but if the artist will disregard these adventitious aids, he must take care that the proportions of his figure be rigidly just, and that a severe and chaste simplicity preside over his labours. It is in this respect that we think the author has been most unfortunate. To the simplicity of such a story, it was essential, in the first place, that the poem should not have been so long, nor its details protracted to such unnecessary minuteness. The imagination can easily descry the end of the poem, and the incidents of each scene, and it then becomes a very wearisome effort to go back and wade through the details when our interest is already far beyond them. In the next place it seems to be a cardinal disadvantage that we are not permitted to know any of the characters intimately enough to feel a very strong affection for them, and the consequence is that the author is obliged to confine himself to a description of what they suffered. We are of course informed how sadly they looked; their tears are described with the greatest minuteness and repetition; and the old man again and again strives to move us by lamentation. We have "poor old man," and "poor old Mary," and "poor old eyes," and "poor old knees," repeated in every part of the poem. Now, in the philosophy of the passions, there seems to be no principle more true than that our sympathy is excited not so much by the complaints of a sufferer, as by a knowledge of his situation and the cause of his grief; and that, therefore, lamentation, so far from being a source of interest, will in fact weaken our respect for the individual who complains. In the next place, this search after simplicity has led the poet into a number of weak verses, and made him adopt in a few instances an antiquated phraseology, which is quite misplaced in the present work. Why he should use such words as "gear" for riches, or assist his versification by "do" and "did," and above all, by the extravagant repetition of the conjunction "And," which is to be met at the head of so many lines, leading on its languid followers, can scarcely be accounted for, except from a wish to render his poetry simple and affecting. The errors of this sort are, we think, among the least pleasing parts of the volume. There are so many colloquialisms, so many loose lines, and the simplicity becomes in many parts so affected, much of the beauty of the poetry is lost by it. Thus, And, when at first, he told the tale, Of Mary's cottage, in the vale, He pass'd the matter lightly o'er; &c. And oft her sadly piercing look Did cut my soul, with sharp rebuke. &c. And scarcely lent a willing ear, And how, when Carlo brush'd her by, I then, for faithful Carlo, there Who said he knew the lurcher well. &c. When first poor Hubert's change I spied, And the following specimens are much too simple: I fear'd 'twould look like guilt and shame, Oh, Hubert! can thy heart be gay, With quiv'ring lip, he quick did say, "No! good old Edwy, never! never!" &c. We take notice of these things with less reluctance, because they are errors which the author has sufficient taste to correct, and genius enough readily to surmount. It is a much more agreeable task, however, to select for our readers, such passages as will give them a good idea of the author's best manner, and enable them to judge for themselves on the merits of his style. The opening stanzas are among the best of the whole. Wand'rer, though, upon his brow, The quick'ning fire of youth betrays, But chance you would not deign to hear For here no knight, with targe and spear, Nor lady bright, of high degree, Is seen in stately tow'r; Nor lordly suitor bows the knee To courtly damsel fair and free, Well met, in sylvan bow'r. And chance to you the world is dear, And, if your thoughts are all for morrow, Yet stay, and first forgive the wrong, Of speech unkind, and sland'rous tongue; For pride is high, upon your cheek; To hear poor crazy Hubert shriek, And now your tears more freely pour, "Here little Ellen lies." Ah! gentle wand'rer, 'tis a dreary sight, And read the tablet, by the moon's pale light, Five summers now have pass'd away, They sought the wretch, at Ellen's grave, Brushing away the falling snow. The first introduction of Ellen is also marked with much simple beauty; and the description of the dog is a very favourable proof of the author's attention to minute nature. VOL. I. Amid the valley lone, Where foot of mortal seldom came, In solitude, unknown. And, when old Edgar droop'd and died, At early dawn, her little feet The dew from off the pathway, beat, And water, from the brook, she drew: And oft she pluck'd the flow'r that grew, And, still while poor old Mary slept, And gently plac'd it there. Then silent would she watch, the while, Next, with kind look and willing haste, I i Then, o'er neck, her kerchief threw, Oft did he cast alternate look, And, o'er her auburn gay, That did, at best, but poorly hide His frequent bark would loudly chide Scarce, on the string she plac'd her hand, The sound of lifting latch to hear; With eagle's speed; nor had she more Than dropp'd the latch, and clos'd the door, Ere Carlo down the hill had gone. And, scarce she left the threshold stone, Ere he had swam the brook below, And climb'd the cliff, and on its brow, And bark'd again, to chide delay. And, when, with lilly foot, unshod, Again he sped, for then he knew The path, that Ellen would pursue. And, when she gain'd the ridge's height, Carlo was fairly out of sight. The elopement of Ellen, and the anxious suspense of her mother, is told in an affecting manner, though perhaps somewhat too long. |