ABSTRACT
Mr. Southey is certainly a man of letters. He has read much and written a great deal more. If singularity may confer distinction, he is entitled to no ordinary share of praise. With a versatility of talent which nothing can subdue, he has run through every stage of literature, and reconciled apparent contradictions. Poetry, Politics, and Religion, have alternately hailed him as their champion; and with a felicity peculiar to himself, he has contrived to please all parties, while he adheres to none. He has flattered the Whigs, and followed the Tories—he has eulogized Wat Tyler, and canonized George the Third —he has commended the piety of the Methodists, and is now the staunch advocate of the Established Church. In this last character we must take leave to address him. His Book of the Church is assuredly a most singular production. In hardihood of assertion, dogmatical arrogance, and bold contempt of historical truth, it stands almost 312without a rival. There is a tone of dignified assurance and lofty pretension which we cannot but admire. His sentences are so many oracles delivered with all the solemnity of an inspired demigod. You are presented with a sacred text-book without note or comment; and when you call for proof, you are reminded of the ‘good old John Fox,’ or referred to an article in the Quarterly Review.… Mr. Southey has not forgotten the privilege of his profession. His pictures are all fancy- scenes ‘goodly to look to’ and highly wrought, but without a prototype in nature, or a shadow of foundation in truth. Like those dramatic daubs, which attract the eye by their gaudy colouring and distant perspective, his canvass presents a series of broad artificial sketches calculated solely for effect; and when held up to the light of day, exhibit a motley group of incongruous images, distorted shapes, and monstrous inconsistencies.—To be plain, Mr. Southey’s work is a tissue of misrepresentation and falsehood. It is somewhat singular that, in an historical outline comprising a period of sixteen hundred years, he should scarcely have been betrayed into one faithful and accurate statement. From the story of Edwin and Elgiva, to the tragical tale of Chancellor Gardiner’s death, we trace the same spirit of unworthy bias, disingenuous artifice, and pitiful perversion of truth. Fie! Mr. Southey, this is too bad. With all the heroic sacrifice of personal character which such a task must have required, there is still a portion of respect due to the public; and your own good sense might have pointed out the propriety of adhering to the semblance, while you violated the substance, of truth. If the scheme of your work precluded all reference to authority (and what a miserable subterfuge is this!) you might at least have spared us the insult of quoting the tales of visionary fanatics, or appealing to the legends of John Fox. If you must needs chaunt the goodly martyrs of the Reformation, and revel in all the barbarous horrors of bloody Mary, you ought in fairness to have hinted at the counterpart in the reign of her virgin sister. The more enlightened of your readers, who hate the subject most, know well which scale will preponderate in the balance of accounts. But there is a portion of the community whose diseased appetite can only feed on the follies of their forefathers; and there are ‘Ministering Spirits’ too, who deem it no disgrace to flatter the foul propensity and pander to the worst passions of the mob.
