his possessions. The former he contrives to separate from him, and then, getting him on board a pinnace with his two infant boys, commits him to the mercy of the waves, and seizes without any scruple his lost inheritance. Sir Everard and his sons are conveyed to the desert island on which they have ever since lived, subsisting only by the net and the chase, to the present hour. Having detailed so much of his early history, the good father proceeds to unfold the mystery of his late extraordinary trance. On those foul nights, when, void of In our poor cell I lay as one in death, Paid nightly visitations to the place race; There rows of olive trees for ever green And purple vineyards variegate the scene, And long-drawn woods with mingled And hills that gently swell, and deeptow'rs and seats, embower'd retreats." The "disembodied ghost" reenters the hall of its fathers.-It sees again, and soothes the sorrows, of the captive Geraldine.It seeks out the usurping brother, and rouses the horrors of his sleeping conscience. For six successive nights the mysterious visit is renewed. At length the ghostly power ceases, but Sir Everard, firmly persuaded that those sharp visitations are the sure prognostics of his approaching release, instructs his sons in the whole secret, and prepares them will shortly have to play upon the for the part which he believes they world's great theatre. His prognostications are fulfilled. The conscience-stricken brother impelled by irresistible, feeling, equips a vessel on which he embarks together with Geraldine for the gloomy habitation of Sir Everard. After a prosperous navigation, they land on the desert island; and the Everard and his boys, may be ea.. sequel, as far as it relates to Sir sily guessed. But the fate of the wicked brother will not be so easily imagined; and we point it out as an instance of originality and strength in the delineation of character of which Mr. Bland has given us in this little volume more than one example. Anselmo is no feeling villain, who repents when he given, "lives happy ever after." can sin no longer, and being for He has injured too deeply ever to relent towards the objects of his injustice. Impelled by strong neces sity, by the scourges of awakened conscience, and the impressions of supernatural agency, to make a late THE MINSTREL. restoration of all that he had usurp ed, he retains in his breast all the venomous hatred which had long rankled in it, made infuriate by the sacrifice to which he has been compelled; and buries himself for ever from the sight of man in the darkest recess of that miserable solitude to which, in the full pride and lust of power, he had once condemned his innocent brother. Our extracts are sufficiently ample to give a due estimate of Mr. Bland's poetical genius, particularly as to the uncommon sweetness and harmony of his versification. That his beauties are disfigured by occasional 483 inequalities and imperfections is certain; some of these may be discovered in the passages already cited; but we have forborne to point them out more particularly, from our conviction that Mr. Bland possesses sufficient judgment to mark, and sufficient ability, when marked, to correct them. We rejoice that the success of this volume has been such as to ensure the continuance of labours which cannot fail of proving highly honourable to his reputation, and of which we may consider the two poems now before us only as the precursors. ART. VI. The Minstrel; or, the Progress of Genius. In Continuation of the Poem left unfinished by Dr. Beattie. Book the third. 4to. pp. 31. THE continuator of any work, whether poetical or other, which has long and successfully stood its ground in public opinion, is subject at once to a double duty, and to a double difficulty. No two minds are formed exactly in the same mould; both may be fraught with genius, with feeling, with taste, or with judgment; but then it will be a genius, a feeling, a taste, or a judgment of its own, assimilating perhaps in general tendency with its adopted model, but differing in individual features and distinctive character. If, then, the object of the successor be, as to a certain extent it ought, to form himself according to his pattern, though we may have no reason, in the case of acknowledged genius, to fear being put off with a polygraphic copy, yet there is much danger, lest the costume in which it becomes a point of etiquette for him to appear, should disguise rather than adorn, or even fit the natural proportions of his powers. On the other hand, should he give the rein to the native propensities of thought or fancy, as also to a certain extent he ought, he incurs the hazard of embroiling himself with the admirers of his prototype; who will censure that as incongruous in its present connection, which would have challenged their warmest admiration, had it presented. itself in a point of view, sufficiently distant from their previous impressions and partialities. After these preliminary remarks we proceed to give in Dr. Beattie's own words, contained in two letters to Dr. Blacklock, the original author's early sketch of his own plan. "Not long ago I began a poem in the style and stanza of Spenser, in which I proposed to give full scope to my inclination, and be either droll or pathetic, descriptive. or sentimental, tender or satirical, as the humour strikes me; for, if I mistake not, the manner which I have adopted admits equally of all these kinds of composition." Again, in another letter, I propose to give an account of the birth, edu tion, and adventures of one of those bards; in which I shall have full scope for description, sentiment, satire, and even a certain species of humour and of pathos, which, in the opinion of my great master, are by no means inconsis Ii2 tent." He then enters more particularly into the character and circumstances of his hero: but as almost every reader is acquainted with them from the poem itself, it would be superfluous to transcribe the passage at length. Now, with respect to the facility of admitting all kinds of composition, we conceive that most of the faults which have justly been imputed to Dr. Beattie's poem, have flowed from this source of desultory and prolix sentimentality or description. It is admitted, in the author's remarks on Gray's strictures, that the digressions and reflections in which he has indulged, would be unpardonable in an epic poem. And though the rules of the epic, or of any other branch, are not to be transferred to a species which demurs to their jurisdiction, yet to adopt digression as a principle, in a poem professing to be narrative, seems almost like a determination on principle, to abstain from laying any very strong hold on the reader's heart. Digression, whether in the way of episode or moral reflection, is occasionally both natural and ornamental; but the poet should be hurried into it by the momentary temptation, should be compelled to pursue the game by starting it in his own mind, and not proclaim a meditated chace, or beat the bush after an excuse for flying off from the main business of the piece. We entirely agree with Dr. Beattie in his opinion of Spenser's stanza, both with respect to the variety of pauses it admits, and to the pomp and majesty of the close. Its complicated, structure wears the appearance of involving the compossi in needless and painful difficulties; but we have the testimony of Dr. Beattie, that he was surprised to find it so little troublesome; and his continuator has given us reason to think, by the freedom, as well as strength and sweetness with which his verse flows, that the muse was well pleased with the medium in which it was given her to expatiate. The competency of our anony mous poet, to claim the lyre and identify himself with the renown of the North countrie minstrel; quid valeant digiti, it is now our business to examine. And here we cannot help regretting that, so circumscribed as are our opportunities of panegyric, we are not permitted to know, on whom so integral a part of our scanty dole is destined to fall. Yet we may perhaps give our opinion with the more confidence for considering, how seldom anonymous writers are flattered, how little inducement there exists to flatter them. Great names often draw down the praise of daring originality, for productions which ushered into the world as foundlings, would point the lash of criticism with its severest satire: the didactic of the titled author becomes prosaic and prosing in the nameless; elegance is convertible into insipidity, playfulness into fatuity. But we feel our withers to be unwrung, in giving it as our opinion, that the unknown successor of a great name (for such, or nearly so, we allow Dr. Beattie's to be) has trodden in general with no unequal steps in the path of his forerunner, and in some particulars appears with superior claims. The appeal to human feeling, in both, through the medium of moral reflection and pathetic sentiment, runs through the composition, and takes precedence of the fable; but the strain of melancholy is more tender and feminine in Dr. Beattie, and therefore well enough suited to the boyish years of Edwin; in his continuator it is deeper toned, more manly and impressive; it draws not its tribute from the fountain of superficial tears, but from the purer and more profound springs of philosophic sympathy. What is technically called the want of business, the early part of the third book shares in common with the two preceding. But the praise or blame of this, according to the varying taste of readers, must be assigned to the subject, rather than the author. The concluding stanzas of the book bring new and more important actors on the scene, opening characters which we can. not but feel impatient to see developed in the promised fourth book; for the public, we doubt noi, will take up the author's challenge, and "by ascertaining the real merit of his poem, and deciding it to be expedient for him to pursue his design," will fix him finally and firmly to the conditional pledge for its completion. It appears from the advertisement, that "the author had partly arranged his own design before Dr. Beattie's original plan came to his knowledge:" and on this circumstance he founds a hope, "that he may be excused his deviations from it." From what we can gather of the warlike story, which is to form the subject of the succeeding book, we argue that his apology will amount to a full justification. By laying his scene in the later and more interesting days of Edward, he takes more advantageous ground than the original projector would have taken, by carrying us back to the remote days of Danish invasion, and elicit ing the distresses of his minstrel from their barbarous incursions. The Scottish wars of Edward furnish a variety of historically consecrated incidents, to link the ideal bard with many a heroic name of high renown; and we trust that the "noble port and size of the mysterious strangers," the eye of fire may be considered as ensuring us a further acquaintance with events, on which our hearts have hung with interest, under the guidance of a severer muse. That our readers may judge for themselves, how far our remarks on the present performance are just, and especially whether we are warranted in judging, that the spirit and construction of the verses without adopting the technical imitation of obsolete language, is truly and effectively Spenserian, we shall select the following stanzas as fair specimen of the feeling and style which pervade this poem. XXVII. a And view'd with warm delight the fair and grateful fruit. XXIX. The animating tales of former days, Temper'd by Melancholy's chastening 'Wakening the patriot's warm heroic hand, fire; |