CHAPTER VII.
HAPTER

CRITICISMS.

MR. Russell, with all his goodness of heart and strength of judgement, was but a man. He had his prejudices; and one day he was angry with Huntley for calling Lord Byron the greatest of modern poets.

"A great poet," replied he, " is one who purifies your mind instead of enervating or poisoning it-who either peoples this actual earth with a fair and exquisite creation of his own, or quits it altogether and soars with you into the world of intellect, leaving no misanthropic disgust, no metaphysical falsities clinging to you when he is laid aside, but making you wiser and better than you were before. Milton does this; and even in these present times, there are poets who have aimed at and achieved better things than Lord Byron, and

whom I consequently esteem better poets. They are the best who raise you highest."

This was irritating to Huntley, whose admiration of his favourite writer approached idolatry. He defended him with warmth, quoting passage after passage from Childe Harold, and exclaiming, "You cannot deny the splendour of that thought " -“you will acknowledge the beauty of this," while Mr. Russell, whose opinion of their moral, or, rather, immoral tendency, somewhat obscured his perception of their beauty, remained obstinately fixed in his original way of thinking. The discussion was dropped, but they were not quite so well pleased with each other as before; Huntley silently accusing Mr. Russell of illiberality, and Mr. Russell thinking Huntley's opinions too free.

Mr. Russell had not been often at the White Cottage lately. One morning, soon after Matthew's quitting Summerfield, he called, and found Hannah sitting to Huntley for her picture, Mrs. Wellford reading Mr. Good's daily paper, and Rosina copying one of Flaxman's illustrations of the Greek dramatists, which had been lent her by Mrs. Shivers. Mr. Russell admired the accuracy of her drawing, and began to speak of the fable

which it illustrated, and of the absurdities of the heathen mythology.

"Absurd as it was," observed Huntley, we artists may be thankful to it for the finest sculptures in the world."

"And can you really be thankful that myriads of human beings should wallow for ages in the grossest idolatry, merely because the sculptor hence had fanciful subjects offered to his chisel ?”

"Of course I spoke only in jest. Though Apollo and Venus had never been, the genius of Phidias would not have slept. No-of all absurdities it appears to me the greatest, that man should worship the work of his own hands."

"Idolatry," said Mr. Russell," is as natural to barbarous, as infidelity is to half-civilized minds. A vivid ill-regulated imagination leads to one, and a cold sluggish imagination to the other. The man whose feelings and fancy are equally inert, sees God nowhere: the man whose lively mind is uncontrolled by knowledge and reason, sees every where, not one, but many gods. He is brought into close contact with the mighty works of creation, and is unable to fathom their laws. To him, the sun, because beyond his control, appears un

controlled; the seasons, returning regularly, seem to do so of their own accord. And what he admires or fears, he worships: thus arise a host of imaginary deities, Moloch, horrid king, besmeared with blood,'-' Astarte, queen of heaven, with crescent horns.' Did it ever occur to you, Mr. Huntley, as an argument against the authenticity of Ossian, that there is no mention of idolatrous worship in his poems? His gloomy chiefs erect no altars, pour no libations."

"It is enough for me," said Huntley, laughing, "that a regular epic in six books, should have been translated from manuscripts which are no where to be seen, and that his Celtic damsels are ladies of the utmost delicacy and refinement, whitehanded and white-footed, in spite of exposure to the sun and air, with no more debasing employments than playing on the harp and braiding their golden hair."

"And why should not they play on the harp, and braid their hair?" said Rosina, who loved Ossian, not wisely but too well.

"If I might differ from a lady, I should say that the wives of Fingal and Ossian were more likely to have occupied themselves in sewing to

gether their garments of skins, and dressing the game which their husbands brought from the hills."

“Ah, Mr. Huntley! and have you no admiration of Cathullin, mourning that he is unworthy to bear the shield of his fathers, or Gaul, or Fillan of the dark brown hair? And what do you say, Mr. Russell, to the address to the sun?"

"An imitation, gross, palpable, of the scriptural passage which describes him, coming from his chamber as a bridegroom, and rejoicing as a mighty man to run a race."

"Oh! very, very different, Mr. Russell! Think of the old, blind, melancholy man, regretful of the past, and hopeless of the future; unable to behold the sun that warms his chilly limbs, and sorrowfully saying thou, perhaps, art like me, for a season, thy years will have an end: thou shalt sleep in the clouds, careless of the voice of the morning.' Oh, Mr. Russell! Mr. Huntley! is there no poetry in this?"

Their looks told her that there was.

"Yes," said Mr. Russell, "whether the merit lies with you Rosina, or Macpherson, or Ossian, the picture is striking. When we think of an old