that their high duties are in no way suggested to them. The conces sion of a people's allegiance is not, indeed, suspended on the con tingency of a monarch's conduct; but it would be worse than absurd, it would be extremely pernicious, to assert, that princes are not bound to regulate the affairs of their administration by the dictates of reason and the general laws of Scripture. If they are expressly ordained of God"-if they are not a terror to good works, but to evil"-if they are "the ministers of God for good;"-if they are "revengers, to execute wrath upon him that doeth evil;"-there can be no hesitation in affirming, that when they divest themselves of these qualities, and assume others of a directly opposite description, they draw down upon themselves the displeasure of Heaven, and be come the curses rather than the blessings of mankind.' pp. 266–271.

We have no room for further extracts, nor have we any disposition to criticise the style of Lectures prepared under the circumstances adverted to in the preface. To the justness and excellence of the sentiments, we are not aware of an exception; and they are enforced, as the quotations amply evince, in a popular, judicious, and striking manner. The language is always unaffected; and the style, if not uniformly unexceptionable in point of finished correctness, is, generally speaking, an excellent pulpit style. We cordially recommend the volume to the attention of our readers.

Art. VII. May Day with the Muses. By Robert Bloomfield, Author of the Farmer's Boy. Foolscap 8vo. pp. 100. Price 4s, London.

1822.

FEW poets have more honestly won, or more meekly worn their honours than Robert Bloomfield. That he is a poet, we will maintain in the face of all critics Northern and Southern, who would insinuate to the contrary. Had he been so fortunate as to come into the world fifty years earlier, no one would have thought of depreciating his claims. But the literary world has been of late pampered into daintiness. The Farmer's Boy was too loftily bepraised at its first appearance. It owed, it is true, much of its temporary success to the wellmeant endeavours of its Editor and Commentator; and so far the Poet was under great obligations to his Mecenas. But the ebb-tide of popular feeling has fallen proportionably below the mark, and has left the poet scarcely afloat.

It has been brought as a heavy and annihilating charge against Bloomfield, that he is not either Burns or Clare. To compare him with the former, were absurd, for Burns was not an uneducated man; and it were not less invidious to set up young Lubin to the disparagement of old Giles. But, as such a comparison has been hinted at, we will just take the liberty

to remark, that had Giles been left to follow the plough, instead of stooping over the last in Bell Alley, or vegetating at the Shepherd and Shepherdess in the City Road,-had he remained a peasant and a pupil of Nature till his limbs had acquired their full development, his frame had been strung to health, and his education as a poet had been completed by the woods and the streams, the winds and the sunshine, and the quiet of the country, our Farmer's Boy would have led off with the Muses on May-day in a far higher style than must now be expected from him. The man has brain enough, as his ample forehead testifies. The anterior cerebral lobes,' as Mr. Lawrence would say, are sufficiently developed to admit of his excelling as a poet. And he has certainly heart enough, for never was a more passionate lover of rural Nature. All that seems wanted is, a greater portion of physical elasticity, that should have given a healthful vigour to his thoughts, and tone to his feelings. The feebleness which is occasionally betrayed in his productions, is that induced by the languid action of a crazy frame, originally unworthy of the mind which it serves, and rendered still more inadequate to the higher functions of imagination by perpetual ill-health and concomitant anxieties. I have written these tales,' he tells us, in anxiety and in a ' wretched state of health; and if these formidable foes have 'not incapacitated me, but left me free to meet the public eye with any degree of credit, that degree of credit I am sure I shall gain.' They have not incapacitated him for pleasing those who are disposed to be pleased with wild-flowers and May-blossom, and such simple things as go to form a Mayday wreath; and he must be a ruthless and a heartless critic who would hy rough handling doom them to fade a moment before their time.

The argument of the present poem is as follows: Sir Ambrose Higham of Oakley Hall in the county of Fairyland, baronet, now in his eightieth year, yet being of perfect mind and memory, resolves on celebrating old May-day by giving a feast to his tenants, when they should be allowed to pay their half-year's rent in rhyme. As a precedent for so singular a bargain, the poet refers us to a paper in the Rambler, where an individual is celebrated, who, as Alfred received the tribute of the Welsh in wolves' heads,' allowed his tenants to pay their rents in butterflies, till he had exhausted the papilionaceous tribe.' A man has a right to do what he will with his own estate, remarks the Poet; just as a Poet has a right to do what he will with his hero. The only difficulty lies in the required supposition that a cluster of poets could be found in one village. But, happily, Sir Ambrose's proclamation was

not express that every tenant should bring his own verses; so that one poet-the Parish clerk, or Ploughman Giles, or any other individual addicted to composing sonnets, epitaphs, valentines, or bell-man's verses-might have sufficed for the village. In the present instance, however, it is affirmed that there

-Shot through many a heart a secret fire,

A new-born spirit, an intense desire
For once to catch a spark of local fame,
And bear a poet's honourable name!
Already some aloft began to soar,

And some to think who never thought before.
But O, what numbers all their strength applied,

Then threw despairingly the task aside

With feign'd contempt, and vow'd they'd never tried.

By some means or other, or, as we should say at OakleyHall, by hook or by crook, when old May-day arrived, there was note-paper enough in readiness to answer the demand. Thus came the jovial day, no streaks of red O'er the the broad portal of the morn were spread, But one high-sailing mist of dazzling white, A screen of gossamer, a magic light,

..3V3

Doom'd instantly, by simplest shepherd's ken,
To reign awhile, and be exhaled at ten.
O'er leaves, o'er blossoms, by his power restored,
Forth came the conquering sun and look'd abroad;
Millions of dew-drops fell, yet millions hung,
Like words of transport trembling on the tongue
Too strong for utterance. Thus the infant boy,
With rosebud cheeks, and features tuned to joy,
Weeps while he struggles with restraint or pain;
But change the scene and make him laugh again,
His heart rekindles, and his cheek appears
A thousand times more lovely through his tears.
From the first glimpse of day, a busy scene
Was that high swelling lawn, that destined green,
Which shadowless expanded far and wide,
The mansion's ornament, the hamlet's pride.
To cheer, to order, to direct, contrive,
E'en old Sir Ambrose had been up at five;
There his whole household labour'd in his view,-
But light is labour when the task is new.
Some wheel'd the turf to build a grassy throne,
Round a huge thorn that spread his boughs alone,
Rough-rined and bold, as master of the place.
Five generatious of the Higham race

Had pluck'd his flowers, and still he held his sway,

Waved his white head and felt the breath of May. of yore

Some from the green-house ranged exotics round,
To bask in open day on English ground;
And 'midst them in a line of splendour drew
Long wreaths and garlands, gathered in the dew.
Some spread the snowy canvas, propp'd on high
O'er sheltered tables with their whole supply.
Some swung the biting scythe with merry face,
And cropp'd the daisies for a dancing space.
Some roll'd the mouldy barrel in his might,
From prison'd darkness into cheerful light,
And fenc'd him round with cans; and others bore
The creaking hamper with its costly store,

Well cork'd, well flavour'd, and well tax'd, that came
From Lusitanian mountains, dear to fame,

Whence Gama steer'd and led the conquering way
To eastern triumphs and the realms of day.
A thousand minor tasks fill'd every hour,
Till the sun gain'd the zenith of his power,
When every path was throng'd with old and young,
And many a sky-lark in his strength upsprung
To bid them welcome. Not a face was there
But for May day at least had banished care.
No cringing looks, no pauper tales to tell,
No timid glance: they knew their host too well.
Freedom was there, and joy in every eye.

Such scenes were England's boast in days gone by.'

Of the songs and recitals, we have been best pleased with "The Soldier's Home," and "Alfred and Jennet." The latter is a very simple and interesting little tale, written to shew that it is not impossible for a blind man to fall in love.' It is so much the best thing in the volume, that we hardly do justice to the Author in not giving an extract from it; but we could not detach any passage from the narrative without disadvantage.

Art. VIII. Reflections on Gall and Spurzheim's System of Physiognomy and Phrenology. Addressed to the Court of Assistants of the Royal College of Surgeons, in London, in June 1821. By John Abernethy, F.R.S. 8vo. pp. 75. London. 1821.

THERE is no erroneous doctrine or theory which has for any

length of time obtained an extensive currency, but will be found to have been indebted for its success to some portion of truth imbodied in it. And the force of truth is in nothing more manifest, than in its procuring a reception for the errors in which it is enveloped. Had the speculations of Spurzheim been wholly baseless and unreasonable, had he been not simply a theorist but an impostor, no argument would have been necessary to disprove his Craniological reveries. Nor would even

that

not express every tenar that one poet-the Parish c other individual addicted to lentinės, or bell-man's ve village. In the present in

there

-Shot through r
A new-born spirit
For once to catch
And bear a poet's
Already some al
And some to thi
But O, what n
Then threw des
With feign'd c

By some means or Hall, by hook or by was note-paper enou

"Thus came
O'er the the
But one high
A screen of
Doom'd inst
To reign aw
O'er leaves,
Forth came

Millions of
Like words

Too strong i
With rosebu
Weeps whil
But change
His heart re
A thousand
From the fir
Was that hi
Which shado

The mansion

To cheer, to
E'en old Sir A
There his who
But light is lal
Some wheel'd tr
Round a huge t'
Rough-rined and
Five generatious
Had pluck'd his !
Waved his white h