in agony; but themoment our Saviour takes the mysterious cuphe feels his strength, as it were by enchantment,blasted; his spear and shield weigh down his3 I426LITERARYNO. XX.arm slack and unnerved, and in this situation-Struck down of Heav'n and quell'dhe is met by Gabriel, who reproves him for hisimpious temerity and warns him to be gone.Satan enraged by the contempt and reproachesof the archangel, and indignant at being foundbaffled and imbecile, thus answers his celestialopponent:Since this angelic form, from death exempt,Sometimes shall yield to aches and transient painsAnd natural ailments for a while endur'd,What wonder if etherial spirit like me,Pent in this atmosphere and fain to breatheThe lazy fogs of this unwholesome earth,Pine for his native clime? What, if he droop,Worn out with care and toil? Wert thou as IDriv'n to and fro, and by God's thunder hurl'dFrom Heav'n's high ramparts, would that silken formAbide the tossing on hell's fiery lake?Hadst thou, like me, travers'd the vast profoundOf ancient Night, and beat the weary wingThrough stormy Chaos, voyage rude as thisWouldrufflethose fine plumes. I've kept my courseThrough hurricanes, the least of which let looseOn this firm globe would winnow it to dust,Snap like a weaver's thread the mighty chain,That links it to heav'n's adamantine floor,And whirl it through the Infinite of Space.And what hast thou , soft Cherub, done the whilst?NO. XX . HOURS. 427What are thy labours? What hast thou achiev'd?Heav'n knows no winter, there no tempests howl;To breathe perpetual spring, to sleep supineOn flow'ry beds of amaranth and rose,Voluptuous slavery, was Gabriel's choice:His bosom never drew th ' indignant sigh,That rent my heart, when call'd to morning hymnI paid compulsive homage at God's throne,Warbling feign'd hallelujahs to his praise.Spirits of abject mould, and such art thou ,May call this easy service, for they loveIgnoble ease; to me the fulsome taskWas bitterest slavery, and though I fell,I fell opposing; exil'd both from heav'nFreedom and I shar'd the same glorious fall.Go back then to thy drudgery of praise,Practice new canticles and tune thy throatTo flattery's fawning pitch; leave me my groans ,Leave me to teach these echoes how to curse;Here let me lie and make this rugged stoneMy couch, my canopy this stormy cloud,That rolls stern winter o'er my fenceless head;'Tis freedom's privilege, nor tribute owes,Nor tribute pays to Heav'n's despotic king.Nothing can exceed the energy and imageryof this taunting speech, and which even inMilton would have been selected as one of hisnoblest passages. The sublime courage anddespair of this demon are here drawn with a428LITERARYNO. XX.masterly hand, and excite the highest admiration, though mingled with horror, at the wildmajesty and intrepidity of his character.Whilst Satan is thus speaking our Saviourdraws nigh, and the effect of his approach onthe enemy of God and man is painted with theterrific pencil of a Spagnoletti.-The fiendOr e'er the awful presence met his eyeShivering, as one by sudden fever seiz'd,Turn'd deadly pale; then fell to earth convuls'd.Dire were the yells he vented, fierce the throesThat writh'd his tortur'd frame, whilst through theseamsAnd chinks that in his jointed armour gap'd,Blue sulph'rous flames in livid flashes burst,So hot the hell within his fuel'd heart,Which like a furnace seven times heated rag'd.Christ now addresses the prostrate demon,admonishes him that his reign on earth is over,that his dwelling is prepared in hell, and thatthere when they meet he must expect his doom;meanwhile Judas advancing, the betrayal andseizure of Christ follow according to the scripture narrative, and Satan left rolling in tormentsand unable to rise from the rock on which heNO. XX.HOURS. 429had been cast by the power of Christ, burstsout into lamentation; in vain implores relief,and wails his cruel boon of immortality.Will not some pitying earthquake gulph me downTo where the everlasting fountains sleep,That in those wat'ry caverns I might slakeThese fires, that shrivel my parch'd sinews up?Oh! for pityGrant me a moment's interval of ease,Avenging, angry Deity! Draw backThy red right hand, that with the light'ning arm'dThrust to my heart makes all my boiling bloodHiss in my veins.-His reflections on the enormity of his conduct, the guilt and misery he had occasioned,and on the improbability of repentance, or ofmercy, are forcibly expressed, and are immediately succeeded by the appearance of Mammon to whom Satan applies for assistance inrising from the ground; this aid that evil spiritreadily grants-In his strong graspHe seiz'd his giant limbs in armour cladOf adamant and gold, a ponderous wreck:Earth trembled with the shock; dire wereHell's Monarch vented , horrible the pains,the groans430 LITERARY NO. XX.That rack'd his stiffen'd joints; yet on he toil'dTill by Heav'n's sufferance rather than by aidOfarm angelic once again he rear'dHis huge Titanian stature to the skiesAnd stood.Mammon congratulates his leader on beingraised from the bed of torture, and endeavoursto console him. Satan in reply acknowledgesthe power and divinity of Christ, predicts hisown approaching doom and exclaimsNow, ev'n now,I feel a nature in me, not mine own,That is my master and against my willEnforces truths prophetic from my tongue,Making me reverence whom in heart I hate:I feel that now, though lifted from the ground,I stand or move or speak but as he wills,By influence not by freedom: I perceiveThese exhalations that the night breathes on me,Are loaded with the vaporous steams of hell;I scent them in the air, and well I knowThe angel of destruction is abroad.Having said thus, he commissions Mammonto warn the partners of his fall of their impending ruin should they presume to witness thecrucifixion and death of Christ, and then promising to Mammon a long and prosperousNO. XX.431 HOURS.reign on earth, a scene of tremendous sublimityand terror ensues, that, whether its conception.or execution be considered, certainly meritsevery encomium.So spake the parting fiend in his last hourProphetic, father though he were of lies:To him the inferior demon answer noneAttempted, but in ghastly silence stoodGazing with horror on his chieftain's face,That chang'd all hues by fits , as when the northWith nitrous vapours charg'd, convulsive shootsIt's fiery darts athwart the trembling pole,Making heav'n's vault a canopy of blood;So o'er the visage of the exorcis'd fiendAlternate gleams like meteors came and went;And ever and anon he beat his breast,That quick and short with lab'ring pulses heav'd.One piteous look he upward turn'd, one sighFrom his sad heart he fain had sent to heav'n,But ere the hopeless messenger could leaveHis quivering lips, by sudden impulse seiz'dHe finds himself uplifted from the earth;His azure wings, to sooty black now chang'd,In wide expanse from either shoulder stretchFor flight involuntary: Up he springsWhirl'd in a fiery vortex round and round;As when the Lybian wilderness caught upIn sandy pillar by the eddying windsMoves horrible, the grave of man and beast;432 LITERARY No. xx.Him thus ascending the fork'd light'ning smitesWith sidelong volley, whilst loud thunders rockHeav'n's echoing vault, when all at once, behold!Caught in the stream of an impetuous gustHigh in mid-air , swift on the level wingNorthward he shoots and like a comet leavesLong fiery track behind, speeding his courseStrait to the realms of Chaos and old Night,Hell-bound and to Tartarean darkness doom'd.Mammon shocked at the dreadful fate of hischieftain, and trembling for himself, escapesunder covert of the night.It will immediately be perceived that forthe major part of this book we are indebted tothe genius and enthusiasm of the poet, who, ina bold and vigorous excursion into the regionsof imagination, has presented us with a pictureof the most transcendent sublimity and whichhas nothing to fear from a comparison withthe productions of his master and model.The interviews between Gabriel and Satan,and Mammon and the Arch fiend, are two ofthe best wrought scenes in the compass ofpoetry, and no prejudice or spleen, be theyever so malignant, can hope to blast the laurelsdue to their conception.NUMBER XXI.Eternal wrathBurnt after him to the bottomless pit.Milton.Much criticism has been bestowed on thequestion, whether an epic poet should indulgein description of, or reflections on his ownperson or circ*mstances. The severer writers,from the example of Homer and Virgil, havedecided in the negative, but it is evidentMilton thought otherwise, and in the openingof his third book, and in strains the mostpathetic and sublime, laments his deprivationof sight. Several other passages of a similarkind are interspersed through the ParadiseLost, and no person of taste and feeling wouldexchange these delightful morsels for the mostelaborate and subtile criticism that humaningenuity could produce. Nor does there3 K434 LITERARY NO. XXI.seem any just reason why an epic poet shouldnot be permitted occasionally to digress onsubjects endeared to him by suffering andassociation. The judgment of our immortalbard has been generally allowed to have beenkeen and accurate, and the result of his attemptis such that he may with propriety be considered as a model in this respect to all futureEnglish poets, and as having given additionalgrace and interest to the fabrics of antiquity.*Mr. Cumberland has therefore judiciouslycopied his learned predecessor in this respect,and at the commencement of the fifth book,after an invocation to the Evangelists, thusbeautifully alludes to himself:Musing my pious theme, as fits a bardFar onward in the wintry track of age,shun the Muses haunts, nor dalliance holdWith fancy by the way, but travel onMy mournful road with years; , a pilgrim grayOne that finds little favour with the world,

• Camoens, the Author of the Lusiad, preceded Milton in the

adoption of this plan, and with the happiest effect; the most patheticpassages in his poem being those which dwell upon his own severesufferings, and the unparalleled ill treatment and ingratitude he experi- enced from his native country.NO. XXI. HOURS. 435Yet thankful for it's least benevolenceAnd patient of its taunts; for never yetLur'd I the popular ear with gibing tales ,Or sacrific'd the modesty of song,Harping lewd madrigals at drunken feastsTo make the vulgar sport and win their shout.Me rather the still voice delights, the praiseWhisper'd, not publish'd by fame's braying trump:Be thou my herald, Nature; Let me pleaseThe sacred few, let my remembrance liveEmbosom'd by the virtuous and the wise;Make me, O Heav'n! by those, who love thee, lov'd:So when the widows and the children's tearsShall sprinkle the cold dust, in which I sleepPompless and from a scornful world withdrawn,The laurel, which it's malice rent, shall shootSo water'd into life, and mantling throwIt's verdant honours o'er my grassy tomb.Here in mid-way of my unfinish'd courseDoubtful of future time whilst now I pauseTo fetch new breath and trim my waining lamp.Fountain of Life, if I have still ador'dThy mercy and remember'd Thee with aweEv'n in my mirth, in the gay prime of youth---So conscience witnesses, the mental scribe,That registers my errors, quits me here—Propitious Power, support me! and if death,Near at the farthest, meditates the blowTo cut me short in my prevented task,Spare me a little, and put by the stroke,436LITERARYNO. XXI.Till I recount his overthrow and hailThy Son victorious rising from the grave.This exquisite digression, pregnant with themost plaintive imagery and sentiment, is a stillfurther proof, if any were wanting, that thelicence which Milton took, and which Mr.Cumberland has thus followed, is productiveof the most pleasing effect, and unaccompaniedwith the smallest violence to the narrative,which is immediately resumed in a natural andeasy manner.ItThe trial and condemnation of Christ, thesubjects ofthe fifth book, now take place, butas scripture is here again closely adhered to, itwill not be necessary to offer any extracts.will be sufficient probably to observe that thecharacters of Christ, Caiphas, Pilate, Peterand Herod are well preserved, and that thesorrow and contrition of the disciple, his soliloquy and supplication for forgiveness, aredrawn with great feeling and much felicity oflanguage.In the beginning of the sixth book, whichis allotted to the Crucifixion, Judas mingleswith the multitude that throng the JudgmentNO. XXI. HOURS. 437hall, but endeavours to avoid the eye of ourSaviour,Yet was his ear to all that Jesus spakeStill present, and, though few the words, yet strongAnd potent of these few the impressive truth.There was a magic sweetness in his voice,A note that seem'd to shiver every nerveEntwin'd about his heart, though now corrupt,Debas'd and harden'd. Ill could he abide,Murderer although he were, the dying tonesOfhim, whom he had murder'd; 'Twas the voiceAs of a spirit in the air by nightHeard in the meditation ofsome crime,Or sleep-created in the troubled earOfconscience, crying out, Beware!The imagery in the concluding part of thisquotation is strikingly illustrative, and superadds that pleasing awe and dread so interestingto a vivid fancy.On the suicide of Iscariot, which is broughtabout through the immediate instigation ofMammon, the author expatiates in a vein ofpensive morality.-Oh! that my harpCould sound that happy note, which stirs the string438LITERARYNO. XXI.Responsive, that kind Nature hath entwin'dAbout the human heart, and by whose clueRepentance, heavenly monitress , reclaimsThe youthful wanderer from his dangerous mazeTo tread her peaceful paths and seek his God:So could my fervent, my effectual verseAvail, posterity should then engraveThat verse upon my tomb to tell the worldI did not live in vain, But heedless man,Deaf to the music of the moral song,By Mammon or by Belial led from sinTo sin, runs onward in his mad career,Nor once takes warning of his better guide,Till at the barrier of life's little spanArriv'd, he stops: Death opens to his viewA hideous gulph; in vain he looks aroundFor the lost seraph Hope; beside him standsThe tyrant fiend and urges to the brink;Behind him black despair with threat'ning frownAnd gorgon shield, whose interposed orbBars all retreat, and with its shade involvesLife's brighter prospects in one hideous night.Mammon, in compliance with the request ofSatan, having convened the demons in thewilderness, warns them to flight, and relates tothem the expulsion of that arch-fiend from theearth; they disperse in terror, and the description ofthe procession to Mount Calvary nextNO. XXI. HOURS. 439occurs: on the summit of this hill the poet hasartfully placed Gabriel and his attendant angels,and in a passage of great merit delineates theeffect of the spectacle on the mind of theindignant Seraph.Here Gabriel from the heighthNoting the sad procession, had espiedThe suffering Son of God amidst the throngDragg'd slowly on by rude and ruffian handsTo shameful execution: Horror-struckPierc'd to the heart th' indignant Seraph shookHis threat'ning spear, and with the other handSmote on his thigh in agony of soulHisFor man's ingratitude; glist'ning with tearswhence late celestial sweetness beam'd,Now shot a fiery glance.eyes,The picture with which we are next presented glows with tinting of the tenderest andsoftest beauty, and cannot fail to elicit thetear of pity and compassion from every eye.Where'er the Saviour pass'd his presence drewThousands to gaze; and many an aching heartHeav'd silent the last tributary sighIn memory of his mercies; zealous someRush'd in the grateful blessing to bestowFor health or limbs or life itself restor'd:440 LITERARY NO. XXI.Loud the cryOf women, whose soft sex to pity proneMelts at those scenes which flinty -hearted manDry-ey'd contemplates: Mothers in their armsHeld up their infants, and with shrill acclaimBegg'd a last blessing for those innocents,Whose sweet simplicity so well he lov'd,And ever as he met them laid his handsUpon their harmless heads with gentle loveAnd gracious benediction, breathing heavenInto their hearts. Oh! happy babes, so blest!After addressing himself to the Daughters ofJerusalem our Saviour is fixed to the cross.-Now beganThe executioners to spread his armsUpon the beam transverse, and through his palms,Monsters of cruelty! and through his feet.They drove their spiked nails; whilst at the clangOf those dire engines every feeling heartUttered a groan, that with the mingled shrieksOf mothers and of children pierc'd the air.The very soldiers paus'd and stood aghast,Musing what these lamentings might portend;Scarce dar'd they to pursue the dreadful workAwe-struck and gazing on theface divineOfthe suspended Savior.NO. XXI. HOURS.441This last circ*mstance is well imagined, andgives a very pictoresque finishing to the scene.The rest of the book being occupied merelywith the detail of incidents as related in theEvangelists, viz. the crucifixion of the malefactors, the death of Christ and the resurrectionof the saints and prophets, we shall pass on tothe subject of the seventh book, the Descentinto Hell, which offers a noble theme to ourpoet and has been treated by him in a mannerthat does high honour to his genius and taste.Imagination here has free scope, and, bornebeyond the limits of the material world, expatiates as in her native clime.Evening having now succeeded the strugglesof nature, the book opens with its description,and represents the dead body of Christ stillhanging on the cross. These lines we shallquote for the sake of the three concluding oneswhich present an image altogether new, and ofinimitable beauty.Now Hesperus renewed his evening lampAnd hung it forth amid the turbid skyTo mark the close of this portentous day:3 L442 LITERARY NO. XXI.The lab'ring sun, in his mid course eclips'd , andDarkling at length had reach'd his western goal;And now it seem'd as if all Nature sleptO'erspent and wearied with convulsive throes.Upon his cross the martyr'd Saviour hung;辈Pale through the twilight gleam'd his breathless corseAnd silvery white, as when the moon-beam plays **On the smooth surface ofthe glassy lake.St. John supporting the blessed Virgin isdescribed watching near the cross, and a mournful and pathetic dialogue ensues between them;meanwhile the Spirit of Christ is conveyed onthe wings of Cherubim into the regions ofDeath, whose domains, with a distant view ofthe bottomless pit, are drawn with a dark butpowerful pencil. Here, at the foot of Death'sterrific throne, Satan, driven by the whirlwind'srage, had just arrived.Down on the solid adamant he fellPrecipitate at once, and lay entranc' dOfarch-angelic majesty the wreck.DScar'd at the hideous crash and all aghast'Death scream'd amain, then wrapt himself in clouds,And in his dark pavillion trembling sateMantled in night: And now the prostrate fiendRear'd his terrific head with lightnings scorch'dAnd furrow'd deep with scars of livid hue;NO. XXI. HOURS. 443Then stood erect and roll'd his blood- shot eyesTo find the ghastly vision of grim Death,Who at the sudden downfall of his sireStartled, and of his own destruction warn'd,Had shrunk from sight, and to a misty cloudDissolv'd hung low'ring o'er his shrouded throne.When Satan, whose last hope was now at stake,Impatient for the interview exclaim'd,'Where art thou, Death? Why hide thyself from, him,Of whom thou art? Come forth thou grisly king;And though to suitor of immortal mouldThy refuge be denied, yet at my call,Thy father's call , come forth and comfort me,Thou gaunt anatomy, with one short glimpseOf those dry bones, in which alone is peaceAnd that oblivious sleep, for which I sigh.He said, and now a deep and hollow groan,Like roar of distant thunders shook the hall ,And from before the cloud- envelop'd throneThe adamantine pavement burst in twainWith hideous crash self-open'd, and display'dA subterranean chasm, whose yawning vault,Deep as the pit of Acheron, forbadeAll nearer access to the shadowy king.Whereat the imprison'd winds , that in its wombWere cavern'd, gan to heave their yeasty wavesIn bubbling exhalations, till at onceTheir eddying vapors working upwards burstFrom the broad vent enfranchis'd, when, behold!444 LITERARY NO. XXI.The cloud that late around the throne had pour'dMore than Egyptian darkness, now began cii da'.To lift its fleecy skirts, till through the mistonte &The imperial Phantom gleam'd; monster deform'd,Enormous, terrible, from heel to scalp any dɔsfOne dire anatomy; his giant bonesStar'd through the shrivell'd skin, that loosely hungOn his sepulchral carcase; round his browsA cypress wreath tiara-like he woreWith nightshade and cold hemlock intertwin'd;Behind him hung his quiver'd store of darts toWing'd with the raven's plume; his fatal bowOf deadly yew, tall as Goliath's spear,Propp'd his unerring arm; about his throneIf throne it might be call'd, which was compos'dOf human bones, as in a charnel pil'd,A hideous group of dire diseases stood,Sorrow and pains and agonizing plagues,His ghastly satelites , and, ev'n than theseMore terrible, ambition's slaught'ring sons,Heroes and conquerors styl'd on earth, but hereDoom'd to ignoble drudgery, employdTo do his errands in the loathsome vaultAnd tend corruption's never-dying worm,To haunt the catacombs and ransack graves,Where some late populous city is laid wasteBy the destroying pestilence, or storm'dBy murdering Russ or Tartar blood-besmear'dAnd furious in the desp'rate breach to plantHis eagle or his crescent on the piles10NO. XXI. HOURS. 445Of mangled multitudes and flout the skyWith his victorious banners. Now a troopOf shrowded ghosts upon a signal givenBy their terrific Monarch start to sight,Each with a torch funereal in his grasp,That o'er the hall diffus'd a dying light,Than darkness ' self more horrible, The wallsOf that vast cenotaph, hung round with spears,Falchions and pole-axes and plumed helms,Shew'd like the arm'ry of some warlike state:There ev'ry mortal weapon might be seen,Each implement of old or new device,Which savage nature or inventive artFurnish'd to arm the ruffian hand of warAnd deal to man the life - destroying stroke:And them betwixt at intervals were plac'dThe crowned skeletons of mighty kings,Cæsars and Caliphs, and barbarian Chiefs,Monsters, whose swords had made creation shrinkAnd frighted peace and science from the earth.This description of the person and palace ofthe King of Terrors has many traits of genuinesublimity, though perhaps the obscurity whichMilton has thrown around his delineation ofDeath tends more to excite admiration andterror. The prior half of the quotation willsuffer nothing in comparison with any portion.of Milton, but the remainder appears too446LITERARYNO. XXI.minute, and though possessing considerablemerit, not of sufficient dignity for the occasion.This horrible phantom should ever be circumfused by a gloomy atmosphere through whichthe eye in vain strives to acquire an accurateknowledge of its object. Placed in the broadblaze of day, its terrors, its sublimity, theproduct of uncertain imagination, vanish, anddeformity alone remains.A dialogue between Satan and his offspringDeath, in which that arch-fiend in vain makessuit for protection, is maintained with characteristic sentiment and imagery, and terminatedby the approach of Christ, who, encanopiedbeneath the wings of Cherubim, and precededby the angel trump, victoriously appears,whilst darkness sinks to the centre, Deathtrembles on his throne, and Satan falls motionless on the ground. Our Saviour now addresses and passes sentence on the prostratedemon, and immediately"The strong vindictive Angel, to whose chargeThe key of that infernal pit belong,-seiz'd him in his grasp and from the ground,Lifting his pond'rous bulk, such vigour dweltIn arm celestial , headlong down at onceNO. XXI. HOURS. 447Down hurl'd him to the bottom of the gulph,Then follow'd on the wing: His yelling criesDeath heard, whilst terror shiver'd every bone.Meantime the cherubic choir chaunt songsof gratulation and triumph, and hail the dayspring of salvation, whilst Satan-ten thousand fathoms deepAt bottom ofthe pit, a mangled massWith shatter'd brain and broken limbs outspread,Lay groaning on the adamantine rock:Him the strong angel with etherial touchMade whole in form, but not to strength restor'd,Rather to pain and the acuter senseOf shame and torment; hideous was the glareOf his blood- streaming eyes and loud he yell'dFor very agony, whilst on his limbsThe massy fetters, such as hell aloneCould forge in hottest sulphur, were infix'dAnd rivetted in the perpetual stone:Upon his back he lay extended, huge,?A hideous ruin; not a word vouchsaf'dThat vengeful Angel, but with quick dispatchPlied his commission'd task, then, stretch'd the wingAnd upward flew; for now th' infernal cave 112Through all its vast circumference had giv'nThe dreadful warning, and began to closeIt's rocky ribs upon th' imprison'd fiend':448LITERARYNO. XXI.Fierce and more fierce as it approach'd becameThe flaming concave; thus comprest, the vaultRed as metallic furnace glow'd intenseWith heat, that had the hideous den been less.Than adamant it had become a flood,Or Satan other than he was in sinAnd arch-angelic strength pre-eminent,He neither could have suffer'd nor deserv'd:Panting he roll'd in streams of scalding sweat ,Parch'd with intolerable thirst, one dropOf water then to cool his raging tongue,Had been a boon worth all his golden shrines:Vain wish! for now the pit had clos'd its mouth,Nor other light remain'd than what the glareOf those reverberating fires bestow'd:Then all the dungeon round was thick besetWith horrid faces, threat'ning as they glar'dTheir haggard eyes upon him; from hell's lakeFlocking they came, whole legions of the damn'd,His worshippers on earth, sensual, prophane,Abominable in their lives, monsters of vice,Blood- stained murderers, apostate kings,And crowned tyrants some, tormented nowFor their past crimes and into furies turn'dAccusing their betrayer: Curses dire,Hissings and tauntings now from every sideAssail'd his ear, on him, on him alone,From Cain first murderer to Iscariot all ,All with loud voices charg'd on him their sins,Their agonies, with imprecations urg'dNO. XXI. HOURS. 449For treble vengeance on his head accurst,Founder of hell, sole author of their woes,And enemy avow'd of all mankind.For perspicuity and strength of imagination,for terrible and gigantic conception, no passagein this or any other poem can be produced inrivalry of the quotation we have now given.The infernal cave closing on its dreadfulinhabitant, the tremendous agency of the vindictive Angel, and the ghastly apparitionsranged within the flaming concave, and pouring forth curses on their agonized betrayer,are paintings which display the energy ofpowerful and creative genius.veryDeath, having thus witnessed the punishmentand imprisonment of Satan, humbly acknowledges the Messias, and tenders him his crownand key, the latter of which is given to Gabrielby Christ with a commission to set free theSaints of the first resurrection. On the approach of these the book concludes, and theeighth and last opens with a beautiful description of their appearance under the conduct ofthe Arch-angel.3 M450 LITERARY NO. XXI.Now had the Saviour by the word of powerWafted the magic Phantom into air,And all the horrors of the scene dispell'd:Swift as the stroke of his own winged dart,Or flitting shadows by the moon-beam chas'd,Death on the instant vanish'd: What had seem'dA citadel of proud and martial portWith bastions fenc'd and towers impregnableOf adamant compos'd and lofty dome,Covering the throne imperial, now was air;And far as eye could reach, a level plain,In the interminable horizon lost,Unfolded it's vast champaign to the view.Darkness twin-born with Death had fled; the rays,That from the Saviour's sun- crown'd temples beam'd,With dazzling lustre brighten'd all the scene.There just emerging to the distant view,And glitt'ring white, a multitude appear'd,Stretch'd east and west in orderly array,Swift marching underneath the mighty wingsOf the protecting Angel, who in airSoar'd imminent, and with the broad expanseFrom flank to flank envelop'd all the host.The contrast and rapidity of change betweenthe adamantine citadel and paraphernalia ofDeath and the immeasurable champaign, andemerging saints , is in the spirit of Arabianfable, and productive of a pleasing effect, whilstNO. XXI. HOURS 451 .the concluding and noble picture of the mightySeraph prepares the mind for the solemn subject of the book and harmonises with theimmediately succeeding scenery.Our Saviour having ascended a mountain inthe midst of the congregation appears to themclothed with glory, and promises them the joysof a blessed' immortality. They adore him inhymns of praise and thanksgiving, and Abraham confers with our Saviour, and is shewnthe beatific vision of the heavenly Jerusalemas recorded in the Apocalypse. Christ reascends to earth, and Gabriel explains the purport of the Redeemer's resurrection, and entersinto a conference with Moses. The Spirit ofGod now descends and inspires them with theknowledge necessary to their happy state,whilst a Paradise destined for their abode,until the Lord's return from earth, springs upat the presence of the Deity, and is thuselegantly described:how # Over headLoud thunderings announc'd the coming God:And now a fire, that cover'd all the mount,Bespoke him present; all the air respir'd452 LITERARY NO. XXI.Ambrosial ordours, amaranth and rose,For Nature felt her God, and every flowerAnd every fragrant shrub, whose honied breathPerfumes the courts of heav'n, had burst to lifeBlooming, and, in a thousand colours dy'd,Threw their gay mantle o'er the naked heath:Now glow'd the living landscape; hill and daleRose on the flat, or sunk as Nature shap'dHer loveliest forms and swell'd her wavy line,Leaving unrein'd variety to runHer wild career amid the sportive scene:1Nor were there wanting trees of ev'ry growth,Umbrageous some, making a verdant tentUnder their spreading branches, some of shaftMajestic, tow'ring o'er the subject groves:Blossoms and fruits and aromatic gumsAd Scented the breeze, that fann'd their rustling leaves:And them betwixt a chrystal river flow'dO'er golden sands, meand'ring in its courseThrough amaranthine banks with lulling soundOf dulcet murmurs breathing soft repose.And now Gabriel addresses the Saints forthe last time assuring them that this Paradise ,Is but their passage to a brighter scene,A resting place till Christ shall re- ascendTo the right hand of God and call them hence ,To share his glory in the heav'n of heavens. 0936-NO. XXI. HOURS. 453He then springs on the wing and with theswiftness ofthe meteor disappears."Thus concludes a Poem which for grandeurand sublimity of design and execution willassuredly rank high in the estimation of thecritic, and to those who combine religiousfervor with poetic enthusiasm afford delight ofthe most exquisite relish. Though Mr. Cumberland has been compelled in many parts toadhere with scrupulous accuracy to circ*mstances and events well known, yet has a considerable portion of the work been devoted tothe splendor and novelties of fiction, to thedelineation of beings beyond the limits of ourhabitable sphere, and though the author had amodel that might guide his efforts, yet werethe merits of that model, its sublimity andbeauty, so transcendent, that to place by itsside a production that would not suffer by thecomparison, certainly required the most arduous exertions of genius, the most curiousfelicities of imitation.If any general objection can be made, it is,that in the design sufficient compass has notbeen assumed; that the creations of fancy bear454 LITERARY NO. XXI.not an adequate proportion to the narrative ofScripture, and that consequently the deepsolemnity and severe tone of the poem are notfully relieved by the charms of description andthe play of imagery. In Milton the beautiesof Nature are freely introduced, and dweltupon, and could Mr. Cumberland have soarranged his plan as to have admitted description of this kind, he would greatly haveenhanced its value and the variety of itsattraction. As it is, the only piece in the purelydescriptive line we can recollect throughoutthe whole poem is the picture of paradise inthe eighth book, and which is finished in astyle that induces regret at the poet's inattention to this resource. It is true that in thework as now constituted, owing to its slightdigression from the gospel record, such introduction would be impertinent, but had theoutline been rendered more extensive, episodical parts must necessarily have been included,and in these the imagery alluded to mightjudiciously have been employed, and wouldhave operated the effect required. NaturalHistory has lately received so many accessionsthat the poetic genius who should assiduouslycultivate this branch of science, would from

NO. XXI. HOURS. 455its sources alone be able to throw an interesting novelty over his productions, and the similies of an epic poem would no longer exhibita tissue of hereditary and servile imagery.Few literary men of the present day havewritten upon more various and contrasted subjects than the Author of Calvary, and it willtend strongly to impress upon the public minda favorable idea of his genius, when it shallreflect, that in the course of four or five yearshe has presented it with bold and spirited imitations of Milton and Fielding, two authors whohave no point in contact, and that his Calvaryand his Henry have the raciness and vigour oforiginals, and will probably descend to remoteages in conjunction with their prototypes.Should we now advert to his numerous Comedies and Essays, effusions of great and acknowledged merit, it will perhaps not appear toomuch to affirm, that to no author of theeighteenth century in polite literature are weunder greater obligations.STOLES END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.Printed by J. Burkitt, Market-place, Sudbury.}>2Prokhe gleanings for Ginge LadyميDONOT CIRCULATE646 MAY 22607FEB25UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN3 9015 01232 2940A 51038 0DO NOT REMOVEORMUTILATE CARD