Now, Fanny and Mary, my fair messengers! take Gertrude along with you and demand "why your sister is not yet out?" Ye are my messengers-which, in Greek, signifies angels; and angels indeed ye all are excepting the wings. What a pity ye had not these to save the yoking of horses-but we shall all be one day flying like pigeons among the clouds, or above the clouds. in a happier world! Pray let that Montague-house come down here, where the spring is budding so beautifully. Yours very truly,

T. C.

Again, in the same cheerful mood-happy himself and striving to make others so-he writes:

Thank you, my dear F

March 28.

dear F, for the title, (which I assure you is not lost on a heart most susceptible at least of your praise)" Best poet of our grove!" I thought of the justice of your remark this morning at seven, when I accompanied worthy Frank Clason as far as Dulwich. The woodcutters had finished demolishing Dulwich, or rather Sydenham Wood, down from Heron's Gate. There will now be no nightingales to sing to us; and you will be obliged, instead of listening to the truly best poet of the grove, to be contented with the best that can be had. And so we shall see you, and all the people of true taste, coming to listen, and linger, and point their finger and cry, "Ha! how sweet!"-not to "the jug-jug" of the true nightingale—but to take their accepted invitation when he is jugjugging at his evening ale, and warbling melodious strains

4. May the taste for Haggis, Sheep's-head, and Mr. Campbell's Poems, be as eternal as the mountains of Scotland!!! (with a three times three).

5. Success to the cultivation of the true principles of music and the Scottish bag-pipe !!

6. The Scotch Fiddle !!!

ET. 31.] MORNING SCENES-REFLECTIONS-ANECDOTE.

179

to the tune of Erin go Bragh! This morning, I assure you, I associated the remembrance of you, as it is always linked with the finest and most pleasurable meditations. From the Common, which was all in mist, Frank and I got to the top of the hill, and, though he is a lawyer, the scene was unaffectedly impressive to him. The country was all perplexed and bewildered with mist; trees, and water, and mountains, and castles, or castle-like houses, were scattered all about us, like islands in fairy-land, here and there through the atmosphere. They say there are only three simple elements in a landscape-earth, trees, and water-here was a fourth. The mist was like a becoming drapery on a beautiful person. Clason immediately began to talk of Europe-law pleas-assizes—and sentences of death! Now, I thought it would be worth our sacrifice if we, poor mortals, could give up all the effect that is produced by the agency of the passions, in epic poetry, in tragedy, for the sole pleasure of being able to live in this beautiful world in peace and love with fine landscapes and one another! Was not this a great sacrifice for a poet? Away at one sweep go battles, and blood, and midnight conflagration, and all those enchanting things! Aye, but for what peace and friendship and such scenes as these of ours, which make millions happy without impoverishing one!

I called at Dr. Glennie's. A man and his wife who robbed their house-and who, to say the truth, richly deserve transportation-are to suffer death . . This is horrible, to be sure, and by no means like the view from Sydenham; but I mention it because Glennie, who was quite right, after all my sentimentalising, to prosecute the midnight robbers of his house-is afflicted by the circumstance, and wishes to do something for a poor infant of the condemned pair, who is only three years

old, and cannot, from being too young, be received by the Philanthropic Society. Do you know any humane, noble, or rich person who will take this child under their protection? God help it! I pray you, for God's sake, apply to any noble or great person you know. Glennie says he will support the child. He is not rich enough to be justly allowed to do this, and is too much a gentleman to be partially assisted. Although I am determined, if I should beg for the infant, to get some one or other of the powerful of this country to snatch an innocent from perdition.

T. C.

P. S. Since writing about the poor child, I am glad to hear that there is less difficulty than we at first apprehended in providing for it. Matilda has—with a feeling which I cannot suppress the mention of-promised that wherever the little girl is placed, she will look after her as a mother, and see to her comfortable and moral education. T. C.

At length, finely printed in quarto, and inscribed to his steady friend and patron, Lord Holland, Gertrude of Wyoming was introduced to the public. The first perusal of the Poem justified the character that had preceded it; and the cordial reception of his heroine formed a bright epoch in the Poet's life. On the same day appeared a Number of the Edinburgh Review, opening with a brilliant article on Gertrude, and the genius of its author:-"We rejoice once more," said the writer, "to see a polished and pathetic poem in the old style of English pathos and poetry. This is of the pitch of the Castle of Indolence, and the finer parts of Spenser; with more feeling in many places than the first, and more condensation and diligent finishing than the latter.'

ET. 31.]

PUBLICATION OF GERTRUDE-CRITICISMS.

181

Then adverting to the popular poems of the day, it is added, "We have endeavoured, on former occasions, to do justice to the force and originality of these brilliant productions, as well as to the genius, fitted for higher things, of their authors; and have little doubt of being soon called upon for a renewed tribute of applause. But we cannot help saying, in the meantime, that the work before us belongs to a class which comes nearer to our conception of pure and perfect poetry. Such productions do not, indeed, strike so strong a blow as the vehement effusions of our modern Trouveurs; but they are calculated, we think, to please more deeply, and to call out more permanently those trains of emotion, in which the delight of poetry will be found to consist. They may not be so loudly nor so universally applauded; but their fame will probably endure longer, and they will be oftener recalled to mingle with the reveries of solitary leisure, or the consolations of real sorrow. There is a sort of poetry, no doubt, as there is a sort of flowers, which can bear the broad sun and the ruffling winds of the world; which thrive under the hands and eyes of indiscriminating multitudes, and please as much in hot and crowded saloons as in their own sheltered repositories; but the finer and the purer sorts blossom only in the shade, and never give out their sweets but to those who seek them amid the quiet and seclusion of the scenes which gave them birth. There are torrents and cascades which attract the admiration of tittering parties, and of which even the busy must turn aside to catch a transient glance; but the 'haunted stream' steals through a still and solitary landscape; and its beauties are never revealed but to him who strays in calm contemplation, by its course, and follows its wanderings with undiminished and unimpatient admiration."

These extracts may shew that the Poet was singularly

fortunate in his critic; but as the article itself is accessible to all readers of "The Edinburgh Review,"-the great intellectual repertorium of that day-the facts under notice may be restricted to a few brief sentences.

The character of genuine poetry, as defined in this critical analysis, is illustrated by many of those striking passages in which the poem so much abounds; and, in confirmation of the opinion then expressed, may now be added the testimony and experience of nearly forty years, during which Gertrude has been adding to the number of her admirers, and still appears as fresh, and lovely, and intensely interesting, as on the day of her first coming

out.

The beauties of the poem, as described with equal truth and brevity, "consist chiefly in the feeling and tenderness of the whole delineation; and the taste and delicacy with which all the subordinate parts are made to contribute to the general effect." And the passage which might justify all that is said in praise of the poem, is the death scene, beginning

"Where fires beneath the sun

And blended arms and white pavilions glow-"

And ending

"Hushed were his Gertrude's lips! but still their bland

And beautiful expression seem'd to melt

With love that could not die! and still his hand

She presses to the heart no more that felt.

Ah, heart! where once each fond affection dwelt,

And features yet that spoke a soul more fair!"-Stanza XXXII. Of the smaller pieces it is said, "The Mariners of England" is a splendid instance of the most magnificent diction. The "Battle of the Baltic," in which "nothing can be more impressive than the very short and simple description of the British fleet* bearing up to close action.

* By turning to page 43 of the present volume, the reader will find the stanzas here quoted in illustration, marked 6-14.