breathe not his name "-are worth all the epics that ever were composed.' "In mentioning fancy and feeling, I have mentioned what appear to me the two qualities in which Moore was most rich. His was a delightful fancy, not a sublime imagination-a tender and touching feeling, not a renting and overwhelming passion. The other quality most remarkable is the sweetness of the versification, arising from the happy choice of words, and the delicacy of a correct musical ear. Never has the English language, except in some few songs of the old poets, ben made to render such melody; never have the most refined emotions of love, and the most ingenious creations of fancy, been expressed in a language so simple, so easy, so natural. "Lalla Rookh is the work, next to the Melodies and Sacred Songs, in proof of Moore's title as a poet. It is a poem rich with the most brilliant creations-a work such as Pope always wished to write, such as Tasso might have written. Indeed, there is no poet whom Moore resembles, in profusion of invention, in beauty of language, and in tenderness of feeling, so much as Tasso. Tasso, indeed, placed certain limits to his own invention, by taking for his subject a well-known historical event, and adopting for his heroes historical characters. Whether he has gained or lost by that choice of subject may be doubted. On the one hand, he has, indeed, shed upon his poem all the interest which attaches to the religious enterprise of the Crusaders, and has restrained his own genius from wandering into the wild realms of fiction, where some poets of his country have lost themselves; while, on the other hand, he has subjected his beautiful poem to a comparison with Homer, Virgil, and Milton, who all surpass him in the simplicity and grandeur which properly belong to the epic poem. "Moore has, however, taken a different course; and, relinquishing all the advantages to be derived from an historical subject, has sought, in the abundant spring of his own imagination the tales upon which his poem is founded. Some few hints, indeed, he has borrowed from Eastern legends and recorded revolutions; in one of his letters, he says, that Mr. Rogers furnished him with the subject of his poem. But the whole narrative of 'The Veiled Prophet' and 'The The execution of the work is exquisite. Such charm of versification, such tenderness of womanly love, such strains of patriotic ardour, and such descriptions of blind and fierce fanaticism, as are found in Lalla Rookh, are found nowhere else in a poem of this length. Indeed, the fault on which most readers dwell is, that the feast is too sumptuous, the lights of a splendor which dazzles the eyes they were meant to enchant, and the flowers of a fragrance which overpowers the senses they were meant to de-~ light. To this may be added the too copious display of Eastern learning, which often brings the unknown to illustrate that which of itself is obscure." Our task is done. We wish we had room for more extracts. The volumes contain several poems of Moore's, but they are chiefly poems with which the public are before acquainted, communicated to Power, the publisher of his music. We wish we could find one not previously published, with which to conclude this paper. Is the following epitaph, which occurs in a letter to Miss Godfrey, Moore's own? "Here lies John Shaw Attorney at law; And when he died, The devil cried. 'Give us your paw, John Shaw, Attorney at law!'" -Vol. i. p. 222. While we are correcting the proofsheets of this paper, a volume of lectures on modern poetry, by Lord Belfast, has been put into our hands. His great admiration of Moore is fully expressed in this very pleasing work. Our mention of the Donegal family in connexion with Moore leads us to transcribe from Lord Belfast's book the following graceful sentence:— "As to myself, if there is one heirloom I prize more than another, it is the dedication of the "Irish Melodies" to an ancestress of mine, and the beautiful letter on music he addressed to the same Lady Donegal." VOL. XLI.-NO. CCXLI. I ST. SYLVESTER'S EVE. ANOTHER year. Yet, again, another year well nigh completed with its joys and its sorrows, its good and its evil gone for ever, indeed, from the eyes of man, but leaving its traces upon the heart, as the ripples of the retreating waves leave their marks upon the soft golden sand-ay, and upon the hard, white, cold rock. Every one of us has the touch of that old year's hand upon us. For some, the down of the boy's cheek has passed away, and he begins to talk, and think, and look the man; the immature form of the fair girl has attained a juster proportion and a fuller development: the gay bride of a twelve-month since is now the sober matron. For others, like us elderly gentlemen, the lines are deepening upon the forehead, and the lustre, it may be, paling in the eye; a few more grey hairs are to be seen on the head, and the foot moves with a somewhat slower and more thoughtful pace. And, in short, every year tells now upon them with double power, while every day seems no longer than an hour of childhood. Well, so be it it cannot be otherwise, and let us, therefore, be sure that it ought not to be otherwise. Come, we will even make the best of our state, as we find it, and go graveward, not with a foolish merriment, but with a wise cheerfulness. December hath ever been a season of joy and relaxation. slave, ere the symbol of the cross had arisen to rule and to civilise the world, had his revel and feasting in the saturnalia; and the Christian, with a truer joy, rejoices in his release from the slavery of sin. Let us, then, have a cheery heart and a festive spirit; and though the wind may howl without, and the rain patter against the window-panes; though clouds may sweep over the sunlight, and night come down quick and deep upon uswhat then? Let us all the more strive that there may be no storm within us, no bleakness, no clouds, no gloom. Come, then, we will be your companion, even if it be but for a half hour. Shut to the door of the closet, The close the window-shutters upon the dark night without, draw out the ample folds of the thick curtains, trim the lamp, and stir up the fire into a kindly blaze, and we shall show you some of the good things and the pleasant, that the season brings to us. We have our Christmas tree; why should we not? Are we purer than children, are we wiser, are we less fond of baubles and toys-ay, or sweetmeats and sugarplums? Let the statesman, and the epicure, and the man of pleasure, answer the question in the negative if they dare. We should prefer to remain silent. But see, here is our Christmas tree-one of our own eververdant fir-trees, and from its branches hang the mimic fruit, ready to our hand. How shall we choose where so much tempts us? Well, there is something beautiful, at least to the eye, glittering in blue and gold, with oak leaves winding all around it, and its leaves gilt and burnished. Let us take it down and examine it, that we may sce if it be as sweet to the taste as it is pleasant to the sight. What is this with the Golden Legend" quaintly lettered upon it? Let us read. Ah!— Pilgrimages to English Shrines." There are few objects within the domains of literature that present a finer scope to one of taste, feeling and genius, than that which Mrs. Hall has chosen in this beautiful volume. To wander through a land such as England is, replete with the memories of the good and the great; to linger amid the scenes they lived in and made a part of themselves, their personal history, and their very forms of thought; to wander by the pleasant streams, or through the deep forests where they wandered; to sit in the rooms where they sat and meditated, to stand beside the graves where they lie mouldering and in doing all this, to re-people these haunts with their former tenants; to exhibit them to you as they lived, and where they lived; to interpret them by the very local associations around you-this is, indeed, to give biography its highest "Pilgrimages to English Shrines," by Mrs. S. C. Hall. With Notes and Illustrations, by F. W. Fairholt, F.S.A. London: Hall, Virtue, and Co. 1853. charm, its most picturesque effect. It is to make topography the handmaiden to history, and to give a grace, and an interest, and a permanency to many a detached incident, that would otherwise bave passed, it may be, entirely from the memory. Who is there that has ever traversed the scenes which Burns or Scott has consecrated in their own land, or where Spencer or Moore has sung in ours, and does not feel that he has thereby known, as it were in their bodily existence, those with whose spirits they were then more immediately associated; and has not carried away in his heart and his memory some precious thing which, like the indigenous shell or flower, he could only have found upon the spot? Mrs. Hall seems to have felt all this that we have been describing, and she evidently set out on her pilgrimage with a genuine enthusiasm, and a most inquiring spirit; and hence it is that she has given us a book at once delightful and instructive, full of learning and research, replete with vivid pictures of life and manners and of scenery, sparkling with lively anecdotes, mellowed often with the finest pathos, and animated constantly with a healthy and a just spirit of reflection. We confess to the weakness of having read it through at a sitting; and we know few books of the present day which could have betrayed us to indulge our appetite so freely without rising from table. And now we shall give you, dear companions, some notion of this fair pilgrim's pleasant converse- not, indeed, to satisfy, but rather to stimulate your desire to make a fuller acquaintance with that for which even the little we can afford you shall give you no small relish. The first of Mrs. Hall's pilgrimages was in the footsteps of Izaak Walton, that gentlest of anglers and most delectable of moralisers-the friend of Cotton, and Kenn, and Donne and King-the biographer of Hooker and of Herbert. Most agrecably and most instructively has she led us through the old man's haunts in Derbyshire and Staffordshire, and along the flower-painted banks of the silvery "Dove," and so on to the grave of the "compleat angler," in the little chapel in the south tranWe sept of Winchester Cathedral. her by the may not tarry with yet bear her company way, nor while she traces that good patriot, William Penn, through his eventful life and distant wanderings, till his return to his own land, to lay his bones amongst his own people; yet shall we let you hear our pilgrim tell you, in her own words, her visit to the grave of William Penn: "The sun had begun to make long shadows on the grass, and the bright stems of the birch threw up, as it were, the foliage of heavier trecs, before we came in sight of the quaint, solitary place of silence and of graves. The narrow road leading to the Quakers' meeting-house was not often disturbed by the echo of carriage-wheels; and before we alighted, an aged woman had looked out, with a perplexed yet kindly countenance, and then gone back, and sent forth her little granddaughter, who met us with a self-possessed and quiet air, which showed, that if not a friend,' she had dwelt among friends. The meeting-house is, of course, perfectly unadorned plain benches and a plain table, such as you sometimes see in 'furniture prints' of Queen Anne's time. This table the little maid placed outside, to enable Mr. Fairholt to sketch the graveyard, and that we might write our names in a book, where a few English and a number of Americans had written before us;-it would be defamation to call it an album '— it contained simply, as it ought, the names of those who, like ourselves, wished to be instructed and elevated by a sight of the grave of William Penn. "The burying-ground might be termed a little meadow, for the long, green grass waved over, while it in a great degree concealed the general undulations which showed where many sleep; but when observed more closely, chequered though it was by increasing shadows, the very undulations gave an appearance of green waves to the verdure, as it swept above the slightly raised mounds; there was something to us sacred beyond all telling in this green place of nameless graves, as if having done with the world, the world had nothing more to do with those whose stations were filled up, whose names were forgotten!-It was more solemn, told more truly of actual death, than the monuments beneath the fretted roofs of Westminster or St. Paul's, labouring, often unworthily, to point a moral or adorn a tale,' to keep a memory green, which else had mouldered! "The young girl knew the lawgiver's' grave among the many, as well as if it had been crushed by a tower of monumental marble. How still and beautiful a scene! How grand in its simplicity; how unostentatiously religious,--those green mounds, upon which the setting sun was now casting its goodnight in golden benisons, seemed to us more spirit-moving than all the vaunted monuHow ments of antiquity we had ever seen. we wished that all lawgivers had been like him, who rested within the sanctuary of that green grass grave. We thought how he had the success of a conqueror in establishing and defending his colony, without ever, as was said of him, drawing his sword; the goodness of the most benevolent ruler in treating his subjects like his own children; the tenderness of an universal father, who opened his arms, without distinction of sect or party, to the worthy of all mankind;the man who really wishes to establish a mission of peace, and love, and justice, to the ends of the earth, should first pray beside the grave of William Penn." Do you know that Anna Maria Hall is an Irishwoman? Of course you do; everybody does. But she is inveterately Irish-not only in her sensibilities and her love of her own land, but even in her love of a blunder now and then. Indeed, the temptation to make a bull cannot always be resisted by any of us; and Heaven forbid, that a domestication with that shocking Saxon, Mr. John Bull, should have rendered her insensible to the charms of any other bull than himself! Now the bull which Mrs. Hall has made is not merely excusable, it is absolutely commendable! Amongst her English shrines, she has given us an Irish one-the shrine where her beloved friend, Maria Edgeworth, is laid. How much should we regret the absence of this chapter on Edgeworthstown, now that we have read it. It is, unquestionably, the best in the whole book; not that it is better written perhaps, indeed, it is less artistic and elaborate than some others which we could point outbut it speaks the whole soul of the writer, as it discloses the soul of her of whom she writes. We have vividly, in Mrs. Hall's picturing, Maria Edgeworth before us, such as she was in society-such as she was in the privacy of her happy domestic life at Edgeworthstown-such as a friend alone could have seen her, or known how to describe her. Here is a lifelike picture : "She was full of vitality; unresting, without being at all restless; she was tranquil, except when called into active thought or movement by somebody's want or whim; she was not too wise to minister even to the latter, and contrived not only to do everything it was necessary to do, but to do it at the exact time it was most needed. To borrow a phrase of Lady Rachel Russell's, she was the most delicious friend' it was possi ble to have. patby, but it was tempered by a thoughtfulness that was sure to be of value to those who told her their wants and wishes; and her little impromptu lectures,-half earnest, half playful, - were positive blessings to those who knew the priceless integrity of her most truthful nature." She had abundance of sym And, further on, we have a delineation of her person :— "In person she was very small-smaller than Hannah More-and with more than Hannah More's vivacity of manner; her face was pale and thin, her features irregular; they may have been considered plain, even in youth; but her expression was so benevolent, her manner so entirely well-bred -partaking of English dignity and Irish frankness-that you never thought of her in reference either to plainness or beauty; she was all in all; occupied, without fatiguing the attention; charmed by her pleasant voice; while the earnestness and truth that beamed in her bright blue-very blue-eyes, made of value every word she uttered,—her words were always well chosen; her manner of expression was graceful and natural; her sentences were frequently epigrammatic; she knew how to listen as well as to talk, and gathered information in a manner highly complimentary to the society of which, at the time, she formed a part; while listening to her, she continually recalled to us the story of the fairy whose lips dropped diamonds and pearls whenever they opened. "Miss Edgeworth was remarkably neat and particular in her dress; her feet and hands were so very small as to be quite child-like. We once took a shoe of hers to Melnotte's, in Paris, she having commissioned us to procure her some shoes there, and the people insisted that we must require them 'pour une jeune demoiselle.'" beauty of Jane was statuesque, her deportment serious, yet cheerful-a seriousness quite as natural as her younger sister's gaiety. They both laboured diligently, but Anna Maria's labour was sport when compared to her elder sister's careful toil. Jane's mind was of a more lofty order-she was intense, and felt more than she said; while Anna Maria often said more than she felt. They were a delightful contrast, and yet the harmony between them was complete; and one of the happiest days we ever spent, while trembling on the threshold of literature, was with them, at their pretty road-side cottage in the village of Esher, before the death of their venerable and dearly-beloved mother, whose rectitude and prudence had both guided and sheltered their youth, and who lived to reap with them the harvest of their industry and exertion." The grave of Grace Aguilar, though another blunder of which our fair pilgrim is designedly guilty-for she justifies the misnomer by saying, that though in a foreign city, it was a pilgrimage to an English shrine-gives occasion to a beautiful eulogy on a most gifted woman, which none but a gifted woman could pronounce. And, then, there is Edmund Burke and the great Lord Clarendon, and other worthies, whose tombs she has visited, and whose inscriptions she has deepened with as pious a hand as that of "Old Mortality" himself. And she seems to have fixed her own residence in the midst of the shrines of great and celebrated people; and you shall, towards the close of this pleasant book, wander all through Chertsey and its neighbourhood, and hear of Fox, and of Cowley, till you come to Claremont, and stand beside the tomb of the last King of the French, Louis Philippe. One further claim this volume posesses-it is beautifully illustrated. And so, dear companions, if you be counselled by us, you will secure to yourselves, as we did, a pleasant afterdinner ramble with Mrs. Hall through the "English Shrines. Here is a pretty volume, in peagreen. Let us see what it is. "Stories of the Governess."* Is it not a fine thing to see women every day, as we now see them, sharing with men in all the noble and holy labours of advanc ing and ameliorating humanity. Is it not a glorious and a hopeful thing to know, that if a Herschel has traced the courses of the planets and expounded the laws of the universe, so has a Somerville; that a Howard has had a rival in a Fry; that a Wilberforce has been followed by a more eloquent preacher against slavery in Har riet Beecher Stowe; and that Dickens finds in Anna Maria Hall one who will labour with him in redressing the social wrongs of classes. These tales, interesting in themselves, are powerful in drawing public respect and public sympathy to a class of the most excellent, the most honourable, the most indispensably useful amongst us-a class to whom we commit our most precious treasures, to guard and to train—whom we should fence around with protecting arms, honour with our respect-and thereby teach others to honour-and treat with all the tenderness and consideration which their position claims from every generous mind, and the many trials and reverses which they often experience, should secure to them from every feeling heart. Dear mothers, and fair daughters, read this book, and such books as these, whenever you meet them. They will improve your hearts, and rescue you from the inost intolerable and the meanest of all vulgarities, that of treating with inconsiderateness or disrespect those who are sometimes your superiors in everything save wealth. Well, what is that beautiful book, all green and gold, you ask? Take it down, and you shall see, It is "Bartlett's Pictures from Sicily." Now should you be one of those who delight in personal adventure, recitals of hair-breath escapes, brigands, pirates, and all that sort of thing, which is generally comprised in the rather equivocal name of "Travellers' Tales," we advise you, in the outset, to confine your admiration to the outside of the book. You will find within it nothing of the sort. It seems to us, Mr. Bartlett did not meet with a single agreeable misfortune in the whole of his travels through Trinacria. And yet he did indeed travel to very good ac Printed for the benefit of the Go "Stories of the Governess." By Mrs. S. C. Hall. vernesses' Benevolent Institution. London: J. Nisbet ard Co. ↑ "Pictures from Sicily," by the Author of "Forty Days in the Desert." London: Hill, Virtue, and Co. 1853. |