The other sonnet is on the death of his late Majesty. • Ward of the Law!-dread Shadow of a King! Why should we bend in grief, to sorrow cling, "The Prioress's Tale" from Chaucer, is a very ill-chosen subject for the experiment of exhibiting the Father of English Poetry in a modern form. The legend is so exquisitely absurd, that it must have been designed as a burlesque on the lying martyrological wonders of the Romish priesthood. It is that of a poor innocent child who had his throat cut by some wicked Jews, because he was too fond of singing Ave Maria, but who continued, by aid of the blessed Virgin, to reiterate the same articulate sounds which he had been wont to utter while living, till his corpse was found, and then, was able to give information against his murderers; but the spirit could not obtain its discharge till a grain was taken off of his tongue which the Virgin had placed there. When Chaucer wrote, such fables were not too gross for the vulgar credulity; but we know not for what purpose they are transplanted into modern poetry. To Mr. Wordsworth, indeed, we can conceive that such tales would recommend themselves by their very puerility; that he would be even melted into tears by the affected solemnity of a sly old humorist like Chaucer; and that what was meant by him for satire, might be mistaken by our Author for pathos. We deem it quite unnecessary to repeat that our respect for Mr. Wordsworth's talents remains unaltered. The copious extracts we have given from the present volume, sufficiently evince that those talents are of a very high order. But we have so fully expressed our opinion on this point, in our reviews of the Excursion, and of "The White Doe of Rylstone," as well as subsequently in noticing the unfortunate pair, Peter Bell and Benjamin the Waggoner, that we will not run the hazard of wearying our readers by saying more upon the subject. It is certain, that while he has been as a poet ridiculously, Ibid. Vol. XII. * E. R. N.S. Vol. III. + Ibid. Vol. V. because indiscriminately and immeasurably lauded on the one hand, he has been very ignorantly and flippantly depreciated on the other. For the latter circumstance, however, he may thank chiefly himself, and, next to himself, his friends, who have taught him to despise the warning voice of public opinion, which, however wayward and arbitrary in its first decisions, is sure to be mainly just at last. Had his judgement but been as correct as his imagination is powerful, had the purity of his taste been equal to the simplicity of his feelings, had his understanding been as sound as his heart, we hope, is warm-though we have a deeply rooted distrust of all sentimentalists and sensationists in this respect, the critic's task would have been far more easy, and, to our feelings, far more pleasant. We should not then have been disposed to acquiesce in thinking that he had written enough; too much, indeed, for his permanent reputation, unless he adopts our suggestion, namely, to entrust to some competent friend the reducing of his writings, by a rigid selection, to the due compass of Sybilline leaves,' and to make a bonfire of the refuse-his potters, waggoners, and ideots, on the top of Skiddaw. The present volume ought, however, to do him at least this service with the public; it should be accepted as an ample atonement for his last offence, for there is a weight of sterling good poetry in it far more than adequate to turn the scale in his favour. From this time forth, therefore, it ought to be held a breach of courtesy and kindness, to say one word more of Benjamin the Waggoner or of Peter Bell. Art. VII. A Sermon, preached at Endless Street Meeting, Salisbury, before the Wilts Association of Independent Ministers, and published at their Request; on the Death of their late Member and esteemed Friend, the Rev. John Sibree, of Frome, including a brief Memoir of his Life. By W. Priestley. The Profits to be devoted to the Family. 8vo. pp. 47. Price 1s. 6d. 1820. HE brief, plain discourse which occupies about one-third of these pages, in the form of reflections on the death of Aaron, written in a strain of perfectly unaffected piety and sensibility, was meant chiefly as introductory to the memoir of a most excellent man and useful preacher, to whose memory Mr. P. was peculiarly qualified to render this tribute, in consequence of an intimate and affectionate friendship maintained with him from early life. It can very rarely happen, we fear, that the writer of a memoir, even of a good man, can, with entire conscientiousness, employ throughout a language of so unqualified complacency in all but the infelicities of the life he records. Mr. Sibree drew, or constrained, the testimony of all the very nume rous persons that knew him, to his singular amiableness and Christian spirit, in every capacity in which he could be known; and no man was less guarded by reserve: his natural ingenuousness and his conscious uprightness of intention, exposed him undisguised to every inspector. As a preacher, he must have been known to a considerable proportion of our readers. And whoever knew him in that capacity, will infallibly retain a strong recollection of his spirit and manner. Very many will retain and cherish it with a happy consciousness of having received inestimable benefit by means of his ministry. He was a remarkable example (in this respect resembling Whitfield) of an eloquence created by genuine, unquenchable fervour of feeling. This feeling, at the same time, varied and fluctuated with the change of topics and circumstances; and the effect was, to give a great diversity to his elocution. His powerful voice would pass through all manner of tones and inflections in the course of one sermon, and without his ever thinking one moment about the manner in which he was speaking. The modifications of address and language were not less varied, nor less perfectly free from all artificial management. He would be declamatory, colloquial, indignant, commiserating, all within one quarter of an hour. Nor was there any thing wayward or fantastic in all this. A pervading sincerity, a simplicity of intention, an earnest benevolence, and a zealous piety, gave a consecrated character and a powerfully serious tendency to the whole. There were defects and faults in point of taste, from his mind not having undergone a rigorous intellectual and literary discipline. But these were little offensive to such cultivated hearers as were at all in sympathy with his earnestness about religion; and by the greater part of a congregation they were not perceived. That which all sorts of hearers did perceive, (for it was quite impossible to help it,) was, that he was ardently and continually intent on promoting the cause of God, and the eternal welfare of men. His friends had to number it among the inexplicable appointments of the Divine Wisdom, that, with all this piety, and this zeal to live to the noblest purpose, he was doomed to a very extraordinary measure of suffering, both in body and mind. During a large portion of his life, and with severe aggravation toward the latter end, he was the victim of a cruel and hopeless bodily malady. And partly, it is probable, from this cause, and partly from constitutional tendency, his mind was at some seasons, for a considerable length of time, oppressed with an insupportable gloom, which disabled him for public service, and embittered every thing in life. But the ever-living principle of piety was conspicuous at all seasons, and under all forms of suffering; and it rose with energy toward the wonted activity of ministerial service whenever the pressure was in any degree lightened. The very wortby Author of this Sermon and Memoir VOL. XIV. N.S. Q was peculiarly assiduous in the endeavour to soften his afflictions, and nothing can be more kind and affectionate than the spirit which breathes through this pious and interesting account of his departed friend. Art. VIII. Essays and Sketches of Life and Character. By a Gentleman who has left his Lodgings. Sm. 8vo. pp. 248. London. 1820. IT T is exceedingly agreeable to have our graver lucubrations broken in upon by a lively, voluble, well-dressed young fellow like this late lodger of Mister Joseph Skillett. We can compare it to nothing better than to a brisk glass of Champagne; we forget ourselves: as if Reviewers knew anything of such lordly liquor! Besides, the comparison would imply too much of the work before us, in point of flavour and rarity. To nothing better, we mean, can we compare it, than to a brisk glass of gooseberry wine, well bottled,-for that is every thing: it is the spirit, not the body; it is its being up, just opened, and drunk off at a breath, in which consists all its value :—to nothing better than a poignant draught of English Champagne, after we have been for some time occupied with the more serious business which precedes the hour of digestion. It is agreeable because it is a light work in point of specific gravity, and easy reading. None but Reviewers know Reviewers' pains. Nobody else can tell what an honest Reviewer feels at first taking the dimensions of a bulky quarto, through which he is doomed, and he alone, to toil, for the purpose of telling the good people in the country who are waiting for his critical guage, what it is about, and of extracting something very amusing out of a mass of what is perhaps very dull; or, at sitting down, with the best intentions to be pleased, to a volume-load of poetry. No; when the half-crown Number makes its due appearance on that day of the month so eagerly anticipated by freshmen authors, none but those who are in the secret, can guess how much task-work, and self-denying drudgery, and patient cramming, have been submitted to in order to furnish the requisite literary olio. We said, no one could tell, but solicitors and conveyancers, perhaps, may: what they have to wade through is scarcely less voluminous, and not much more entertaining, than the bulky brief of a Reviewer; but their reading is better paid for, as Mr. Brougham well knows. The Author of the present work is a mysterious incognito. About a year ago,' says Mr. Joseph Skillett, of Sackville-street, a gentleman, without a servant, took an apartment on the first floor of my house.' He was, apparently, a young man; but his look was not diffident and unpractised, like that of most young men, but bold and decided, like the countenance of a lieutenant of hussars, who has served a campaign or two, and as piercing as that of an Qld Bailey lawyer. He wore long black hair over his forehead, and used some words in his language, which I never saw anywhere but in the Bible and Common Prayer, and which, 1 suppose, are now out of use. He took two servants, and began to frequent the world. I observed he went to Almack's, and the French play; was admitted into the Travellers' club, wore stays, and used much starch in his neckcloth. Notwithstanding this, his life was not so regular as that of most young men of fashion. He did not always go out to dinner at a quarter before eight, nor always come home at five in the morning, nor always get up at half-past two in the afternoon. I thought this extraordinary, because I had observed, that those who pretend to any fashion, and claim merit from their want of punctuality, are generally the most exact people possible to be always twenty minutes too late wherever they go. My lodger, on the contrary, very often went out riding upon his return from a ball, and then came and dined by himself, or with my family, at four or five o'clock: nor was he of the usual placid, indifferent humour, that men of the world generally are. Sometimes a darkness would come over his face, and he would sit frowning at the chimney-piece in his own room for a fortnight together. Every now and then too he would go away for a few days to Dublin or to Edinburgh, without any apparent reason. But, on the 5th of February last, he set out from my house, about twelve at night, saying, he should return in a few days. Since that time I have heard nothing of him; and being in great want of money to pay my taxes, I went to search, to see if there were anything I could sell for rent, of which I had not received one farthing. I found a few old clothes, a dozen pair of boots, and a large number of manuscripts: these were written in all kinds of languages, ancient and modern, more than I had ever heard of: some few were in English; and one called, " On the State of the Constitution," in a totally different hand. I suspect it was written by the gentleman, for there was only one, who used sometimes to pay my lodger a visit. With these papers in my hand, I went off directly to Mr. Longman; and he has given me some hopes that I may recover a part of my rent by their means. Who the author may be, I do not pretend to say; or whether the last paper relates at all to himself: I leave that to the courteous reader; and I beg him to recollect, that I am not answerable for the opinions of a gentleman who has left his lodgings. Joseph Skillett.' The last paper' alluded to, is a fragment written in the character of the Wandering Jew; but we have several good reasons for believing that he is not the Author of this volume: first, we doubt whether the whole of its contents be the production of one author, and it is not likely that that individual would deign to connect himself with any literary coadjutor, unless it were Lord Byron; secondly, that illustrious octodecingenarian would have known better than to talk about the prescience of the Deity being general and not particular;' he could not have lived so long to so little purpose as to deal in theological crudities; thirdly, he would not have kept a journal. |