Review of Melmoth the Wanderer. There is neither day or night, summer or winter, &c. And to have no other use of being but to devote it to him, while our humiliation increases in proportion to our devotedness; and the lower you bend before your idol, &c. Every steeple in the city was vibrating with the tones of their well plied bells. They pressed close on that part of the procession among which their victim was placed, &c. We have never met the word instinct used as an adjective except in this sentence. His hair, instinct and alive with terrible emotion, and we think the adjuration, which he has put into the mouth of Olavida, "By this bread and wine, &c," does not come well from the pen of a clergyman. We have come now to the more pleasing portion of our task, the consideration of the numerous beauties of this Romance. Its verbal defects must have been overlooked through the author's want of leisure from his more serious avocations; and its most censurable faults are certainly those of no common genius,-they can be traced to the same vivid and romantic imagination which designed the character of Bertram. It would be difficult to select the best passages. The scenes in the miser's house, and the mad-house are well executed; and while we read the lively description of the tumult which took place before the Jew's house, the whole procession seems to pass before us, and we think we can point out the spot which each individual occupies;-the victim of this popular commotion has, however, been made too vivacious, a man of common strength could not so long have endured such bad usage. The tenderness and love of Immalee are exquisitely drawn; her song, "The night is growing dark, &c." deserves the warmest eulogiùm; and we may give the same praise to the contrast which Melmoth draws between the different religions of the earth, and to his description of love, which we have above presented to our readers. In some places we were reminded strongly of Don Juan; but our author was little injured by the comparison. Of the tales of Don Guzman's family and the lovers, we have already given our opinion, and must again express our regret that our limits would not allow us to notice them more particularly. We have intimated our unwillingness to witness a second resurrection of Melmoth; but, with the expectation that its Review of Clare's Poems. author will, in future, avoid the excessive wildness of these volumes, we hope that he will soon afford us a second opportunity of enriching our pages with a review of some production of the author of Bertram. "Poems, descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery," by John Clare, a Northamptonshire Peasant. London, Taylor and Hessey, 1820. THE interest of this little volume is enhanced by the circumstances attending its publication; and our readers cannot sufficiently appreciate its merits till they are informed of the personal history of the author. His father, Parker Clare, was laborer to a farmer, but through poverty and sickness became helpless, and is now a pauper on the parish, at five shillings per week. John was born at Helpstone, near Peterborough, Northamptonshire, 13th July, 1793. He early evinced a taste for study, and through three years contrived occasionally to save as much pence as paid for schooling at broken periods, and at the end of that time he was able to read the Bible. The first books which he had an opportunity of reading were the Seasons, Robinson Crusoe, and a Poem by Pomfret. By these he was instantly attracted; and, pursuing his desire for knowledge, he learned to write from the kind instruction of Mr. John Turnill. He cultivated his mind in silence and misfortune for thirteen years. ४ "In December 1818, Mr. Edward Drury, Bookseller, Stamford, met by chance with the Sonnet to the setting Sun, written on a piece of paper in which a letter had been wrapt up, and signed J. C. Having ascertained the name and residence of the writer, he went to Helpstone, where he saw some other poems with which he was much pleased. At his request Clare made a collection of the pieces he had written, and added some others to them. They were then sent to London for the opinion of the publishers, and they selected those which form the present volume.” The destinies that ruled the fates of Otway and Chatterton, led them through distress and sorrow to the tomb-they both died of want; and it is melancholy to observe the misfortunes which almost invariably accompany Genius, as if there was a spell about her that shut out the consolation and assistance which is offered to common misery Review of Clare's Poems. In the woods of the North, there are insects that prey Just feed on thy brains, and then leave thee to die! We will not name him whose death was the occasion of these lines. It has been remarked that Genius is of no country and no condition; and Burns, Bloomfield, and Hogg illustrate the observation; in the bold and original composition of the first there is a wildness and a disdain of rules and shackles that is highly characteristic-he followed no precedent, but was himself all nature-all beauty; in the second, there is much simplicity and pathos; and the third not unfrequently bursts forth with all the fire and superiority of his great predecessor; but amidst these names we should not forget our own lamented Dermody-we mourn over his memory with painful feelings; in the unfortunate spirit of his country, he exulted with inordinate triumph during the moments of success, and sunk forgotten and neglected, Like a full ear of corn, Whose blossom 'scaped, but 's withered in the ripening! These are great names:-Burns was a ploughman, Bloomfield a mechanic, Hogg an Ettrick shepherd, Dermody a country boy-and we have now to add Clare, a Northamptonshire peasant. Poems that spring from strong feelings, and a mind unbiassed by classical bonds, are generally local and personal; and a man who does not study the graces of expression, nor follow the peculiarities of style, is more likely to be natural, and less liable to fall into imitation, than those who attempt embellishments and figures, perhaps beyond their judgment. Of the former class is Mr Clare; the wooded hills-the rivers the vallies and the mountains, are the books he studies; and although his sentiments sometimes clash with the thoughts of others, yet they are evidently original, from the manner in which they are expressed. We cannot, however, avoid remarking the resemblance that exists here and there between some of his verses and those of Burnswe select the following: Advice, sweet warbler, don't despise it : None knows what's what, but he that tries it; And so do I: Our author is extremely natural in his descriptions of rural life; he delineates what passes every day in his own mind, and before his eyes; and when he raises compassion for the misfortunes of the poor peasants, he excites our pity for himself. We cannot avoid extracting the following picture of Labor from an "Address to Plenty." Toiling in the naked fields, To be, while winter's horrors last, The sport of every pelting blast.-p. 47-8. There is a simplicity about this that has been rarely equalled; the recollections of L'Allegro stole over us: but Milton is all the scholar-Clare the poet of Nature. Amongst other pieces which this little volume contains, we noticed twothe "Summer Morning" and "Summer Evening," and we have seldom met with descriptions of country life alto Review of Clare's Poems. gether so beautiful and unaffected. His talents, however, are not confined to this kind of Poetry, for he is capable of bold and animated thoughts.-The following is a specimen: Sonnet.- -A Winter Scene. Hail, scenes of desolation and despair, To me more pleasing than a summer's morn Of the wild and picturesque, we could not select a better example than this little Sonnet: The Gipsey's Evening Blaze. To me how wildly pleasing is that scene, In some warm nook where Boreas has no power; With proggling stick she still renews the blaze, Will oft exclaim (so strong the scene pervades) There is a philosophy in the human mind which science may refine, but cannot improve-it is that which enables us |