modes of speech contained in it: these may be named and set down according to their several degrees of importance, in the following order: First the Dramatic style, of all the most animated; in which some character is produced speaking in his own person, as Satan in Pandemonium "Is this the region, this the soil, the clime," &c. Secondly, the Vocative, in which the poet addresses the Muse, or some other personage or power, as in the opening of the same poem "And chiefly thou, O spirit! that dost prefer," &c. Thirdly the Descriptive, which is of two sorts; one abstracted or remote, the other particular, and, as it were, present: of the latter kind, by far the more spirited, and approaching nearly to the dramatic, is the picture given of the infernal regions, of Satan and his crew "At once, as far as angels' ken he views The remote description may be illustrated by the representation given of Eden, in the Fourth Book "Southward thro' Eden went a river large, "Nor chang'd his course, but thro' the shaggy hill Fourthly the Narrative, as when the poet relates any historical or fabulous tale, such as the account of the heathen idols "First Moloch, horrid king!" &c. and lastly the Declarative, in which some acknowledged doctrine, fact, or opinion is stated, as Spirits when they please "Can either sex assume or both, so soft “And uncompounded is their essence pure.”* EDWARD HICKEY SEYMOUR. (This Subject will be resumed in the next Number.) * Perhaps a sixth mode might be distinguished, in which the Poet introduces himself, personally; as in the opening of the third book, where Milton, emerging from the gloomy terrors of the infernal world, salutes the cheerful day, in strains, not less melodious than sublime. "Hail holy light!" &c. I am well aware of the censure which some morose critics are EDWARD AND MARY, A DOMESTIC STORY. Founded on recent Circumstances. EDWARD was the eldest son of a rich merchant ; Mary the only child of a respectable gentleman, who lived upon a moderate fortune in a retired village, (not far from the metropolis,) where the merchant had a country seat; but having more liberality than prudence he became the easy dupe of pretended friends, and died suddenly when his daughter was little more than sixteen years of age, leaving her without the smallest provision for her support. Mary was beautiful, amiable and accomplished. Edward had for some time felt a passion for her, which was increased by this sad reverse in her expectations. His father, he knew, was ambitious and fond of money. Hopeless, therefore, of his consent, he made an offer of his hand to Mary; and she, poor and unprotected, consented to become his wife. She loved the person, and esteemed the virtues of her Edward. These she long had known; but she knew not yet the relentless character of his father. The name of Edward was instantly expunged from his will, a small sum was sent to him by a servant, and the paternal door was closed against him---for ever. It is sweet to labour for those we love. Though intended for a mercantile life, Edward's education had been liberal. For two or three years his literary abilities procured them a scanty support. During this interval ready to pass upon this address, on account of the personal allusion in it but from factitious and arbitrary rules there is always open an appeal to sense and nature; and if, among the multitude of readers, the most callous-nerved relax in tenderness at this pathetic descant of the poet on his own blindness, the objection must at once be withdrawn, or left to famish on the barrenness of cavil; on words without meaning, or argument without consistency. he made frequent attempts to obtain his father's forgiveness, but in vain; he continued inexorable. This had a gradual effect on Edward's spirits; his health, from the sedentary nature of his occupation, began to decline; and soon after the birth of his third child, he was seized with a fever that threatened to be fatal. The poor Mary was always by his bed-side. Though her heart was ready to break, she constantly spoke the words of hope and comfort to her husband; and only when he had fallen into a short slumber, would she give vent to the affliction which almost overwhelmed her. Then would the suppressed tears burst forth, and bedew the cheek of the innocent babe that clung to her breast, and as she wiped them off, the unconscious infant would look up and smile in her mother's face; this, instead of relieving, gave additional poignancy to her grief. At length her husband's disorder abated; but it was necessary that he should remove a little way into the country. What gives stronger energies than connubial affection? Mary soon contrived every thing. Two rooms were hired in a small cottage near Epping Forest, and thither, accompanied by a female domestic, this distressed family removed. Edward derived benefit from the change of air, and was nearly recovered; but their little stock was reduced to a solitary guinea. Want, he had never yet felt; its aspect was frightful, and the apprehension that his wife, now doubly dear to him, and his three helpless children, might shortly be without common nourishment, brought with it a train of reflections that were intolerable. He resolved to make a last and solemn application to his opulent father, and endeavour to "knock at nature in his heart." He made known his intention to his wife, who, with much hesitation, and many tears and embraces, at length permitted him to set out. Early in the evening he promised to return. Agitated with a thousand hopes and fears Mary passed a melancholy day. It was about the middle of December, and the night was drawing on. She put her little family to bed. The eldest was a fine boy of three years old; the second, another boy, somewhat more than a year younger; the last, as before observed, a blooming female infant at the breast. The time of her Edward's return approached. How did she count each passing ininute! In a quarter of an hour she expected to clasp her beloved in her arms. You only who have passed an interval of absence from the dearest object of your affections can judge of Mary's anxiety. The night too was dark and tempestuous "Loud was the wind, and the rain beat hard against the casement." She had prepared a little supper to talk over the hoped-for success of her husband's application. The clock struck nine; but he did not return. She opened the window, and looked towards the forest; no object attracted her view, no sound of footsteps arrested her ear. Mary's heart died within her. " Yet why should I be alarmed?" she asked herself. "Some happy circumstance perhaps has delayed him; his father is kind; their re"conciliation has detained him beyond the time he "had appointed. Shortly I shall see him, his counte 66 66 nance beaming with joy; his heart overflowing with ❝rapture; or it may be that he has missed the convey"ance he expected;--or perhaps"--Here a sigh escaped her---Her thoughts had pursued an opposite direction, and she was afraid to follow them. The success of his journey formed no longer the subject of her contemplation. The gloomiest apprehensions had taken possession of her mind, and but to see him in safety was all the felicity she desired. Another hour elapsed. The pulsations of her heart began to beat quick, and she paced the room in great disorder. Now and then the sight of her pretty babes caused her to stop. Twice she knelt down, and kissed their little foreheads; then turning her eyes to heaven seemed to invoke the Almighty blessing and protection. Again she opened the window, and for some time listened attentively, then closing it, with a mournful motion of the head, sank into her chair in hopeless dejection; her elbow reposed on the table; her hand pressed her throbbing temples; while her eye, beginning to assume a frightful vacancy---wandered over the ruddy countenances of her infants as they lay, gently-breathing, before her. At length she thought she heard a confused sound of voices from the forest; it drew nearer ; she tried to rise, but could not---terror fixed her to the spot. A loud knocking ensued, and in a few moments the door of her chamber was opened by a poor labourer, and an elderly gentleman leading in her husband, pale, speechless, and bloody. Mary uttered a fearful shriek. Never shall I forget that heart rending exclamation. Edward was in the agonies of death, he staggered to the bed where his children slept, hung a few moments on their lips, which he seemed to quit only through weakness; and clasping the hand of his senseless wife, fell back exhausted with the effort, and expired. The senses of poor Mary are quite gone----and I fear for ever. As soon as she recovered from her first swoon, she called aloud for her Edward. She flew to the next room to which we had removed his body, parted his hair, kissed his lips and temples, and talked to him as if he had been still sensible to her conversation and endearments. "Edward, my love, my protector, my "husband---you must not leave me---your father never "will acknowledge me---my hands shall procure food "and cloathing. Do not depart. The nights are cold "and dark, the forest dreary and dangerous. Edward, "awake my life---still, still, we may be happy." This affecting scene almost overpowered me. I sent for such assistance as the melancholy occasion required, and confided the unhappy Mary into proper hands. She is now removed where every attention will be afforded her; but the physicians give no hope of her recovery; her malady seems beyond the reach of their art. In the room where she is confined, there is a small window which several times in the day she opens, and after straining her eye-balls till they seem almost starting from her head, as if in search of her husband, she carefully closes the casement, and placing her arm upon the table, falls into the attitude I have before described, in which she sometimes continues, as I am told, many hours. I visit her once a week, but she has no recollection of me, and, what seems extraordinary, never mentions her children, who, happily, too young to feel their misfortunes, are improving in health and knowledge under the care of a worthy school-master, with whoin I have prevailed on their grandfather, with much difficulty, to place them, and to make them, as well as their mother, a decent allowance. The particulars of this history I gathered from the nurse who attended them in their retreat, I have a house three or four miles further on the road from town, and was returning thither on horseback when the starting of the animal, followed by two or three deep groans, |