the moral influence of pure and sober Christianity. We grieve to find that a man of unquestioned learning has written so unguardedly, as to give even a seeming countenance to such mischievous absurdities. Mr. Faber's readers, however, are to believe, that he "exhibits the plain doctrine of the Church of England," when he assures them, that, until they have felt this conversion, or total change take place in their souls, "the word of God must remain a sealed book to them; (p. 51.) so that although they may "comprehend the literal and grammatical construction of the sentences, they will derive no more saving knowledge from it than the Jews did from the law when they crucified the Lord of life." (p. 51.) They are to consider themselves, "as totally devoid of all spiritual understanding, as a blind man is of the faculty of discerning material objects;" (p. 55.) they are to believe, that they cannot form any steady or effectual resolutions of serving God, or fix their affectious upon him, or their duty, to any good purpose. These positions, and others of a similar kind, it is Mr. Faber's object to establish and illustrate, through this, and the three next chapters. We cannot be expected to follow him closely through the whole of his discussion; and sufficient has already been said to put the reader upon his guard, and to warn him not hastily to form his opinions of the doctrines of our excellent Church, from the ipse dixit of this expositor. So vital is the importance of the subject under discussion to the whole Christian Church, that our readers would have reason for dissatisfaction, were we to slur over the remainder of this treatise with a hurried or partial notice. We shall therefore reserve the consideration of the many most interesting points which still remain, for our ensuing Number; on which, though we differ very materially with Mr. Faber, we trust that we shall differ both with candour and respect. (To be continued.) ART. II. Roderick, the last of the Goths. By Robert Southey, Esq. Poet Laureat, and Member of the Royal Spanish Academy. Longman, 1814. THIS is the first time that we have had an opportunity of paying Mr. Southey the attention which he deserves; and we avail ourselves of it gladly. His name is one, which, we confess, we VOL. III. APRIL, 1815. A a dwell dwell on with peculiar pleasure; in all the ranks of contemporary literature, there is none more honourably, or more enviably distinguished. Whether considered as a biographer, historian, or poet, it will be found that his writings breathe uniformly the same excellent spirit, and are calculated to produce the same good effect. Whatever be their fate or popularity now, (and this depends so much on whim and fashion, that we venture on no predictions,) from them all he will hereafter derive a higher praise than that which is due to the mere exhibition of talent; for they display a pure singleness of heart, actively disposed to benevolence and justice; and their tendency is to encourage in each sex of our fellow-citizens their appropriate virtues-to make our men bold, honest, and affectionate, and our women meek, tender, and true. We are quite of opinion with a celebrated lady, with whom it is not always our good fortune to agree, that there is somewhat too little of enthusiasm in the character of the present age. Chivalry, perhaps, is not so necessary now as formerly, yet we should not be sorry to see the chivalrous spirit revived amongst us. It would be too much to expect that the majority of general society should feel it, but it is indeed melancholy to see finer natures taming themselves down to the littleness of daily life, and souls of a more heavenly frame awkwardly assuming the garb of common men. How many a youthful heart struggles with its better feelings, and laughs in public at what has moved it to tears in private. And why? does coldness imply prudence; or is it necessary to the interests of society?— Surely there is nothing to be feared from excess of feeling in the world; enough selfishness will always remain without making generosity ridiculous. His writings, then, acquire additional value, who in politics, in common life, or in poetry, equally sustains the triumphant merits of the milder virtues; who adds to splendid heroism domestic charities, to lion-hearted courage the gentleness and truth of tender affections; and who, feeling himself, would make others feel, that these ornaments are even of superior value to those great qualities which they adorn. Therefore, in coming days, if England remain a nation, and our language pass not away, we are sure that the philosophic critic will place the memory of Southey, though not within the same high shrine where Milton sits for ever in undivided majesty, yet with no mean or perishable glory, first at his feet, his reverent, and his worthy son. Mr. Southey is eminently a moral writer; to the high purpose implied in this title, the melody of his numbers, the 'clear rapidity of his style, the pathetic power which he exercises over our feelings, and the interesting manner of telling his story, whether in verse or prose, are all merely contributive. It would therefore be no less useful than pleasant, if we had time, or opportunity, or if we could do the subject justice, to contemplate him rising independently and virtuously from small beginnings; in many temptations, and under many difficulties, still cherishing the pure light that was within him; always fearless and full of cheerful hope; never pausing for a moment to decide between faulty indulgence and self-denying sacrifice; sometimes ridiculed and despised, sometimes condemned or forgotten, yet ever self-justified, and in the end rewarded. He now stands extorting respect from the scorner, and honourable acquittal from the judge;from the world he receives fame, and is blessed with more intense affection from those who watched his progress with anxiety, but never doubted of his final success. Let us not be mistaken; of him, whom we praise, we personally know nothing, and we can have no interest in Alattering him; our remarks are made in the spirit of justice, and are founded on facts, which all the literary world know as well as ourselves. We proceed, however, without further preface to the examination of the poem before us; of which we propose to give a faithful analysis, interweaving such remarks as may occur to us, and making such extracts as may be necessary to give a full idea of it to our readers. The subject is the foundation of the Spanish monarchy in the mountainous province of Asturia on the overthrow of the Moorish invaders; its hero is Roderick, the last of the Gothic dynasty. The name of this personage is already familiar to our readers, from the spirited poem of Walter Scott, which bears it for its title, but they are not to expect the same character. Nothing can be more different; though both, we believe, are founded on sufficient authority for all the purposes of poetry; in the one case, without any palliation for his fault, we are presented with a semi-barbarian chief, struggling with remorse, and bent by circumstances, rather than by conviction, to an unwilling and ineffectual repentance-in the very act of confession proudly shrinking from shame, and in submission still imperious; one, in short, of those very faulty characters whom it has been too much the fashion of modern poets to render somewhat dangerous by investing them with nilitary gallantry, or cheap generosity. Mr. Southey's Don Roderick, on the other hand, is a man, who with some excuse to plead for a guilty act, is yet so overpowered by its fatal consequences, and so properly sensible of its own foulness, that all the energies of a powerful mind become directed to a sincere effectual penitence, au i to compensation for the evils of which he has been the author. In this light we look upon him as new among the heroes of poetry; had Spenser written the poem, he would have been the hero of the Legend of Penitence; in the course of it, without forgetting the frailty of human nature, is displayed one constant triumph of principle over the most besetting temptations; and before it ends, there is not a turbulent, unruly feeling of an ill regulated mind, that is not subdued into "the perfect peace, the peace of Heaven." There are some of our readers, whom such a declaration will alarm; they are so accustomed to divest poetry of its moral, that when they hear of a hero with grey locks in a friar's gown, they will apprehend that the poem is but a sermon in blank verse. Courage, however, chers enfans; here is plenty of sword and dagger, war-horse and chariot, a bugle or two, some little love, several beauties, and even a marriage in prospectu, with all other ingredients of a "charming poem." If any one doat so desperately on "love and glory," that this does not content him, we are very sorry, but we cannot honestly recommend Don Roderick to his attention. The poem opens with a brief allusion to the follies and crimes of the Visigoths in Spain, which had been visited on them by the invasion of the Moors from Africa; of this invasion, a private wrong and private vengeance, the violence offered to Florinda, and the blind anger of Count Julian were the immediate causes. Though Roderick had committed so flagrant an act, yet was he not without great qualities; it was the first blemish of a well spent life; and the sceptre which he had wielded with applause, passed not away from his hand without glory. The decisive battle lasted for eight successive days; perfidy at length prevailed. Orpas, Sisibert, and Ebba, princes of a rival line, and the two latter owing their lives to Roderick's former mercy, went over to the Moor, and gave him his victory. This introduces the hero to our notice, and he appears before us in the most interesting mauner. Here Mr. Southey has shewn much judgment; it was necessary to display him gallantly, and even desperately fighting, in order to give credence to the motives which induced his flight, and throw that interest over him, which at first, perhaps, he might have wanted. Bravely in that eight days' fight The King had striven-for victory first, while hope The spear-point pierced him not, the scymitar Cried Roderick, and he dropt Orelio's reins, Death, soon and short!-death and forgetfulness! Aloud Aloud he cried; but in his inmost heart And yet 'twas hope-a momentary light That flashed through utter darkness on the cross, Dark as before. Fear, never felt till then, Of lightning, smote him." P. 4. In obedience to the impulse of the moment, he drops from his horse, divests himself of his armour and all royal insignia, and in a peasant's weeds steals from the field of battle. The circumstances of his flight are beautifully told; it commences at evening, and continues for seven days and nights. Night and day have each their horrors for his troubled conscience; in the darkness dreadful recollections agitate him, fiends seem to haunt him, and, still more harrowing, the image of Florinda, "that agony Still in her face, which, when the deed was done, That it invoked from Heaven," Warns him off" with her abhorrent bands" from the cross, which he pants to fly to for mercy. When day returns, the desolation of the country, the abandonment of the villages, the miseries of the crowding fugitives of all ages, sexes, and conditions, particularly well drawn by the poet, and the universal curses on his own name, bring before him realities fully as insupportable as the illusions of darkness. On the eighth eve he arrives at the Caulian Schools, a celebrated monastery of that day, on the Guadiana, near Merida. It was the hour of vespers, but no vesper bell was heard; this too, like every other defenceless place, was abandoned; the monks and their scholars had retreated within the walls of Merida. One alone remained; from five years old, up to a ripe old age, he had served the altar, and, in the true heroic spirit of the early martyrs, he had determined not to fly from his post, but to meet his death of glory where he had passed his long life of innocence and holiness. Romano (for such is the legendary name of the monk) going to the gate to look for the coming of the Moors, finds Roderick extended before the cross, which was placed at the entrance; but this is so fine a picture, that we prefer to give in the Poet's own words : "Before the cross Roderick had thrown himself; his body raised, Half |