214 Mr. Robert Montgomery, and Auo. 



authorities we recognise on the subject. They have made the fiend in 

 some degree an historical character ; and for an author (and that author 

 Mr. Robert Montgomery !) to think of coming forward at this time of 

 day and changing the established impression of ages, is as arrant a 

 piece of impertinence as if he were to attempt to fashion a new nature 

 for Caesar, Cromwell, or any other great man on whom the world has 

 already passed its decision. 



The true touch-stone of Milton's Satan is, as we observed before, 

 envy. Hence arises his gloom his despair his hatred. He looks on 

 Paradise; it's loveliness blasts him, and he turns away writhing as if 

 stung by scorpions. He fixes his gaze on the manly form of Adam 

 and the more delicate beauty of Eve ; a curse escapes him at the sight ; 

 the passions of his soul blaze fiercely out in his face, and, despite the 

 necessity of concealment, he betrays himself at once to Uriel. He looks 

 up towards the shining heavens, and his jealous and envious hatred of 

 the Omnipotent torture his soul to madness. In a far different spirit 

 does Mr. Montgomery's Satan gaze round him on the wonders of crea- 

 tion. Of man and woman, he discourses like a would-be Socrates, in a 

 strain of benevolence which (strange enough) he seems to think is con- 

 temptuous ; and of external nature with an equal absence of bad feeling. 

 With a sunset, in particular, he is delighted ; with a moonlight enrap- 

 tured ; the sight of a rich sylvan landscape throws him into perfect 

 extacies. 



(t Heaven-favoured land ! of grandeur and of gloom, 

 Of mountain pomp, and majesty of hills, 

 Though other climates boast, in thee supreme 

 A beauty and a gentleness abound : 

 Here all that can soft worship claim, or tone 

 The sweet sobriety of tender thought, 

 Is thine ; the sky of blue intensity, 

 Or charmed by sunshine into picture-clouds ; 

 The dingle grey, and wooded copse, with hut 

 And hamlet nestling in the bosky vale, 

 And spires brown peeping o'er the ancient elms, 

 With all that bird and meadow, brook and gale, 

 Impart are mingled for admiring eyes, 

 That love to banquet on thy blissful scene." 



This is a sweet, we will even say, a beautiful pastoral description ; but 

 who would suppose that it came from the mouth of Satan ? Who would 

 imagine that the Arch-fiend would condescend to imitate Thompson, 

 Grahame, or Bloomfield ? Again : 



" But lo ! the day declines, and to his throne 

 The sun is wheeling. What a world of pomp 

 The heavens put on in homage of his power ! 

 Romance hath never hung a richer sky 

 The air is fragant with the soul of flowers, 

 The breeze comes panting like a child at play, 

 And calm as clouds the sunken billows sleep ; 

 The dimness of a dream o'er nature steals, 

 Yet hallows it ; a hushed enchantment reigns; 

 The mountains to a mass of mellowing shade 

 Are turned, and stand like temples of the night ; 

 While field and forest fading into gloom, 

 Depart, and rivers whisper sounds of fear 



