Bell. He is a member of a church which openly maintains the divinity of Christ; and this is so certain that, if he should profess his acquiescence in the opinions which he has allowed himself to publish, he must resign the situation which he holds in it. This, however, Dr. Bell has not done. We must conclude then, that his sentiments are not in agreement with those of the author, and that he deems them contrary to the articles of the Church of England, and to the doctrine of scripture: whence it follows that the offence committed by this publication is of the nature already described. He confesses, indeed, that he has given to the world a treatise, of which the doctrine is widely different from that adopted by the Church of England.' And if he believes too, which he obviously must, that the doctrine of the Church of England is also the doctrine of the scripture, he cannot possibly escape from the conclusion which has been drawn. We sincerely hope that Dr. Bell will excuse what has been said in the discharge of a public duty, and that we shall have no farther occasion to expose the unscriptural opinions of Mr. le Courayer. To this we are encouraged, indeed, (for we are willing to part from him in good humour,) by the remembrance of an assertion in Pindar that the gods distribute to mankind no more than two evils for one blessing. Εν παρ' εσλον, πήματα συν Δυο δαίονται βροτοις Αθανατοι. τα μεν ων Ου δύνανται νηπιοι κοσμῳ φερειν, Αλλ' αγαθοί, τα καλα τρεψάντες εξω.-PYTH. 3. We rest assured, therefore, on this authority, that Dr. Bell has not a third anti-scriptural dissertation in his pocket, to be produced hereafter through some aukward movement of conscience. In this confidence, we will take the liberal advice of the Theban, and turn the fair side outward. Many stronger attempts against the church than those of Mr. le Courayer have failed of their intended effect; and we will venture to hope that Dr. Bell's munificence will cheer the youth of future generations, when his injudicious acts of editorship shall be forgotten. ART. IV.-The West Indies, and other Poems. By James Montgomery. 12mo. pp. 160. London. Longman and Co. 1810. The Wanderer of Switzerland, and other Poems. By James Montgomery. 12mo. pp. 176. Longman and Co. 1811. 'HE first fruits of a poet's reputation are less to be relied upon than the promise of an orchard in spring. His immediate THE success success depends upon so many adventitious circumstances, that the real merit which he may display is oftentimes either wholly overlooked, or is the last thing taken into the account. Is he a personal satirist, slandering his neighbour, and labouring to mildew the fair harvest of a well-deserved fame? Every day's experience shews that the wretches who ponder to envy, hatred, malice, and uncharitableness, are never in want of employment or encouragement. Is he of the philosophy of the brothel? The pupils of that hopeful school commit his verses to memory,-his songs are heard at convivial meetings, and if there be but a transparent veil of seatimentalism thrown over their grossness, they find their way into the drawing-room. Folly and affectation run a career hardly less triumphant than vice; the gossamer of Della Crusca, and the brocade and buckram of Darwin have had their day, like Brunswick bonnets and Corunna shawls. Such indeed is the perversion of public taste, that even our better writers are, in many instances, most known by their worst productions. The Damon and Musidora, the Celadon and Amelia of Thompson, are chosen by extractmakers; Edwin and Angelina is more frequently read and reprinted than the Traveller; no work of Dryden's is so popular as his Alexander's Feast; and even Shakespear himself (a name never to be pronounced without admiration and reverence) owes more of his common fame to Romeo, than to Coriolanus or Timon. In former times the public opinion was favourably influenced by the rank of an author; if a duke wrote verses, elegance was imputed to his rhymes; and if a footman or a thresher by his attempts at poetry discovered a mind worthy of a better station, public applause and private patronage were liberally bestowed. Those times are past; a titled author is now sure to be assailed with sneers, and a poor one with more cruel reproaches: we are told that it is injudicious and indeed immoral to encourage self-taught poets in their idle pursuit; that milk women and shoemakers are useful persons in their vocation, but that there is already too much indifferent poetry in the world. It is not because we are more enlightened than our fathers that this alteration has taken place. If the opinion be examined it will be found to proceed equally from a shallow understanding and an unfeeling heart; for it is false to assert that any harm is done by the publication of common-place verses. They defraud no person of his money, no one being compelled to purchase them; and they rob no one of his time, for no one is bound to read them, except the professional critic, who has no right to complain because they furnish him with employment in his profession. On the other hand, even the reasoner, whose dim scope of vision never looks beyond the wealth of of nations, will not assert that no good is done by it; for the letter-founder, the paper-maker, the printer, the bookseller, and all their dependents, confute such an assertion. The most humble volume that ever stole into oblivion from the press, has been useful to them. But if it so far succeeds as to obtain for the author the reputation which he desires and the emolument which he deserves; though little or nothing be added to the stock of literature by his labours, yet (we would ask) is it not a thing to be wished and rejoiced at, that a meritorious individual should be bettered in his worldly circumstances? that he should be enabled to advance himself, not merely a step in society, but almost, it might be said, in the scale of existence? so great and awful is the distance between intellectual and unthinking man. There are many other circumstances besides rank, which operate to the advantage or injury of an author. The saying, that a prophet has no honour in his own country, is applicable to an English poet, but not to a Welch, still less to an Irish, and least of all to a Scotch one. The Englishman, however, though none of his countrymen take any interest in his fame on that account, derives some benefit from the spirit of sectarian or of party zeal. Cowper and Kirke White, though not estimated above their merits, owe,nevertheless much of that estimation to their peculiar religious opinions. Critics are sometimes actuated by less excusable feelings, and will praise one poet in pure malice to another. Thus it has been made part of Mr. Campbell's eulogy, that he does not write like Walter Scott; and of Mr. Crabbe's, that he does not write like Wordsworth. Even Mr. Wordsworth himself is mentioned with praise when the object is to run down Montgomery. Of all our living poets Mr. Montgomery is the one whose reputation can least be ascribed to temporary and transitory causes. He began by publishing under a fictitious signature in the newspapers: these pieces found their way into the magazines, then into miscellaneous collections, and from those collections they were selected for admiration by the public, and for praise by the majority of the critics. They were moral, they were pious, they were patriotic; but they spoke the language of no sect and of no party; they contained neither panegyric nor satire; the subjects were general, and nothing but an originality in the manner of treating them could have attracted notice. Encouraged by their favourable reception, the author ventured to publish them in a volume, (with a few other pieces,) and to acknowledge them, now that they had thus fairly succeeded. His name could add nothing to his chance of becoming popular; a printer at Sheffield was remote from the world of literature, and beneath that of fashion; the vo lume lume however did become exceedingly popular, and second and third editions were speedily called for. Never did any volume more truly deserve the reception which it found. Faults there were in it; for where is the volume without them? The longest of the poems is an experiment, treating au heroic subject in lyric measure and upon a dramatic plan. It is full of feeling, of beauty, and of power: still the experiment has not succeeded; for if there be any thing radically erroneous in the plan of an edifice, the most exquisite workmanship may be bestowed upon it in vain. There is a radical error in the Wanderer of Switzerland. The dialogue is carried on in short and highly polished lines of a stimulating trochaic movement; the first impression which this makes upon the reader is a sense of incongruity, and even if this were not the case, the measure is too brisk for so long a poem. For dialogue it is peculiarly unfit, and especially for impassioned dialogue, for which unquestionably the blank verse of our old dramatic writers is the best conceivable metre. But notwithstanding the inherent and irremediable defect of the poem, no person capable of appreciating poetry could read it without perceiving that it was the production of a rich and powerful mind. The smaller poems are not without their faults; these, where they occur, are the faults of redundance and effort-weeds which indicate the strength and richness of the soil. Sometimes, too, Mr. Montgomery has used the tinsel and taudry with which our modera poetry has so long abounded. Instances of all these faults will be found in the following poem; yet it has beauties which infinitely outweigh them. HANNAH. At fond sixteen my roving heart Was pierc'd by Love's delightful dart: Keen transport throbb'd through every vein, -I never felt so sweet a pain! Where circling woods embower'd the glade, I met the dear romantic maid: I stole her hand,--it shrunk,--but no! With all the fervency of youth, I mark'd my HANNAH'S downcast eye, Not with a warmer, purer ray, The Sun, enamour'd, wooes young May; But, But, swifter than the frighted dove, I stood, and all his wrath defied; I stood, though whirlwinds shook my brain, I shun'd my nymph;-and knew not why I shun'd her--for I could not bear Yet, sick at heart with hope delay'd, Glanced, like the rainbow, o'er my mind, The storm blew o'er, and in my breast I reach'd the hamlet:-all was gay; I love a rustic holiday! I met a wedding,-stepp'd aside; It pass'd;-my HANNAH was the bride! -There is a grief that cannot feel; It leaves a wound that will not heal; My heart grew cold,-it felt not then; When shall it cease to feel again?'-pp. 147, 150. The next specimen is of a higher character. VOL. VI. NO. XII. DD THE |