person in whom he can confide, and who may have access to him. In like manner, the Sunday school cannot be constantly inspected by the minister, but he is responsible for its management, and even Sunday schools may be mismanaged. And when it is considered, how much schools cannot teach, and do not profess to teach, it will not be necessary to shew, how much must always be left for parents, masters, and ministers to do. The Author of the " Practical Essay," (which will be found to contain many useful hints to teachers,) complains that, even in Scotland, between the minister and the schoolmaster, the religious instruction of the young is miserably 'neglected.' We regret to hear this. When the constitution of the school will allow of it, the school-master may be no mean auxiliary to the minister. The "Plea for Christian Education" urges this duty on masters of schools with much godly simplicity; and as we cannot spare room to notice this tract more particularly, we shall insert the passage as at once a specimen and recommendation. But perhaps some may imagine, that I impose too much upon you, and that I would have you invade the pastoral office; that it is the province of those that are invested with it, to teach divinity; and that, for your parts, you have task enough in teaching the languages and other parts of learning, though you be not burdened with the additional charge of looking after souls. To this it is answered, that though it be the peculiar charge of pastors to teach and recommend the truths and duties of religion, yet certainly, to do so is in some sort the duty of all, as occasion offers, and they have abilities for it. It is true, all are not to take upon themselves public and authoritative teaching, that being reserved for those that are devoted and set apart for that end; yet, since instructing the ignorant is one great instance of that charity that is due to the souls of men, I do not see how any serious Christian that competently understands the principles of his religion, can be excused from it. The great Apostle, in several passages of his Epistles, enjoins all the faithful to teach and admonish one another (Col. iii. 16); to exhort one another daily (Heb. iii. 13), and to provoke to love and good works. Yea, even the other sex are not exempted from this obligation: for the same Apostle expressly requires, that the aged women be teachers of good things (Tit. ii. 3, 4), and particularly that they instruct the young women in those Christian virtues that belong to their age and station, that adorn their sex, and recommend their holy profession.' pp. 20, 21. It is an inauspicious circumstance, attendant on the increase of national wealth, that the conservative relations of society,those ties which bind together the master and servant, the teacher and pupil, the parent and child, the pastor and congregation, are apt to become loosened, and the problem of infi finite divisibility becomes realized in the independent selfish atoms into which the community is dissolved. George Rapp, Robert Owen, and other empirical speculators have devised schemes for artificially cementing together the incoherent particles into compact masses of society. We wish well to their experiments. But still, the book they despise, discloses to us a more excellent way.” Art. II. Theodric: a Domestic Tale: and other Poems. By Thomas Campbell. Second Edition. Foolscap 8vo. pp. 150. Price 83. London. 1824. THE HE distinctions of narrative, dramatic, and lyrical poetry are far from being so slight and arbitrary as many persons are ready to imagine. Undefined as may be the boundary-line between the different modes or styles of poetic composition, and difficult as it may be to fix on the specific characters of each, the real and essential distinction between lyric poetry and dramatic poetry, or between narrative and ethical poetry, is proved by the very different exercise of genius which they respectively require. The poetical faculty in Gray, Thomson, and Pope seems to be as variously modified as the powers of thought in Locke and Newton; and though, under the common name of poets, they range with Spencer, and Shakspeare, and Milton, there is not much more actual resemblance or affinity between their productions or the powers of mind which they display, than there is between the Seasons and the Rambler, or the Rape of the Lock and Hume's History of England. Lyrical poetry, the most ancient mode of all, seems to us to embrace iwo very distinct kinds of composition; the one depending altogether for its effect on the charm of expression, the other al“most independent of the expression, and affecting us mainly by the intrinsic quality of the ideas and feelings. Of the latter description is the poetry of the Hebrews, which has this singular quality, that no language into which it has been translated, how remote soever from affinity with the idiom of the original, is found altogether to destroy the sublimity and beauty of the composition. The odes of Pindar and the chorusses of the Greek tragedians approach the nearest, perhaps, to the character of these productions, much as we must necessarily lose of their original beauty in any translation. The progress of art . gives birth to the lyrical productions of the former class, in which the thought is subordinate to the expression, and almost every thing is lost by translation. We venture to rank in this class, Catullus and Horace, Campbell and Moore. No poet of the present day has produced more exquisite poetry than Campbell, by which we mean poetry in which every word has meaning, and every line has melody. But so strictly is he a lyrical poet, that he can succeed in no other kind. Not to speak of the higher matters of epic and dramatic composition, he cannot construct a narrative, cannot tell a story: he could no more have written Madoc, or the Lady of the Lake, than he could Paradise Lost or Hamlet. He can no more write a long poem, than Southey can a short one, who, of all our living poets, is the least lyrical and the best story-teller. Collins and Glover were not more direct opposites in their poetry. In Campbell's Gertrude of Wyoming, the only part which the reader long remembers, is the song of the Oneyda chief; and, of the present volume, if we are not much mistaken, the least interesting portion is that which has furnished the title. We cannot say that Theodric has disappointed us, because we expected nothing better from its Author in the shape of a domestic tale. The story, such as it is, is obscurely told, and far from pleasing, shewing neither judgement in the selection, nor skill in its development. It may be all fact, for any thing that we know to the contrary; but this is no sufficient recommendation of the tale. Julia, a romantic young Swiss lassie, falls in love, first with the character, and, on seeing his portrait, with the person of her brother's commanding officer, the brave Theodric. He comes, at length, to see her brother, to the great joy of the whole family, and would infallibly have fallen in love with the sister, had he not, unfortunately, been engaged to an English lady. Julia, on discovering this, conceals her disappointment and despair, till Theodric happens to say, that he had intended long ago to visit these parts. "Ah! then," she cried, " you knew not England's shore; Can these lines have been written by the Author of Hohenlinden' and O'Connor's Child? Oh, what a fall was there! Wonders have been wrought with a handkerchief in paintings, and, as a weapon of oratory, it is of no small importance, although to wield it with grace is a a rare attainment; but in poetry, to talk of a handkerchief is intolerable. The line wants only the homely expletive-pocket handkerchief, to complete the bathos. Nay, there would have been a Wordsworth-like simplicity in the line, had the words run: And with her pocket handkerchief That it was a white one, it would have been unnecessary to specify. To resume the story. Theodric leaves the next morning, and having transacted his business in Austria, returns to England by the Rhenish route,' and gets married. On the breaking out of another continental war, however, he obeys the call of honour, leaving Constance behind. Udolph comes to meet him somewhere, with the sad intelligence that Julia is dying, and wishes once more to see him. While he is speaking, some of Constance's relations are ushered in with a message from her, and a letter. Before he breaks the seal, he lets fall some expressions of dissatisfaction at the supposed message, which are industriously conveyed to her. In six hours,' she is with him, 'breathless,' as she might well be, with the expedition she must have travelled with. On hearing Udolph's message, she pleads Julia's case. Theodric yields to their joint entreaties, not without many dark presentiments. He went with Udolph-from his Constance went' He arrives in time to see her expire, and then returns to England, only to find that his wife has died in childbed, owing to the agitation produced by the unnatural conduct of her mother. Such is the tale, improbable and revolting. What lesson it is capable of supplying, we are unable to divine, unless it be a warning from Julia's fate to all young ladies, to beware of falling in love with heroes and red-coats before they know whether they are married or single, and, if single, disposable. Much of the poetry is very, very indifferent, far worse than Lalla Rookh. But now for the Poet's other self. What living Bard might not have been proud of having written the following exquisite stanzas ? TO THE RAINBOW. Triumphal arch, that fill'st the sky To teach me what thou art Still seem as to my childhood's sight, For happy spirits to alight Betwixt the earth and heaven. Can all that optics teach, unfold Thy form to please me so, As when I dreamt of gems and gold Hid in thy radiant bow? Enchantment's veil withdraws, To cold material laws ! But words of the Most High, Was woven in the sky. Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, To watch thy sacred sign. O'er mountains yet untrod, To bless the bow of God. The first-made anthem rang And the first poet sang. Unraptured greet thy beam : Be still the poet's theme ! The lark thy welcome sings, The snowy mushroom springs. O'er mountain, tower, and town, A thousand fathoms down! As young thy beauties seem, First sported in thy beam. Heaven still rebuilds thy span, That first spoke peace to man. * The Brave Roland' is a fine specimen of the genuine lyrical ballad. Give Campbell a simple legend like this, and no one can recite it with more touching pathos and elegant simplicity. The third line of the last stanza, |
