an ordinary man's occupations are widely different; still the principle holds good. There is implanted in us a desire to be thought well of, which we cannot overcome. In common cases it ought not to be overcome: it is an useful incitement to deserve well of others. But the desire may be too anxious, and therefore morbid. If the world is resolved to be unjust to us, we ought to have a fortitude which would steel our hearts to its cruelty. It is, no doubt, a symptom of pusillanimity not to be braced by the storm that pelts us, but rather shiver before it and shrink under it. But such is too generally the fate of feeble bumanity. I do not mean to be the apologist of vice, or to argue that genius is above the rules of moral obligation. I think the reverse; I think that it is difficult, though not impossible, for true genius to exist without a high degree of virtue. I am inclined, therefore, notwithstanding many contradictory appearances, to believe the heart of Rousseau was virtuous. Not so Voltaire : but of him I am still prepared to contend that he was a man of inferior genius, though of splendid talents. I cannot doubt that Shakespeare's heart was the fountain of all virtue; his worldly and vicious characters were furnished to his fancy by observation : but all the "native wood-notes wild," all the bursts of grand and beautiful sentiment, all the mighty imaginings of his creation, sprung INTERNALLY in his soul, and must have been portions of the indelible essence of his heart and mind. Even while I am writing these things, I am fully aware how light-hearted they will appear to some persons, and how strongly they will exclaim, or at least think, how foolish it is to trouble one's self with these idle speculations, when nearer anxieties are pressing all around one! When they have extinguished in me the few palliatives for my misery I have hitherto found, perhaps they will be content. It is, however, a new and base doctrine which has grown up in the world, that it is immoral to waste one's energies on any thing but one's own private concerns. In truth, the whole system of human morals buman intellect is ness are coming again. In the midst of poverty —even under imprisonment and threatened death, men were formerly glorified for escaping from themselves into the regions of fancy and abstract speculation. It is among the splendours of Tasso's character the most splendid trait. Whoever has seen the vault at Ferrara, in which he lived for seven years, MUST admit this. Read Valerianus on the Infelicity of Authors: does such a monstrous doctrine ever once break out there? No age but this ungenerous and brutal one would have to hint it. A man ought to proceed sternly on his way, regardless of all insects, and hornets, and vultures, that gather round him and persecute him. He has a magnanimous heart if he can, and deserves all admiration. But who dares call upon his fellow for such perfection? Why may I not be forgiven ordinary foibles and weaknesses? Why am I never to be given credit for what is good, yet always unsparingly censured for what may be ill? More than half mankind live to do nothing but ill; they have no redeeming virtues or merits; they are not merely "fruges consumere nati," but (to use bad Latin) “malum committere nati." Say that I have done but little which is of solid and permanent value, still I have done something. Every virtuous and natural sentiment, expressed with force or elegance, is a good; every image which is calculated to give refined pleasure mends the mind; every historical fact, which is sufficiently interesting in its relation to loosen us from the present, and teach our minds to admit in their comparisons a rival conflict of the past, is, when so related, a step fitted to advance us in the sphere of intellect. It cannot be denied, that if these are mere manufacturers mere transcripts, or scissors, paste, and paper-they can lay claim to no more than a mechanical merit. But I have endeavoured always to think for myself, and to express my own genuine feelings not the borrowed sentiments of others. Through life I have turned my attention inwards, and the workings of my own mind and heart; I have anxiously sought for the truth, and I believe that Adam paid a conscientious regard in generosity, and refinement, has always had my sincere admiration; and that my praises of them have been most unaffected and enforced. I know that, if virtue lies in the heart, those hours -those numerous hours, amounting to long years-which I have spent in literature, have been truly virtuous and pure. The common mind is exercised principally in plotting for its own interest or its own vanity, or in the contemplation of gross amusements or gross indulgences. Literature detaches, enlarges, raises, softens, improves the quality, and gives flavour to the task, force and solidity to the spirit, and polish to the surface. It tends to expel personalities and localities, and to draw off the poison of evil passions, by letting in the air of heaven upon them. If the internal picture of the human heart could be laid open, and that of a being deeply imbued and actively exercised in sound literature, compared with that of another unschooled in such discipline, how inexpressibly striking would be the contrast!-one, all genial light, varied with a thousand colours, breathing fragrance and incense; the other, savage, dark, beset with weeds and thorns, impenetrable with morasses, chill and frightful with fogs, and death-like from uncleared putridities. Compare the morning I have spent in writing this with the morning of a member of society spent in the exercise of petty passions in the indulgence of half-fabulous gossip, by way of venting his uncomfortable spleen - or in mere animal enjoyment of locomotion, a little enlivened, perhaps, by a vanity similar to that of a proud horse on a parade, or a swan sailing on a lake. I cannot take up the pen, in the manner I take it up, without making some advanced step, however minute, in the region of intellect. I seize some little distinction I had not caught before; I make some idea, not before digested, submit to language; I make progress in varying my expressions, in multiplying my combinations, in discovering new contrasts, in eliciting new tints by new positions of my materials, and by marshalling my ideas with increased facility and skill. God does not give the fruits of the mind without continued labour and watchfulness. What grows wild is, for the most part, crude and unwhole some. Young fruits may catch the eye for a moment; they have seldom a mellow flavour or lasting charm. Mere observation is barren, unless it is received into a rich mind; but without observation, as a composer, the aerial quality of imagination is too lofty and subtle for earthly temperament. There is a sort of moral depth of colouring which long intercourse with the disappointments of life con veys. No one can scarcely be so stupid as to suppose, that such a career of ambition is proposed to the mass of mankind. The diversified duties of life require for them other avocations, and their inferior talents only fit them for that which is more humble. What is called a strong understanding is not uncommon. This I take to be the power of judging rationally and correctly upon objects and ideas presented to it. But it cannot supply objects and ideas; it cannot revive them in their absence, much less can it invent them. The senses must be very vivid to furnish the fancy properly with representations of external objects; the heart must be very full of emotion to associate strong sentiments to them; but there must be also an active internal power in the intellect to give the faculty of imagination or invention. A strong common understanding may exist without any of these, but it can never enable a person to make any advances in the higher department of literature. Fancy may exist without tender, or grand, or moral feelings; and if fancy, so may imagination. These may be genius, but they want the highest and best colouring of genius. Images, which strike or please the eye, yet do not touch the heart, are vastly inferior in comparative value; they may have the grandeur or beauty of matter, but not the grandeur or beauty of soul. Then comes one other requisite to the perfection of genius-truth; I mean, poetical truth; viz. probability, or consistency with the nature of the beliefs to which the human mind has a tendency to give itself severely up. It is to this principle that Shakespeare adheres in his wildest flights: such are all his Fairy Superstitions, his Tempest, &c. &c. To all extravagant and monstrous inventions, the incredulus odi onnoses itself in every bo som of sound taste and sound understanding. In confirmation of these principles, it may be observed, that they adapt themselves to those permanent standards of excellence which have been acknowledged by the experience of all ages, and will justify the criterions of fame and comparative estimation, according to which celebrated authors have been placed, from Homer downwards. It will also shew why many, of temporary popularity, have soon sunk into oblivion. The unnatural combinations which merely please in right of novelty, must necessarily lose their charm by the act of time; because the act of time is inconsistent with the continuance of novelty. Tricks are utterly incompatible with the force of genius; simple strength never resorts to artifice. There is no occasion to exaggerate what really exists in the material as well as in the intellectual world; there is enough of magnificence, and pathos, and beauty, to be really found in them: but he who has not light enough to find them, substitutes sham figures of his own, made up of clay, dressed in glaring contrasted hues of black, blue, gray, red, &c. &c. These, he flatters himself, put nature out of countenance. I have said these things an hundred times before, but I wish to press them, in every varied form of expression, as often as the opportunity recurs to me. The system appears to me not only just, but highly consolatory; it makes Poetry not merely "a beautiful art," but an art of the highest philosophy and profoundest truths. The principle of the metaphysical poets, though it might, in some rare instances, strike out unexpected truths, and though it generally demanded learning and deep thinking, yet it was absurd and revolting. The embodiment in language of the association of matter and spirit, is of the essence of poetry. Providence has ordained, that particular appearances in the outward form of things should raise particular emotions in the human bosom when it is finely toned: to delineate and fix this association is the poet's business. For this purpose, it is not sufficient that these external objects should excite in his own bosom their force, and with all their accompaniments, at the moment of composition. In truth, it is the talent of fancy to heighten nature itself, and render its tints more glowing. Is it asked, "What can poetry give us more than reality?" I answer, that it gives us matter and mind in union. It will be observed, that the poets who reach this character are but few; the mass of those of inferior fame seldom mount to notes so high. Johnson's list consists of fifty-two English poets; from this small number, the following sixteen may fairly be rejected :-Roscommon, Stepney, Walsh, Smith, Duke, King, Sprat, Hallifax, Hughes, Sheffield, Blackmore, Granville, Galden, Pitt, and Otway and Congreve, merely dramatic. This reduces the number to thirty-six. A few others are very doubtful: such as Dorset, J. Phillipps, Swift, Mallet, Watts, Fenton, Broome. It is strange, that what has no character of poetry but the rhythm, or verse, should be taken to be poetry. Figurative language, when the thought itself is trite, may be poetry; but it is inferior to force and originality of thought. I doubt if it would be very difficult to draw a tolerably precise scale of excellence among the English poets, according to these principles. High and just Invention, upon an enlarged scale, and by a regular, wellproportioned, and grand design, must always stand first; and, therefore, nothing can be put in rivalry with the Paradise Lost. Whatever may be Spenser's merits-and he has some important merits, which have never been eclipsed-still, for the reason here given, they cannot be put in competition with the claims of Milton. There is nothing more satisfactory than to have some steady rules, or landmarks, to direct the judgment on points where it is painful to be driven about by caprice in the wide sea of conjecture. In prose (except such as assumes to partake of poetic fiction, or poetic eloquence) we are content with good reasoning, or facts and sentiments clearly stated from memory. This will not do in poetry, even though it should be thrown into the harmonion collocation of words which forms verse: there must be that warmth of colouring Wat omia tam powerful emotion, This will certainly throw some considerable portions of Pope out of the pale of poetry, but it will leave in all their glory the Eloisa to Abelard, the Elegy on an unfortunate Lady, the Dedication to Parnell's Poems. This is the attraction which touches and captivates in Prior's Henry and Emma, and in Parnell's Hermit; which raises the sublime and pathetic moral poems of Gray into something like inspiration; which makes Collins cry out, "O Fear! O frantic fear! I see, I see thee near!" which allows no room to doubt, that when Burns wrote Tam O'Shanter he saw Kirk Alloway all in a blaze, and that he charged with Bruce at Bannockburn. Cold art can never reach these things! Labour day and night; read, think, strain, polish; put in force excellent every rule, call in aid every example; correct, amend, compare, take advice, borrow, improve, prune, add; the form and dress may be bettered, the soul will still be wanting. Dryden's was the flame of improved and growing intellect, slow to catch the fire, yet kindling at last into a strong and steady blaze: witness his Fables, and Alexander's Feast, composed in his seventieth year. Early in life he had scarcely been more than a powerful versifier of strong understanding. The vigorous language, and the condensed form of imagery and sentiment of his fables, shews that the commanding perceptions of his intellect, long exercised, had at last supplied a light to his fancy, which caught fire; and, when once ignited, continued to burn fiercely till death extinguished it. Addison's fancy was serene, pure, and beautiful, but a little deficient in vigour; and it is strange that it deserted him when he attempted to throw it into verse. Waller must rest upon his elegant polish, relatively to the times in which he wrote, rather than upon any grand powers of mind. He is ingenious; but this quality does not sufficiently often rise above prettiness. Denham is more manly; he has a vigour, which only the glow of Fancy could supply. Butler has the merit of decided invention, though it is in the ludicrous; and his wit, his acute observation, his sagacity in painting characters, and his solid axiomatic sense, place him high in an original department of his own. Tickell's genuine, simple, pathetic, elegant, and harmonious Elegy on Addison, will secure him immortality. It seems to me, that when the uses of poetry are decried, it arises from a misapprehension of what true poetry is, and what ought to be its objects. The idea that it is a dance of words, and depends upon a sort of trick of expression, is a very mean one. Poetry may consist of the mere ornament of language and harmony of words, but it is not the best poetry: depth and energy of thought, and glow of noble or pathetic feeling, are its first merits and its best charms. That which makes us in love with virtue, and gives a grand and true impulse to the workings of the mind, is surely not a thing of emptiness and parade. The majority of mankind are condemned to pass through life either as ciphers or in the sole pursuit of their own individual interests or amusements. But they who are born to higher things can never be content with so narrow and selfish a sphere of action; their thoughts are not engrossed in resolving, according to expedience, questions which present themselves to them as to the regulation of their own conduct: their considerations are bent upon eliciting general truths, and upon developing the sentiments which pervade, or ought to pervade, the human bosom. With a view to reward and means of worldly prosperity, it has always seemed to me that a man may fix on an ill choice in taking up this course of labour. But, perhaps, while he is fitted excellently for this, he may be fitted for no other; and the intrinsic pleasure and self-satisfaction will probably be his due reward. I never could bring myself to believe that all the toil, and pains, and discipline, and instruction in the world, could enable a person to do much in this department without the full endowment of nature. They may enable him to be learned, and even to write useful books, but not books of the stamp and character to which the praise of genius is applied. I suspect that the common opinion is otherwise, and that it is thought the fruits of genius are the results of the accidental application of general powers. I am astonished that a large nortios, of those who call themselves philosophers, and men of sound sense, should wish to bring things down to the test of their material nature. It often happens, when their material nature is imperfect and inglorious, that their visionary nature is full of grandeur and delight. And here it is that the poet enters with the magic of his wand; here lies his business, and here his power. The public is often long before it distinguishes the true from the false of these enchanters; but it always distinguishes them rightly at last. It is strange that there should ever be any hesitation on this subject; pathos or grandeur strike at once, and can only proceed from genius. It is genius which has the object, or passion, in actual presence to it when it writes; what it utters, therefore, is the result of utter inspiration—not a resemblance of it done from memory, or struck out by labour and contrivance. But simplicity and truth cannot move the dull; they require exaggeration and extravagance. MY GRANDFATHER. A TALE OF BATH. PART II. THERE is something in upstart vulgarity which, however glossed over and bedizened by the adventitious allurements of wealthy pomp, yet betrays itself to the critical glance of intrinsic gentility in a way-ay, in a thousand ways utterly incomprehensible by the profanum vulgus. Ostentation in the parvenu millionaire is quite a distinct thing from ostentation in the hereditary grandee: the principle in each is the same, but its mode of developement is very different. In the city merchant who has feathered his nest, all attempts at splendour are ever tinged with the glare of vulgar and most evident self-complacency: in the midst of a cumbrous exuberance of wealth, you detect the lurking desire to connect the display of it with the importance of the possessor. There is neither the nonchalance of well-bred indifference, nor the quiet exhibition of a state, which, however obviously above those who may witness it, seems still to be perfectly familiar to the fortunate man invested with it. I have seen rows of servants ushering you into the most gorgeous apartments, or waiting behind you at the most sumptuous feasts; and yet, in all there was a something that bespoke a certain mal-adroitness. It was as the difference between a man accustomed to dress well every day, and one who keeps his best suit for a Sunday. As find no fault with any particular part of the establishment. Yet there is an undefinable incongruity in both cases. Your man dressed for the Sunday wants the je ne sçai quoi of a man du monde; and your wealthy citizen wants the air of quiet ease, which enables your man born to the wealth he enjoys to let the use of it sit upon him as a matter of course. In my grandfather's establishment it was not thus. Though a parvenu in every sense of the word, there was yet nothing of the bourgeois either in his person or household. The servants seemed all in their proper places. The whole machinery of the house moved as upon springs. The footmen had such an air of subdued, yet sufficiently impudent confidence, as shewed you at once that their training had been of a superior kind. There was the large leather-backed elbow-chair in the vestibule, and ever sitting in it a portly powdered lackey, half-asleep over a newspaper. La Coste, the cook, had all the airs of a man of science; and Louis, the butler, but for his AngloGerman twang, might have opened a bottle of claret for Beau Nash himself. Then the chambermaids-those exquisite instruments of comfort in a house -were never, by any possibility, to be seen. Your rooms were arranged and set in order by a quiet, invisible magic. The more you endeavoured nig farm or the pretty |