the most distant approaches to it: the two ideas are utterly irreconcileable. To suppose that thought and feeling are only matter and motion disguised in a particular way, is, as if we were to believe that a circle may be composed of straight lines, or that a tune may be reflected from the colours of the rainbow. This argument has been often insisted on, but I do not think it has ever been satisfactotorily answered. The only answer which has ever been attempted is an appeal to our ignorance, which comes a little awkwardly from those who would give an account of every thing. They say that rnatter in itself undergoes many changes and modifications; and produces many results, altogether unlike any thing that we could predict beforehand, and that mind may be one of those remote and subtle modifications, in other words, that it is matter so organized as to produce the finer, more etherial, operations of thought. But I would ask, whether by a modification of matter, be meant any thing more than a certain combination of the properties of matter, and whether any combination of these can represent the nature of thought? In all the changes produced by matter and motion, there is nothing but matter and motion still: divide, sub-divide, multiply them how you will, you get nothing but some modification of the same qualities; the form, the arrangement, the degree, the quantity, and direction are different, but the things themselves are just the same. All the experiments that have been tried on various substances have never discovered them to be any thing else but the old original properties of matter, such as extension, figure, solidity, motion, &c. combined under differ ent circumstances. There is some analogy still left, which determines the class to which they belong; indeed, if it were not for something of this sort, it would be hard to say, in what furnace or alembic they could be found. When an instance is met with of matter having by its compositions and decompositions refined itself into any thing which was not matter, or of its having acquired any other real distinguishing properties besides those which it had at first, it will then be time enough to consider whether thought and conception may not be among the number. It is perhaps casier to explain this distinction in matters of feeling, than with respect to our ideas. Thus the sense of pain is surely very different from the prick of a pin by which it may be occasioned. Hartley has endeavoured in a very ingenious and elaborate way to account for the sense of pain by suppo sing it to arise from the solution of conti nuity, or violent separation and straining of the parts of which the nerves are composed, which communicates the like disorder to the brain. Now this separation of parts or solution of physical continuity does not give me the smallest insight into the nature of pain. I cannot understand what there is in common between the two things. It might as well, I conceive, be said that the tearing asunder the limbs of a wax doll gives one the idea of pain; or that the trunks of the enchanted trees in Tasso or in Virgil might have felt the same grief and remorse when their branches were lopped off, though they had not been inhabited by a human soul. As far as matter and motion are concerned,it must be quite indifferent whether certain parts of a body are in one position or another, whether they are in a state of separation or union, or violently thrust backwards and forwards from one to the other. As mere dull inanimate matter, they can neither know nor feel any thing of the jerks, the twitchings, the jostlings, or blows they encounter in these sudden commotions. Nor does it alter the case or advance the argument one jot to say that the substance of the brain or nerves is of a finer and subtler texture, that it is curiously organized, or endued with wonderful activity. Let us suppose the arrangement of the parts to be as exquisite as it will, still it is only an arrangement of unfeeling matter. This arrangement may produce an infinite difference in its mechanical motions, but what you want to produce is the power of distinguishing pleasure and pain where there was none. It is a transition from insensibility to sensation, from death to life, that is to be accounted for; and a change of place, size, or form, in a parcel of physical atoms does not make the least alteration in this respect. In short, we can never conceive of thought or feeling as implied in any of the simple, known properties of matter; and this being granted, as I think it must, it seems very unphilosophical to argue, that mind is notwithstanding only some modification of matter, since no modification of matter can entirely change its nature, or produce a distinct result from a ridiculous combination of a number of particles, not one of which could contribute any thing towards it. There is not, as it seems to me, the same absurdity in supposing the mind to be united to matter, or to be acted upon by it, as For the Monthly Magazine. in supposing that it is matter. For the immaterialist, in saying that the mind is not matter, does not pretend to understand its nature thoroughly, or to know what relations it may have to other things: whereas, the materialist under takes to define what it is, and in saying that the mind is nothing but matter, and that thought is motion, affirms not only what is unintelligible, but what is contrary to the fact. In the one case we are considerably at a loss to know how the thing can be; in the other, we have sufficient evidence to believe that it is not so. There is one other view of the subject which I shall just mention. It may be said that thought itself is a simple body of matter, an original attribute with which it is endowed, or the result of the same ultimate principle or substance in which the other properties of matter, as hard and soft, round and square, are supposed to inhere. But this is not the notion of materialism. It is not accounting for mind from the vulgar and known properties of matter, but from an entirely unknown and undefined principle, which may be called spirit as well as matter. For we have only to reverse the reasoning, and say that the common properties and operations of matter originate in the same power or substance, of which thought is a characteristic property, that is, in an intellectual or spiritual substance, and that they ought therefore to be called spiritual. It is only enJarging the sense in which we use the word matter, and making it stand for God or nature, or substance in general. The question is, whether thought is a primary, distinct, essential, quality of some substance, or, whether it is merely a secondary, artificial result of the known properties of matter organized in a particular We can only say, in propriety of speech, that mind is the same thing with matter when we mean that its laws and operations are the same with those of gross matter, as these are cognizable to our senses, and the objects of physical science. Otherwise we come to no explanation at all, but are left as much in the dark as ever; and very improperly apply to an arbitrary abstraction of our own, a term, whichis never used but in connection with certain definite ideas, or the known nature of matter. This letter has run to a greater length than I intended; and I will resume the subject in another letter, if you should deem what I have already written worth the attention of your reads W. H. Yours, &c. manner. ers. LYRIC POETRY. HE most just and comprehensive definition which can, we think, be def given of Poetry, is, that it is the language of passion, or of an enlivened imagination, formed most commonly into regular numbers. The historian, the orator, the philosopher, address themselves for the most part primarily to the understanding: their direct aim is to inform, to instruct, to persuade. But the first aim of the poet is to please, and to move; and therefore, it is to the imagination and the passions, that he speaks. He may, and he ought to, have it in his view, to instruct and reform-but it is indirectly, and by pleasing and moving, that he accomplishes his end. His mind is supposed to be animated by some in teresting object which fires his imagina tion, or engages his passions and which, of course, communicates to his style a peculiar elevation suited to his ideas; very different from that mode of expres sion which is natural to the mind in its calm and undisturbed state. The Greeks, fond of attributing to their own nation the invention of every art and science, have ascribed the origin of poetry to Orpheus, Linus, and Musæus. There were perhaps such persons as these, who were the first distinguished bards in their own country. But long before such names were heard of, and among nations where they were never known, poetry certainly existed. It is a great error to imagine, that poetry and music are arts which belong only to polished nations. They have their foundation in the very nature of man, and belong to all nations, and to all ages, though, like other arts founded in nature, they have been more cultivated, and, from a concurrence of favourable circumstances, carried to greater perfection in some countries than in others. These general observations upon the nature of poetry, in its first acceptation, lead us to the consideration of the Odea word, which in itself signifies song. It is not, however, our intention to enter into a lengthened discussion upon the lyre of the ancient Greeks-the association of music and dancing among that people, their Strophe, Antistrophe, and Peristrophe, which marked the movements adapted to accompany the person who held the instrument-the freedom with which they ran from one strophe to another, another, so that the sense by which they began the first, was completed only in the second-nor upon the possibility of according these, suspensions of the poet's meaning with the measure of the music and the steps of the dancers. All these difficulties have sufficiently exercised the learned; and many are yet unexplained. The history of the arts and sciences among the ancients, may be compared to an immense country, overspread with monuments and ruins with specimens of the most finished architecture, intermingled with every symptom of decay and fallen splendour. The ancients themselves have left us no traditions, by which we can ascertain the history of the origin and progress of art among them. They appear to have taken no precaution against time or future barbarity. It would seem, that they dreaded neither the one nor the other; and when we consider the long and brilliant part they acted in the annals of mankind, we can readily excuse their having been lulled into security, by this high opinion of their glory, and the immortality of their works. When, in Italy, we hear a skilful Improvisatore, preluding upon an instrument, sing a profusion of verses extemporaneously upon a given subject-when we perceive him, as he advances, become more animated, and accelerate the movement of the air upon which he composes, and then produce ideas, images, sentiments, and long strains of poetry and eloquence, of which he would have been incapable in moments of greater calm ness, and sink at last into a state of exhaustion similar to that of the Pythian goddess, we recognize that principle of inspiration and enthusiasm common to the ancient poets; and are, at once, filled with astonishment and pity. With astonishment, to find those emotions realized, which once were deemed fabulous and with pity, to behold these efforts of nature employed upon a futile and evanescent art, from which the Improvisatore can claim no other success than the pleasure of having amused a few curious auditors-while all the pictures, sentiments, and beautiful verses, which escaped him in the rapid moments of his delivery, are gone, and leave no other impression but the vibration produced by the sound of his voice. It was thus, no doubt, that the ancient lyric poets were animated; but their inspiration was more worthily and more usefully employed. They were not exposed to the hazard of ex temporary execution, nor were they compelled to the adoption of a subject steril, uninteresting, or frivolous. They meditated, beforehand, the subject of their songs; they proposed to themselves the most grave and sublime compositions; their enthusiasm was not excited to please a circle of idle auditors; but, in the midst of armies, to the sound of warlike instruments, they sang of valour, the love of their country, the charms of freedom, the hope of victory, or the glory of dying in battle. It was among a people to whom they celebrated the majesty of laws and the empire of virtue-in funereal games, where, before a tomb covered with trophies and decorated with laurels, they recommended to posterity the memory of some personage who had lived and died in the service of his country-in feasts, where, seated by the side of kings, they applauded the deeds of heroes, and stimulated the monarch to the laudable desire of being celebrated in his turn by future poets equally eloquent-or in a temple, where the sacred bards seemed inspired by those gods whose power they exalted and whose goodness they proclaimed. In a word, the idea that we are to form of an ancient lyric poet in the highest elevation of the ode, is that of a virtuous enthusiast, who, with the lyre in his hand, endeavoured to allay sedition-who, in a period of public disaster, gave hope to those who despaired, and courage to those who were ready to sink-who, in the hour of success, recorded the exploits of his countrymen-who, in the solemnity of a feast, augmented its interest and splendour-or who, in the games and exercises peculiar to his nation, excited the emulation of the candidates, by the hope of victory, and the certainty of reward. Such was the ode among the Greeks, With a people who worshipped their he roes, even more than their gods, the character of a lyric poet could not fail to be highly important. He was revered as the friend of the Muses and the favourite of Apollo. The enthusiasm of the people stimulated that of the bard-and all the genius of the country was devoted to this divine art. But what contributed still more to the character of grandeur which it assumed, was the use which was made of it for political purposes, by con necting it with the establishment of laws, and the reformation of manners. If we could suppose in the middle of Rome, Pergolese or Somelli, a lyre in his hand, with the voice of Timotheus and the elo quence may be "All odes," says Dr. Blair, 66 comprised under four denominations. First, sacred odes; hymns addressed to God, or composed on religious subjects. Of this nature are the psalms of David, which exhibit to us this species of lyric poetry, in its highest degree of perfection. Secondly, heroic odes, which are employed in the praise of heroes, and in the celebration of martial exploits and great actions. Of this kind are all Pindar's odes, and some few of Horace's. These two kinds ought to have sublimity and elevation for their reigning character. Thirdly, moral and philosophical odes, where the sentiments are chiefly inspired by virtue, friendship and humanity. Of this kind are many of Horace's odes, and several of our best modern lyric productions; and here the ode' possesses that middle region, which it sometimes occupies. Fourthly, festive and amorous odes, calculated merely for pleasure and amusement. Of this nature are all Anacreon's; some of Horace's; and a great number of songs and modern productions, that claim to be of the lyric species. The reigning character of these ought to be elegance, smoothness and gaiety." quence of Demosthenes, recalling to the memory of the modern Romans the splendour of their ancient city, and the virtues of their ancestors, we might form an idea of the lyric poet, among the first inhabitants of Greece. Such was Epimenides in the middle of Athens, Thersander or Tyrtæus in Sparta, Alceus in Lesbos. Not that the lyric bard always maintained this serious character-but his language, in every variation of his style, From grave to gay, from lively to severe, was always the language of nature, and adapted to the dignity of his subject, or suited to the peculiarity of his own feel ings and situation. Anacreon sang the joys of wine and pleasure, because he was a wine-drinker and a voluptuary. Sappho was the poet of love, because she was herself the slave and the victim of love. We have said, that the word ode is synonimous with song. It is from this circumstance, of the ode's being supposed to retain its original union with music, that we are to deduce the proper idea, and the peculiar qualities of this kind of poetry. Music and song naturally add to the warmth of poetry. By them we can express all the various feelings of the soul. The enthusiasm of admiration, the delirium of joy and love, the agony of grief, or the milder emotions of melancholy, are all equally within the power of song to delineate. In common life, the sharpness of anguish may be softened, as well as the transports of joy exalted, by singing-and though the grief which is more fixed and settled in the mind, would appear to betray repugnance rather than inclination for music, we know that it is often soothed by the same effects-as Orpheus is said to have calmed his sorrow for his loss, by the sound of his lyre: Te, dulcis conjux, te solo in litore secum, Te, veniente die, te decadente, canebat. It is easy, therefore, to distinguish what are the subjects which more immediately belong to the ode. Whatever raises or exalts the soul above itself; whatever excites it to heroism, or depresses it into languor; whatever has a tendency to inspire emotions spirited, melancholy, or voluptuous; the interesting dreams which Occupy the imagination, and the variety of descriptions which it summons to its aid-in a word, all the emotions of which the mind is susceptible and is capable of describing, are favourable to this species of poetry. A principal object in the consideration of the ode, will be an inquiry into that species of enthusiasm, which is supposed to be essential to its composition. An ode, professedly so, is expected to be written in a higher degree of elevation and spirit than any other. If the poet be possessed of genius, he is allowed to indulge it, in all its warmth and sublimity. He is not checked by those severe principles of correctness and propriety which other poems demand. He may give free vent to all the fire and impetuosity of his ideas, not controuled by the laws of metre, or restrained by the apparent incoherency of the thoughts. Thus, Boileau, speaking of the, ode, has observed, Son style impétueux souvent marche au hazard; l'art. But this observation can be true with respect to very few, and can be excused only by genius. What is inspiration in one, may be extravagance in a thousand others. The freedom of writing without order, method or connection, has infect ed the ode more than any other species of poetry. It is inconceivable to what a pitch of absurdity this licentiousness has been carried. The self-created Pindar imagines tem of ode making, will be found also to extend to the versification. The extreme length to which the periods are suffered to run-the rapidity and abruptness with which one measure is exchanged for another-the variety of long and short lines which are made to correspond with each other in rhyme, at so enormous a distance-increase the disorder, by the disregard to all sense of melody. Why, in lyric compositions, less attention should be paid to beauty of sound, than in any other, it is difficult to imagine. The truth is, that no species of poetry demands it more than the ode; and the versification of those odes, as is remarked by Blair, may be justly accounted the best, which renders the harmony of the measure most sensible to every common car. Another custom among the ancients, which has also been too much followed in the modern ode, is that of not completing the sense in one section, but pursuing it into another. Thus among many other instances in Pindar, the three last lines of the third strophe in the first Olymp. are these and Πρὸς ευάνθεμον δ ̓ ὅτε φυαν Λαχναι νιν μελαν γένειον ςρέφον, he completes the sentence in the antistrophe, Πισάτα παρα παρος And in Horace, Districtus ensis cui super impia Non avium citharæque cantus These singular intersections of a sentence are, at best, injudicious, and may surely be easily avoided *. To imagines that, to compose an ode, he must set at defiance every rule-he may pass from one abrupt transition to another, and indulge in every species of irregularity-provided his language be lofty and his sentiments uncommon, he may be as obscure and as unintelligible -as he pleases. Abrupt expressions of surprize, admiration or rapture--exclamations of love, joy or despair-violent distortions of sense, and the most forced construction of words and metre, are what more particularly distinguish the modern ode. They are often used to cover the most barren and common-place sentiments, and rarely convey any distinct idea to the reader, The quotation from Boileau, founded on the supposed extravagance of Pindar, has produced the most ridiculous effects, and the most absurd misapprehensions. We are not requiring here that the ode should be as regular in its structure as a didactic or epic poem. But it demands, as well as every other species of poetry, that a subject should be proposed as its ground-work-and that the subject, whether it be an address to some personage, or descriptive of any particular passion of the mind, instead of being forgotten or laid aside after the first lines, should be continued and illustrated through every stanza of the ode. The transitions from thought to thought are, of course, permitted; but they should be light and delicate, and sufficiently connected with the subject to enable the poet to fall, with ease and propriety, into the same train of ideas with which he sets out. For this incoherence and disorder of lyric poetry, the authority and example of Pindar have always been quoted, but, as we think, not always with truth or justice. We shall have occasion hereafter to examine this point more attentively; at present we shall only observe, that whoever considers the poems of the Theban bard with regard to the manners and customs of the age in which they were written, the occasions which gave them birth, and the places in which they were intended to be recited, will find little reason to censure Pindar for the want of order and regularity in the plans of his compositions. On the contrary, perhaps, he will be inclined to admire him for raising so many beauties from such trivial hints, and for kindling, as he sometimes does, so great a flame from a single spark, with so little matter to preserve it. This extravagance and disorder of ideas of which we complain in the modern sys * It may not be amiss to afford the reader an idea of the three stanzas used by the Greeks, from the following passage in the last paragraph in the Scholia on Hephaestion." You must know that the ancients (in their odes, framed two larger stanzas, and one less; the first of the large stanzas they called Strophe-singing it on their festivals at the altars of the gods, and dancing at the same time. The second they called Antistrophe, in which they inverted the dance. The lesser stanza was named the Epode, which they sang standing still. The Strophe, as they say, denoted the motion of the higher sphere, the Antistrophe, that of the planets, the Epode the fixed station and repose of the earth." From this passage it is evident that the odes were accompanied with dancing; |