1830.] 



Domestic and Foreign. 



345 



Creation, a Poem, by Wm. Ball. \ 830. 

 There is no standing a whole volume of 

 809 pages of forced and extravagant senti- 

 ment, couched in language and measure 

 neither correct nor musical. If Mr. Ball 

 be in the isolated state he represents him- 

 self, he is to be pided, but what advantage 

 does he expect to reap from importunity 

 and whining ; and if the sorrows he de- 

 scribes be, as perhaps they are, all imagi- 

 nary if he is merely courting poetic sym- 

 pathy, why smack his lines more of vitupe- 

 ration than complaint more of rage than 

 of pain ? The world, bad as some think it, 

 forsakes nobody that is of use to it, or if it 

 does, no man is quite without family con- 

 nections or cotemporary friends, that will 

 stick by him, unless some misconduct of his 

 own cuts him off from such ties, and then 

 he must abide the penalty. 



Jam alone ; although the world's cold hand 

 Presses to mine alas! it hath no touch 

 To warm the falling pulse, or check the sand 

 Fast flowing noJ The world is but a crutch, 

 Wherewith I sc-ek my way unto the grave : 

 It knows not, heeds not me ; it is a lord 

 That gives, capriciously, his labouring slave 

 Raiment or blows* fetter or a sword. 



We prefer Pistol's tone tenfold to this 



miserable puling " Why, then, the world's 



mine oyster, which I with sword will open." 



J am alone ; to mine no human heart 



Heaves with lull sympathy; and should the 



earth 

 Cape and devour rr,c, not one man would 



start- 

 Save for himself, perchance I 

 And in such a perilous exigency, would 

 EOt Mr. Ball look to his own safety ? 

 I linger in this foolish scene of things 

 And I am left alone to strain and grope 

 Thro' th e world's vile and frivolous turmoil. 



For a poet, who professes devotional feel- 

 ings, these are very offensive sentiments, and 

 for a man capable of distinguishing one 

 thing from another, very ridiculous. Ob- 

 viously, Mr. Ball thinks he is doing no 

 foolish thing in writing this poem, and can 

 he be absurd enough to suppose the majo- 

 rity of the world he abuses is not at least as 

 wisely and as usefully employed ? 



The first Canto, which he calls by a term 

 of his own, Induction, exhausting some of 

 the sources of his personal grumblings, he 

 addresses himself to the subject of Creation, 

 and lashes his powers into action with this 

 potent invocation to his l own mind.' 

 Oh! insubstantial thing, invisible, 

 Abiding darkly in this mortal shell 

 Oh thou, " my Mind I" tb.ee and thy arming 



powers 



I summon and evoke ! I am thy lord 

 A lord of nought besides, on earth or sea ; 

 But thee I call thee I command : awake ! 

 Arise, obedient and with thee bring 

 Thy treasures and thy strength, commensurate 

 To what thou shalt perform, and I dispose. 

 Hear me, thou idle slave! Arise obey ! 

 M.M. New Series VOL. IX, No. 51. 



This separation of I and myself is par- 

 ticularly brilliant, and bodes much original 

 discussion, if the reader have patience to 

 search for it. 



Forrester : 3 vols. 12mo. The novelist, 

 apparently, must work by synthesis or 

 analysis begin at the beginning and 

 complicate as he goes, or dash into the 

 thick of a story, and unfold his mystery 

 as he can. The mystery mode, if we trust 

 to the profession of novel readers, is the 

 general favourite it is so delightful to be 

 kept in suspense. For our own part, and 

 we suspect it is the case with many who 

 profess the contrary opinion, we prefer the 

 right onward march of publicity we like 

 to see at first the rise of events, and trace 

 the current of consequences, and care less 

 about the sensations which suspense pro- 

 duces, than watching the development of 

 character, and enjoying the spirited descrip- 

 tion of scenes and sentiments. The writer 

 cf Forrester, betrayed perhaps by the talk 

 of young ladies, has adopted the suspensive 

 process, and maintains it to his latest page, 

 for though flashes of discovery break in oc- 

 casionally upon the obscurity, the eclair- 

 cissement is fairly reserved for the final 

 close. Apparently he has no other object 

 in pursuing his tale than to unravel the web 

 his fancy has woven, and trusts for effect 

 solely to the ingenuity with which he can 

 handle a mystery. He thus on plan and 

 system lowers his aim to the level of a mere 

 story-teller, though really possessed of powers 

 which might prompt him to aspire to higher 

 views, and execute more glorious deeds. 

 The tale, as it is, is without a moral or a 

 purpose it is built on no principle has 

 no general views, illustrates nothing, and 

 teaches nothing ; it is a tale to idle over, 

 and nothing beyond. It exhibits little or 

 no practical acquaintance with life ; it un- 

 folds no class no character no peculiarity ; 

 and might, with the exception of the Har- 

 rov/gate scenes, have been written by one 

 who never stirred beyond the pale of his 

 own neighbourhood, and spent his time in 

 dreaming of possibilities, or at the best, 

 throwing the incidents he meets with in 

 novels into new combinations. 



The story itself is of two young gentle- 

 men, who meet by accident in the travellers* 

 room in the town of Leeds are struck at 

 first sight with each other, and form vows 

 forthwith, like a couple of girls, of eternal 

 friendship. They have neither of them, 

 apparently, any thing to do, nor is either 

 at liberty to tell the other his story. The 

 passing' of a Harrowgate stage determines 

 both to go to that fashionable spot. At 

 Harrowgate they join the table d'hote, where 

 they find, at the lower end of the table, 

 new arrivals, like themselves, two Yorkshire 

 families, an ancient baronet's and an up- 

 start squire's. The first has a wife and 

 daughter ; the last, a wife and two daugh- 

 ters. The next day comes a dowager ba- 



2 Y 



