visibly superior to the colours with which he works; yet this superiority cannot be perceived from the Englishman breaking forth in any particular passage; but from the general light diffused over the whole picture, like that communicated by the sun to nature upon those days in which his orb is not visible. Weighing, therefore, the beauties, and the imperfections connected with the author's plan, the former will be found to preponderate in a very great degree. But could not Mr. Southey have selected some subject, admitting all that is excellent, and excluding all that is extravagant in his poem? We should be deficient indeed in our art, if we could not answer in the affirmative. As Mr. Southey himself, however, was to write the poem, it is only reverence for the reader's leisure, which prevents our demanding that he shall choose for his next theme, one which will allow him to display the sublimity of Homer, the majesty of Virgil, the fancy of Ariosto, the chaste taste of Tasso, the solemnity of Dante, and all the attributes of all the first poets. But would our advice be reasonable? Or rather, would it not resemble the resolution of the mad monarch, the execution of which he wisely commits to his ministers? "He shall have chariots easier than air. Which I will have invented And thou shalt ride before him, on a horse That shall be made to go with golden wheels This is the false gallop of criticism-it is not pointing out to an author any reasonable object to be attained; but insidiously hinting at some unknown point of excellence, with whose bearings we doubtless are acquainted, though we kindly leave the poet to find them out as he can. In this we see neither wit nor wisdom: and shame on our craft if this finesse be its excellence! In judging of every human production, we can only estimate how far it exceeds or falls short of the common exertions of humanity; and it shows equal ignorance and injustice to attempt reducing it to the imaginary standard of some beau idéal, of which neither the author nor the critic has any distinct or accurate perception. We have already noticed the singular style of versifica tion employed in this poem, which resembles the Pindarics of the seventeenth century. In the construction and return of his language, and even of his modulations, we observe a marked imitation of Milton, and there are passages in which the sense also approaches very nearly to that of our great classic. The flight of Arvalan, when "Thrice through the vulnerable shade The The Glendoveer impels the griding blade," &c. inevitably recalls the griding sword of Michael. beautiful retreat of the celestial inhabitants from the profaned Swerga, reminded us of the secession of the Hamadryads in the hymn to the Nativity. But Mr. Southey, though we can discern that Milton is his favourite poet, is in no respect a servile imitator of his sublime model. His picture of the infernal regions may stand comparison with any poetic vision of those penal fires, from the days of Homer to those of Klopstock. The description hovers between that of Dante and Milton; not exhibiting the tedious particularity of the former, yet more detailed than that of the latter. The approach of the mortals to Padalon seems to us equal in grandeur to any passage which we ever perused. We will quote a few lines and close our criticism, though our subject is far from being exhausted. "Far other light than that of day there shone A glow, as of a fiery furnace light, A thing of comfort, and the sight, dismay'd, The World of Wo before them, opening wide. There rolls the fiery flood, For neither mortal, nor immortal sight, Could pierce across through that intensest light." The notes contain a profusion of Eastern learning, and the massive blocks which Mr. Southey has selected as specimens of Bramanical poetry and mythology, give us at once an idea of the immense quarries, in which the author must have laboured, and of the taste, skill, and labour necessary to fashion such unwieldy materials into the beautiful forms which they exhibit in the text. Every theme, however pleasing, has its bounds, and we must bid farewell to Mr. Southey, grateful for the pleasure afforded us. We can presage nothing as to the popularity of the present poem. Its faults lie on the surface, and are of a kind obnoxious to sarcasm and malicious ridicule. But its beauties are infinite, and it possesses that high qualification for popularity, the power of exciting a painful and sustained interest. There are still, surely, among us those who will tolerate the eccentricities of genius, in consideration of its lofty properties-properties which distinguish all the works of the poet; but which shine forth with transcendant lustre, in the Curse of Kehama. Before we quit the poem, we are bound to notice the novel and beautiful manner in which it is printed. In general a page of poetry is displeasing to fastidious eyes, from the irregular terminations of the lines; this deformity is not only obviated, but a remarkable elegance in the typographic art is introduced in its stead. The centre of every verse is so placed, as to preserve an equal breadth of margin on each side, and to give the page a lapidary kind of appearance, which is singularly striking and agreeable, even before the cause of it is discovered. We hope that every ❝ wire wove, hot pressed" poem, composed upon this model, will be printed with the same attention to picturesque beauty, as the Curse of Kehama, which has led the way to the only improvement of which the art of printing, in its present advanced state, is, perhaps, susceptible. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. CANTO IV.* [Quarterly Review, 1818.] "Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been- He wore his sandal-shoon, and scallop-shell; If such there were-with you, the moral of his strain!" THIS solemn valediction, the concluding stanza of Lord Byron's poem, forms at once a natural and an impressive motto to our essay. "There are few things," says the moralist, "not purely evil, of which we can say, without some emotion of uneasiness, this is the last. Those who could never agree together shed tears when mutual discontent has determined them to final separation, and of a place that has been frequently visited, though without pleasure, the last look is taken with heaviness of heart." When we resume, therefore, our task of criticism, and are aware that we are exerting it for the last time upon this extraordinary work, we feel no small share of reluctance to part with the Pilgrim, whose wanderings have so often beguiled our Jabours, and diversified our pages. We part from Childe Harold as from the pleasant and gifted companion of an interesting tour, whose occasional waywardness, obstinacy, and caprice are forgotten in the depth of thought with which he commented upon subjects of interest as they passed before us, and in the brilliancy with which he coloured such scenery as addressed itself to the imagination. His faults, if we at all remember them, are recollected only with pity, * Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto IV. By Lord Byron. as affecting himself indeed, but no longer a concern of ours: -his merits acquire double value in our eyes when we call to mind that we may perhaps never more profit by them. The scallop-shell and staff are now laid aside, the pilgrimage is accomplished, and Lord Byron, in his assumed character, is no longer to delight us with the display of his wondrous talents, or provoke us by the use he sometimes condescends to make of them-a use which at times has reminded us of his own powerful simile, "It was as is a new-dug grave, Closing o'er one we sought to save." Before we part, however, we feel ourselves impelled to resume a consideration of his Pilgrimage, not as consisting of detached accounts of foreign scenery and of the emotions suggested by them, but as a whole poem, written in the same general spirit, and pervaded by the same cast of poetry. In doing this, we are conscious we must repeat much which has perhaps been better said by others, and even be guilty of the yet more unpardonable crime of repeating ourselves. But if we are not new we will at least be brief, and the occasion seems to us peculiarly favourable for placing before our readers the circumstances which secured to the Pilgrimage of Childe Harold a reception so generally popular. The extrinsic circumstances, which refer rather to the state of the public taste than to the genius and talent of the author, claim precedence in order, because, though they are not those on which the fame of the poet must ultimately rest, they are unquestionably the scaffolding by means of which the edifice was first raised which now stands independent of them. Originality, as it is the highest and rarest property of genius, is also that which has most charms for the public. Not that originality is always necessary, for the world will be contented, in the poverty of its mental resources, with mere novelty or singularity, and must therefore be enchanted with a work that exhibits both qualities. The vulgar author is usually distinguished by his treading, or attempting to tread, in the steps of the reigning favourite of the day. He is didactic, sentimental, romantic, epic, pastoral, according to the taste of the moment, and his "fancies and delights," like those of Master Justice Shallow, are sure to be adapted |