our poets are chargeable, from the last-born up to "Geoffrey Chaucer, clerk," who had, perhaps, half a sin the less for having "left half told The story of Cambuscan bold." In reading fables, it is very distressing to find how closely truth and fiction are blended together. Esop and his fellow-fabulists should be listened to with great and never-sleeping suspicion. It is hardly a Christian duty to take every advantage of a Rabbi, or one might now object to the Jew, that many of his brethren have written apologues, in which they have made "free use of fancy in connexion with historical facts." Also in many of their parables, "truth and fiction are so blended together, as to make it very difficult to discover where" these doctors of the law speak from their historical knowledge, and where only as moralists. Had Dr Desiderius Erasmus foreseen this mischief, as he ought to have done, perhaps he might then have suppressed several of his works, and have forewarned his friend Sir Thomas More against having his ghost enticed into colloquies with Dr Robert Southey of Keswick. These conversations on the Progress of Society have been published; all people have read them, and know for themselves what a blending together they are of truth and fiction! One would not willingly acknowledge it, but still it cannot but be perceived, that, upon this ground, there is a little censure slightly applicable even to Bishop Jeremy Taylor. What an honoured name is his! What beautiful, pure, and happy feelings it calls up from the heart! What a spirit of truth, and love, and trust, its remembrance seems to diffuse all around one! It is eminently a Christian name, else in darker times it might have countenanced the cabalists in their strange belief that there exist certain words of supernatural power. It is a name never to be honoured enough! In pronouncing it, I often do so slowly, liking to retain it lovingly on my tongue. When I have been heavily oppressed with trouble, I have found that Bishop Jeremy Taylor's name suddenly occurring to my mind, and thoughtfully uttered, has momentarily re-opened in my soul the fountains of peace. But I return to consider the evil resulting from the 66 use of fancy in connexion with historical facts." This is the mischief of the Divina Commedia! Messer Dante Alighieri was a "famous theologian," so that he ought to have known how mischievous were his wanderings through hell, “ The devils marshalling themselves before.” For Dante was renowned for theology at Paris, and bore one of the highest theological reputations at the council of Constance. It is, therefore, very curious that no critic appears ever to have reproached him with the mischief he had done by publishing his journey up the steep of purgatory to where he "presumed an earthly guest, and drew empyreal air," especially as historical fact and poetic fiction are throughout blended so closely together. And this is the case even when he tells of what he saw through the nine spheres of Paradise, and in "That realm of holy triumph, for whose sake I oft lament my sins and smite my breast." Alas! Walter Savage Landor, for those Imaginary Conversations of thine-four volumes of them-five! And that Citation and Examination of Will. Shakespeare! And thy Pericles and Aspasia! And that book Pentameron, with its appendix Pentalogia, besides papers of a like order in Blackwood and elsewhere! Thou hast made thy characters speak very beautifully, it is true, more nobly than most of them ever spoke themselves. But, alas !-why you do not care-you are laughing, and are going to say, "What does it matter who says the good thing, so it be said; or how it is said, so it be understood?" Nor to my mind does it matter at all; personate any body-John Luther, Petrarch, Will. Shakespeare, any body: only, Walter, do talk! There is an imaginative use of historical facts, which is perfectly legitimate. There is a book lying open on my table-it is Madame de Stael's Germany; and accidentally my eye has fallen upon a passage which is a little in point, and from which it would appear to be Madame's opinion that facts can be used aright only by imaginative minds. Referring to those who despise the uses of enthusiasm, she says, "They think by that to display a precocious force of reason, but it is a premature decay of which they are boasting. They treat talent like the old man who asked, ' if love still existed.' Deprived of imagination, the mind would gladly treat even nature with disdain, if nature were not too strong for it." And now for one serious word concerning the "free use of fancy in connexion with historical facts." There is, of course, a proper and an improper use of fancy in such connexions, but, nevertheless, its use is necessary. The worst histories are written by the mere chroniclers; the best are the works of men who, possessed of strong reasoning faculties, have been also largely gifted with the rarer and beautiful powers of the imagination. The mere chronicler reads off a list of dates, charters, and names, and that is his way of making you feel how your fellow-men lived in ages past; which is about as wise as undertaking to give an idea of the Alps by means of a piece of granite, a handful of moss, some sand, and a blast of cold air. The worth of a historian consists in his power to interpret historical facts, and to tell what state of feeling, manners, and society they betoken. A man may be called a naturalist, because he possesses a well-stored museum; but both he and his fossils together are little compared with the Baron Cuvier, who could infer from a few remains of an animal what it was originally in size, appearance, and habits. We have no idea how a man lived, looked, talked, and worked, by merely knowing a few grave-stone facts, such as when he was born, and on what day he died. The sure historian never omits these, but he supplies further knowledge, and breathes into historical facts that "informing spirit," which, when they want, they are quite worthless. The object of all history is to make us understand how our fellow-beings thought, felt, and acted, in ages past. And, for this purpose, such papers as Edward Wightman, the Martyr, have some value when well written. In this kind of writing, I do not mean to say that my first attempt has been any thing else than very feeble and very unsuccessful; but I do say, that many of Walter Savage Landor's pieces have a historical value, although not possessed of a historical appear ance. And after all, the men of past ages no more lived by chapter and section than we do. We arrange their actions in books, page one, two, three, and so on ; but they were not done after that fashion. There never was a time when our ancestors lived in paragraphs, although for us to write of them in that manner is convenient. But, as I said before, the purpose of history is to revivify the lives of the dead; and it is not saying too much to assert, that there have been Imaginary Conversations written, which are as good as true," and truer than many histories. 66 Mr Editor, it is very true, likewise, that "Edward Wightman, the Martyr," was copied from yours into another periodical, and also that a third magazine has I have, twice contained remarks upon the article. therefore, no particular claim on your editorial compassion; but I send you these remarks for insertion in the Pioneer, because of your kindness I have had experience, and I am at present rather too distrustful of myself to make, without pain, trial of another person's courtesy, so long as I can rely upon yours for the publication of this letter. I am, &c. King's Lynn, Feb. 9. 1844. WILL. MOUNtford. MOURN NOT THE DEAD. OH! mourn not the dead; from their labours they rest, In the spirit-land, happy and free; Through the portals of death they are gone to the blest, And blest they shall evermore be. Oh! mourn not the dead;-neither turmoil nor strife Shall again e'er embitter their hour; They have passed through the floods and the breakers of life, And live where no sullen skies lour. Oh! mourn not the dead;-the corrodings of care, May never unpitied, unmarked, mantle there, Oh! mourn not the dead;-no oppressor's hard hand Do their souls in their agonies tear; They have reached their own home, their own fatherland, Nor oppressed nor oppressor dwells there. Oh! mourn not the dead ;-they can sorrow no more, Nor the anguish of evil endure; Their foes they have braved, and, victors they soar, 'Mid the tearless, the sinless, the pure. Oh! mourn not the dead;-fast the hour draweth nigh, And happier, holier, partake of their joy, EDINBURGH, Jan. 24. 1844 T. H. THE ADVENTURES OF JOHN HOPKINS' DAUGHTER LUCY. JOHN HOPKINS was now infirm, and well stricken in years. He felt that but few more days would be his portion in this world, and he sighed not at the thought, for he was weary, and then rest is sweet. All his large family had now left him, and were pushing their way among the crowded walks of this busy life. He had heard of their success, and was glad that they would no longer need or miss his helping hand, save one fair child, his youngest daughter. She had refused all offers of protection and assistance from others, that she might tend the declining health of her beloved parent, and when he smiled upon her, her heart leapt within her; and though he sometimes said, " Go, my Lucy," she ever answered, "Not yet, must I, Father?" and the old man kissed his darling, and said she might stay a little longer. But now his heart was filled with sorrow when he thought of the desolate condition of his faithful child, for he knew how pure and bright was her innocent soul; and when he looked out on the vast world, he saw that its busy traffic splashed and stained all passengers |