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VI.

They found him on the beach-a mother's eye
In that blank look of cold inanity,

In those decaying features scarce could tell
She saw the face of one she loved so well.
He had been dead some days, but when they took,
From out his dripping vest, a little book,
And read the name of one that was his friend,”
Then was each doubt they cherish'd at an end :
They knew that it was SHELLY. Who can say
The best are not the first to die alway?

VII.

A single fir-tree mark'd the spot
Where they rais'd the funeral pyre-
A single fir-tree scorch'd and rent
By the lightning's fire.

'Twas the very spot for a poet's grave,
Lash'd by the foam of the bursting wave-
The bursting wave that seem'd to moan,
As though it griev'd for the work it had done.
Afar off rais'd their heads on high
The white-crown'd Alps of Italy;
And the huge cliffs o'erhung the sea
In masses wild as wild could be,
And on their summits you might see
A few old towers worn and grey,
E'en beautiful in their decay,
Which, as he journeys t'wards the sun,
The eagle loves to rest upon.

These stanzas, which are a fair specimen of the entire piece, display, we think, much poetic feeling, and there is a touching pathos in the allusion to Keats, which irresistibly appeals to our sympathy.

There is nothing maudlin or lackadaisical in any of Mr. Kaye's poetry; but he seems to have a decided penchant for the sentimental and the mournful, which in one so young is passing strange.

In the poems contained in the small volume before us, Mr. Kaye has adopted various styles of versification, in some of which he has been very successful. He does not appear to be partial to the sonnet, as there are only two sonnets in the volume, nor is he much addicted to blank verse. Of the two poems which he has produced in that kind of versification, one professes to be an imitation of Miss Landon; the other is a dramatic sketch, a mere fragment, in the shape of a dialogue between Cromwell and his daughter. Of the first of these two pieces we can only say that, although it is not wanting in poetic feeling and descriptive power, we do not think it very successful as an imitation of the modern Sappho, save in its mournful tone.

We have been induced to quote the poem on the death of Shelley, not merely because we think highly of it, but because the author, by placing it first, seems to consider it the best in the volume; but there are two other poems which we rank above it. Of the first of these, the lines "Composed at sea by Moonlight," we can only afford space for the following specimen :

COMPOSED AT SEA BY MOONLIGHT.

The moon bath clomb the top-most Heaven
And looks down on the wave,
Like the eye of hope which gleems upon
The darkness of the grave.

I am sitting now beside the helm
Watching the waters black,
Close with a low and sullen roar
Behind our vessels track.

On, on, she goes, like a pawing steed,
As though she felt delight
In the freshness of the evening breeze
And the beauty of the night.

She almost seems like us to know
That her course is well nigh run,
And is giving a bounding spring at the last
That the goal may be bravely won.

How beautifully white she gleams
In all her proud array,

You can see the shadow of each rope
As clearly as by day;

And as you look on her many sails
From the helm unto the prow,
It were not difficult to think
As I am thinking now,

That the spreading canvas over-head,
The mariners asleep,

And the huge, pointed guns were like
A camp upon the deep;

Whilst the helm's-man's eye on the compass-light
Is fixed as on a spell;

And he stands, scarce moving, by the wheel
Mute as a sentinel,

Wordsworth would probably class this as a poem of the Fancy. We .have little skill in classification; but we think the thoughts and images in this production are all highly poetical, and that they are developed in sweet and graceful verse. The first lines of the first and third stanzas we think we have met with before," as Mr. Sueer, in the Critic, says.

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66

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INVOCATION TO THE SPIRIT OF BEAUTY."
Spirit of Beauty!

Who hast thy home in the golden west

When the blushing sun goes down to rest;
Who lovest the white-maned waves to ride,

And to go the silver-rimmed clouds astride,
Breathe on my song.

Thou who dost sit on the snow-crown'd mountains,
And sleepest beside the babbling fountains,
Who climbest the pine-tree tops by night,

And dost bathe them all with a stream of light
From the silver moon.

Thou, who dost deck the Spring

With a robe of green,

And weavest a shroud for old Winter too,

The whitest that ever was seen.

Beautiful Spirit, who delightest

To place on Summer's brow

A garland of flowers the sweetest and brightest,
Breathe on me now.

Thou who dost tell a tale of love,

Which maketh the rose to blush,

And pourest into the lily's ear,

In whispers low, such a tale of fear

That her face and her fore-head turn deadly white,

And never recover again from affright.

Thou who dost water thy couch with tears,

When the black veil is spread o'er the face of day,

Dew-drops which freshen the languid earth

Till the Sun comes and kisses it dry in his mirth,
List wilst I pray.

Thou who dost canopy the earth,

By day with a pall of blue,

And spreadest by night o'er the dome of Heav'n
A curtain of sable hue,

Bespangled with glittering studs of light,
In number and splendour infinite.
In earth and in ocean

I see thee-I hear thee:

In calm or commotion,

Thou ever art near me;
When the storm-blast is strong,
The lightning is flashing,

And the clouds like a throng

Of giants are dashing

With a war-cry of thunder

Their dark limbs out

They meet and asunder

They rush with a shout.

Spirit of Beauty!

Who sittest enshrined on the human face
And makest the heart thy dwelling-place,
The deep-seated cave of thy oracle, whence
Thou turnest man's words into eloquence;

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We consider this to be one of the most imaginative poems in the volume, and altogether, with the exception of one, which we shall notice hereafter, the most beautiful of the author's poetical effusions. The last four lines, which we have marked in Italics, are exceedingly fine. There are not many men who have written such poetry at nineteen.

We come now to those works of fiction of Mr. Kaye's which have elicited the highest praise from some very able critics in England. The first of these, entitled "Jerningham, or The Inconsistent Man," a novel in 3 vols. octavo, was published in June 1836. The principal design of the author in this production may be gathered from the following extract from his

66 APOLOGY FOR THIS BOOK."

One of the most conspicuous actors in the ensuing history, is an enthusiastic reformer of the Shelley school, who is frequently represented as giving utterance to opinions widely at vari. ance with those which are received by the community at large. He is represented pure, honest, benevolent, and self-denying, having no other object in view than the ultimate happiness of his fellow-men, yet withal an enemy to Institutions, and a seceder from the established faith. I have drawn this character, and it is with the utmost diffidence that I thus venture to speak of my. self,-not because I in any way entertain the opinions which, wisely or unwisely, I have made to issue from the mouth of this ideal personation,-not because I am inimical to establishments, or likely ever to lend any assistance towards the vain attempt of re-organizing society; but because there is much of intolerance in the world, little of that charity which "vaunteth not itself,"-little forbearance exercised towards the professors of opposite faith,-little of that true Christian benevolence" which is not hasty to judge, and which requires full evidence before it will condemn," which," however much soever it may blame the principles of any sect or party, never confounds under one general censure all who belong to that party or sect; and does not from one wrong opinion infer the subversion of all sound principle."* In short, I have drawn this character, because I am an enemy to intolerance from whatsoever quarter it may proceed, (and not unfrequently the latitudinarian, who complains of the intolerance of the churchmen, exercises a less measure of toleration towards the very churchmen he condemns,) and, because I am of opinion that every profession may number in its ranks men of unblemished morality,— men pure, upright, benevolent, and self-sacrificing,-that the true spirit of Christianity may, and often-times does, exist, where the forms of the Church unobserved; and that,-but Lord Bacon has expressed an extreme opinion upon this subject,—an opinion which I would scarcely venture to promulgate upon my own responsibility.

With this impression, whether true or false, I have attempted to delineate, in the ensuing pages, the characters of two good men,-both equally benevolent, though one has the world with him, the other the world against him,-though one is the friend to establishments, a lawyer, and a member of parliament,-the other, an enemy to establishments, -deeming that, for the most part, as at present instituted, they are prejudicial to the interests of society. But how different are the events which distinguish the lives of these two good men?

In the delineation of these characters, we think the author has been very successful, although he is liable to the objection which has been urged against him, of leaving it doubtful which of the two he meant to represent as having, in his estimation, acted the nobler part. Why he should have left that point doubtful, we cannot clearly understand; for we can scarcely suppose that he could hesitate between them. There is no room for a doubt in our minds. We can imagine that there are in the world many characters as "enlightened

and benevolent" as Mathew Jerningham, the uncle of the hero; but we know that, unhappily for mankind, such characters as Everard Sinclair are too rare. We believe the author is of our opinion, for he has apparently drawn that character con amore, and it is accordingly the most forcibly drawn of all those in this novel; but it is far too beautiful and perfect for human frailty.

We have thought it right to let our reader into the general design of the work, as described by the author; but we have not the least intention of giving any analysis of the story. We shall endeavour to give a candid estimate of the character of the work, and then submit such extracts from it as may serve to support our opinions of it.

The ablest criticisms on this production in the English Journals, are highly favourable; but the author himself condemns it severely. He "regrets having perpetrated the work in the thoughtless vanity of" his immature judgment." He is entirely wrong, as much better critics than himself have decided. We do not mean that Jerningham is a faultless work; very far from it; and in order, at once, to show that we are not going to fly out into the opposite extreme of the excessive selfcondemnation we have quoted, we commence our summing up of its character, with an enumeration of some of its most striking faults. There are, then, in Jerningham, a great deal of pedantry, a great want of skill in combination, several absurd and some coarse passages, and some false sentiment, while the dialogue too often runs into dissertations. The characters occasionally talk essays, and are too often too much upon stilts to be natural. The great blot of the work, however, is Delaval's revenge, which is utterly revolting, and, indeed, his character is altogether out of nature. We cannot imagine a boy becoming suddenly so passionately fond of a school fellow, as to be worked up to madness almost, even by the slightest appearance of that school fellow's attention to another; and then, because this boy, years afterwards, speaks insultingly of his quondam playmate who had saved his life, to think that the insulted party should cherish revenge for years, and at last hit upon the awful expedient of gratifying it by debauching the son of the offender; that the offended man having a large fortune should for years descend to the drudgery of a tutor in order to accomplish his object; and that he should devote all the energies of a powerful and gifted mind to the diabolical purpose of making the child of a former dear friend (who had never injured him, indeed, but by a few heedless though cruel words), an atheist and a drunkard! This is too dreadful. Another fault alleged against the work is, that the school boys are philosophers; for this the author has ingeniously and gracefully apologized in his preface. We agree with one of his critics, however, that, notwithstanding the apology, his school boys are still first rate philosophers. Such are the more palpable faults of Jerningham; but we are almost inclined to question whether they are not all atoned for, by its many striking merits. The work displays great power, a very subtle and imaginative mind, and extensive and curious reading. Some beautiful thoughts scattered through it, some of the characters are very forcibly drawn, and there are not a few exceedingly eloquent passages in it, and some infinitely beautiful and pathetic scenes. Jerningham is a production of genius uncorrected by matured judgment and experience. We now proceed to our extracts.

are

EVERARD SINCLAIR.

A second boy was born unto them, Everard, delicate in body but vigorous in mind, the darling of his mother, the aversion of Mr. Sinclair, the very antipodes of his elder brother, Charles. His intellect was rapid in its development; it expanded like a beautiful flower, cherished by water from the fountain of a mother's inexhaustible love.

He advanced in years; he ceased to be a child; but still he was the good genius of the house. He was the gentlest, the kindest, the most forgiving of God's creatures. Ile was full of patience, fortitude, and love. Do what you would to him you could not offend him. He had no thought for himself; he would have kissed the hand that smote him, and blessed the most

But upon Mr. Sinclair, all these endearing qualities were, unfortunately, entirely thrown away This worthy man regarded poor Everard, to use his own expression, as a "born natural." The gentleness of the child's disposition was particularly offensive to Mr. Sinclair. His endurance was called "want of spirit ;" his kindness was "nothing but hypocrisy;" his charity and affection were "sickly sentimentalities;" his desire of knowledge and his consequent studiousness were interpreted into physical indolence. "In short," said Mr. Sinclair, "I disown him; he is no son of mine; I detest him. He will disgrace both himself and his family; he has not a day's work in him; he does not know barley from oats; and says that Virgil was a farmer. He is fit for nothing but a poor scholar. His milky face and his soft speeches turn me sick. He has never said 'd-n me,' in his life. We shall be able to make nothing of the thing," and Mr. Sinclair looked ineffably disgusted.

But Everard, thing as he was, waxed daily in genius and kindliness. His was not a fair-wea ther temper. Neither light breezes nor rough winds could ruffle the waters of his serenity. His father kicked him and called him a natural; his brother thumped him, and called him a girl; but his mother kissed him, and said, " my beloved," and Everard's sufferings were forgotten in the ecstacy of that maternal embrace.

But what could Mrs. Sinclair do? She wept over the persecution of her son; her heart was rent in pieces, for she was powerless; she remonstrated, but it was all in vain. Her exhor. tations, full of kindness and submission as they were, brought nothing but the harshest replies. Mr. Sinclair was naturally obdurate; of what avail was it to reason with him? You might as well have argued with an Æthiopian in the polite language of Tuscany. He was to the last degree impatient of contradiction. To oppose him was only to push him forward; it was like throwing a ball against brick work; it rebounds even past the thrower. What could poor Mrs. Sinclair do? Every attempt that she made to turn the current of her husband's affection upon Everard was met with the most open hostility. But this could not last very long. She struggled; she endured; she died.

Everard was now left alone in the world. The thread of human sympathy was broken. He betook himself, for consolation, to his books. And the sufferings of Everard Sinclair commenced at that hour.

HIS STUDIES.

The first book, after the death of his mother, to which the young student seriously applied himself, was the one, of all others, the most likely to delude a young and enthusiastic understanding, -a work full of eloquent sophistries and plausible untruths, the emptiness of whose arguments is glossed over by the oratorical fervour of its language. It was Volney's Ruins of Empires.

Now, if Everard had been a little older; if the glowing enthusiasm of his temperament had been a little more tempered by judgment; if his understanding had been of a less imaginative and a more logical nature, it is probable that Volney's book might have been perused without any dangerous consequences. But his intellect was precisely in that condition which is most prone to be deluded and led astray by the plausible, the eloquent, the sophistical.

The young student read and was staggered; but very far was he from being convinced. A new light had burst in upon his brain; and many things undreamt of before rose up on the arena of the consciousness. He resolved to inquire more minutely; he was not contented with a partial illumination. "This is strange," he said, "but it is true?" as he laid down the Ruins of Empires.

From Volney he turned to Helvetius, and his orthodoxy received an additional shock: next Diderot was consulted, and our Hume; the edifice of his faith, tottered more; the belief of his forefathers was undermined and shaken to the very base. Up to this point the truth had been shut out from him-up to this point he had been walking in darkness. He abandoned his old creed, but he did not immediately take up a new one. He was in doubt, he was perplexed; he knew not what he was doing. He asked himself whether he was entering the true Canaan,-the Land of Promise he had been seeking so long.

He was very young; he believed that he was doing right. There was no one whose opinion he could ask; he was obliged to rely upon the strength, or the weakness rather, of his own intellect. He had no other object but the acquisition of truth. He thought, for he was no casuist, that he was treading the right path; but he was not. He said to himself," Prejudice is the sworn foe of truth. I must dispossess myself of all prejudice." He had been, from his cradle upwards, imbibing the doctrines of a particular creed; he had sucked in orthodoxy with his mother's milk. He was prejudiced; it behoved him to throw aside all foregone conclusions, and to set out in search of truth with a mind quite denuded of bias.

But endeavouring, in all sincerity, as he did, to set the scales of his judgment in equilibrio, he only emptied the balance on one side to make that on the other preponderate. There is nothing more difficult in the world than to force one's-self to be unprejudiced. Prepossessions are spon

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