"What streams of rapture flow !" a picturesque image." Thy warm caress bids Man's cold reason yield." We are not so sure of the meaning of that. To what had he been objecting? Not surely to give her a kiss? Man's coldest reason could never have found fault with that-nor indeed allowed the lady to put herself to the trouble of a 66 warm caress." But the fact is, that reason is not cold. Reason is of a warm-we had almost said-an amorous temperament. Thus, as it is universally admitted, that there is "reason in the roasting of eggs," so is there reason in marrying rather than in burning; but reason in neither case yields, but in both "rules the roast." Yet, making all due allowance for these, and a few other imperfections, the passage is pretty, and meets with our most unqualified approbation-with the farther exception of "Hail, woman! bane and blessing," which is not gallant. No gentleman, however philosophically disposed, ought on any account whatever to use such language to a lady. Woman never is "bane here below"-and if we had her "here above," we should tell her so, and prove it, in spite of Old Nick. We see nothing strange in all this nothing that requires Old Nick to solve it. "Custom ever blind" is a mysterious line. Does it mean that a man gets so accustomed to ugliness that he thinks it beauty, and vice versa? But we must not be hypercritical; and here is a passage that may safely bid criticism defiance. We recommend it to the especial admiration of Tom Cringle, Captain Marryatt, and Captain Chamier. It beats their best hits hollow. "On love's wild wave, no compass and no chart, When long hath tost the vessel of the heart; By Hope's fair gale now swiftly onward borne, Now lock'd within the ice of fancied Scorn; While oft black Doubt hangs clouds along the sky, And flash thy lightnings, withering jealousy! How sweet, each trial o'er, each peril past, To enter Wedlock's tranquil port at last.” 66 "In wedlock's tranquil port," we some say-but falsely-by the find "Hymen's Bower," inhabited, brings forward a serpent discord." Nicholas then convent maid," to prove, by her confession of the woes of single blessedness, that there is no blessing in this life like a husband. 66 6 "Alas!' she sighs, on me must never more Affection smile, or these cold eyes adore. No cherub babe will e'er my fondness claim, Smile in my arms, and lisp a mother's name; But here in barren sorrow must I dwell, My couch cold stone, my world a dreary cell.'" What a contrast to this other picture! "Girt by a silent Hymeneal band, Before the altar Clare and Ivor stand; He looks to heav'n, and now, in joy and pride, Surveys the dazzling beauties of his bride. Her eyes, like violets, droop in timid grace, Her modest thoughts send crimson to her face; How softly-sweet she breathes her vows of love! Angels might stoop and listen from above; He scarce can hear or feel, so lost in bliss; But now her hand of snow reclines in his The rites conclude midst smiles and rapturous tears! Prosperous their lot, and happy be their years!" Old Nick-we offer to bet a pound -is like Old Kit-a Benedick. He knows nothing of the feelings of a Bridegroom on his wedding-day. "He scarce can hear or feel, so lost in bliss." We maintain that he can hear the slightest whisper. We maintain that he hears every syllable of the marriage service and at some parts can scarcely hold down the beating in his breast. The Bride hears toohis and her own heart knocking-or if that be too strong an expressiongoing pit-a-pat. We have often been lost in bliss," and as often been found again, without having been advertised in the Hue and Cry; but never so as scarce to feel." We shrewdly suspect that the feeling is the marrow of the bliss-and that to be lost in bliss without feeling it, seems incompatible with the laws of our constitution. cr We perceive that one of the principal pleasures of a married man is to sit of an evening in a woodbine bower with his wife, and play the flute. A simpleton never looks so silly and so sweet, as when puffing away on that instrument-more especially when double-tonguing in the florid style. And now, we believe, we have extracted for our own instruction and delight in the Moor, << We think we should know Windermere well, having lived on its banks weeks together, on visits to the Professor at Elleray. In spite again of Old Nick, we deny that Windermere is girded round with mountains; we deny, that at dewy dawn, the mountains are gloomy sentinels;" we deny, that there are as many as one cavern in her "cavern'd shore;" we deny that so many as one cascade murmurs down her rocks; and we affirm, that Old Nick, when there, must, like the bridegroom he describes at the halter, have been so "lost in bliss," as 66 scarce to hear or feel," or see; though we daresay that, nevertheless, after "skimming at even the wave with noiseless sail," he played such a knife and fork as had seldom, if ever, been seen in that village, to the astonishment even of the Bowness Bass-kites. But Old Nick, like Old Kitt, loves << Having asked for a desert, "limitless," you should not add, "no bounds control;" for nature abhors a vacuum in the heads of her tautological children. Why has grandeur a throne," and sublimity only a "shrine?" It will puzzle Old Nick to give the reason why." Is a desert, in thunder and lightning, more "meet for the worship of the Deity," than in calm? No; and what soul, when "awe-struck," was ever "lifted" by what laid it prostrate? But what is this hard in our other breeches'-pocket? "Lyric Leaves, by Cornelius Webbe." The little volume opens of its own accord, at Summer Morning. Ho! ho! we see at a glance that he is a very different person; that he has feeling and fancy-an eye and a heart for nature. It is pleasant, here in this lone high rude moor, to peruse poetry breathing the spirit of the lonely cultivated lowlands, as they are sleeping in the unlabouring and leisureful hour of noon. It sinks "like music on our heart." subjects from them, but looking with his own eyes over external being, and into the "moods of his own mind, he selects the same or similar things and thoughts as theirs; and this it is, rationally speaking, to belong to the same school as theirs-he being a docile, apt, and loving pupil, they being learned, wise, and humane masters. Nor is Cornelius the less original, because he is taught of such teachers. They, too, had theirsMilton, and Shakspeare, and Spenser, and the other illustrious sons of immortal song. And these had also theirs-for high and low all belong to one school-the school of nature -a Sabbath as well as week-day school-and the Teachers are the gracious Muses. We shall be happy when we have built it to see Mr Webbe at Tor Cottage-should he visit Scot!and before then, at Buchanan Lodge. We believe he lives in "city or suburban," and we have been rather uncivilly told, that some dozen years ago we called him Cockney. We have no recollection of that most grievous offence; but this we know, though it may appear both paradoxical and heterodox, that among Cockneys are many thousands of excellent men, women, and children. Almost all people wax Cockneyish as they get old; and we freely confess here, where there are none to overhear us but these Tors, and they will be mum, that we are conscious of a creeping Cockneyfication over our character. Yes, Christopher North -hear it, ye Heavens! and give ear, thou Earth! is a Cockney! We shall return Mr Webbe's visit; and hope it will be at the house-warming of "Fancy's Home." At present it is a very pretty poem. Mr Webbe has studied Cowper and Wordsworth. And he not only understands their spirit, but has learned, in his worship, to make it his own, and on it to look at the same nature that gave them their inspiration. He borrows no words from them-yet his language is coloured by the breath of theirs; he borrows no images from them, yet his descriptions are interfused with the same feelings as theirs; he borrows no "FANCY'S HOME. "My cot should stand in some lone dale; Its windows, brightening with the East, Should hear the wakeful Nightingale When every song but her's has ceased. And there should be, to hear it too, A heart all tenderness and truth, And eyes that shine like morning-dew, And lips of love, and looks of youth. "My cot should have a garden bower, With fruit and flowers, for bud and bee, To balm and freshen evening's hour, And fill the air with fragrancy ;- And there my Mary's harp should ring "A little lake, nor loud nor deep, "And there my little white-sailed boat, What has become-we wonderof Dartmoor Prison? During that long war its huge and hideous bulk was filled with Frenchmen-aye"Men of all climes-attached to nonewere there;" birds that seem not to hate nor to be unhappy in confinement, but hanging by beak or claws, to be often playing with the glittering wires -to be amusing themselves, so it seems, with drawing up, by small enginery, their food and drink, which soon sickens, however, on their stomachs, till, with ruffled plumage, they are often found in the morning lying on their backs, with clenched feet, and neck bent as if twisted, on the scribbled sand, stone-dead. There you saw pale youths, boys almost like girls, so delicate looked they in that hot infected air, which, ventilate it as you will, is never felt to breathe on the face like the fresh air of liberty, once bold and bright midshipmen in frigate or first-rater, and saved by being picked up by the boats of the ship that had sunk her by one double-shotted broadside, or sent her in one explosion splintering into the sky, and splashing into the sea, in less than a minute the thunder silent, and the fiery shower over and gone, -there you saw such lads as these, who used almost to weep if they got not duly the dear-desired letter from sister or sweetheart, and when they did duly get it, opened it with trembling fingers, and even then let drop some natural tears-there, we say, you saw them leaping and dancing with gross gesticulations and horrid oaths obscene, with grim outcasts from nature, whose moustachio'd mouths were rank with sin and pollution-monsters for whom hell was yawning-their mortal mire already possessed with a demon. There, wretched, woe-begone, and wearied outwith recklessness and desperation, many wooed Chance and Fortune, who they hoped might yet listen to their prayers-and kept rattling the dice-damning them that gave the indulgence-even in their cells of punishment for disobedience or mutiny. There you saw some, who, in the crowded courts, sat apart retired,"-bringing the practised skill that once supported, or the native genius that once adorned life, to bear on beautiful contrivances and fancies elaborately executed with meanest instruments, till they rivalled or outdid the work of art assisted by all the ministries of science. And thus won they a poor pittance wherewithal to purchase some little -a desperate race-robbers and reavers, and ruffians and rapers, and pirates and murderers mingled with the heroes who, fired by freedom, had fought for the land of lilies, with its vine-vales and "hills of sweet myrtle"-doomed to die in captivity, immured in that doleful mansion on this sullen moor. There thousands pined and wore away and wasted, when at last "hope, that comes to all," came not to them -and when not another groan re mained within the bones of their breasts, they gave up the ghost. Young heroes prematurely old in baffled passions-life's best and strongest passions that scorned to go to sleep ut in the sleep of death. These died in their golden prime. With them went down into unpitied and unhonoured graves-for pity and honour dwell not in houses so haunted-veterans in their iron age-some self-smitten with ghastly wounds that let life finally bubble out of sinewy neck or shaggy bosom-or the poison-bowl convulsed their giant limbs into unquivering rest. Yet there you saw a wild strange tumult of troubled happiness-which, as you looked into its heart, was transfigured into misery. There volatile spirits fluttered in their cage, like comfort or luxury, or ornament to their persons; for vanity had not forsaken some in their rusty squalor, and they sought to please her their mistress or their bride. There you saw accomplished men conjuring before their eyes, on the paper or the canvass, to feed the longings of their souls, the lights and the shadows of the dear days that far away were beautifying some sacred spot of " la belle France"-perhaps some festal scene, for love in sorrow is still true to remembered joy, where once with youths and maidens, "They led the dance beside the murmuring Loire." There you heard—and hushed then was all the hubbub-some clear silver voice, sweet almost as woman's, yet full of manhood in its depths, singing to the gay guitar, touch ed, though the musician was of the best and noblest blood of France, with a master's hand, " La belle Gabrielle!" And there might be seen in the solitude of their own abstractions, men with minds that had sounded the profounds of science, and seemingly undisturbed by all that clamour, pursuing the mysteries of lines and numbers-conversing with the harmonious and lofty stars of heaven, deaf to all the discord and despair of earth. Or religious still ever more than they, for those were mental, these spiritual, you beheld there men, whose heads before their time were becoming grey, meditating on their own souls, and in holy hope and humble trust in their Redeemer, if not yet prepared, perpetually preparing themselves for the world to come! Here is a lament for young Augustin. |