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It was all firm and flat-no ridges rose Like graves of children-basket, butter, cloth, Were all one piece coherent.-- To his home The boy returned right sad and sore aghast.' Time passed on; but nobody knew, or cared, who the traveller was, or what had become of him. At length, however, Messrs. Wadsworth, Southey, and Wilson, met upon the border of the Lake; and, after holding a very high argument, on something like
And all the sexual course of things,'
Had lived and moved-a human skeleton!' This circumstance, of course, gives occasion to several pages of moralization: and then the poem ends with the apparition of a tad-pole; which is described with all due pomp,
and there had come
To close this solemn and momentous tale.'
vel walk,' on the left hand side, ' we are told we shall find a grave with unelaborate headstone.'
• There pause--and with no common feelings read
The Flying Tailor, aged twenty-nine!". In his infantine days, this great personage was considered a6 rather sickly and feeble.
But mark the wondrous changemere he was put
All unimpeded by his petticoats,
More than six inches o'er th' astonished stool. In his boyish days he was a great hand at leap-frog too;but
No more of this--suffice it to narrate,
Oft too, when striving all he could to finish
The fever that consumed his mighty heart.' But other doom was his. A troop of tumblers came into the village; one of whom, in throwing a somerset over three horses,
• Put out his shoulder, and was otherwise
About the loins and back.'
Leapt into the circle, and agreed
A shout of admiration and surprise
Were standing in a circle round and fair.'
• I hat 'mid a given number, say threescore
Smiths, barbers, bakers, butchers, or the like.' The which fact is explained by laying down this fundamental proposition:--that,
All action not excessive must partake
Is going on in silence. Be it so.' James Rigg, the third personage on Mr. Wadsworth's canvass, was, by trade, a blaster of stones; in which perilous vocation he had put out both of his eyes. When the rock blew up, which quenched them, he was very much puzzled to know whence the noise came; and straightway fell to reasoning about the probabilities of its proceeding from any thing but the blasting of the rock.
• It next perhaps occurr'd to him to ask,
James Rigg was obliged thenceforth to bore no more rocks; and he used to go about the country on an ass—for what specific purposes, the muse has not deigned to inform It was
• On Sunday morn, at half past six o'clock’ that he awoke our slumbering bard, and held a conversation with him before the door. The lofty matters, that were here debated, we cannot think of Jetailing in unelaborate proseand we shall not be able to make room for the poetry. Thus, however, closeth this momentous tale.'
• While thus confabulating with James Rigg,
I cast my eyes
motion of its iron tongue,
Dangled! On the whole, if our readers are any like ourselves, we think they cannot help laughing at these parodies. We suspect they have been manufactured by some critic, who is particularly offended with Mr. Wadsworth's poetry, and has undertaken to point out its ingredients of offence in a practical way. Our readers all know the characteristics of that school, to which Mr. Wadsworth belongs. Its followers are men who have powerful minds enough, and can use as good language as any writers whatsoever: but they abuse both their intellectual and their literary powers, by laying them out on the most trifling objects. They use large machinery in small manufactories. They handle pins with blacksmith's tongs, and draw them out under a trip-hammer. They are very much addicted, also, to making nice distinctions-drawing close parallels-giving exact dates—and ascertaining precise localities; four operations which are better calculated, than any other, to break the charm of poetic fiction, and, by depriving the imagination of her indefinite liberty of flight, to reduce lofty description down to plain matter-of-fact detail. In short they take away the very soul and body of poetry, and leave us nothing but the frigid cerement which enveloped them. We have the language of poets, without any of their fine frenzy.–Our parodist has skilfully taken advantage of this bad taste; and our readers will observe, that the most laughable passages are those in which some date, or some locality, or some distinction, is given with the accuracy of a historian and the niceness of a metaphysician.
The imitations of Messrs. Hogg, Southey, and Wilson are so much poorer than those we have just been laughing at, that we shall make no extracts from them. Indeed, we consider the parodies upon Mr. Wadsworth's poetry as the redeeming part of this volume. The powers of the writer (if it is all done by one hand) do not appear to be versatile enough to catch and caricature the faults of the other poets; and we suspect, he only tried his pen upon them, in order to make up a book. Art. IX.-Intelligence in Science, Literature, and the Arts. THE interest which
has lately been excited respecting the Ex-Emperor Napoleon, by the publication of Mr. Warden's Letters, has induced the publisher to accompany the present Number of the Magazine with a portrait of that celebrated personage. It is a copy of the one which was prefixed to the Letters abovementioned, and of which Mr. Warden speaks in the following language. I was induced to give a Plate of Napoleon, which is copied from the French engraving, because, I consider myself as perfectly Master of his Lineaments, and I think it the most decided Likeness that has been given of him.'
The Rev. Ezra Stiles Ely, of this city, author of A Contrast between Calvinism and Hopkinsianism,' of 'Two Journals,' of 'Ten Sermons on Faith,' and of the Notes to the American Edition of Reid's Works, intends soon to publish a work to be entitled Conversations on the Human Soul; in which the Elements of Anthropsychia are familiarly explained.' It will be the chief object of the writer, we understand, to present to the public a small volume, which shall summarily exhibit in a systematic form, and in familiar language, those fundamental principles of the Philosophy of the Human Mind, that will endure the test of common sense, which have been published by Bacon, Locke, Edwards, Reid, Kames, Hume and Stewart.