CARRINGTON. "In truth, we are slow to condemn as useless any researches or discoveries of original and strong minds, even when we discern in them no bearing on any interest of mankind; for all truth is of a prolific nature, and has connexions not immediately perceived; and, it may be, that what we call vain speculations, may, at no distant period, link themselves with some new facts or theories, and guide a profound thinker to the most important results. The ancient mathematician, when absorbed in solitary thought, little imagined that his theorems, after the lapse of ages, were to be applied by the mind of Newton to the solution of the mysteries of the universe, and not only to guide the astronomer through the heavens, but the navigator through the pathless ocean. For ourselves, we incline to hope much from truths which are particularly decried as useless; for the noblest and most useful truth is of an abstract or universal nature; and yet the abstract, though susceptible of infinite application, is generally, as we know, opposed to the practical." CHANNING. THE subject of our present paper was born at Plymouth, in 1777, of respectable parentage. Nothing remarkable occurred in his life until he reached his sixteenth year, when he was apprenticed to Mr. Thomas Foot, a measurer: the pursuits of his profession, however, were unsuitable to his literary predilections. The love of poetry, as embodied in the beautiful creations of God, had taken possession of his soul, and when once under the dominion of that delightful passion, we feel a growing dislike to noise and bustle; it leads her votaries to the contemplation of nature in all its loveliness and grandeur; it leads them to meditate amid its solitary haunts and quiet seclusions; every flower is rich with a thousand memories, every shrub with a thousand associations. Literature stamps an everlasting charm and an everlasting truth on those scenes which rise in simple majesty around us. In the dockyard there could be little that was congenial; its noise was little suited to the spirit that had learned to love the creations of poet and of painter. He might, indeed, have dreamt of beautiful things while at his labours; he might, indeed, have depicted with his fancy the blushing scenery of nature colouring it with golden and with purple tints; he might, indeed, have listened to the sweet music of heaven and earth, but ever and anon the truth would come that he was far from these, and they far from him. Each day, as it glided by, bore with its fading glories the entreaties of our poet for a change of situation: it was in vain he asked; the boon was refused. After some three years of hope and fear, he ran away. He had no sooner done this, than he felt the effects of his own rashness, for not having courage to go home, he seemed an outcast and an exile. In this emergency he entered on " shipboard," and soon after was present at the victory off Cape St. Vincent, on the 14th of February, 1797. Having written some verses on the occasion, the first he ever penned, they met the eye of his captain, who appreciated their merits, and became deeply interested in their author. Having learned his story, he promised to send him to his parents immediately on their arrival in England. The youthful bard soon obtained forgiveness, and was once more re instated in the home of infancy. He was now allowed to choose his own profession, and ere very long, became a public schoolmaster. 66 Seven years after this, we find him removed to Maidstone, in Kent. In 1805, he married, and continued to pursue his avocation with success until 1809, when he returned to Plymouth, at the earnest request of some friends, who were anxious to place their sons under his care: he remained here till within six months of his death: his duties allowed him little or no recreation. In 1820, he produced his "Banks of Tamar," which was well received; and four years afterwards he published Dartmoor," with still greater success. Friends now gathered round him, and even royalty itself smiled. He continued from this time to write occasional pieces for magazines until disabled by sickness. In 1830, he relinquished his school and removed to Bath, where he died but a few months afterwards. His burial-place seems suited to his character: it lies in the secluded village of Combehay, somewhat more than three miles from his late residence, "deep sunk" in a romantic and sequestered vale. Our author's finest poem is, unquestionably, "Dartmoor." It is marked by much truth and beauty, and its strain is lively and joyous; there are a few melancholy notes, a few pensive touches; its versification is in general harmonious, and its descriptions strong and characteristic; its imagery is correct, and its associations pleasant; its episodes are full of sweetness; it scents of the gorse and broom which grow on our heaths, and sounds with the murmuring of brooks and the dashing of the rushing torrent. The commencement of the poem presents us with the following beautiful apostrophe: Lovely Devonia! land of flowers and songs! At the rapt touch, and deep-hued flowers that light Throws more divine allurement, and o'er all Haply, a partial lay. Forgive the strain, Is that which gives him birth; and long it wears Hallowed by memory, is fondly breathed With his last lingering sigh. And who is there amongst us who feels not the power of local sympathy? How beautiful and bright those hills up which we toiled in childhood; how thick they stand with sweet associations! how lovely those woodbine lanes along which our feet used to stray, and what remembrances entwine their green hedge-rows and shady trees! The very wild-flowers that trembled in the evening breeze seemed more exquisite than others. How quiet and calm the village we were accustomed to visit, with its straw-roofed cottages, low porches, and latticed panes, with its ancient church and ivied parsonage! There seems to be a deeper shade in those yews that skirted the churchyard, and a more softened repose breathed over the lonely graves. And thus we ever cling to those streams, and walks, and flowers, and trees, and peaceful huts, and Elizabethan mansions we gazed on in bygone years: memory adorns them with a more than rainbow beauty. The sky of Italy may be bright and sunny, but the sky which mantled over the place of our birth, and which witnessed our youthful sports, seems to us more sunny and more bright. Other lands may be graced with the narcissus and the orange-blossom, and may be breathed on by gentle winds and balmy gales, and there may be silvery whisperings in their woods; but that nook which beheld us laughing in the joyance of childhood seems to be graced with sweeter flowers and breathed on by more softened gales; and from out its woods comes a more silvery music. Other countries may be decked with high-crested mountains and deep dark lakes reflecting in their still waters the magnificent sunset and sunrise and the resplendent glory of the starry hosts; but there is a retreat which yields to us thoughts more stirring and feelings more throbbing than any of these. We return to Dartmoor: "In sunlight and in shade Repose and storm,-wide waste! I since have trod, I seek thy solitudes profound, in this Thy hour of deep tranquillity, when rests |