And there they are! the winged insect lovers of pleasure, and of gain and strife—in one word, of sin—entangled in the ladder webb; while such a monster is in the centre, watching his larder. John Bell is instinctively a moral weaver. Fine-spun are his philosophical threads; we stop not to enquire if they will bear the tug of life. He is trying them, however, on the "tug of war." Pen and needle are set to work philosophically, methodically, benignly. In this he is but a unit out of many thousands. His opinions are not singular. Amiable moralist!— delightful is the dream, sweetly sounding the wisdom; but is it practicable? John Bell's warfare, "The Assault," is, without a doubt, "confusion worse confounded;" it is not easy, at a view, to find legs and arms and heads in their anatomical order. We must trace the human figure as through its map. Perhaps this is purposely done to resemble a battle the more truly, where limbs are apt to fly out of their places. But John Bell thinks—
"The play's the thing
Wherewith to touch the conscience of the king."
So he pours forth from his "Unpublished Play" a choice tirade against the royal play of human ninepins:—
"And then a battle, too—no doubt it is
A right fine thing; or rather to have been there.
But all things have their price; and this, methinks,
Is rather dear sometimes. Oh! glory's but
The tatter'd banner in a cobwebb'd hall,
Open'd not once a-year—a doubtful tomb,
With half the name effaced. Of all the bones
Have whiten'd battle-fields, how many names
Live in the chronicle? and which were in the right?
One murder hangs a man upon a rope,
A hundred thousand maketh him a god,
And builds him up a temple in the air
Out of men's skulls. A loving mother bears
A thousand pangs to bring into the world
One child; your warrior sends a thousand out,
Then picks his teeth."
Such was Shakspeare's momentary humour, when he put it into Falstaff's mouth to ask what honour is "to him that died o' Wednesday." It is a humour that won't last—'tis against nature—man is more than half belligerent, and has a "murder" in him (to give it a bad name) "that will out." Even the peaceable Ephraim took up the handspike, and used it too, with "friend, keep thee in thy own ship." The "friend" was hyprocrisy—the use of the handspike, natural; the very elements are at war, and were made to be so—storms are as necessary as sunshine. But excellent able John Bell likes sunshine best; and who does not like him the better for that? And sweet sunshine has he shed around "The good Mayde"—a sunshine that makes its own magic circle, within which evil spirits or evil men shall not come. Tempt on, ye wizards—she looketh upwards, yet think not she will fall or miss her way—the Unseen guideth her steps. Bell's account of the matter is, however, far better. Let him publish his quaint poem, all of it; the specimens warrant the request.
"Thus doth the goode Mayde, with a stedfaste eye,
Walke through the troubles vaine, and peryls dire,
That doe beset mayde's path with haytes full slie,
The trappes and gynnes of mischief's cunning syre.
Ne nought to her is riches' golden shower,
Ne gaudy baites of dresse and rich attyre,
Ne lover's talke, ne flatteries' worthless store,
Ne scandal's forked tongue—that ancient liar,
Ne music's magic breath, ne giddy wheel
Of gay lascivious daunce, ne ill-raised mirthe,
Ne promised state doth cause her mind to reel,
Or lure from thoughts of heaven to joys of earthe."
Our poet, a moralist etcher, reverts to the old subject; and we have "The Progresse of Warre," in a series, as part of a frieze for his Temple of Peace. This is most clear—for he who runs may read; yet, on a second view, we doubt that—for we see, what we did not at first see, writing under each tablet that is by no means intelligible. Having, with Mr Bell, seen an end of the battle, it is fit time, with Mr Herbert, to discuss "The Day after the Battle." "Next day did many widows come"— that verse of Chevy Chase is the subject. The slaughtered knight, the widow, and the dog, tell the tale, and tell it well too. The widow is the best figure. We have had enough of battle and all its horrors; let us turn to tranquillizing nature, where the undisturbed lichen may grow upon the rocks, and the branches of unpruned trees throw out their sheltering leafage, and the innocent insects know it is their home; and even in the seeming silence, if you listen, may you hear the still voice of a busy creation, a world of a few summer hours—yet seemeth it to them an eternity of enjoyment. And such a scene we have in the "Woody Scene," by Thomas Fearnley—poor Fearnley!—and is it not lightly, elegantly touched with the needle? the scene realized? Or, would you see a wilder spot, turn to his "Norwegian Scenery," and see the saw-mill, or whatever the building be, at the very entrance of the deep wood in its gloom, with the mountain torrent pouring over the rocks. In this sequestered spot, man has built him a home, and turned to human uses the rebellious waters, even on the very skirts of the wilderness; and there he is, for his hours are not all of toil, gloriously angling, for he has hooked his fish. Poor Fearnley! would he could have remained in this country! Had he been moderately patronised, he might have added an honourable name to our dictionary of painters.
And what has become of Webster? We remember well his "Boys let loose from School." Here he is—and but one plate—"Anticipation"—well named. The pie is come home, and the boy's eyes open, and his mouth waters. The story is quaintly told by Townsend thus:—Lights and shadows of boyish days! how bright and deep they are! The schoolmaster's frown may be charmed away by the gift of a new top, or a score of marbles. But what are these in the cotter's life to the stirring vicissitudes of a pie! ——Before its departure for the bakehouse, did he not ponder admiringly on the delicate tact that mingled the bony scraps with.
'Herbs, and other country messes,
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses?'
"Since then, imagination has been at play; and, in accordance with its suggestions, his bib and tucker have been donned, as trusty adjutants to the formidable wooden spoon. Thus armed, while sister Phillis—the creative genius of the savoury structure—regards the baker's boy with her modest glance, young Corydon, with his prophetic anticipation, is ogling the baker's burden. If his knife be as sharp as his appetite, 'twill want no whetting! We must expect that, in the afternoon, when anticipation shall have faded through the stages of its fulfilment, if no longer entranced by the pleasures of Hope, he will solace himself with those of Memory." And there, sure enough, is the grinning baker's boy, and the pie admirably baked; and the boy of the bib and
