ON IMAGINED PROGNOSTICATIONS OF DEATH. •b.••©*་་་་་་་་ To the Editors of the Northern Star. THE duties in which I am engaged afford me frequent opportunities of witnessing those remains of superstition, which, though they have in a great measure become obsolete in the busier haunts of men, still possess an imposing influence over the rustic's mind. Of the many circumstances considered as prognostications of good or bad fortune, of joy or affliction, those, which by the credulous and timid villager are accounted never-failing omens of approaching dissolution, most forcibly engage our attention, as much perhaps from the almost universal prevalence of the superstition, as from its antiquity. Amongst numerous other portents of death, the howling of dogs appears to claim the most distinguished place; by the classical writers it is constantly alluded to, and knowing that by it a dog expresses extreme terror, we shall not wonder if to people so superstitious as the Greeks and Romans, its occurrence seemed to be of fatal import. Thus Ovid in the fif teenth book of the Metamorphoses, when enumerating the circumstances of Julius Cæsar's death, has this passage:- "Dire wars and civil fury threat the state, And every omen points out Cæsar's fate. Around each hallow'd shrine and sacred dome, Night-howling dogs disturb the peaceful gloom." It is likewise mentioned in Appian's fourth book, Kuves le węuovo oĩa λúxo the dogs howled like wolves: whilst the Jews have a tradition that, when the angel of death comes into a city, the dogs howl, nor is it improbable that with this people the idea first originated. The croaking of ravens, and the shrieking of owls, are next to be noticed for the superstitious fears to which they give rise; these, as well as the one just mentioned, though generally thought ominous with respect to death, are not confined to that event alone, but supposed to give warning of others as unexpected and alarming. An epigram of Nicharcus in the Greek Anthology, refers to this omen in the following words : "Tis said that certain death awaits The Raven's nightly cry!" And Virgil in his first eclogue thus speaks to the same purport:→→ "These ills prophetic signs have oft foretold; Oft from yon hollow tree th' hoarse Raven's croak, And heaven's lightning on my blasted oak; Oh! I was blind these warnings not to see.” In addition to which quotations may be added one from a poet of the present day "But the dark bird sat on the oak, And loaded the gale with his sullen croak; Græme cheerly smil❜d on his faltering friend, "Tis well! Fate warns me of my end." Halford's Wallace. Canto 2nd. Shakespeare also, who with a master's hand painted the "living manners as they rise," has made several beautiful allusions to this ancient and popular superstition, of which I have selected two, no less remarkable for their apposite illustration of the subject than for their poetic excellence : the first is in Macbeth, and spoken by Lenox on the morning after Duncan's murder : "The night has been unruly; where we lay, Our chimneys were blown down, and, as they say, Of dire combustion and confused events New hatch'd to the woeful time. The obscure bird Clamour'd the live-long night."- -ACT 2. The other is in the third part of Henry VI., and spoken by the King with reference to the birth of Gloster : "The owl shriek'd at thy birth, an evil sign; The night-crow cried, aboding luckless time; Dogs howled, and hideous tempests shook down trees, And chattering pies in dismal discord sung." -ACT 5. The entire scene from whence this extract is made, is so highly poetical and at the same time so natural, that had not the rest of it been foreign to my purpose, I should have been tempted to quote the whole; that however being the case, I can only recommend it to your readers as a striking specimen of the vis poetica and genius of our immortal bard. Various other omens, though of less interest, might here be mentioned, were I not afraid of trespassing too far upon your pages to the exclusion of more valuable matter. To many it may, perhaps, appear that I have already attached a greater degree of importance to the subject, than the nature of it seems to demand; to such as are of this opinion, I would plead in excuse, that though neither inclined myself to superstition nor desirous of encouraging it in others, yet I cannot regard any thing as trivial or unimportant, which may induce my fellow-creatures to reflect on their passage from time into eternity. If the occurrences, the antiquity of whose origin I have now attempted to prove, tend to excite in those, who regard them as portentous, a serious attention to their future state, we must of course acknowledge their utility, though founded on wrong principles and fallacious ideas; and however disposed to lament the errors in which they have originated, still we cannot withhold our approbation of those beneficial effects, which they appear well calculated to produce. I am your obedient Servant, S. I. LAW. Wakefield, 3rd Feb. 1818. VOL. II. P ON THE INFLUENCE OF NOVEL-READING ON PUBLIC MORALS. To the Editors of the Northern Star. IT has been the never-failing source of discontented minds, that the earth and its inhabitants are in a continual state of degeneration. Whether it be true or not that former times have been more wise, more learned, more blessed with the good things of this world, and therefore more seemingly happy, is unknown to me as well as others; but if I may judge from history (and I have studied my share of it), the people of the "el den time" were much the same as they are now-proud, vain, dissatisfied, and complaining of the superiority of their ancestry in the same strain as we do of ours. The cause of this deterioration is respectively attributed to an increased flow of riches, to a decreasing ebb of commerce, in times of peace to the demoralizing state of a late war, in the days of war to the enervating influence of a luxurious peace. Some (I blush to repeat their sayings) lay the whole burden on the improvement of the mental faculties of the poor. They are taught their A, B, C, can keep their own accounts, and read their bible, and therefore these cavillers insist, the world must be in a much worse state than when they were plunged in ignorance, and necessity obliged them to be more under the control of the happy few who had thumbed their horn-books. A cry has lately been raised against the theatre as the chief corrupter of morals, and many learned pages and speeches have been produced to point out the influence it possesses, as much over the minds of matured age, as of youth. But one thing I believe has been quite overlooked, producing more mischief thau attendance on the theatre, which in provincial towns is confined to a few weeks in the season, and even during that time is only occasionally visited,-I mean the immense number of works of fiction, which under the name of Novels and Romances inundate the rustic village as well as the polished city. Through the medium of circulating libraries they are open to every one for a mere trifle. The hours which ought to be devoted to industry, or spent in profitable or endearing conversation, is wasted on these seductive tales of heroes and heroines. I do not wish to find fault with them as works of taste; considered in that light many books of this description are excellent mirrors, that "shew the time its very form and pressure:" it is the effects they occasion which I would condemn, when so indiscriminately devoured by all ranks and ages. I have been fond myself of the perusal of good novels, and if I dare search into my own breast, I am so still. I am certain they have done me much injury. They are the parents of day-dreams, those relaxers of industry. To acknowledge, what at times I have thought I ought to be, or what I should come to be, would stamp me for a madman at once. And yet what man is there, that does not more or less give way to improbabilities, and that, if candid, would not confess he had anticipated things impossible even to the veriest spoiled imp of fortune. All I dare confess, is, that the perusal of romantic tales influenced me to abscond during my apprenticeship three times; and each time I had determined to return either an admiral, or a Spanish grandee, or a Chinese mandarin. Alas! all my high-flown expectations are disappointed, and I am doomed I fear to trudge as a poor on the common path of existence, without adventures to put my energies into exertion, or achievements to mark me from the vulgar herd of mankind. As an excuse for all this enthasiasm, let us consider the leading traits of some of our most popular novels. In the works of Fielding, Smollet, &c. (for I need not go higher, as the works antecedent to them are perfectly harmless to our polished understandings,) overlooking their indecency, which in some parts is very great, we generally find the hero a young man of strong passions, indulging in all the seductive pleasures that surround youth. Their apologists say, that every crime has its respective punishment; but it is so slight, that it makes no impression on one who wishes to consider himself as a man, and at so distant a period that we forget the sin and pity the deserving sufferer. In the Gil Blas of Le Sage, who does not admire the bold dexterity of Raphael, and the sort of open dishonesty that preys upon the folly and baseness of mankind? Who would not suffer the hardships of the hero himself, to be so bountifully rewarded? In the romances of Mrs. Radcliffe's school, we learn to sigh after baronial possessions, or are eager to imitate the boldness and generosity of a banditti captain. The novels of Miss Burney, &c. are chiefly injurious to the female sex, and many a poor damsel has had reason to regret that she ever envied the fortunes of a Camilla or a Cecilia. Miss Porter may pride herself on her days of the Bruce, but the Claymore of Wallace has disturbed the industrious habits of many a promising youth without a correspondent benefit, for the days of Chivalry are gone by, and we are forced to live in peace and quietness. The author of Waverly, who stands the first of his days in this species of literature, has been the promoter of sighs as thick as autumn leaves. When we read attentively his description of the Highlands, where every man is a hero, where every hero maintains his independence, and where independence leads the mind to every thing graceful and glorious in human nature; who is there that does not spurn at the dull routine of a tradesman and the paltry obstinacy of a manufacturer. Even now, when all the horrors of a six years' trade has partially inured me to the necessary equivocations of business, I could cast away with rapture the supposed advantages of my situation, and embrace with joy the enthusiastic life of a Fergus Mac Ivor or even the dauntless misery of a denounced Mac Gregor. As works of taste, I again repeat, the best novels are highly to be praised, but as they are productive of great mischief by being so universally circulated, they are equally to be condemned. They draw the attention of the reader from the proper business of life; and as soon as they have thrown over him the veil of enthusiasm, to his sight all objects become inverted, his brain entertains a confused mass of indescribable feelings, and he is lost, utterly lost, as a useful member of society. He forsakes the straight path of his fathers to imitate the exploded virtues and graceful failings of a favorite hero. It is by this means that the works of fiction are the cause of such irreparable mischief; and I positively assert that they, and nought so much as they, are the first authors of that degeneracy so much complained of, and the occasion of which is so little understood. THRASEA. COMPARISON Of Virgil and THOMSON. [Concluded from page 17.] To the Editors of the Northern Star. I AM reminded by the clouded face of the heavens, the white robe of snow which covers the earth, and the hollow moaning of the rising storm, that I yet owe one paper more to your monthly publication. "See! Winter comes to rule the varied year, Sullen and sad, with all his rising train, Vapours and clouds and storms. Be these my theme, And heavenly musing." I proceed then, without further preface, to the consideration of those passages in this Season which have any resemblance to the Georgics, and to complete the comparison between Thomson and Virgil. There is only one passage in this Season in which I have traced any resemblance to the Georgics, but this is so strongly marked with the characteristic features of the original from which it is copied, that it as certainly indicates its origin, as the changes which it points out in the face of the sky intimate the future state of the weather :- "When from the pallid sky the sun descends, With many a spot, that o'er his glaring orb How striking, in the same passage, is the resemblance between the description which both poets have drawn of the moon rising in clouded majesty, and the stars shooting through the darkness of the night : "While rising slow, Blank, in the leaden-colour'd east, the moon Winter, 123-125. |