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It may

And then for fear proclaim it meek and sage!

And this they call a light and a revealing -'p. cxxii. when we consider too the compositions* of many of those with whom he has recorded his sympathy and agreement in this volume, we fear there can be no want of charity in assigning this passage, and to many others scattered of set purpose through the book, a far more important, but a more offensive object. seem a wild apprehension to talk of the systematic revival of Epicureism amongst us in this age of the world; yet something very like it both speculatively and practically, and that too in its most dangerous because least offensive form, seems to be inculcated in all the writings we have alluded to. Lucretius is the philosopher whom these men profess most to admire; and their leading tenet is, that the enjoyment of the pleasures of intellect and sense is not to be considered as the permitted, and regulated use of God's blessings, but the great object, and duty of life. Strip Mr. Hunt of his . leafy luxuries,'his flowrets,' his wine, music, and sociality,' and this is the bare maxim on which he builds. He may himself perhaps, partly from a namby-pamby disposition, partly from circumstances, and still more we should hope from the force of early principles, live on the safe side of his own theory; but we are greatly mistaken if as much can be affirmed even of all the first preachers of this new sect; and we are quite sure that it ought not to be expected from their followers. There are many obvious reasons why the author of a dangerous moral tenet may himself escape the danger–Epicurus, we believe, did so; but they who have neither the intellectual pride of a first discovery to compensate them for self-restriction, nor the ardent anxiety for the reputation of an infant sect to support them against their own principle, will certainly soon push it, as the Epicu reans did, to its legitimate consequences, all impurity and all impiety.

Upon the reasoning of the particular passage quoted it would be a waste of time to argue; yet a few words may be allowed us. The term unattractive creed' is a very vague one for a philoso? phical reasoner-creeds are attractive or not according to the state of heart and mind in which the subject is to whom they are proposed. The Tupinamban Indian found a creed unattractive, that would not tolerate cannibalism; and the Caffre does not easily renounce his filth and garbage: so the vain and disappoint. ed man, the factious citizen, the adulterer—and he, if such there be, who thinks even adultery vapid unless he can render it more exquisitely poignant by adding incest to it, all these must find a creed unattractive, that enjoins humility, order, purity of heart and practice. But Mr. Hunt is in a state of deplorable ignorance for himself, if he thinks that Christianity is an unattractive creed to the sincere Christian, or that it demands from him any sacrifice, which is not conducive to his real enjoyment even of this life. On this subject we cannot express ourselves so well as in the words of one of the brightest ornaments of this age and nation. Rich and multiplied are the springs of innocent relaxation. The Christian relaxes in the temperate use of all the gifts of Providence. Imagination and taste and genius, and the beauties of creation, and the works of art, lie open to him. He relaxes in the feast of reason, in the sweets of friendship, in the endearments of love, in the exercise of hope, of confidence, of joy, of gratitude, of universal good will, of all the benevolent and generous affections, which by the gracious ordination of our Creator, while they disinterestedly intend only happiness to others, are most surely productive to ourselves of complacency and peace. Little do they know of the true measure of enjoyment, who can compare these delightful complacencies with the frivolous pleasures of dissipation, or the coarse gratifications of sensuality'

One of these is now lying before us—the production of a man of some ability, and possessing itself some beauty; but we are in doubt, whether it would be morally right to lend it notoriety by any comments. We know the author's disgraceful and flagitious history well, and could put down some of the vain boasting of his preface. At Eton we remember him notorious for setting fire to old trees with burning glasses, no unmeet emblen for a man, who perverts his ingenuity and knowledge to the attacking of all that is ancient and venerable in our civil

and religious institutions.

We have but one more remark to add on this head: Mr. Hunt may flatter himself with possessing a finer eye, and a warmer feeling for the loveliness of nature, or congratulate himself on the philosophic freedom with which he follows her impulses—he may

look upon us and all who differ from him as dull creatures, who have no right to judge of his privileged opinions. Our path indeed

may be a plain and beaten one, but at least it keeps us. from some things, that seem to be grievous errors—new names and specious declamations do not easily deceive us. We should not, for instance, commend as singularly amiable the receiving great and unmerited favours to be returned with venomous and almost frantic hatred; we are at a loss for the decency which rails at marriage, or the honour which pollutes it; and we have still a reluctance to condemn as a low prejudice the mysterious feeling of separation, which consecrates, and draws to closer intimacy the communion of brothers and sisters. We may be very narrow-minded, but we look upon it still as somewhat dishonourable to have been expelled from a University for the monstrous absurdity of a

mathematical demonstration of the non-existence of a God:' according to our understandings, it is not proof of a very affectionate

heart

heart to break that of a wife by cruelty and infidelity; and if we were told of a man, who, placed on a wild rock among the clouds, yet even in that height surrounded by a loftier amphitheatre of spirelike mountains, hanging over a valley of eternal ice and snow, where the roar of mighty waterfalls, was at times unheeded from the hollow and more appalling thunder of the deep and unseen avalanche,—if we were told of a man who, thus witnessing the sublimest assemblage of natural objects, should retire to the cabin near, and write abzos after his name in the album, we hope, our own feeling would be pity rather than disgust; but we should think it imbecility indeed to court that man's friendship, or to celebrate his intellect or his heart as the wisest or warmest of the age. Mr. Hunt may trace in all these things the loftier spirits that are to exalt mankind; but if this be all that he has gained by the euphrasy and rue with which his visual nerve is purged, he must not be offended if we say with blind Tiresias,

φρονειν ως δεινον, ένθα μη τελη

λυει φρονεντι. . We have already, without intending it, filled the limits to which Mr. Hunt is entitled; but he might complain of us, if we took no notice, as we promised, of the poems which form the body of his volume. And this is a more agreeable part of our task, because, with much to blame in some of them, there is also something to praise in others, and we shall be enabled to lay an extract or two before our readers, which may in some measure compensate for the dullness of our preceding remarks. Mr. Hunt's faults are a total want of taste, and of ear for metrical harmony; an indulgence of cant terms to a ridiculous excess, an ignorance of common language, a barbarous and uncouth combination of epithets, an affectation of language and sentiment, and what is a far more serious charge, though it occurs but seldom, an impurity of both. He may amuse or deceive himself with distinctions between voluptuousness and grossness, but will he never learn that things indifferent or innocent in themselves may become dangerous from the weakness or corruption of the recipient? An author is bound to consider not how Adam and Eve in Paradise would have been affected by this or that description, but how in the present state of society it may operate on those for whom he writes. If the thing be practically pernicious, its abstract innocence is but a slight compensation; and however he may plead a compact theory of his own, no man in a work of fancy is justified in writing that which a modest woman cannot hear without pain.

Mr. Hunt's merits are a general richness of language, and a picturesque imagination; this last indeed, the faculty of placing

x 4

before

before us, with considerable warmth of colouring, and truth of drawing, the groups which his fancy asseinbles, he possesses in an eminent degree--we doubt whether he does not exercise it even to a faulty excess, when the result is an involuntary idea in our minds, that the whole scene has been actually copied from some old painting, rather than grown up under the creative hand of the poet himself.

This idea has several times intruded itself on our minds in reading the Nymphs, the first poem in the collection; the following lines are however free from the objection, and entitled to praise—they form part of the account of the Dryads.

They screen the cuckoo when he sings, and teach
The mother blackbird, how to lead astray
The unformed spirit of the foolish boy,
From thick to thick, from hedge to layery beech,
When he would steal the huddled nest away
Of yellow bills up-gaping for their food,
And spoil the song of the free solitude.
And they at sound of the brute insolent horn
Hurry the deer out of the dewy morn;
And take into their sudden laps with joy
The startled hare, that did but peep abroad;
And from the trodden road
Help the bruised hedge-hog. But when tired, they love
The back-turned pheasant hanging from the tree
His sunny drapery;
And handy squirrel, nibbling hastily,
And fragrant-living bee
So happy, that he will not move, not he,
Without a song; and hidden amorous dlove
With his deep breath; and bird of wakeful glow
Whose louder song is like the voice of life
Triumphant o'er death's image, but whose deep
Low, lovelier note is like a gentle wife,
A poor, a pensive, yet a happy one,
Stealing, when day-light's common tasks are done
An hour for mother's work, and singing low,

While her tired husband and her children sleep.'-p. x. Our next extract shall be of a different nature, and one perhaps which will be more generally interesting. It is an address to his son at the age of six years during a sickness; and must come home, we think, to the feelings of every father.

Sleep breathes at last from out thee,

My little patient boy,
And balmy rest about thee

Smooths off the day's annoy,

6

I sit me down and think
Of all thy winning ways,
Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink,

That I had less to praise.
Thy side-long pillowed meekness,

Thy thanks to all that aid,
Thy heart, in pain and weakness,

Of fancied faults afraid;

The little trembling hand
That wipes thy quiet tears,
These, these are things, that may demand

Dread memories for years.
Sorrows I've had, severe ones-

I will not think of now,
And calmly, midst my

dear ones,
Have wasted with dry brow;

But when thy fingers press
And pat my stooping head,
I cannot bear the gentleness-

The tears are in their bed.
Ah! first born of thy mother,

When life and hope were new,
Kind playmate of thy brother,

Thy sister, father too:
My light, where'er I go,

My bird when prison-bound,
My hand-in-hand companion-no-

My prayers shall hold thee round.
To say—“ he has departed," —

“ His voice-his face-is gone,"
To feel impatient hearted,

Yet feel we must bear on,

Oh! I could not endure
To whisper of such woe,
Unless I felt this sleep ensure

That it will not be so.
Yes, still he's fixed and sleeping!

This silence too the while-
Its very hush and creeping

Seem whispering us a smile

Something divine and dim
Seems going by one's ear,
Like parting wings of Cherubim

Who say-we've finished here.'-p. xlvii. We will not spoil the effect of these pleasing stanzas by any verbal criticism, but we may be allowed without offence to hint

to

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