278 CRITICAL NOTICES OF NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



they are a charming specimen of typographical neatness and accuracy, 

 and of skilful and beautiful embellishment. 



These posthumous tales are twenty-two in number, and are introduced 

 by an advertisement from the pen of his executors, in which they confess 

 that they are not so perfect as they doubtless would have been had the 

 author himself lived to bestow on them more of revision and correction, 

 before finally submitting them to the eye of the world. 



This is an acknowledgment which at once disarms criticism, and 

 changes the sharpness of censure into the mildness of regret. If these 

 posthumous productions, however, are not equal, as most assuredly they 

 are not, to the faultless specimens with which literature was enriched in 

 the life-time of the author, they are such as do honour to the modeller of 

 this engaging but difficult branch of composition. It is true, as his 

 executors acknowledge, that *' his language has not always ejBfected the 

 complete developement of his ideas ; that images are here and there left 

 imperfect — nay, trains of reflection rather hinted than expressed, and 

 that in many places, thoughts in themselves valuable could not have 

 failed to derive much additional weight and point, from the last touches 

 of his own pen :" — but there is still perceptible the undecayed raciness 

 of genius, much of the same quiet humour and keen observation ; the 

 same brief and vivid desciiption ; the same unobtrusive pathos; and 

 the same prevailing reverence" for moral truth and rational religion. 



From the tale entitled " The Farewell and Return," we make the 

 following selection in elucidation of our comments : — 



" Yes ! — twenty years have pass'd, and I am come, 

 Unknown, unwelcomed, to my early home, 

 A stranger striving in my walks to trace 

 The yonthful features in some aged face. 

 On as I move, some curious looks I read ; 

 We pause a moment, doubt, and then proceed : 

 They're like what once I saw, but not the same, 

 I lose the air, the features, and the name. 

 Yet something seems like knowledge, but the change 

 Confuses me, and all in him is strange : 

 That bronzed old Sailor, with his wig awry — 

 Sure he will know me 1 No, he passes by. 

 They seem like me in doubt ; but they can call 

 Their friends around them ! I am lost to all. 



" The very place is alter'd. What I left 

 Seems of its space and dignity bereft : 

 The streets are narrow, and the buildings mean ; 

 Did I, or Fancy, leave them broad and clean ? 

 The ancient church, in which I felt a pride, 

 As struck by magic, is but half as wide ; 

 ITie tower is shorter, the sonorous bell 

 Tells not the hour as it was wont to tell ; 

 The market dwindles, every shop and stall 

 Sinks in my view ; there's littleness in all. 

 Mine is the error ; prepossess'd I see ; 

 And all the change I mourn is change in me. 



" One object only is the same ; the sight 

 Of the wide Ocean by the moon's pale light 

 With her long ray of glory, that we mark 

 On the wild waves when all beside is dark : 

 This is the work of Nature, and the eye 

 In vain the boundless prospect would descry : 

 What mocks our view cannot contracted be ; 

 We cannot lessen what we cannot see. 



" Would I could now a single Friend behold, 

 Who would the yet mysterious facts unfold, 



That Time yet spares, and to a stranger show 

 Th' events he wishes, and yet fe " 



fears to know ! 



