than useless for us to add our testimony to the homage already paid to his merits, both as an inventor and an observer; but we cannot read any of his later works, without discovering prominent traces of the fretfulness resulting from the impossibility of gratifying inordinate vanity. By way of compliment, he was named the American Scott; this was to Cooper a very serious offence, for he believed himself superior not only to Scott, Bulwer, James, Grattan, &c., but actually deemed that he surpassed them all put together. He wrote a most extraordinary letter to his countrymen, abusing them in good set terms, for not sufficiently valuing his works, and he seriously believes that the world will suffer the punishment of some dreadful convulsion and indescribable calamity, because all rational men combine in regarding his pet production, the "Monnikins," as the very consummation of human absurdity. Perhaps there is no man who more singularly combines the feelings of an autocrat and a democrat, than Cooper; he is sincerely anxious to establish universal liberty, but he will have nothing to say to it, unless it be established according to his own whim or caprice. He dislikes England, not because it is England, but because it is a country replete with time-honoured observances, all of which stand in the way of Cooperian innovations. He believes that Nature designed him for a legislator of the first order, whose laws should lay a new foundation, and erect an entirely new constitution for the social edifice; while malignant fortune has doomed him to be a novelist, he is furious to find his stories admired, and his politics despised. We are not surprised that such a man should write against the English aristocracy; we are rather astonished that better feelings frequently win a victory over mortified vanity, and that he pays, almost unconsciously, an instinctive reverence to dignified manners. His conversion would not be beyond hope, were he to follow some of the nobility to their country-seats; were he to witness the zeal they show for the moral and intellectual improvement of their tenantry; the tenderness with which they relieve physical wants, and the care taken to avoid anything that would wound pride or hurt feeling. But after all, Mr. Cooper's quarrel with the English aristocracy is rather political than personal; and as his politics have been long set aside on both shores of the Atlantic as perfectly imprac ticable, we need not further dwell upon an examination of his statements and misrepresentations. We approach the description given of the English aristocracy in Lady Blessington's novel, "the Victims of Society," with considerable reluctance; the fair authoress enjoys much literary fame, we will not say more than she merits, though aware that she has courted the gentlemen of the press, and delicately canvassed their suffrages at her soirées. Neither are we disposed to deny the artistic merits of this particular work, though we feel that it has been extravagantly overrated by some of the Reviews. The only point for our consideration, is the fidelity of the portraiture; and here we must at once refer to the authoress herself, who pretty plainly intimates, in the preface, that she has depicted the results of her own experience. Now, supposing this work to be a perfect portraiture of that section of the aristocracy which has been brought within the sphere of Lady Blessington's experience, it is clear that no inference can be deduced respecting the entire body; for no one can be ignorant, that the writer has not held such a position as would enable her to become familiar with all aristocratic circles, and especially that she has had no opportunities of examining their internal and domestic arrangements. In general, the personality of a writer is a matter indifferent to the issue; we certainly should not refer to it, if it had not been put on the record by the authoress herself. There was more courage than prudence in the step, but now that it has been taken, she must abide by the consequences. We deny that there is anything like a correct view of noble society in the novel, because circumstances placed the delineator in the most unfavourable position for accurate observation. She necessarily was most struck with that aspect of aristocracy, which was most constantly before her; were a Pariah to write a description of Hindoo life, he would certainly make his own caste prominent. If, as some of the fathers have dreamed, there be a section of "equivocals" in heavenly mansions, one of them that undertook a portraiture of celestial life would assuredly invest the angels with a portion of the peculiarities of his own clique. "The Victims of Society" is a clever account of what may occur in the cometary ecliptics, but it reveals nothing respecting the orbits of the regular and established planets. The title is false in its universality; how true or how applicable it may be in a more limited and partial sense, we presume not to enquire, but should it come to a second edition, we venture to suggest the insertion of the indefinite article before 66 Society" in the title page; and truly the more indefinite such society is left, the better will it be for all parties. To return to a more pleasing subject; we venture to think that our beloved sovereign, so far from incurring any danger from being surrounded by the nobility and chivalry of England, will find in the circle the most striking examples of the qualities that adorn and dignify humanity. Were we to imitate examples which we condemn, we might, without reference to party, furnish a roll of names which would silence calumny, and put slander to the blush. But it needs not that we should invade the sanctity of private life, and gratify impertinent curiosity by an exhibition either of names or slightly-veiled characters. The British nation has ever shown that it appreciates the value of its nobility; it feels that such an institution secures successive generations, nurtured to feel that honour is a duty imposed upon them by position, and that a dereliction from virtue necessarily entails a loss of caste, a banishment from all associations that interest renders dear, or habit delightful. The converse of Pope's aphorism— 66 "Tis from high life high characters are drawn, A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn," is now being applied to the British aristocracy; sins that would not be noticed in filthy dowlas," are marked in purple and fine linen; the journeyman baker may have his "spree," but the Marquess of Waterford's "lark" will be published to the utmost ends of the earth. On no class has the responsibility enforced by the press fallen so heavily as on the aristocracy; their slightest words, their minutest actions, are watched; and the best answer they could make to those who libel them through ignorance, envy, or malevolence, is, see the fiery ordeal by which they are tried, and estimate their purity by the trifling influence resulting from the flames. ' The COURT MAGAZINE has not been slow to censure the errors of classes or individuals, where personal derelictions produced public consequences; it is innocent of adulation, it has never even been charged with subserviency. But dread of incurring the suspicion of flattery shall never deter us from vindicating the character of the aristocracy of England. It is strong in its historical reminiscences, strong in its ancient benefits, strong in its continuous guidance of manners; but stronger and more powerful in affording the noblest examples of disinterested patriotism, enlightened virtue, and active humanity. A RHAPSODY ON THE SEASON. HAVING Considered ourselves very illtreated by Winter-who thrust his icy fingers amongst the naked branches, and chilled the germinating buds, so that they could not come forth to gladden the earth in their proper time, and not having scrupled to say so much by way of complaint, it is due to the sweet south, and the sun, moon, and stars, to say that ample compensation has been made to us within the last few weeks for the long term of snow and bleak easterlies that were bequeathed us by the old year, as a sort of legacy to the new; -just as if the venerable monarch who has recently departed from amongst us had left the parting injunctions of a severe age to nip the cheering promises of the young queen's reign. The notes of the cuckoo, descending rapidly into the minor, give us assurance of the Summer; and a fruitful, healthful summer it will be. One of the puzzles that must always continue to perplex us, is that batch of anomalous verses, called "The Corn-Law Rhymes." We never could comprehend by what process of neutralisation of poetical enthusiasm a poet could wander through the fields, gaze on the labours of the harvest, listen to the music of the birds, watch the sunshine falling on the green slopes and melting over the hushed woods, and lull his senses with the perfumes of the flowers, and then set himself to the task of writing verses on the Corn-laws. If any one thing be more repugnant to poetry than another—or to Nature, which is the spring from which poetry derives immortal youth and beauty-that one thing is law, and fiscal law, above and beyond all other descriptions of law. Yet Ebenezer Elliot-who, notwithstanding the themes with which he tortures the Muse, and coerces her gentle and pliant spirit, is a poet, and all the more a poet because he is poetical in spite of his anti-poetical themes-can hardly utter a stanza of fine, bold, free thought that is not deadened by some of those literal matters-of-fact, that suddenly take us out of the illusion, and transport us into the dismal regions of politics. It is as if, in the midst of the brilliant deception of the theatre, some magical operation were to turn the VOL. XI.-NO. 1.-JULY, 1837. place into a sick chamber; and, instead of enjoying the amusement we came to see, we should be compelled to meditate upon the uncertainty of life. The sight of the reaper extinguishes the customs in us; we cannot for the life of us think of prohibitory duties, at so much a quarter, when we see a group of merry rustics seated under a hedge, in their many-coloured costumes, during one of those intervals of repose which they take in mid-day, while the sun is at its height. The blossoming May -now 8 month or two late, and just going out as this sheet shall be coming in-gushing out in a shower of white and pink spray over their heads, makes a shade for those people of the fields; and the scattered sheaves, that lie about before them in a state of "admired disorder," suggest the occupation that is to employ them until the close of the evening, when the enduring shade is to set in that shall see them returning home, happy in their ignorance of international law, and full of deep love and gratitude for that tranquillity which is the pledge and type of their free state. We know not whether Ebenezer Elliot's poems are read by the labouring classes, but we are sure that, without making them wiser, they would inevitably diminish their contentment. Of what avail is it to instruct the field population upon the permanent pleasures of Nature, the soothing delights of the green lanes and pasture lands, the pictorial attributes of herds, and the sweet images of sylvan life,-if, at the same time, they are taught to feel that they ought to be miserable about matters, the echoes of which reach them from afar off, but which touch them in such invisible details that, were it not for such vigilant friends as our Corn-law Rhymer, they might never know exactly why they ought to be discontented? If it be a duty to the country to expose the mal-administration of its affairs, that duty certainly does not devolve upon the poets; they, at least, ought to confine themselves to the pleasant aspect, where the rife fruit bursts out in the rays of the sun; and leave the damp side, where the weeds grow, to others. And, after all, Mr. Ebenezer is but half F a politician. He is the poet of the manufacturing interest, the rhymer of the factories; and, when he writes lyrics against the corn-laws, he does violence to that section of the people who have always been most endeared to the gentle craft. What is it constitutes the paramount charm of Thomson, Cowper, and Cowley? The country in its teeming luxuriance — the valleys, the hills, the rivers, the woods, the fields. Their poetry was created out of their worship of these glorious objects upon which human imagination lavishes all its riches, and yet finds itself incapable of giving expression to the deep joy of that permanent and ever varying inspiration. Let Ebenezer write an ode upon needles and pins, and inscribe it to Mr. Fielden, and he will work more appropriately in his vocation, than by issuing such frantic verses against the harvest-homes of England. A good Brummagem poetaster would find favour in the great towns-if he could not procurc the laurel, he might divide honours with the Emperor of Germany, for the least the manufacturers could do for him would be to present him with an iron crown. It is the very time for the gardens-for the first blush of the moss-roses, for the hues and odours that are now thickening over the ground, and loading the air with sweetness. In wonder, and not without some reverential feelings, we thread the mazes of these aromatic walks, where the shrubs and flowers cluster upon us as we proceed, exciting a thousand speculations upon the inexhaustible varieties of this kingdom of roots, that casts out such endless diversities of form, colour, and fragrance. The more we look upon these exquisite blossoms, the more we are struck with the conceits of the Oriental fabulists, who invested them with the functions of speech, with modes of thought, with the passions of the upper world, pride, envy, love, ambition, and vanity. Beautiful flowers! it is hard to think that you are born to perish so fast, and that rude hands will come to pluck you in the midst of your beauty, and for the sake of your beauty, perhaps in the very instant when you are holding high mysterious communion with others of your kind upon the false pretensions of your neighbours and your own peculiar advantages. There goes a budding rose, snapt from its stem by a thoughtless girl to fade an hour hence in her riband, which she doubtless believes to be as priceless, by virtue of its It tries hard to office, as the cestus of Venus. We heartily wish that the days of old were restored, and that the rose could chide and remonstrate in fitting roseate words: what a homily would it deliver upon the fragile nature of all beauty, pointing its discourse by its own fate! We can almost imagine the existence of an intelligence in these violets, whose dim loveliness has so sorrowful a tone. They are moistened, as it were, in tears— they keep in shadow, as if they retreated from the gaudy groups that rush up into the sunshine around them—and they creep close to the earth, as if they were timid and distrustful of exchanging sympathies with their holyday contemporaries. Then the lofty lilies, how flauntingly they rear themselves in the light, and toss their proud cups in the wind, shaking the bees in their delicate cells, as if they were indignant with them for taking such inexcusable liberties! Here, too, is London pride—a satirical creeping thing that flies over the ground at random, and throws up its small specks of blossoms with the petty presumption and pretence of a parvenu! look grand, and take airs on itself; but it is all in vain. The quiet, simple, and rich sweet-william beside it, looks upon its tiny stems with ineffable pity, and seems almost to smile good-humouredly upon its shallow pomp. Then the milk-white Provence rose with what a stately tone it stands in the midst, throwing out its snowy leaves so composedly, that one might suspect it were still in the atmosphere of that courtly and chivalric era, from which it derives its historical fame, and that the traditions of the Troubadours were realised in its presence. Is it conscious of its condition? Does it yearn for the triumphs of the past? Does it mourn over the vanished hours when songs and jousts gave importance to its beauty? When it was twined into coronals to float through the dark hair of the mistresses of knights and poets? When legends were made to celebrate it, and music wafted its praise into the ears of princesses? We wish the flowers could speak. A speaking garden would be worth all the poetry that ever was written. Singing trees and fountains would make the most ravishing operas, such as Handel, and Mozart, and Beethoven would gladly forego all the instrumentation which their fine genius could imagine to hear! How the honeysuckle would make love to the jessamine ! in what a delicious flow of recitative it would de scribe its languishing fears, its soft hopes, its tremulous desires, its palpitations, and piing ardour! What a strange thing it would be to hear the solemn aloe, after a hundred years of silent meditation, breaking forth in a sonorous tone, and delivering a lecture, like the grumbler of old, from its tub: or to listen to the thin voice of the air plant, which we may presume to be so slight an organ, seeing that its subsistence lacks help from the solid earth, that we should almost require the acute sense of Fine Ear in the tale to catch its low silvery notes. The tulip, we take it for granted, would talk like a gossip, caring little what it said, but clamouring above its fellows for the sake of hearing itself talk. The snow-drop would warble like a bird in the bushes, and its language would be that of a pleasant song, crowded with agreeable memories that should lead us into the future with bright hopes, as if the whole of the time to come were summer. The gaudy sun-flower would bluster like a fellow tricked out in finery, and boasting of its wardrobe, and taking the wall of its companions, and looking up and around it with a consummate assurance, that would make more refined flowers shrink away from it. We wish we could see all this in reality. Wondrous would be the morals of the garden. We should here discern the world reflected in a glowing surface of similes, and all the fine things that have been said and written on it rendered into their original tongues. In another month we shall have the fruit-trees in their prime. By that time the flowers shall have ceased to exercise their fragrant functions; a few will linger in their beds, but the tide will be retreating fast from the shore, and its departure will be the warning of the change of the seasons. The dominion of summer, proclaimed by multitudinous heralds, will be at its height. We tender our allegiance, and subscribe to the roll of the young reign, with one prayer, such as all liege subjects are permitted to offer up to their new sovereigns. Remember, most fervid Summer, that last Winter was especially disregardless of the interests of your sheaf-crowned majesty's injured predecessor; that he kept possession of this loyal island at the time when young Spring ought to have been decking herself with the yellow cowslip and the pale primrose" at her coronation; and we humbly entreat of your majesty to make reprisals upon that invading power at the next turn of the seasons, either by enforcing upon your majesty's successor the necessity of holding the sceptre up to Christmas next, or of keeping autumn out of her inheritance until your majesty shall, in your own royal self, accomplish the prayer of your faithful people. For the which we shall always hold ourselves in duty bound to pray for your majesty's welfare. 66 THE ORIGIN OF MILTON'S PENSEROSO. HENCE all you vain delights, But only Melancholy; Places, which pale Passion loves, Then stretch our limbs in a still, gloomy valley. Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely Melancholy. Fletcher's "Nice Valour." |