The next wakes loud with unexpected storms;
A dreary nakedness the field deforms--
Yet many a rural sound, and rural sight,
Lives in the village still about the farms,
Where toil's rude uproar hums from morn till night,
Noises, in which the ears of industry delight.

'At length the stir of rural labour's still,
And industry her care awhile foregoes;
When winter comes in earnest to fulfil
His yearly task, at bleak November's close,

And stops the plough, and hides the field in snows;
When frost locks up the stream in chill delays,
And mellows on the hedge the jetty sloes

For little birds then toil hath time for play,

And nought but thresher's flails awake the dreary day.'-pp. 88—92. In 'December,' the poet thus feelingly laments the decline of old customs:

'Old customs! Oh! I love the sound,

However simple they may be:

Whate'er with time hath sanction found,
Is welcome, and is dear to me.

'Pride grows above simplicity,

And spurns them from her haughty mind,
And soon the poet's song will be

The only refuge they can find.'

If we were disposed to find fault, it would be with the too literal character of some of the descriptions, which are often minute upon unimportant points, and by consequence have an appearance of littleness, that savours more of matter of fact than poetry. Such passages as the following, enumerating common-place details, add nothing to the truth of the picture, while they detract from its spirit.

And again,

'The housewife, busy night and day,
Clears the supper things away;
The jumping cat starts from her seat;
And stretching up on weary feet,
The dog wakes at the welcome tones
That calls him up to pick the bones.'

The sun-beams on the hedges lie,

The south wind murmurs summer soft;
The maids hang out white clothes to dry,
Around the elder-skirted croft.'

This is too much like cataloguing, and has led the author into another fault, namely, an occasional exemplification of " the art of sinking in poetry." We will explain our meaning by a quotation:

Often, at early seasons, mild and fair,
March bids farewell, with garlands in her hair
Of hazel tassels, woodbine's bushy sprout,
And sloe and wild-plum blossoms peeping out
In thick-set knots of flowers, preparing gay,
For April's reign, a mockery of May.

The old dame then oft stills her humming wheel

When the bright sun-beams through the windows steal
And gleam upon her face, and dancing fall

In diamond shadows on the pictur❜d wall.'

This beautiful description is spoiled by the following conclusion:
And while the passing clown remarks, with pride,
Days lengthen in their visits a "cock's stride,"
She cleans her candlesticks, and sets them by,
Glad of the make-shift light that eves supply.'

as

6

Can any thing be more annoying than these four words in italic ? We reluctantly notice these trivial defects, for they are of infrequent occurrence: but if pointed out, they are easily obviated. A more frequent and positive fault, and to which we strongly object, is the use of vulgar epithets, or expressions; not provincialisms merely, but absolute specimens of patois, and whose expressive qualities by no means atone for their inelegance. Such phrases dethering joys,' the tootling robin,' plopping gun,' quawking crows, chimbled grass; and such words as crimpling, croodling,' 'crizzling,' pudgy,' 'poddle,' progg'd,' are hardly allowable in familiar prose, and not at all in poetry, even though there may be such in common use. We are not disposed to be fastidious, especially in local descriptions; but we must protest against the introduction of these obnoxious sounds in metrical compositions. They do not occur so constantly in this, as in the former works of the author; but they are the progeny of a vicious taste, that cannot be too sparingly indulged in, nor too soon abandoned altogether.

Of the Village Stories,' as stories, we cannot speak in terms of unqualified praise: in fact, there is scarcely any story in them, and they have all one common topic-love. In the conduct of the narrative, as well as the style of metre, we are occasionally reminded of Crabbe, whose fidelity of manner the author has adopted with success; whether unconsciously or by design, we do not know, but the similarity is evidently produced by an attentive perusal of that poet's works. They have not, however, either his discriminating skill in the selection of materials, or his nervous force of language, and are deficient in character; but there is a tender simplicity and delicacy of feeling about them, that gives a charm to their feebleness. Indeed, we fancy the author writes from his own personal experience, and that the feelingedgoughts portrayed, are such as he himself has been conbition 1; though their interest is diminished by being put int fely le of another; to do

aching

feel

which with effect, demands dramatic power, and a mind constructed very differently from Clare's. The subject, to be treated successfully, requires striking incidents and passionate language, and must have either power or novelty to recommend it. The Rivals' is an unsuccessful attempt to imitate the "pastoral;" a style of composition never very popular with us, and now justly neglected. There are, however, many pretty thoughts, like field-flowers, scattered up and down in this composition; take the following as a specimen :

Oft the shepherd in his path will spy
The little daisy in the wet grass lie,

That to the peeping sun uncloses gay,
Like Labour smiling on a holiday.'

The minor poems likewise contain some touching stanzas, and are as unassuming as they are graceful. The following contains some happy ideas, embodied in pleasing verse:

LIFE, DEATH, AND ETERNITY.

'A shadow, moving by one's side,
That would a substance seem,—
That is, yet is not,-though descried-
Like skies beneath the stream;
A tree that's ever in the bloom,
Whose fruit is never rife;
A wish for joys that never come,—
Such are the hopes of Life.

A dark, inevitable night,

A blank that will remain ;
A waiting for the morning light,
Where waiting is in vain ;
A gulph, where pathway never led
To shew the depth beneath;
A thing we know not, yet we dread,—
That dreaded thing is Death.

The vaulted void of purple sky
That everywhere extends,

That stretches from the dazzled eye,

In

space that never ends;

A morning, whose uprisen sun

No setting e'er shall see;

A day that comes without a noon,

Such is Eternity.'-pp. 219, 220.

'The Dream,' is a composition of a higher order, and more lofty in its style, than any in the volume. It abounds with original and fine ideas, clothed in poetic imagery; and displays a more powerful imagination thanh had given Clare credit for. Still he seems rather to strive at rely, an his subject, than either to exalt or be elevated by it; and w We ew more real pleasure in making an ex

cursion with his fancy into the fair scenes of nature, than in following his imagination into the region of obscurity.

We part from the peasant-poet, with a cordial expression of satisfaction at the gratification his muse has afforded and us, with a sincere wish that his success may be commensurate with his expectations, and we may add, with his merit. We should not omit to mention, that an engraving, by Finden, from a tasteful sketch, by Dewint, forms an appropriate frontispiece to the volume.

ART. XIII. Reise durch England und die beiden Niederlande. Von Joachim Heinrich Jäck. Königl. Bibliothekar zu Bamberg. Mit einer Charte der Umgebungen von London. 12mo. pp. 298. Weimar. 1826. London: Treüttel and Wurtz.

WHATEVER other qualities may be denied to him, it must be confessed that this Mr. Jäck is certainly a very amusing gentleman: amusing alike by reason of his blunders and his naïveté, his right observations and his wrong conclusions, his half-learning and his whole vulgarity. We cannot be supposed to notice his peregrinations through England, for the sake of any marvellously novel information which he can offer upon our own institutions and manners: neither should we be very profitably engaged in the serious correction of all the ridiculous misconceptions into which he has fallen, in the course of his brief residence among us. But it is a little curious to observe the light in which England and Englishmen have appeared to the astonished mind of a German burgher, whose total previous knowledge of the world and of letters, before his travels, had probably been limited to the polished society and the royal library of his Bavarian majesty's good city of Bamberg. We shall therefore just pass rapidly through his volume, to shew up a few of his impressions, for the benefit of our readers, without either caring to set him right in all his entertaining errors, or wasting words to explain the very evident origin of his whimsical opinions. The motives of the visit with which Mr. Jack was pleased to honour our country, are duly set forth in a preface. He declares that although he had carefully perused the "Picture of London," and Göde's incomparably beautiful description of England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland, in five volumes, he began, after the peace of Paris, to suspect that England itself contained more things worth notice, than were to be gained from those ample sources of information. And he professes that the steam-boats and great breweries of England (Dampfschiffe und grossen Bierbrauereien), as subjects of most interest-why, we know not-to his countrymen of southern Germany, were destined to engross his particular attention.

Thus bent on improving his deep knowledge of the " Picture of London," and fired with the generous ambition of scientific discovery, our royal librarian of Bamberg was safely landed at Dover. The

grave particularity with which he notices every incident that attended his arrival at that little-frequented seaport, is very edifying; and his observations upon the expectant crowd of waiters from various hotels, who greeted his debarkation, are truly Germanic and sentimental. 'Strangers,' he observes, would infallibly believe, that this assemblage of persons had congregated together to gratify some ardent longing after returning friends, whom they were anxious to press to their hearts.' But he soon learns that the object of this assemblage is of a far less affectionate nature; and that every one who lands is immediately stormed by dozens of mâitres-d'hotel and waiters from the town of Dover, who leave the stranger no peace until he makes his selection of a hotel, when he is instantly seized by one of the four or five waiters who accompany each landlord, and conducted, as if by a gend'arme, to the right house, lest by any chance he should stray into another.

Having reached the inn of his chance selection, the Hotel de France, our traveller finds immediate food for his wonderment and philosophy.

From the door to the very roof of the house,' says he, a carpet covers the middle of the passages and stairs; and, what is more, the carpeting upon each step of the stairs is fastened and arranged with gilt copper rods. On the other hand, none of the doors of the bed-chambers for strangers are furnished with keys, nor is there such a thing as a chest of drawers or a closet for our clothes, a circumstance which naturally surprised us a good deal but the fact is that, in England, entire reliance is placed upon the great public security which prevails. From this strange peculiarity, we reverted to the pumber of thefts that daily disgrace the English prints; a subject which afforded us much amusement during our evening repast.'

This meal, he is careful to inform his readers, consisted of 'roast beef and potatoes, fish, and heads of cabbage cut into four, with good beer, called ale.' The night closed upon his discoveries; but new objects of surprise and admiration roused him with the dawn.

'The sun was not yet risen on the following morning, when we heard coaches rolling past, drawn by four or six even-paced horses, and announced with blowing of horns. As this scene was constantly going on, we could restrain ourselves no longer; but thinking that a succession of great personages were about taking their departure, we leaped out of bed with the intention of seeing them pass by. But in ignorance of the construction of English windows, we toiled a long time before our united exertions could throw up the sash. At last we succeeded, and in our haste to look out, contrived to inflict sundry hard bruises upon our heads. The pain, however, was soon lost in the admiration excited by six splendid and tastefully harnessed horses, before a superb coach filled with men, both inside and out. The large assemblage of company, the leaping down and return of the trumpeters, induced us to suppose at last that we must have been beholding one of the famous English stage-coaches; in which supposition we were confirmed by the waiter at breakfast.'-pp. 5, 6.