for curing his patient; the physician has a hundred, so, also, has the pseudo-critic only one way of arriving at excellence, while the poet, gifted with the eyes of Argus, perceives, at a glance, a hundred approaches to the temple of fame. It seems obvious, then, that the rage for particular modes, styles, subjects, measures, images, phraseology, &c., which characterize the present age, is not the offspring of improved taste, and that, instead of enlarging the career of genius, as we pretend to do, we only circumvent its excursions, and enchain its energies. This rage must, therefore, have been brought about by one of those revolutions in literature, which works itself into existence by slow and imperceptible degrees. How this revolution has been effected, is not unworthy of our attention. Formerly, a classical and liberal education was confined to a small portion of society. There were no means of acquiring it, but by a close and unwearied application to books, and an acquaintance with the best writers, ancient and modern. The mind, therefore, became naturally enriched with the treasures of classic literature and classic taste; and whoever united to these acquirements that original susceptibility of impressions, which constitutes genius, naturally took his images, illustrations, sentiments, and conceptions, from that extensive magazine of literature, which was bequeathed to him by the most illustrious writers and poets of every age, and of every clime. The poet, thus furnished with classic knowledge, was, therefore, enabled "to trace the naked nature and the living grace," because he viewed nature, not only with his own eyes, but with the eyes of others. His ambition was, therefore, to equal the great models which he had studied, in beauty of expression, delicacy of sentiment, luxuriance of description, richness of imagery, purity of style, sublimity of conception, elegance of selection, perspicuity of arrangement, and splendour of illustration. He knew, that without these qualities of poetic excellence, it mattered little what subject he chose, in what measure be wrote, or what cadences he observed; and that where these were attained, excellence was also attained, whatever might be the subject that exercised his pen. In examining, therefore, the merits of his contemporaries, he never inquired whether the subject was plaintive, amatory, heroic, elegiac, romantic, or pathetic; he knew, that Gray's " Elegy," though it had not a particle of romance, was not inferior, in point of merit, to Spenser's "Faerie Queen," and that of Shenstone's "Pastoral Ballad," though written in Ottava rima, was a better poem than Blackmore's “Creation,” though written in heroic verse. His whole attention was, therefore, directed to the treatment of the subject, or those qualities of excellence which I have just mentioned; and in deciding the merits of a poem, he never inquired whether it was romantic or not. He, consequently, never thought of forming a poetical creed, or a poetical school, which confined all excellence to a romantic subject, or a romantic manner. But in subsequent times, when literature became extended to a greater portion of society, the knowledge, which was heretofore acquired through an intimate acquaintance with the best writers, became partly supplied by conversation, and the advantages of a more enlightened society. In the days of Pope, every man was a profound scholar, or an ignorant clown: there was scarcely any medium.— These two classes never mingled with each other, so that little knowledge was acquired through the mere intercourse of society. The first class, accordingly, were almost all writers or critics, and the latter class knew they had no pretensions to be either. At present, the matter is quite otherwise; we have so many classes, that it is impossible to distinguish them from each other. We have few who can be called perfectly ignorant, and the profoundly learned are, perhaps, as few as ever. But between these extremes of knowledge, we have intelligences of all shapes and sizes, men, whose knowledge is less acquired from books, and a regular classical education, than from an intereourse with those who have acquired their knowledge through the regular channel. In conversation it always happens, or at least generally so, that men who appear nearly on an equality in treating any subject, are at an immense distance from each other, in point of real information. A learned man, or a man of profound thought and extensive views, cannot, in the rapidity of conversation, bring forward the whole chain of reasoning that lies unconnected in his mind, but which he is capable of connecting at his more retired and contem plative moments. Unable, therefore, to say all he wishes to say, and feeling he cannot do the subject that justice of which he knows himself capable, he often speaks less to the point than he who has a most superficial knowledge of it. He much to say, that he is at a loss, for the moment, where to begin; while he, who views the subject only in one point of view, feels no loss whatever in expatiating upon it. The little he knows he has always ready, and out it pops, whether it be applicable or not. No wonder, then, that men of superficial knowledge, and who owe the greater part even of this knowledge to mere conversation, should think themselves qualified to appear before the public in print, when they find such little apparent difference between them selves and men of profound and acknowledged ability. has so The consequence of such men engaging in authorship is easily anticipated, had we no experience to confirm the speculations of theory. They are continually mingling the more abstract parts of science, of which they have only glimmering conceptions, caught up hastily from conversation, with those more obvious and plainer truths which are placed within the comprehension of ordinary minds. Hence, they cannot descry the "naked nature through the chaos of thought, and the rubbish of ideal knowledge or of "nameless somethings, " which they have thrown over it themselves, and which, accordingly, conceal it from their view. He, who is totally ignorant of things, has a great advantage over him who has a smattering knowledge of them. From knowing them in part, he is led to believe that he knows them entirely, and, consequently, his general idea of each of them is false and confused. This confusion and false perception of things extend to every new subject which engages his attention, because we invariably, the learned as well as the unlearned, make use of the knowledge which we already possess, or imagine we possess, in judging of every new subject to which we apply ourselves; and where this previous knowledge is false and confused, it must, necessarily, lead us into a similar confusion and false perception of every thing, which we subsequently view through the medium of it. The man who contents himself with knowing nothing that he cannot know perfectly, who prevents his attention from straying to objects which are placed beyond the sphere of his comprehension, is seldom confused in his ideas, or mistaken in his judgment. Where he cannot decide clearly, he does not venture to decide at all: his judgment is not confused, by resting it on that heap of false knowledge which deceived the other. So far as he knows, he knows clearly, and, therefore, he rests every new judgment on this clear and accurate knowledge. If it be too contracted to enable him to judge, he suspends his judgment altogether, and, therefore, escapes the deception and confusion which unavoidably ensue from imaginary knowledge. It is obvious, at the same time, that where the facilities of acquiring knowledge without recourse to books are increased, where conver sation supplies the place of study and mental application, this confusion and false perception of things must necessarily extend to a greater portion of society. If every man we converse with were a Newton or a Locke, it would be impossible for us to derive any advantage from it, unless we first prepared ourselves to analyse and digest the knowledge which is acquired through the medium of conversation by previous study, and an unwearied application to books. Without this previous preparation, we take every thing for granted that is told us, because we are ourselves too ignorant to discover whether it be true or false. Hence we store up a thousand errors which to us are as true as demonstration itself, and accordingly they become the data of our subsequent reasoning. But this is not the only evil: without the preparation of which I have spoken, we are not qualified to understand what we hear in conversation, and, therefore, even when we are told what is true, we convert it into what is false by understanding it differently from what the speaker intended. It requires but a slight acquaintance with the history of English literature to perceive, that youth receive a more superficial classical education, and that their course of studies is more lightly and more quickly got over, at present, than during the three last centuries, though education of one kind or other is imparted to a much greater number of individuals now than formerly. It is now become a popular doctrine, that we should study men, not books, and accordingly we throw away our books, and enter early into society to acquire a practical acquaintance with the world. This is a grand mistake;here, as well as in the sciences, the ory should always precede practice; and he, who begins with the practical part, will always remain ignorant of both theory and practice. He who would be a man while he is yet a boy, will remain a boy when he ought to be a man; and he who begins to study men and manners before books and intellectual acquirements have enlarged his ideas, and taught him to distinguish between appearances and realities, will always remain a novice in the science of human nature. It is certain, however, that we have more writers of this latter class at present than we ever had before, and the causes which I have mentioned sufficiently account for the effect. A writer of this stamp, consequently, obtrudes on the public that "rude heap of wit' which is generated by the confusion and false perception of things which I have just mentioned. His blunders and perpetual inconsistenqies are immediately exposed by the critics. He perceives, though he may be unwilling to acknowledge, the justice of the chastisement with which they have visited him. He strives to reform; and particularly he strives to avoid the errors which they have pointed out; but in doing so he runs into the opposite extreme, believing that the opposite to deformity must necessarily be beautiful. He does not perceive that what is proper in one place is absurd in another, and that the beauty and propriety of every thing depends not on its being the opposite to something else, but on a thousand circumstances of which he is ignorant. He is again chastised, and again transgresses, and at length, becoming desperate, he leagues with some of his fellows who are suffering under the same lash. They see their only resource, and they eagerly embrace it. Aware that while poetry is subjected to critical rules, they have no chance of success, they come forward in a body, and maintain that all true poetry consists in writing as the spirit moveth. This is the origin of the romantic school of poetry; for those who produce merely what the spirit moveth, without ever inquiring whether it be a good or an evil spirit, whether it be clothed in light or in darkness, must unavoidably produce something wild and romantic. To prove that they have not recourse to this species of poetry through their inability to write what would stand the test of classical criticism, and that it is the real spirit that moved them, and not an affected inspiration, they frequently imitate the simple and innocent language of children, a simplieity which they know cannot be affected, an innocence which cannot be feigned. Here, however, they have been seldom successful, for a discriminating mind will easily distinguish between the simplicity of a child and the simulation of a literary sinner who is hoary with age. Fearing, however, that this romantic licence of sentiment would not entirely skreen them from the tribunal of criticism, and that though they succeeded in screening the absurdity of their sentiments under the veil of inspiration, they might still be exposed, if their number and versification were not sweet and musical, they went a step farther, and maintained, that true poetry ought not to be restricted to any certain measure, and that musical cadences were only good when they came of themselves, that is, when the spirit gave them birth. Accordingly, much of our modern poetry is mere prose; but when the spirit so willeth, what right have we to complain ? The romantic school has generated others, for every thing founded in error is subject to fluctuation, and prone to work itself into different directions. It is restless and uneasy from a sense of being fixed on a sandy foundation. The term romantic, however, may be justly applied to every school of poetry at variance with the classical school, so far as romance may be considered at variance with truth and nature. Those who cannot attain to excellence by copying truth and nature, are oblig ed to have recourse to other means. The object of poets who are thus put to their shifts is, like unskilful painters, to produce effect by one means or other. Some copy the stanza of Spenser, thinking by so doing they must come in for some portion of his fame, without reflect ing that Spenser owes no part of his fame to the stanza in which he wrote, and that he owes it entirely to the richness of his imagination, the splendour and variety of his imagery, the unaffected simplicity of his dietion, and his close adherence to nature. These would have served to immortalize him, let him have chosen what stanza he would, but the fact is, that if he had chosen any other stanza, these creatures, who live by the breath of others, would have doffed this celebrated stanza, as they call it, and have preferred any other that had the sanction of his name. But it is not the stanza of Spenser alone that is devoured by these poetic gluttons: they live upon his very words. They know they have little chance of surprizing their readers by sublimity of conception, splendour of diction, or any other quality that constitutes true excellence; and therefore they hope to surprize them by obsolete words and antiquated phrases, to which those who are only acquainted with the English language, in its modern improved state, are utter strangers. Having now endeavoured to account for the nature of the revolution which has generated poetic schools, and having shewn that they do not arise from the improved taste of the age, the next question to be considered is, whether, admitting the phraseology and diction of Spenser to be as poetic as it is represent ed, it would be proper to adopt this phraseology and diction at present. I admit, then, in limine, that certain words are more poetic than other words, and that the poet should always prefer the former to the latter; but I deny that, however happy Spenser might have been in the selection of his words, such of them as have been since antiquated should appear in our modern poetry. In admitting that certain words are more poetic than others, it is necessary to ascertain why they are so, before any inference can be drawn from it in favour of Spenser's diction. There is only one circumstance, then, that can render any term more poetic than another; and that is, that it convey a more poetic idea. The poetic charm is not in the word, but in the idea, for the most musical word in the English language is not poetic if it convey not a poetic idea, while a word composed of the harshest combination of syllables is poetic if it present a poetic image to the mind. It is true, musical words have always the preference, when the ideas for which they stand are equally poetic; but without this condition, their melody has no charm to a poetic ear, however exquisite they may be to a musical one. In the change which the English language has undergone since the days of Spenser, a great number of the words then in use has since become obsolete; but can the admirers of Spenser's diction point out a single antiquated term for which we have not at present a substitute. The substitute then must be as poetic as the term which it has superseded, as it stands for the same idea, for the poetry of both depends on the ideas for which they stand. If any objection can be made to the substitute, it must be, that it is not as smooth and musical a term as that which it has displaced. This, however, is an objection which never can be made, because the only reason that can possibly be assigned for substituting one term for another is, the harsh and ungrateful sound of that which is exploded. It is obvious, then, that however happy Spenser is in the choice of poetic terms, they cannot be more poetic than those which we have substituted for them, nor yet more musical. There are three reasons, then, against their adoption in modern poetry; the first is, that they have no advantage over the terms in common use, so far as regards their poetry; the second, that they are not so musical; the third, that their meaning is not so well known to the generality of readers, who are frequently obliged to consult their dictionary to discover it. This is a very important ob jection to the use of them, because the beauty of a passage is lost to him who cannot understand as fast - as he reads. I admit that the terms borrowed from Spenser arrest the attention of common readers more than their modern substitutes; but this does not prove them more poetical: it merely proves what requires no proof, that we are less apt to attend to things with which we are long familiar than to those which are novel to us. A person, come from any of the country parts to London, is more apt to turn round and gaze at a Turkish or Persian habit than at the most elegant English dress; but does this prove the Turkish dress more beautiful than the English? Certainly not. With all our predeliction for novelty, we pass by a Turkish habit unregarded after becoming once habituated to it, while no length of time can prevent us from admiring an English dress when elegantly adapted to the human frame. It is so with the dialect of Spenser; it arrests attention because it is not known; but if it came once into common use, we should get as sick of it as our ancestors did. The poets, therefore, who make use of it, are those who, being destitute of novelty of idea, seek to make amends for their deficiency by novelty of words. It is obvious, then, that every school of poetry at variance with the classical, is founded on a perverted taste and an erroneous view of true excellence; and that instead of enlarging, as it affects to do, the career of genius, it completely enchains it. It places poetic beauty in certain styles, measures, turns of expression, &c. while the classical school, that school which is so falsely said to restrict the imagination of the poet, gives an unlimited sanction to all styles, measures, subjects, cadences, images, modes of treatment, shade, and colouring, &c. &c. provided that we copy nature in each, and despise the low artifice of producing effect by overcharging her, by covering her with gold and jewels, and placing her on a gorgeous throne, to create admiration at the sumptuosity and splendour of her appearance. This, however, is not describing nature, but a prostitute idol which we have placed in her stead. The classical school imposes no restrictions whatever on the poet but that of following nature, which But is nature confined to one style? does she delight only in one measure? can she sympathize only with one class of images? is she always in a romantic mood, incapable of feeling the heart-felt joys of domestic bliss, and domestic scenes ? do not our own laurels and evergreens, our own native hills and oft-frequented bowers, the shades of our own oaks, the wanderings of our own rivulets, the echoes of our own vales, impart to a virtuous mind pleasures which it would not exchange for the uncertain raptures communicated by bowers and shades which exist only in imagination, and in the very contemplation of which the heart often -distrusting asks if this be joy. Nature is not so limited in her enjoyments. Pleasure flows to her from every point of the compass. She throws her own charms over every object, and has the art of turning bitterness into sweets. Even the painful emotions of tragic scenes become a source of her highest and divinest pleasures. The cadences which please her are innumerable, and the poet who adheres to nature will produce sweeter music from inharmonious sounds, than he who disguises her in gold and jewels can from the most harmonious and mu sical.c "Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one The live-long night;" yet every warbler has cadences of his own, and each of these cadences is musical to man. Even the scream |