degenerate hireling, When the petty rivalries of the hour are forgotten, and truth is alone remembered, the retrospections of such a character are by no means enviable. To him belongs not the smile of the good, nor the friendship of the great; as he has lived to be degraded, so will he die to be forgotten.'-pp. 266, 267. We trembled lest we should chance to come under the lash of this mighty scorpion poet. We hoped that he would be so good as to spare us, when lo! upon returning to the text we found ourselves already in his fangs. Behold, readers, how we are mangled! We have indeed the consolation of being tortured in good company, for the Edinburgh is almost devoured at the same time. 'Each reptile started from his snug review Though much was thought, and more, divinely said, And when Abuse herself had ceas'd to pay, That public hooted, and she slunk away!'-pp. 92-95. We breathe once more. Never in all our critical experience have we experienced any thing like this castigation. Our limbs quiver, the pen will no longer remain in our hands, for steel though it be, (and by the bye these steel pens are a most capital invention; they save us at least an hour a day in mere mending, and applied to the glazed paper which has been recently manufactured, we have no difficulty in saying that we thus acquire another hour by greater velocity in writing, so that we thus gain an additional * Subaud. Row. month every year, and an additional year every twelve years, beyond the ordinary lot of mortals), it flies away in terror lest it should be sacrificed by the triumphant poet.' Even our ink turns pale with fear! As however, after the dark and ominous cloud which the shepherd anxiously watches upon the hill has broken, and the thunders with which it was charged have rolled away to the verge of the horizon, and the heavy shower hath fallen, the sky cheers up again, and the air becomes balmy, and the heart exults in the belief that the danger is over for the remainder of the day, so we, now that the poet has wreaked all his vengeance, and poured forth all his thunders, and hoping that, for a while at least, he will have no more to spare, venture with a stealthy pace to return to our critical chair, and resume the thread of our discourse. The horn of Heber's fame is much exalted by Montgomery's verse. A happy and natural transition leads him then to the description of the commencement of his own collegiate life, in which the 'walk of wonder' (!) through the town, the flutter of the virgin gown,' the 'giggles' at the freshman, the majesty of High Street, the anticipating smiles of the tradesmen, and sundry other marvellous things are splendidly recorded. Among the men with whom he became in due course of time acquainted, we observe were two, named Mr. Pertness and Mr. Perfection, neither of whom it seems liked his poems. Then, happy Pertness, how sincerely vain! No virtue welcom'd, and no book enjoy'd.' There was the rub. Another acquaintance of our poet was a master of arts of the name of Nothing. 'But save me heaven! from what no words can tell, A human Nothing, made of strut and swell, Who thinks no University contains Sufficient wisdom to reward his pains; So much for Nothing! Having now sufficiently amused ourselves with the egotism, the conceit, the folly, and the strut and swell' of Mr. Montgomery, let us not omit to do justice to those parts of his work which excite no other feeling than that of admiration. There are indeed not more than two or three passages, in the whole extent of the two thousand lines which make up this composition, worthy of the name of poetry. Perhaps the reader will agree with us, that one of these passages may be found in the author's reminiscence of a visit which he paid to his friend Bowles. Hast thou forgot that balmy summer noon When Blenheim woo'd us to her grand domain, Like heaven reveal'd, burst radiant on the eye! To chant noon-hymns, where'er a sound career'd, The green monotony of hill and glade, Where viewless streams,-by verdure oft betray'd, Once more awake, and own their Deity!'-pp. 70-74. To this we shall add one other passage, in which, we would fain believe, the author wishes to make the amende honourable for the passionate and indeed low-bred phraseology, in which he has elsewhere indulged his temper. 'Who breathes, in good and ill must bear his part, How Time hatlı ting'd the moral of his years With the stern feelings of a world may twine. In some fond mood when dreaming thoughts control 'Life still is young, but not the world, with me; A bloom hath vanish'd from the face of things; As oft school-free, I worshipp'd, lone and still, Yet mourn I not in mock or puling strain, 'In youth, ambition was the nursing fire A godlike heirship of undying fame! By lake, or wood, or scenes of cloistral calm, pp. 156-161. We have never denied that Mr. Montgomery could write poetry, and that too, occasionally, of a very pleasing description. It is his misfortune that he thinks infinitely better of himself than any of his judicious readers ever possibly can do; that instead of being obliged to his critical advisers, he considers those his enemies who do not yield him unqualified praise; and that he seems to consider a few really good passages quite sufficient to ensure the popularity of a long series of rhymes. He will find himself much mistaken; he may be told, and may believe, that he has triumphed, to use his own expression, over the censures of some critics, but he may be assured of this, that the public voice is in harmony with theirs, and that if it were not so, not all their powers combined could mar his ambition. As to the malignity by which he supposes them to be actuated, it does not exist; it is very well for him to apply a flattering unction to his soul, by imagining that those who expose his faults have some mean personal feelings to gratify. But he may be convinced that those amongst them at least for whom we may be allowed to speak, are governed by much higher principles of action, and are determined, under all circumstances, to perform the duties which they owe to the literature of their country. It is but justice to add, that the views of Oxford which illustrate this volume are all executed in the most admirable style. |