The human mind has appeared, during the last thirty years, in a different light from what it ever before presented. Its progress in the preceding ages was, no doubt, perceptible, frequently rapid, often unprecedented; yet these were only periods more remarkable, from the extraordinary contrast they bore to others, than from their own peculiar importance. But the moment that ushered in the present æra, brought along with it the triumphs of the human mind, and swift, as the flight of time, have been its advances in science and literature. The immortal spirit, imbued with all the former acquirements of knowledge, has aroused from the technical rules and precise limits that chained it,—it has burst these fetters, displayed its strength, and exhibited its native grandeur and excellence. Opposed to it were the prejudices of centuries,—the ignorance of degradation,—the bigotry and superstition that

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have so long warped the understanding. In vain have these obstacles intervened,—the barriers of prejudice have been successfully levelled,—the darkness of ignorance has been penetrated, and forced to withdraw before the dazzling light;—bigotry and superstition have been forced to hide themselves within those gloomy recesses congenial to their nature, appropriated to their reign, and from whence they are threatened soon to be dragged and exterminated. The prospect is one that cheers and elevates the feeling and reflecting soul; no doubt it is as yet only composed of groups pleasing though separate; of a series of figures bold and dignified, though detached; of different objects, beautiful, though unconnected. But we every day observe the vacant spaces filling up,—the blanks are successively occupied,—the intervals are fast closing, until, in the lapse of time, the whole shall be connected and arranged, until this world shall present one extended and uniform landscape, teeming with that beauty and loveliness,—that symmetry and harmony,—that elegance and proportion that were stamped on it in the period that heathens have termed the Golden, and Christians the Holy age. When we look on the employment of

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so many of our fellow men,—when we behold their increasing—persevering efforts, we rejoice that a rallying point has at last been obtained, that a centre of union has at length been discovered, where men of every country and clime, of every sect and profession,—of every government and nation, can meet in harmony,—can act in concord,—can labour in the same noble avocation,—that from this general rendezvous all the measures are taken to accelerate “the march of mind,”—to propel its energies with gathering vigour, as it moves forward,—to scatter and disseminate those blessings and pleasures that communicate happiness here,—that ensure it hereafter. From the vast discoveries and wide range of a d’Alembert, Condorcet, La Place, La Grange, La Lande, Playfair, and Leslie,—from the minute and important facts disclosed by the penetration of a Davy, Guy Lussac, Biot, and Thomson, of a Linnaeus and Lavoisier,—from the hitherto unattempted researches of Reid, Stewart, and Drew,—we turn with elevated feelings and grand thoughts, to examine the yet more cheering and gratifying deeds of a Franklin, Howard, Webb, Reynolds and Wilberforce,—the feats of a Lancaster and Bell. The merits of the latter indivi-

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duals, in, particular, are appreciated,—they are felt, they are acknowledged over the regions of this earth,—they have given a stimulus, not only to the minds of the great and dignified, but have reached the hovel of the peasant,—are enlivening the dreary garret,—are joying the lonely hut. Information, morality, and comfort, are rapidly disseminating through the lower orders and the same gladdening rays that enliven the Briton’s cottage, are invigorating and illuminating the Serfs on the Oder, the Niemen, and Volga. But the efforts of such men need not the meed of our praise,—they are richly repaid in the bountiful return they afford,—they are well recompensed in the noble feeling of conscious integrity and generosity.

While the two opposite classes of society are thus both progressively advancing in knowledge, as become their respective situations, while the philosophers have so successfully succeeded in their measures, for themselves, and that so long degraded community in the inferior walks of life;—these occupying the middle, and perhaps in some views, the most important place,—our landed proprietors, our merchants, bankers, manufacturers, in fine the whole of that body that is raised above what has been falsely denominated the vulgar

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and rabble, have improved in taste, proceeded in refinement, and have acquired instruction, improvement, and the means of mutual enjoyment, from the crowd of those works that are written to entertain, inform, and delight,—from our celebrated poets, our admired preachers and moralists, and from that host of standard reviews and magazines that have acquired such celebrity as to principally influence the public opinion. While these latter works are conducted on principles congenial with good taste, with morality, and with a just discrimination between obtruding officious scribblers, and the honest and powerful efforts of genius, there can be no doubt but they will long continue to retain that influence so many have deservedly obtained. The instant, however, they descend from that commanding height they ought to maintain—the instant they become the vehicles of scandal, calumny, and falsehood,—the instant they attempt to undermine every feeling that our nature holds sacred, every tie that our Maker has imposed on us, every sentiment that time has justly hallowed, and opinion wisely sanctioned,—that instant they are destined to merited obloquy,—to contemptuous neglect. In our limited know-

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ledge and humble sphere, we had conceived it impossible that any character would have been hardy enough to trample on such rules,—or any individual so lost to his own interest or fame, as to defy those powerful forces mankind have engaged in their cause, to blindly, viciously, and determinately pass those limits that have been eternally placed between virtue and vice,—between right and wrong. Weak, indeed, have such expectations been,—imaginary was what appeared to us the preservation of propriety and justice in such works. We call on the scholar, the gentleman, the citizen, the Christian, who may have read the Number of Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine for October 1817,—to say how false such conclusions have been,—how ill we have apprehended the force of those obligations that we imagined had bound the conductors of such writings. After having perused this production, we felt something like one, who, expecting to enter a magnificent apartment, blazing with tapers, adorned by beauties, and fitted up with tables loaded with the most luscious fruits and wines,—is suddenly seized, dragged from light, and enjoyment, and friends, to linger and pine in the gloom of a dungeon,—where,

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instead of the sounds of joy, no voice breaks the fearful silence,—where, instead of the cheerful associates, worms and reptiles are his companions. We felt,—but it was all that sickness of heart we experience when gazing on what is loathsome, repulsive, and disgusting,—all that disappointment and pain that overtake us, when, instead of the rose that we wished to pluck, the sting of the adder is darted into our hand,—all that nauseous sensation that causes us to shudder, when viewing vice glorying in its deeds, and insolently telling us that it is virtue;—immorality, instead of concealing itself, insolently stalking forth, and with an impudent stare and pompous strut, vowing its form is godliness, its actions sanctity. In invective, we cannot, we wish not, to indulge; but when the question is,—“Whether shall a work that pretends to guide the taste, the judgment, the opinion of the public, be allowed to pursue such courses as reflect discredit on our country and metropolis,—when the question is, whether shall one be permitted to adorn himself in gew-gaw, gaudy colours, and from a recess in which he has chosen to conceal himself, and where he cannot be properly scrutinized, to say to the public,

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How well, and how pretty I look!—we hesitate not to affirm, that morality, decency, justice, call on us boldly to drag him forth from his lurking place; to strip him of those false tints and patches; to exhibit him as he is,—as he should be known,—as he should be estimated. At first, we intended to examine the morality, the calumnies, the consistency, the composition of that Magazine, in regular order. But this we find absolutely impossible; the whole of these are frequently so mixed, so crowded in the same paragraph, that it is more than difficult to analyze and arrange them. In such a production the Editor is responsible for every article admitted. If these articles are false, and in opposition to his own sentiments, he is doubly blameable and cowardly; if they are true, and yet in opposition to his own sentiments, he at once acknowledges his ignorance, imbecility, and unfitness. He must be involved in one or other predicament.—But to the Magazine.

We shall begin our critique by a review of that piece, entitled, “On the Cockney School of Poetry.” We commence with this passage, because it is not an insulated, casual treatise, but forms an integral part of the work; be-

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cause it enters into the plan of the conductors, and begins a series, of which this is the first.

The merit, the elegance, and ingenuity of this newly invented epithet, rest solely with the writer. He need not fear that the honour of “this christening” will be disputed with him; only we request that the next time he puts on his canonicals, looks prim and consequential in his bands, and immerges his hands in the font, he will have the goodness, either by public advertisement, or notice at the church-doors, to announce his intention, as this is the last time, we are resolved, we shall be in danger of being bespattered by his “holy water,” in which some wicked wag has poured a quantity of “Warren’s jet blacking; and which composition he scatters around him, on his hearers, chuckling and pluming himself all the while on his pure and immaculate fluid and his clean hands. Not contented with the honours of High Priest and Baptizer in Chief for the Princes’ Street coterie, he suddenly arrogates to himself the character of oracle,—of a revealer of hidden things, by means of his magical incantations,—and the afflatus he inhales. Indeed, we were not prepared for this, O thou mighty

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decipherer of hieroglyphics!—it came upon us so suddenly, that we started back with surprise, little witting thine inestimable, wonderful powers. Τεχνη λανθανει with a vengeance,—only communicate the secret to the animals and reptiles caged along with thee; and the keeper, instead of the present moderate sum of 2s. 6d. may charge at any rate he chooses for a view of his menagerie. From the solemnity of christening, he hastily commences the enumeration of every power,—of every talent and every language possessed and known,—or half possessed and half known,—or not possessed and not known, by Leigh Hunt. Is it by a recipe,—by the Sybilline books,—or by the second sight; or have the disciples of Zoroaster, or the priests of Osiris, left the valuable information in some mummy, which, newly imported, has been found to contain the precious roll; or how, or what way is it, that the writers of William Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine have alone preserved this invaluable art?—an art by which they can measure and gauge, with all the precision of an accompanying, and newly-invented scale, the exact quantity of knowledge and information of any given man, and, of course, the exact

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origin of his thoughts, feelings, and desires. “He,” (Leigh Hunt) “knows absolutely nothing of Greek, almost nothing of Latin, and his knowledge of Italian literature is confined to a few of the most popular of Petrarch’s sonnets, and to” what? in the name of all that is wonderful, magical, or miraculous? and shall we proceed? “to an imperfect acquaintance with Ariosto, through the medium of Mr Hoole.” Delectable information! go on, exorciser; go on, and prosper; for at this rate, and by thy mighty wand, we shall transform all the mantua-makers, milliners, haberdashers of the South Bridge, and boarding-school readers of novels and poetry, into Italian literati. Every banker’s clerk, who has read Francis’ translation of Horace, may henceforth boast of his knowledge of Latin literature. As to the French poets, our oracle responds, that “he (L. H.) is in a happy state of ignorance about them, and all they have done,” &c. &c. With such information we might have rested contented, had not the very second paragraph assured us, that Mr Hunt’s religion was drawn from the “Encyclopædie,” and, if a man did not wish to be metamorphosed into “an ox or drayhorse,” he,

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(L H.) required him to be an admirer of Voltaire’s romans.” The winding up of Mr Hunt’s knowledge “a consummation” in such hands “devoutly to be wished for,’ supports the amazing display of profundity and mysterious knowledge, so conspicuous through the whole “of all the great critical writers, either of ancient or modern times, he is utterly ignorant, excepting only Mr Jeffrey among ourselves.” Surely, Mr Jeffrey, the first time you meet this amalgam of knowledge and no knowledge,—this said Leigh Hunt,—you will give him the wall, and make your bow en passant, a-la-mode Françoise.

These absurdities could only have emanated from one either totally ignorant of Leigh

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Hunt’s literary character, or, what rather appears the case, from one determined, at every risk, to vilify and misrepresent him. Yet, astonishing to tell, completely ignorant as Mr Hunt is of “Greek, Latin, Italian, German, and all critics, ancient or modern, except one,” though a man of “little education, of exquisite bad taste, and extremely vulgar in his modes of thinking and manners in all respects,” he is a man certainly “of some talents; he has written a book not wholly undeserving of praise, which possesses some tolerable passages,” but “which no man who reads it once, will ever be able to read again.” Thereafter, the reviewer makes a digression to represent the harassed state of his feeling,—the tear-up received by his weak nerves, and shock his delicate sensibility sustained on being hauled a second time “into the gilded drawing-room of a little mincing boarding-school mistress.” We have neither time nor inclination to introduce, or be introduced, to the select “party” there assembled, but assure our gentleman, these prejudices and impressions against them, will soon wear away. After he has left the “jingle of the paltry piano-forte, and, the libations of luke-warm negus,” we must follow him in

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his scamper through “the vicinity of London.” This poor man is destined for a hard fate, wherever he goes “vulgarity” annoys him. Scarcely has he commenced his ramble, ere that “vulgar” fellow, Leigh Hunt appears, and sets him raving again. L. Hunt enters among a Sunday dinner party, and melancholy to relate, Mr Z. gets “sick.” Such atrocious misconduct on the part of the London poet, is not to pass unpunished, for Mr Z. is determined on revenge; he therefore chases him up “Highgate hill,” and along “the Serpentine river,” halloos to all the passengers to take notice of the clownish air, the “vulgar” garb, and embarassed gait of his enemy. Though not able to catch him in this race, the instant he again meets Mr Hunt in the drawing-room, he turns round to his associates, exclaiming, what an ill made bow—shocking such a low bred fellow should gain admittance—how unlike my elegant easy manner?

It is amusing to observe the palpable contradictions contained in this diatribe. After labouring and toiling to persuade us, that Mr Hunt is a “vulgar” contemptible personage—after having exhausted language, to “ring every change” on his readers,—after having

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used every effort that malignity could suggest, or cunning devise, he asserts that the object of so much abuse is “not known” out of London,—that “his fame is confined” to that city, and his admirers are a very pitiful paltry set of readers.” Is it credible that such an insignificant trifler as he is represented, would have caused so much spleen? Mr. Z betrays himself; he shows that he thought, that he well knew, the contrary.

As the writer advances, his attacks become more desperate; he is making a furious charge, previous to his last hurra dash. “The two great elements of all dignified poetry, religious feeling, and patriotic feeling, have no place in his mind. His religion is a poor tame dilution of the blasphemies of the Encyclopaedie,—his patriotism, a crude, vague, ineffectual, and sour Jacobinism. He is without reverence either for God or man; neither altar nor throne have any dignity in his eyes.” With respect to Mr Hunt’s religious feelings, they rest between God and himself; he conscientiously differs from the great majority of the people of this country, concerning the nature of the Christian religion. That Mr H. is wrong, is to be regretted, in so far as he is unable to per-

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ceive the glorious advantages of our religion; and that in this he is wrong, we shall not hesitate to affirm. But be it remembered, he is in the same error with the illustrious Franklin, Jefferson and Condorcet; that he is of the same opinion with a number of the greatest geniuses that have ever appeared on this earth, and many of whom, without reference to their creed, have laboured to ameliorate the condition of their fellow men, in promoting their comfort, both in a mental and bodily manner. But in this land of civil and religious freedom,—in this country, where liberty of conscience was so dearly purchased,—in this region that boasts that all may worship the God of their fathers as their consciences dictate,—is it tolerable, is it admissible, that an individual shall be held up to detestation and public indignation, because his faith is different from our own? Now, when the days of racks, and scaffolds, and stakes, are gone by, is the horizon again to be darkened; when force can no longer be employed to overpower the soul,—are the weapons of the persecutor, though wrenched from the executioner, still to be wielded in the hands of the traducer? But the days of persecution

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are long since past and gone, and those specks and hazes that would yet endeavour to recal the gloom must vanish before the glorious rays of benevolence and charity. But this conduct well supports the character assumed by the reviewer; he writes a critique on L. H. as a poet, and to ensure success to his essay among bigots, informs them, that Mr Hunt does not “reverence God;” he assaults his Rimini, and supports the allegations by saying, “the religion of the author is a poor tame dilution of blasphemies.”

The “patriotism” of Mr Hunt, requires neither the invective, of the reviewer, nor our exculpation. His system of politics is that embraced by the great Chatham,—it is the cause for which Hampden died in the field, and Sydney bled on the scaffold; the cause that was advocated by a Fox, Whitbread, and Curran; that is supported by Earl Grey, by Messrs Brougham, Bennet, and Lambton. This is neither the time nor place to examine whether these opinions are true or false; but following such examples, Mr Hunt may look down on his opponent with that proud contempt and honest indignation his arrogance so justly merits. We shall for a moment indulge the critic with a

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peep into the “saloon,” and allow him a few minutes relaxation “on the light fantastic toe.” After these frolics, we only can give him time to glance on the cock of “Coleridge’s eye,” and then to it.

He has left the “ball-room” for the “tented field,” he has mustered his every man for the “pas de charge” he has led on his troops to the last, the terrible onset; he closes for the battle in its utmost fury, (page 40.) “The extreme moral depravity of the Cockney school, is another thing which is for ever thrusting itself upon the public attention, and convincing every man of sense who looks into their productions, that they who speak such sentiments can never be great poets. How could any man of high original genius ever stoop publicly, at the present day, to dip his fingers in the least of those glittering and rancid obscenities, which float on the surface of Leigh Hunt’s Hippocrene. His poetry is that of a man who has kept company with kept mistresses. He talks indelicately like a tea-sipping milliner girl. Some excuse for him there might have been, had he been hurried away by imagination or passion. But with him, indecency is a disease,

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and he speaks unclean things from perfect inanition. The very concubine of so impure a wretch as Leigh Hunt would be to be pitied; but, alas! for the wife of such a husband! For him there is no charm in simple —— ——”

We cannot pollute our pages farther. We now address ourselves to those who have the least knowledge of Mr Hunt, either personally or by his writings. We call upon those who wish to preserve public morality and public decency. We beseech all who have the interest of religion, of virtue at heart, to read over this paragraph attentively,—to say with what feelings they have perused it,—with what emotions they consider it. Scarcely does the eye glance hastily across it, ere every generous impulse of the soul is roused against such infamous atrocities; in the sober calm moments of thought, when recurring to it, philosophy, good principles, Christianity, denounce, condemn, and hate it. It is at war with every noble emotion of the soul;—it reaches the heart in disgust and loathsomeness;—it kindles a flame in the breast that burns more hotly when we consider why,—where,—how,—such a production was permitted to appear,—to disgrace our city,—to dishonour our country,—to for ever

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damn the author, the accomplices in such iniquity.—Rimini, Mr Reviewer and Messrs Conductor and Publisher, has been read, and read attentively; there is not one line, one sentiment introduced in that poem, to warrant such assertion. No, the most delicate and sensible mind, after perusing it, longs again to examine all its beauties, to indulge in its fine descriptions. The story on which it is founded, is one that was quite common in the age and place in which the scenery is cast; neither more nor less than the love of a brother-in-law for his sister-in-law, founded on fact. It is a circumstance that has repeatedly occurred in our days, and the delicate manner, the exquisite propriety, the uniform religious respect for virtue and opinion that distinguish the poem; defy, boldly defy, the slightest imputation, unless by a predetermined calumniator.

The very next page, Lord Byron is introduced as “One of the most nobly born of English patricians, and one of the first geniuses whom the world ever produced.” We hail him, we acknowledge him as such. But, mark the consistency, the uniformity of the Reviewer; we do not blame Lord Byron, we think he is perfectly justifiable in that wild and ro-

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mantic poem of Manfred. Yet his hero is not the lover of his sister-in-law, but of an object much more nearly connected. On Byron praises are lavished; on Leigh Hunt execrations are poured, because he relates what happened, and relates it so feelingly, so properly, that virtue is rejoiced the more his work is examined.

We would wish to speak home to the sensations of fathers and mothers; we would wish to spread in every direction that honest indignation that warms our own thoughts on this subject. We behold the family seated around the fireside, and the joyful face of the father beaming on his offspring, and the tender anxious gaze of the mother on her children—on her daughters. The parents’ hopes are, that they shall pass through life unpolluted, virtuous, and happy. While from the father persuasive eloquence is poured, recommending the pursuit of that path that will carry them through this world when he is gone,—to meet him in the other; while the mother reiterates his advice and instructions, Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine arrives, page 38 is opened, the innocent young female reads on till about he close of the 40th. We view her lost in amaze-

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ment, confused and perplexed on the perusal of atrocities, she, as yet has no idea to imagine. We hear her simple artless question concerning the meaning of that paragraph, part of which we have quoted, and still more earnestly requesting an explanation of that sentence we have suppressed. It is the important moment, the moment that is perhaps to decide her future destinies, that is to determine whether her youth is to be imbued with thoughts at once disgusting, hideous, and polluting,—that will make her acquainted with vice, and familiar with impurities. We perceive—it is the father’s pale quivering lip and furious countenance,—it is the blush of shame mantling the cheek of her mother,—it is her look of indignation darting on the pestiferous volume. She hastily closes it, and desires her daughter to turn to another page; she opens at page 35. By a peculiar and unaccountable mania, the conductors cannot treat the most ordinary and passing subjects without a perpetual reference to indelicate themes. Would it be believed, unless the volume lay open before us, that the circumstance of the Scots Magazine being announced under a new title, and with additional editors, could have induced any other editor to permit

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the insertion of a letter, whether by his own pen or not is immaterial, in which that event is rendered the occasion of introducing the most obscene allusions, the most gross indelicacies, nay, indelicacies which cause our nature to recoil with abhorrence. In the attempt at wit, in that letter of “Dandy Dinmont’s,” we never have seen, crowded into such narrow compass, so many figures and metaphors revolting to every well-principled mind. We expect the sneer of those who prefer wit to religion, and a jest to virtue, on these reflections. But it is to be recollected that this Magazine is circulated among the younger branches of families, who, as yet, are unacquainted with any vicious or impure allusions. For them, in their behalf we plead, and enforce our arguments by an authority that, we presume, none will venture to dispute on such a subject,—by that of Juvenal:

Nihil dictu fœdum, visuque haec limina tangat Intra quæ puer est.

Let nothing indelicate to be heard or seen enter those walls where a youth is.

That in one page there could have been compressed ideas representing an allegorical

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personage as prostituted, as false, as ——— (we really cannot continue the epithets,) would, before experience, have been pronounced impossible. We put it to the writer of that article, to, the conductor and, publisher of that Magazine if they are fathers,—how they will be able to look their children in the face, when requesting the explanation of the allusions contained in it; we put it to their feelings, how youth will think and act when reading of an allegorical woman, “thicker with two men than she should be with both, as also with Hughie, (which shocks everybody that reflects on the footing he was on with her mother.”)* If shame can reach such beings, surely ye all concerned are covered with confusion,—are afraid to behold the innocent faces and to hear the interrogating prattle of your children beseeching, with that pertinacity and penetra-

* Why has not the conducter kept in mind the observation of the Edinburgh Review on Manfred? Speaking of that, work, this Review so often referred to, says, “It all springs from the disappointment or fatal issue of an incestuous passion; and incest, according to our modern ideas—for it was otherwise in antiquity,—is not a thing to be at all brought before the imagination.”

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tion peculiar to youth, to explain your own productions.

But we must leave you and your families to arrange these affairs, and return to the scene from whence we have digressed. We left, the daughter in the family circle, resuming the Magazine under our notice. Where the letter of Dandy Dinmont is introduced, she reads on nearly to the conclusion of the first column of p. 36. If there is a mother who could calmly hear such pollution read by her daughter, we pity, we abhor her feelings. But there is not, there cannot be a woman so dead to the temporal prosperity of her daughter, so callous to every interest that will promote her true happiness, to hear that column read in her presence. No, we perceive her snatching the hated Magazine, with looks of virtuous abhorrence, wrenching the nauseous production from the hands of her child, and consigning it to the blaze, where such productions ought to be consumed.

“Less perishable,” indeed, as you, Messrs Conductor and Publisher, presumptuously compare your Magazine with newspapers;—“less perishable!”—yes, Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine shall be an “imperishable monument.” For, when its memory, as a

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literary work, shall be consigned to just oblivion,—when its narrations, its errors, its notices, shall be buried in the “tomb of all the Capulets,” its crimes shall yet survive, as a beacon to future generations, “to guard them against that rock on which it has split. “Less perishable!” the infamy attendant on him who would poison the generous young mind,—on him who would break our peaceful family circle, shall not be forgotten. “Kept mistresses;” indeed this is we believe the first time these characters were forced on the public eye through the medium of a professedly literary work. Reserve, Mr Conductor, your columns, then, for that class whom you have the honour to drag into notice; but be assured that such obtrusions on our feelings, such disregard of our taste; will meet with the odium they deserve, the hatred they invite.

But we must again return to ward off the attack on Leigh Hunt. This, however, we presume is now nearly unnecessary; the arrow winged from Mr Blackwood’s bow, is now, we are convinced, found to be “telum imbelle et sine ictu.” Return to our last extract on this subject; mark what is affirmed concerning him as a husband; bear well in mind his moral

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relative social character, as pourtrayed by this disfigurer.

We have to introduce our readers to a scene so different from what we have been compelled to examine; to affections so different from what they can trace in the work before us; to a circle so opposite to what either the writer or publisher of this magazine appear ever to have beheld, that we feel as if entering a new region; we breath more freely, there is a freshness inspired by every object we behold,—we are to view Leigh Hunt in his prison. That gentleman, most of our readers are aware, was sentenced to a long confinement, and to pay a severe fine, in consequence of some observations he made on the Prince Regent’s conduct. Whether he was justifiable or not, it is not necessary to decide. One of the nobility who had been found guilty by a jury of his countrymen, of a disgraceful crime,—the seduction of an elegant, accomplished, and, till he saw her, loving wife,—had been appointed to an important situation in the royal household. The circumstances connected with his crime rendered it perhaps one of the most atrocious, of that kind ever committed. The indignation of Mr Hunt on such

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an appointment being conferred on such a man, caused him to pen those paragraphs for which he paid so dearly. We again decline giving an opinion on the propriety of his attempt; his language was certainly too strong; but we have only to remark that, with the honest. boldness of an Englishman, he resolutely expressed his views of that measure, as an obvious and glaring tresspass on the rules of morality and society. The man represented as the most vicious of the vicious, was the first, the only one, who came forward on that occasion to uphold what he conscientiously believed to be the laws of eternal rectitude, and to uphold then against all the power of the throne, all the influence of royalty.

There were hundreds in London who would have paid his fine; they proposed, they entreated, that he would allow them to gather from the public a sum more than adequate to pay all that had been levied on him. But his soul could not brook such assistance; he determinately refused all and every possible plan of aid; out of his own limited finances he paid his fine; he resolutely objected to any help. But contemplate him in prison.—At the hours of admission were his wife and children; that wife for whom this

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unfeeling wretch of a reviewer utters an alas! Alas! indeed that ever she had thus to behold her beloved husband. Alas! that ever he had to suppress his pangs, to hush his woe, on thus meeting the wife of his arms. She clung to him in prison, in distance from the world. We have seen those who beheld her. Her eye was raised to her husband’s, to enquire what more she could do for him. Her countenance benignly fixed on his, assuring him of her unalterable devotion. His manly looks were turned to her; they expressed,—but in such a case we cannot tell what. Her unceasing efforts were to cheer him in his solitude by reading his favourite authors; and sometimes they both engaged in the delightful task of teaching their young children, of expanding their ideas, of ennobling their minds. The exertions of Mrs Hunt were incessant to comfort and cheer her husband. Mr Hunt’s were indefatigable, to console her under his misfortunes, to enable her to support her distress. Those who thus saw him, those who are in the least acquainted with him, who have had an opportunity of hearing the praise given to Mr Hunt for his social and domestic virtues, will judge what motives actuated; what

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designs induced the writer to fabricate such calumnies. If one fact is questioned in this detail, we shall, without hesitation, mention the names of those who thus observed him. But enough, and more than enough, has been said to enable the readers well to estimate the opposite characters of Mr Hunt and the reviewer. We finish our remarks on this article by vindicating Leigh Hunt from the charge of insulting Lord Byron. “The insult which he offered to Lord Byron in the dedication of Rimini, in which he, a paltry cockney newspaper scribbler, had the assurance to address one of the most nobly born of English patricians, and of the first geniuses whom the world ever produced, as “My dear Byron,” although it may have been forgotten and despised by the illustrious person whom it most nearly concerned, excited a feeling of utter loathing and disgust in the public mind, which will always be remembered whenever the name of Leigh Hunt is mentioned.”

When “sick and in prison,” Lord Byron and Mr Thomas Moore “visited him.” They endeavoured to cheer his solitary hours, and to make his apartment hear the sounds of glad-

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ness. Lord B. afterwards visited Mr Hunt in his house, while the latter was intimate in turn in the Noble Lord’s mansion. We ourselves had occasion to know a gentleman who was invited to Mr Hunt’s along with Lord Byron. They were friends, therefore, by common courtesy, as well as habits of intimacy, Mr Hunt was empowered to call him “My dear Byron.”

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We open at page 89, we read the “Translation from the ancient Chaldee manuscript,” and experience—we can scarcely define what, our thoughts are so mixed, our sensations so new, that we have left us only one commanding feeling,—the sorrow of the Christian, and the pity of the Briton,—the contempt of the man, and pointed indignation of the citizen. The article on Leigh Hunt wars against every social and lovely affection,—but this “Translation” attempts still more. It would destroy that reverence and awe with which we contemplate the Sacred Volume of inspiration,—it would blunt the feelings implanted in our

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early years for our Bible. Nay, this is nothing compared with the rest; shalt a “worm of the dust” attempt to gnaw that Book that the Eternal has in mercy revealed? Shall a shred of dust and ashes precipitate itself against the annunciations of the spirit of Jehovah? Shall the creature of a day proudly defy the Lord of Hosts, and mock him to his face? Shall all this be done in a Christian land, in a land that assumes as its chief glory its devotion to that Bible; and shall we its believers, its admirers, witness its contents prostituted in favour of a —— Bookseller? When we survey the different nations of the world, they all join in, respect and veneration for their “Sacred Books.” The Hindoo Vedas are beheld with an awe bordering on idolatry, by their believers; they are carefully preserved from the vulgar gaze, and can only be opened after a series of rites and ceremonies. The Koran is the companion, the consolation, of the Moslem; from its sentences he decorates his sabre, and, strong in its faith, rushes to the combat, impressed with its sanctions and commandments; and woe, woe awaits that man who shall publicly dare to profane its content. It is the universal law of society, to

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honour and preserve; from the slightest imputation of ridicule, those works they have conceived to be the inspiration of their Deity. Impiously spurning this “law of nations,” the conductor fearlessly attempts to make ridiculous what we have so long venerated; deliberately selects, from the Christian’s stay, such portions as will gratify his resentment, or display his false wit, at another man. Our most illustrious personages, whether famed for rank, discoveries, or intelligence, are maliciously burlesqued through inuendos and invectives. The Editor may rest assured that this effort has consummated, the series of his wantonness; it is “the very head and front of his offending.” It is an impious assault against Heaven, and society and individuals. It endeavours to, drag before the public every failing and defect, supposed or real, inherent in those men who did not choose to become the dupes of the Publisher or Editor. It ungenerously, though inefficiently, would tear asunder that veil that shrouds our weaknesses from open scrutiny; it would follow us into our closets and retirements, and exhibit every failure attendant on our nature; it would pursue us into public, and bare our every mistake or er-

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ror that can be fabricated to indiscriminate gaze. It is a war against science, for it would, if possible, heap ridicule and disgrace on every pursuit and every employment that are not engaged in the cause of William Blackwood’s Magazine. As a specimen of the whole composition, we may refer our readers to verses 1-3; 16-18, 21-23, chapter I.; to verses 36-44, chapter III. But however we may despise the vile insinuations contained in these portions; however we may detest these insiduous taunts,—on perusing verse 25 of chapter I. our blood is impelled with impetuosity more vehement, our frame receives a shock that almost stuns us. O God, was it reserved for this age and country, for those professing themselves thy followers, thus to wrest that awful passage announcing, in prophetic anticipations, our Saviour’s woes and death. In the xxii. Psalm the inspired Psalmist pourtrays the pangs that were to press on his Redeemer’s soul and body, he delineates the foes that were to encompass him, and from the time that, in the garden of Gethsemane, “he was exceeding sorrowful even unto death,” till the moment that he “bowed his head and gave up the ghost,” the furious hatred of his opposers are

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described, and these characters, and that scene, are applied in the Magazine to the contests of a bookseller. But we need nut continue these remarks; these revolting blasphemies meet us in every page of the “Translation.” Nay, it has not even the merit of originality, for we are aware a similar attempt was made in another town, where, in Scripture-language, the principal inhabitants were aspersed. It pleased, as it may do in this case, a set of buffoons and harlequins; it gratified the spleen of the cowardly and malicious,—but in every other respect it bore no comparison to the present; its imitations were confined to some historical passage and peculiar phrases; it was circulated in manuscript, for till now none has been so dead to principle, as boldly to exhibit such blasphemies in a professedly literary Magazine. We are aware that, in France and Germany, during the reign of the Goddess of Reason, such travesties were common, that while the sans culottes danced round the cap of liberty, their songs were often composed of distorted extracts from Holy writ; that in the French circles such articles were composed and read with great eclat, where they excited the laugh of the

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abandoned, and the jest of the impious. This parody may do so here; but in every human being of sound principle, it can only inspire abhorrence. We have not yet forgot the severe censures inflicted by a Reverend Doctor on the author of the “Tales of my Landlord,” for causing his characters to quote the language of Scripture, though it was consistent with historical facts that such abuse prevailed amongst many in the period descried. In that case, the author, whatever were his motives, laboured only to make those individuals whom he pourtrayed as fanatics, ridiculous themselves, in their wrong appropriation of the sacred language. But this “Translation” can bear no analogy; its effects are to make the language of Scripture itself ridiculous, as well as the characters introduced. In the former, the author caused his heroes to misapply Scripture, in the latter the conductor misapplies the Scripture itself; and wrenches it to his own sordid purposes. We now ask that Doctor how comfortably he sits in company between Mr Z. and the Chaldee priest. If he turns toward the one, impurities and scurrilities meet him full in the face; and when he turns toward the latter, surely “great Knox’s shade

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walks unrevenged,” and “complains that we are slow.”

In the other articles throughout the Magazine, we observe the same cause for reprehension; but they so perpetually occur, that we find it impossible to scan them all: Ex his disce omnes. Had “the strictures on the Edinburgh Review,” been written in a less weak and feeble style, we might have adverted to some of the monstrous propositions they contain. But we must pass on to more important matter, leaving the writer to enjoy his thoughts on slavery,—on the power of the British parliament,—and on the example of the resistance of the United States.

We have perused the political department, containing the Foreign Register and British Chronicle. In the former, during the present peace, we cannot expect much matter. Accordingly, we were not surprised on finding the whole nearly extracts from foreign papers; but really we were more than astonished when we read over the only two paragraphs in which reflexions are introduced. We allude to the second paragraph of page 104, containing remarks on the present state of the Swiss, and to the article, page 105, prefacing the American news. The former we

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give at length. “Involved in the vortex of the French revolution,—torn by intestine broils, their usual watchfulness, their wonted energy was destroyed; and when the French themselves entered the passes of the mountains, they found no resistance. They rapidly desolated the country, and glutted themselves with blood and brutal licentiousness. A long reign of tyranny has since been the hard fate of Switzerland, who felt it, no doubt, as the lion did the kick of the ass.” That in two sentences there should be no less than four different violations of English composition, will afford much amusement to the boys of the High-school. By what new grammar has the writer discovered that two nouns require a singular verb. We learned something different, we think, from Lindley Murray, Rule II. on, Syntax, at page 143 of the twenty-eighth edition, to which we respectfully refer the writer for our authority, in contradicting him. Thereafter, an adjective pronoun is inserted unnecessarily and redundant—“themselves!” A metaphor then flourishes, but unfortunately opposed to all the instructions of Blair and Irving;—“they glutted themselves with blood and licentiousness.” The metaphor is mixed, one part taken from material, the

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other from mental qualities,—consequently is erroneous. As for, Switzerland, who—A gentleman recently arrived from London in Scotland, who was then nearly reaped,—go back, we beseech you, to Lindley Murray; your employer will surely advance you a copy at prime cost. The other paragraph to which we alluded is equally amusing. Speaking of the interest the people of the United States have for the republicans of the south, he says, “they even seem to look on the varying contest with such a steady gaze, that they see things double; nay, almost all our information comes through their hands; and they multiply the original accounts, like a philosopher propagating polypi, by cutting them in pieces.” So far good; but the politician goes on; “they so mangle them before they let them go again, that we are never sure whether it is the head or the tail, or a wing, or a claw, that they think proper to send us.” If them refers to polypi, in this place, it is nonsense; if it refers to the accounts,—of all the glorious confusion of metaphors, this is the most glorious;—the head, the tail, the wing, the claw of political news, is an invention of food for which the writer deserves a patent. Were we

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acquainted with him, we should make bold to call at supper-time, in expectation of being asked to partake.

We finish our remarks by examining “Some Observations on the Biographia Literaria of S. T. Coleridge, Esq.” These observations are the commencement of the Magazine. We hold the remark as just, that there is no man so bad as not to have exhibited some features of goodness; and we believe there are few books so exceedingly depraved as not to exhibit some traits of excellence. However much we may be disposed to contradict the Reviewer’s opinions in the outset of his observations, we allow him merit of having composed fine sentences; but in these are embodied opinions at once untenable and erroneous. The positions respecting the inquiry into the character of ourselves and others, are utterly at variance with all the principles of correct philosophy. What can be more absurd than to assert, “To scrutinize and dissect the characters of others is an idle and unprofitable task”? And again, “To become operators on our own shrinking spirits, is something worse——.” And farther, “And it may be remarked, that those persons who have bu-

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sied themselves most with inquiries into the causes, and motives, and impulses of their actions, have exhibited, in their conducts, the most lamentable contrast to their theory, and have seemed blinder in their knowledge than others in their ignorance.” Γνοθι σεαυτον among the Greeks, “searching of the heart,” among the Christians were, we understood, imperative duties. Not so thinks this writer. He wishes to write, if possible, an elegant paragraph, and, provided he succeeds, he is quite indifferent as to the nature of the matter. But it may be said, the Editor has erred rather in speculation than practice. It may be so; but we are alarmed on observing many conclusions that might be drawn from his hypothesis.

Whatever may be our judgment on Mr Cole-

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ridge as a man and author, we consider such sentences as the following as intolerable from such a writer. The assertions are so over-strained that they completely confute themselves. “He,” Mr Coleridge, “seems to believe, that every tongue is wagging in his praise,”—(how elegantly expressed,)—“that every ear is open to imbibe the oracular breathings of his inspiration;”and so on, to the same purpose. These silly attacks increase, till all credibility is completely outraged. “He seems to consider the mighty universe itself as nothing better than a mirror in which, with a grinning and idiot self-complacency, he may contemplate the physiognomy of Samuel Taylor Coleridge.” This picture must have been drawn from a bedlamite, and, even then, the colouring is much overcharged.

There never was, there cannot be a human being endowed with such a mind as that which Mr Coleridge is represented to possess. The observations on his character and disposition are inapplicable to any soul, however diseased. The being deserving such reprehension can partake nothing in common with our nature; he must be a creature of a totally distinct species. The Editor first assorts a man of straw,

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and then courageously beats him. Had any respect been paid to probabilities, even to possibilities, we might have been induced to give some weight to these lucubrations; but the mark can never be hit while the archer shoots so far beyond it. But the fact appears to be, that the Editor wishes to follow the example of the Edinburgh Review, and is most unsuccessful in the effort. That Review examined the works of Mr Coleridge severely, but in a manner very different from its humble and inefficient imitator. It reminds us of a sea-fight, in which a seventy-four in all her majesty bears down to encounter a line-of-battle ship, in the wake of the seventy-four; a collier follows with her black tattered canvas, and soiled flag, as if to mimic the ensigns of the mighty vessel. The collier keeps at a respectable distance during the engagement, and when the victory is gained, by incessant shouting and huzzaing, and insulting the captured seamen, boasts how bravely and well she has fought it. Nothing is more contemptible than the method in which the names of the Edinburgh Review and Mr Jeffrey are perpetually introduced in this Magazine. The conductors seem fully aware of their own inadequacy, and by continually in-

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serting that name that commands so much respect in the departments of science, imagine they will attract some notice. Unable by their own puny measures to move the literary world, they endeavour to place Mr Jeffrey’s name as the fulchrum to their ill-formed lever.

The reviewer takes care never for one moment to abandon the character he has assumed. Speaking of the leaders of the Lake School, Messrs Southey, Wordsworth, and Coleridge, he says, “This most miserable arrogance seems, in the present age, exclusively confined almost to the original members of the Lake school, and is, we think, worthy of special notice as one of the leading features of their character.” Bear in mind these observations, particularly with reference to Wordsworth, and turn to page 40, and read, “One great charm of Wordsworth’s noble compositions consists in the purity of thought and the patriarchal simplicity of feeling with which they are throughout penetrated and imbued.” Which page are we to believe? Again, more immediately with respect to Mr Wordsworth, “He, (the reviewer is speaking of Mr Coleridge’s tutor,) seems to have gone out of his province, and far out of his depth, when he attempted to

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teach boys the profoundest principles of poetry. But we must also add, that we cannot credit this account of him,” (how handsome a compliment to Mr Coleridge’s veracity,) “for this doctrine of poetry being at all times logical, is that of which Wordsworth and Coleridge take so much credit to themselves for the discovery; and verily it is one too wilfully absurd and extravagant to have entered into the head of an honest man, whose time must have been wholly occupied with the instruction of children.” We now proceed to page 73, “He, (Mr Wordsworth,) has brought about a revolution in poetry; (revolution is in italics in the original,) and a revolution can no more be bought about in poetry than in the constitution, without the destruction or injury of many excellent and time-hallowed establishments. I have no doubt, that, when all the rubbish is removed, and free and open space given to behold the structures which Mr Wordsworth has reared in all the grandeur of their proportions, that posterity will hail him as a regenerator and creator.” We shall, as soon as possible, close the account of these inconsistencies. In note beginning page 10, the following are some of

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the sentences: “There is something very offensive in the high and contemptuous tone which Wordsworth and Coleridge assume when speaking of this great poet, i. e. Gray. They employ his immortal works as a text-book, from which they quote imaginary violations of logic and sound sense, and examples of vicious poetic diction. Mr Coleridge informs us that Wordsworth ‘couched him,’ and that, from the moment of the operation, his eyes were startled with the deformities of the ‘Bard’ and the Elegy in the Country Church-yard!’ Such ‘despicable fooleries are perhaps beneath notice.——” Now for page 66; “A man of his intelligence must know that Mr Wordsworth is a person of great talents and great virtues, and has long occupied a high station in English literature.” We would now give a little respite to Mr Wordsworth, but positively his friends of Blackwood’s Magazine will not permit it. Once more, and he shall have rest. Hitherto we have requested our readers to turn to different pages, but we now call their attention to the circumstances asserted in the very same column, in page 6; “Wordsworth too, with all his manifold defects, has, we think, won to himself a great name, and,

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in point of originality, will he considered as second to no man of this age.” So far well,—when originality decides the palm of merit, we see Mr Wordsworth occupying his seat,—The surveying his peers,—and looking around him well contented to find he has “in this point,” no superior,—that he is “second to none.” Poor silly man, ere he is aware, a sovereign and king is suddenly elevated before whom he must bow in obeisance,—Walter Scott assumes “the high imperial throne;” for, says our trusty informer, “throughout all the works of “Scott, the most original minded man of this generation of poets.” We would condole with Mr Wordsworth on his tumble, could we command our features; but the coat of “many colours” with which the writers of this magazine have begirt him, renders him so ludicrous, that we cannot refrain from laughing. Up Wordsworth and flee out of the hands of these Philistines at any sacrifice,—roar “A horse, a horse, a kingdom for a horse,” and ride for life!

We make no comment on the politeness with which Mr Coleridge is a second time given the lie, when speaking as to a matter of fact he witnessed. The sentence is curious,

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and we shall transcribe it; page 10. “But the truth probably is, that all this is a fiction of Mr Coleridge, whose wit is at all times most execrable and disgusting.” These words will not startle our readers,—they are prepared for such pretty narrations. But we have something in store,—we have a disclosure to make that must burst upon them, lost in astonishment and confusion. They have not forgotten Leigh Hunt,—nor his character, delineated in this Magazine,—that ignorant, vulgar, blaspheming Jacobin,—that morally depraved, obscene Leigh Hunt,—whose company are kept mistresses, who talks indelicately like a tea-sip ping milliner girl, whose disease is indecency, and who speaks unclean things through perfect inanition. Yet the paper superintended by that “profligate creature” is adduced as evidence against the character of Mr Coleridge, to accuse him of ingratitude and breach of friendship. Whether the charge in the Examiner be true or false is nothing to us. But the fact is on record, that after having described Mr Hunt as a being, whose word no court of justice would sustain, the Conductors of the Magazine gravely bring forward the work he edites and superintends, to witness against Mr

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Coleridge. Is this doubted? we refer our readers to note page 15.

We now conclude our remarks, page 12. “At the house of a ‘Brummagem-patriot’ he” (Mr Coleridge) “appears to have got dead drunk with strong ale and tobacco, and in that pitiable condition he was exposed to his disciples, lying upon a sofa, “with my face like a wall that is white-washing, deathly pale, and with the cold drops of perspiration running down it my forehead.” What is the inference that every one must. draw from this paragraph? Is it not Mr Coleridge, in the company of such men as Watson and Preston, represented as drinking strong ale and smoking until he becomes intoxicated? Is not the impression on the mind, that he was amongst a rabble, and between every libation of strong ale, supporting his spirits by the tobacco, till, exhausted and inebriated, he sinks down drunk? We shall not ask the Editor to be ashamed of this rare fabrication, it is his handy-work and formation, and let him simper and smile as he views it. We earnestly request our readers to examine attentively, the original, and if there is a human being that will justify the Editor, we stand condemned. Mr Cole-

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ridge had made some unsuccessful attempts to procure subscriptions for a work he intended to publish. He says, “’This I have said was my second and last attempt. On returning baffled from the first, in which I had vainly essayed to repeat the miracle of Orpheus with the Brummagem patriot, I dined with the tradesman who had introduced me to him. After dinner, he importuned me to smoke a pipe with him, and two or three other illuminati of the same rank. I objected, both because I was engaged to spend the evening with a minister and his friends, and because I had never smoked except once or twice in my lifetime; and then it was herb tobacco mixed with Oronooko. On the assurance, however, that the tobacco was equally mild, and seeing too that it was of a yellow colour, (not forgetting the lamentable difficulty I have always experienced in saying, No! and in abstaining from what the people about me were doing,) I took half a pipe, filling the lower half of the bole with salt. I was soon, however, compelled to resign it, in consequence of a giddiness and a distressful feeling in my eyes, which, as I had drank but a single glass of ale, must, I

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knew, have been the effect of the tobacco. Soon after, deeming myself recovered, I sallied forth to my engagement; but the walk and the fresh air brought on all the symptoms again; and I had scarcely entered the minister’s drawing-room, and opened a small packet of letters which he had received from Bristol for me, ere I sunk back on the sofa, in a sort of swoon rather than sleep. Fortunately I had found just time enough to inform him of the confused state of my feelings, and of the occasion. For here and thus I lay, my face like a wall that is white-washing, deathy pale, and with the cold drops of perspiration running down it from my forehead, while, one after another, there dropt in the different gentlemen who had been invited to meet and spend the evening with me, to the number of from fifteen to twenty. As the poison of tobacco acts but for a short time, I at length awoke from insensibility, and looked around on the party; my eyes dazzled by the candles which had been lighted in the interim. By way of relieving my embarrassment, one of the gentlemen began the conversation with ‘Have you seen a paper today, Mr Coleridge?’—‘Sir!’ (I replied, rubbing my eyes,) ‘I am far from convinced, that a Christian is permitted to read either newspapers, or any other works of merely political and temporary interest.’ This remark, so ludicrously inapposite to, or rather incongruous with the purpose for which I was known to have visited Birmingham, and to assist me in which they were all then met, produced an involuntary and general burst of laughter; and seldom, indeed, have I passed so many delightful hours as I enjoyed in that room, from the moment of that laugh to an early hour the next morning.”

We leave Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine for October.

From the review of this work we look around us and joyously survey the noble exertions to disseminate literature and information. We see almost every man that can aid, (and who is there that cannot, more or less,) putting his hand to the labour. The progress of science seems accelerated by the wide circulation and grand displays of true charity. These prospects, after the emotions, the production we have examined, inspires, are really gladdening,—they are gratifying,—they came over us like “balm” to

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the “spirit troubled,” with the sad scrutiny of so much as we have had to blame. The reward of these generous philanthropists and benefactors of mankind will follow them.