——— 
1828.] 
is to prevent the Russians from going on, 
if not the whole winter, at least till Christ- 
mas? This is no question put by a mili- 
tary reader. The wear and tear of an-army 
demands repose—there is no going constant- 
ly on for months and months, much less a 
whole year, with the same forces in con- 
tinued activity. Health gives way—horses 
droop—the spirits flag—and all more or less 
disorganizes ; but, besides, the roads are 
scarcely passable for individuals but in dry 
weather. When the wet comes, and snow 
and wet, and frost and thaw alternate, the 
roads, for an army—knee deep—hip deep— 
are perféctly impassable, not only for horses 
and cannons, but the men themselves. 
We are much afraid the Russians are 
somewhat of the latest in their operations— 
to the 19th August, they were still at Shumla 
and Varna; a second campaign may be re- 
quisite—and between the cup and the lip 
what may not happen ? 
The Omnipresence of the Deity, by 
Robert Montgomery ; 1828.—“ It is, in- 
deed, a magnificent and sublime com- 
position — in the very highest class of 
English Sacred Poesy.’’ — Literary Ga- 
welite. ‘‘ Were the author never to write 
another line, he has won a wreath which 
the most successful bard of the present day 
might be proud to wear.”—Literary Chvo- 
nicle. “In the matter and substance of 
the poem, originality and strength of talent 
are strongly visible; much beauty of de- 
scription and pure feeling, a glowing and 
striking imagery, characterises its general 
style—we consider it as deserving a great 
share of public attention and applause.”’-— 
Atheneum. 
Of these papers, or of their opinions, we 
know very little—the precious decisions here 
noted, we find at the tail of the bookseller’s 
advertisements, and have no doubt at all of 
their all proceeding from one source—di- 
rectly or indirectly—the writer of the book 
himself, who in a recent publication upon 
“ Puffing,” which we may- possibly notice 
farther, has given ample proof of the close 
inquest he has made into the mystery and 
practice of the profession. No three per- 
sons, at all accustomed to analyse their feel- 
ings, could all of them, from the promptings 
of those feelings, have come to so preposte- 
rous a conclusion—nor, unbiassed, have so 
committed their judgments to the laughter 
of their contemporaries. The truth is, these 
weekly prints are mere advertising media. 
To our judgments—we have no waverings 
about the matter—the poem is a piece of 
sheer inanity. We need use no qualifying 
terms—it is a stream—a shower-bath of 
oily phrases trickling off the brain, like 
water from a duck’s back, that never wets 
a feather. It is all words, words, words— 
an eternal round of alliteration—a fatiguing 
monotony of never changing cadence—the 
workings of a forcing pump—a combination 
of Campbell and Darwin—the tone of the 
_ M.M. New Series. —Vou.VI. No. 34. 
Domestic and F oreign. 
417 
one, and the mechanism of the other, used 
and abused to weariness and loathing. Not 
a single sentiment—we speak advisedly, 
upon actual reading—occurs, but of the 
commonest cast—not an approach to one— 
nothing that enlightens the intellect, or 
touches the feelings—he is a poet without 
creative power—neither eliciting new truths, 
nor new-shaping old ones—an artist without 
the genius of invention—working by rule 
and measure—a mere manufacturer. 
But the poem has reached a third edition. 
Then it has been much bought — much 
vead we never can believe. It was first 
purchased as the production of the Mont- 
gomery whom every body knows—the very 
title was calculated to mislead—and any 
thing of the genuine Montgomery’s would 
be sure, and deservedly sure, to secure at- 
tention. - Afterwards, the reverence. which 
naturally attaches to the subject, communi- 
cated some portion of respect to the poem, 
and the author had thus the benefit of pre- 
vious associations, in which his own crea- 
tions had no share—and particularly in the 
minds of the pious, who are little used to 
question their sensations. Inquiry shrinks 
before the awful consideration, and the spi- 
rit of criticism is quenched in submission. 
The truths and doctrines on such a sub- 
ject are admitted and undoubted; and the 
author has at least the art of employing lan- 
guage that sounds like energy, and rings 
like music. A few pages, however, must 
inevitably break the spell; and then the 
question follows—what is there in it? and 
the answer, nothing ! 
Though scarcely thinking it worth while 
to establish our dictum, we will give the 
reader a specimen or two; and to avoid the 
chance of injustice, we will dip into the 
book at random—sure that whatever we 
pitch upon will confirm all we have said. 
The sick man— 
When wan disease exhales her with’ring breath» 
And dims his beauty with the damp of death, 
At some sfidZ hour the holy sigh will swell, 
The gushing tear of gratitude will tell 
That Thou art by, to temper and to tame 
The trembling anguish of the fever’d frame. 
* But oh! when heal'd by love and heaven, we 
rise, 
With radiant cheek and7e-illumined eyes, 
Bright asa new-born sun, all nature beams, 
And through the spirit darts immortal dreams ? 
Now for the breezy hills, and blooming plains, 
And pensive ramble when the noon-tide wanes ; 
Now for the walk beside some haunted wood, 
And dreamy music of the distant flood ; 
While fav and wide, the wand'ring eye surveys, 
And the heart leaps to pour away its praise! 
The reader marks the construction of the 
verse—the alliteration—_the cadence—the 
perfect emptiness. Again— 
And when, ollivious of the world, we stray 
At dead of night along some noiseless way, 
How the heart mingles with the moon-lit hour, 
As ifthe starry heavens suffused a power ! 
See! not a cloud carcers yon pensile sweep, 
3 iH 
