623

CRITICAL NOTICES.

Sunday. A Poem. By the Author of The Mechanic's
Saturday Night.'

AND by the author, also, of Saint Monday;' a fact of which Mr. Brown's title-page omits to remind his readers, but which we shall not allow ours to forget. The three poems ought to go together; nor shall we complain if the author versifies all the week for us, and shows us the working-days in their succession, as well as pay-day, rest-day, and holyday. We have already made the author known to our readers, and trust that no further introduction is needful, as we can only bestow a brief and passing notice on his present publication. It is a more finished composition than either of the preceding ones. There is more method, and the versification is polished to a high degree of smoothness and sweetness. The first line, which offends by its redundancy, is almost the only faulty line in the poem; and the spirit is as gentle and benignant as the versification is mellifluous. He differs from Ebenezer Elliot, the great poet of his class, in not being a denunciator; but writing of evil, bitter and grinding though it be, more in sorrow than in anger.' This is as it should be. He follows the tendencies of his own nature. He rightly feels that he too is an Artisan Bard; and that his claim is good without imitating even one who has forced the whole critical world to recognise him in that character. The poem is divided into three cantos, corresponding with the progress of the day. We are thus invited to

'Breakfast with Nature: flowing to the brim
With the first purple day-draught is her cup,
And from it poor and rich are welcome all to sup.
The mighty Sun has risen! in a glare

Of light immortal onwards comes fair Day.
The heavenly sunbeams, darting through the air,
O'er fields, and flowers, and trees, and streamlets play.
Oh! now step forth, ye wise ones, who ne'er pay
Glory to God on high for night or noon,

Summer or winter, or the vernal ray,
The fruits of autumn, or the flowers of June,

The zephyr's balmy breath, or light of stars and moon.
Come, walk abroad with me, where berries red
And woodland blossoms their young graces show;
Or where the clear brooks, in their pebbled bed,
Through fields of cowslips and of daisies flow;
Or where the peerless beauteous roses grow,
And gorgeous tulips and fair lilies spring;
Where summer fruits in sunny richness glow
Upon their native branches, and where cling

The fruitful vines, and their large luscious clusters swing.'-p. 5, 6.

There is then an argument on atheism; and sundry sketches, amongst which those of a. Bird-catcher and a Street-preacher are conspicuous. The latter is a portrait excellently hit off; a class portrait, we mean; it may perhaps have had an individual original.

The second canto is chiefly occupied with church-going matters. It is an Episcopal Charity Sermon day. The Bishop is thus ushered into the pulpit:

'He comes! he comes! the Bishop comes! Behold!
Slowly he paces, dressed in stiffened lawn;
About his neck his classic band is rolled,
And round and ruddy as the healthy dawn
Of day he looks; the Rector, nicely drawn
In his parochial best, does honour due
Unto the holy man, with gentle fawn,
And leads him on, amid the mighty view
Of all the people, to the lofty pulpit-pew.

Then all the people stared again; but he,
The great grand Bishop, all in calm repose,
Leaned down his head, coolly, sedate, and free,
And prayed a moment, and then nobly rose;
And like a prince, erect and portly, shows

His sash-bound form, brimful of antique creeds;
And then with grace scholastic open throws

The gilt and holy Bible, and proceeds

At once, and the fair text in solemn tone he reads. —p. 49, 50.

The concluding stanzas (except the last) may make old Stepney rear high her head. They are genuine poetry; and the reader must be 'pitied whose feelings they fail to touch:

Fair Stebony! I love thy ancient fane,

Its old grey walls, its eight-bell minstrelsy;
Its grassy resting-place, and still domain
Of those awaiting immortality,

Have earnest, deep, yet sadd'ning charms for me;
So doth thy waving trees, that bowing meet,
Kissing each other, as in sympathy

With the cold host that slumber at their feet,
Hold mournful sway, yet indescribable and sweet.
For there my mother, resting, waits th' advance
Of the last trumpet-summons from the skies;
And by her side, in the same frozen trance,
Her children's children, in the grave's sad guise,
Recline and quenched are those bright infant eyes,
And gentle matron looks, that oft did beam

So light and cheerful, dressed in smiles and sighs,
Tinging life's darkling moments with a rosy gleam:
Alas! that such fair things should sink into a dream.
Oh! cruel Death! canst thou not rest content
With thy fair share of ripe and autumn fruit,
That fall in the full season, by consent

Of gentle Nature, mellow at thy foot?

Why dost thou 'mong the foliage, slyly mute,

Climb with destroying touch? Why dost thou rend

And tear the lovely blossoms? Oh! I do dispute

With thee this sacrilege; and will contend,

As mortal may with Death, these fair buds to defend.'—p. 55, 56.

A word with Sir Andrew Agnew, a family scene, a glance at afternoon service, and a beautiful tribute to pure religion, occupy the third canto till the approach of evening:

The setting sun hath shed his farewell glance,
And suddenly has sunk with all his train:
The mild moon's paly shadows now advance,
And, sweetly silent, lighten hill and plain;
And star by star comes glittering through the main
Of dark and wide-spread ether's broad extent;
New clusters momently resume their reign;

Their twinkling flames, still beauteous and unspent,
Dapple the jetty sky with bright embellishment.'-p. 81.

The return of the people homeward, and the reviving power over them of the world's cares, are the concluding topics:

'Now homeward throng the people, fallen and dull:
Some countenances gleam, while others glare
Broad signs of nothingness; and others full
Do show of still, yet busy, anxious care;
And others brood, as if they did prepare

Within their hearts some hopeful golden scheme,
To kill the approaching week. Some seem to fare
But ill at heart; and all around do seem

Waking regrettingly from some enchanting dream.
And evil spirits seem to fasten on

Each visage. Circumvention, cunning, fraud,
And all their hidden family, one by one,
Among the people spread themselves abroad.
The demon of the mighty town, unawed,
His sly approaches makes; his workings speak
In every look; each to his favourite gaud
Awakes; and now the same prepares to seek,
Through the hot strife and struggle of the coming week.
'The Sabbath's past!--Farewell, sweet Sabbath-day!
Farewell, sweet Sunday! Speed, kind spirit! speed
Thy bright return; for, whilst thou art away,
Many a doomed and sinking heart must bleed;
And cruel lawless rulers will not heed

Their humbler brethren, through their week of pain.
Once more, light mystic day, farewell indeed!

Hasten, oh, haste! resume thy magic reign!

Farewell, sweet Sunday! haste, make haste to shine again!-p. 83,84. The description and emotion of these verses have in them all that 'eloquence of truth' which Campbell has made the definition of Song.' There are some useful hints for cogitation in the notes. We conclude by extracting three of them, interesting alike for the facts they record, and the writer's comments.

Swinish Multitude.-'I need not go into the origin and history of the term "swinish multitude," and how it was applied to the people some years ago: no doubt it is fully in the recollection of every one; at all events it is quite fresh in mine. I shall never forget the time when I first read that phrase in a newspaper; nor shall I easily forget the feeling which it produced among the circle in which I moved at that time. I think I see them now listening to the reading of the paper, with all the signs of jealous shame reddening in their countenances. About this time Mr. Cobbett published his paper, in which he, in his usual inimitably powerful style, urged the people to cultivate their minds, and practise themselves in the art of laying out clearly their thoughts on paper; for that that was the only scheme by which they could combat successfully their enemies, and finally achieve for themselves a real triumph. Acting on this advice, myself and some of my fellows went seriously to work; and perhaps the present ditty owes its

existence to the spirit of indignation then roused and set in motion by that supercilious and insolent expression, "swinish multitude,"

Charity Sermons. -' Of all the degrading situations to which the children of the working classes are exposed by the fashion of the nineteenth century, none, in my opinion, is so revolting as that of showing them up thus publicly in church, in the shape of beggars for that to which they have a real and indisputable right. Good God! is it possible that the children of those very men who built the church, who fabricated the garb in which the gayest of the congregation glitter, nay, wove the very dress in which the priest appears; I say, is it possible that the children of those men should be so poor and so helpless as to need the aid of public charity, merely for the purpose of being taught, in the worst possible manner, to read and write? True it is, and "pity 'tis 'tis true:" yet my notions of right and wrong lead me to conclude, that the children of those men, whose time is occupied unceasingly from morning until night in the creation of wealth, have a right to a careful and generous education, without being obliged to submit to that humiliating Church curse, the "Charity Sermon." We have schools richly endowed, to which the capitalist can introduce his children free of expense or degradation. We have schools, also, to which the children of the soldier and sailor have honourable access; but, alas for the children of the toiling mechanic! Surely, surely the bees have as good a claim as the wasps !'

Charity of the Poor. As regards these collections, obtained by means of what are called Charity Sermons, I have not much to say. If little is obtained, it may be easily accounted for; for who can feel the true glow of sympathy and charity, when he reflects on the miserable system to which he is called to subscribe ? The people of England never withhold their sympathy when deserving objects are before them: witness the subscription collected on the occasion of the fire at Ratcliff. On the first Sunday after that dreadful occurrence, above eight hundred pounds were subscribed spontaneously in Stepney churchyard, of which four hundred and twenty-six pounds were in pence and halfpence, and thirty-eight pounds fourteen shillings, in farthings.'

.

The Poetical Works of John Milton. Macrone, Vols. 1, 2, 3. ON some accounts this edition of Milton deserves universal adoption. The typography is clear and beautiful; the illustrations, by Turner, are of surpassing grandeur. The Mustering of the Warrior Angels,' the Expulsion from Paradise,' and the Fall of the Rebel Angels,' although compressed into vignettes, have all that infinity which constitutes the magnificence of Martin's art. The copy of the portrait from Vertue, Westall's 'Satan,' and the Milton dictating to his Daughters,' from the celebrated painting by Romney, are all, the last especially, noble frontispieces. There is but one deduction to make from our admiration of this edition; it is unfortunately a heavy one. Sir Egerton Brydges is the editor, and occupies the first volume with the most contemptible, affected, pretending Life of Milton that has ever yet been executed, or, we hope, that ever will be, Such a display of ignorance, twaddle, tastelessness, and assumption, is beyond all endurance.

Rosamund Gray, &c. By C. Lamb. Moxon.

A DELIGHTFUL Companion-volume to the Essays of Elia. In addition to the pathetic tale of Rosamund Gray, and the farce of Mr. H——,' it contains the Recollections of Christchurch; the Dramatic Criticisms on Shakspeare and his Cotemporaries; the papers on Fuller, Hogarth,

and George Wither; and a variety of articles which originally appeared in Leigh Hunt's Reflector,' a periodical which, though long since dead, remains embalmed in its own spice and fragrance. We take this opportunity of introducing the following few but valuable sentences, imnuted down from the lips of the late S. T. Coleridge :

Character of Charles Lamb, by Coleridge.-' Charles Lamb has more totality and individuality of character than any other man I know, or have ever known in all my life. In most men we distinguish between the different powers of their intellect as one being predominant over the other. The genius of Wordsworth is greater than his talent, though considerable. The talent of Southey is greater than his genius, though respectable; and so on, But in Charles Lamb it is altogether one; his genius is talent, and his talent is genius, and his heart is as whole and one as his head. The wild words that come from him sometimes on religious subjects would shock you from the mouth of any other man, but from him they seem mere flashes of firework. If an argument seem to his reason not fully true, he bursts out in that odd desecrating way: yet his will, the inward man, is, I well know, profoundly religious. Watch him when alone, and you will find him with either a Bible or an old divine, or an old English poet; in such is his plea

sure.'

The London Review. No. II.

It is not our purpose to criticise the contents of this number, but only to mention that we have been both surprised and grieved by a note appended to an article on the Rationale of Political Representation,' and the more so, on account of the signature (A) which that article bears. There must be some inadvertence or mistake in the case; or else we must have mistaken the writer, and the character which it is intended the London Review' should sustain. The note in question is appended to an extract from Mr. Bailey's work, relative to the exclusion of women from the elective franchise (the passage was quoted in our own notice of the work, Monthly Repository' for June last, p. 407); and runs thus :

Into the reasons of any other kind which may be given for the exclusion of women, we shall not enter; not because we think any of them valid, but because the subject (though in a philosophical treatise on representation, it could not have been passed over in silence) is not one which, in the present state of the public mind, could be made a topic of popular discussion with any prospect of practical advantage.—p. 353.

We must protest strongly both against the general principle here laid down, and the particular application of that principle.

The London Review' can confer no greater practical advantage' on the public, than by the free and full discussion of any and every topic that may be fairly presented to its notice. It was announced as the organ of the Philosophic Reformers, whom we understood to be, not a party banded together for the attainment of influence by avoiding unpopular topics, but a set of original and independent thinkers, whose aim was to inculcate sound principles in political and moral philosophy, and to lead the way in the fearless application of those principles to all social relations and individual concerns. The last thing we expected of them was, that they should seem to blink a subject because it might be distasteful to the public mind,' or not be connected with a motion for leave to bring in a bill, &c., or any such immediate 'practical advantage.' Our notion was, that these reviewers were to be the