self, he gives us a picture of past existence, fresh with sincerity, and fraught with authentic character, like the

"Prevailing Poet, whose undoubting mind

Believed the magic wonders which he sung."

On these grounds, namely, that Poetry may be suspected to exhaust her own resources in presenting reiterated descriptions of Nature; that some of the fairest flowers of Poetry have been put forth under the morning light of civilization, whilst it might be said of lingering credulities, that they "shadowy set off the face of things;" and that the human mind, when it learns soberly to contemplate existence, sees the powers of magic exorcised, and superstition part with her charms as well as her terrors on these grounds, appears to me to be founded the only possibility of suspecting, that the tendency of continued civilization is to limit, rather than enlarge, the influence of Poetry on the human mind. In stating these arguments, I have spoken of the progress of Poetry seeming to exhaust the materials which external nature offers as subjects of description to the poet. I use the expression" seeming," because there is an appearance of such a fact without the reality. Sensible writers seem to me to have at times treated poetical imitation so much in the light of a material process, as to forget the perpetual and spiritual novelty of which it is susceptible*. Madame de Stael, when speaking of the poet's representation of the physical world, observes," that the portrait can go no farther than the resemblance." In a certain sense, this remark is admissible, and, undoubtedly, the poet of a succeeding age cannot continually improve upon the imitations of nature made by an antecedent one, so as to render the resemblance of nature more and more striking and faithful; but still he may vary our impressions of existence by new and true likenesses. The objects of the universe are susceptible of varied combinations and associations with our moral feelings, to an extent which may almost be pronounced illimitable. When the poetical imitation of nature is compared, as by the eloquent authoress whom I have quoted, to the portrait of a single

* Madame de Stael has not absolutely argued the probability of Poetry decaying under the continued influence of philosophy; but she takes a view of the Poet's art, which, if admitted, would lead to that conclusion: "La Poësie proprement dite," she says, " est l'art de peindre par la parole tout ce que frappe nos régards. L'alliance des sentimens avec les sensations est déjà un premier pas vers la philosophie." But the language which should paint only what strikes our senses in external nature, without allying moral sentiment to physical observation, neither can be, nor ever has been called Poetry. In the Iliad itself, there is that first step towards philosophy, to which Madame de Stael alludes; not refined sentiments, but the strong and natural outlines of moral feeling which mark the poet's knowledge of man. But when philosophy is thus transubstantiated into art, does Poetry end where the knowledge of human nature begins? As well might we say of a picture, in which the laws of perspective and human proportions were accurately observed, that it is not painting, but anatomy and optics.

person, the illustration will deceive us, if it be literally understood. The features of the external universe have diversities of aspect, produced by time, by nature, and by circumstances, to which there is nothing comparable in the changing appearances of a solitary individual. The range of objects which poetry may convey to our imaginations, can scarcely be said to be limited, but by the extent of human enjoyments. And if we add to the diversity of things themselves, the different lights of association, in which the same objects may be viewed, not capriciously, but justly, by different minds, we shall probably conceive that a world, inhabited by active, impassioned, and perishable beings, must for ever be an inexhaustible emporium of materials to the poet. We may be reminded, that poetry attained an early maturity and beauty, beyond which she has never actually advanced. This fact, however, only regards the excellence of her individual works. Her collective variety has increased with the progress of society; and at every new epoch of human improvement, literature has enriched her casket with fresh gems of immortal lustre.

The benefits which Poetry has received from splendid and imposing false mythologies, form a more important argument on the subject. It may be doubted, if the enlightened imagination of man may always be expected to dwell with the same complacency on poetical resources, borrowed from ignorance and credulity. And one can scarcely help suspecting, that in proportion as the general religion of society becomes purified from superstition, (an event which no friend to religion will regard as visionary,) the gradual oblivion into which old traditions and mythologies must necessarily fall, will probably affect the character of poetry with regard to the speciosa miracula of her fiction. But, supposing the human fancy ceased to converse with exploded mythologies, still the active principle of imagination must remain alive, and it will only change the objects of its visionary enjoyment. The arts may rise and fall, but the powers of the mind from which they spring cannot be extinguished in the constitution of man, without a metamorphosis of his nature, or rather a disease that would paralyse one half of his moral fabric. And can this be expected from civilization? No. There is an indestructible love of ideal happiness in the human breast. Whilst there is a star in heaven, man will look to it with a day-dream of brighter worlds. As long as a mortal and imperfect state fails to "accommodate the shews of things to the desires of the mind," the optimism of our hearts will fly from the accidents and imperfections, to the ideal beauty and harmony of nature; and this is but another word for poetry.

The faculty of imagination, as Dugald Stewart observes, "is "the great spring of human activity, and the principal source of

"human improvement. Destroy this faculty, and the condition "of man will be as stationary as that of the brutes." An art, or if that term be objectionable, a gift of language, which gratifies us by appealing to so important a principle in our nature, cannot but produce important effects, both on the character of society and of individuals. It is unnecessary to illustrate a remark so often inculcated by the most liberal-minded philosophers, that a quickened and cultivated enthusiasm for the objects of taste opens a field for the refined and redoubled enjoyment of existence. And as poetry is the most spiritual of all the pursuits of taste, and the least connected with the luxury of the external senses, it can be the least suspected of a tendency to enervate men's minds, whilst it cultivates their milder affections. At the same time, it has not escaped observation, that our imperfect natures are in this, as in every other instance, exposed to the danger of evil accompanying good. An imagination constantly absorbed in the ideal beauty and excellence of a world of fiction, may acquire a fastidiousness detrimental to useful pursuits, that must be followed, amidst the rough and dull realities of life. I cannot help thinking, however, that this fastidiousness is more likely to be the disease of a weak than of a strong imagination; and that the sympathy which enters fervidly into ideal scenes will throw itself, with proportioned energy, into actual concerns. At all events, those mental peculiarities which may arise from habitually conversing with imaginary objects, have little or nothing to do with the influence of poetry on society at large. They relate, if not exclusively, at least incomparably more to the poet himself than to his readers, whose minds may enjoy him sufficiently, with small risk of contracting the morbid habits ascribed to genius. The chance of poetry abstracting our sympathies so deeply into fiction, as to defraud society of one benevolent feeling that would be otherwise bestowed on real objects, can be a subject of apprehension to no man's serious thoughts. The danger, in fact, of the poet's command over our sensibilities, is not that it may transport them too far out of the real world, but that he may attach them too grossly to its enjoyments. And there can be no doubt that he possesses some power and responsibility in this respect, since, having access to the passions, he may, to a certain degree, pollute, as well as purify, those fountains of human action. The joyous spirit of poetry takes alarm and flight at the prospect of being subjected to the avowed purposes of utility and instruction. Her primary attraction is her delightfulness; and if any man should inform us that he opened a volume of the drama, or repaired to the theatre, for the sole sake of morality, we might reasonably suspect that his veracity was one part of his morals that stood in need of amendment. Nevertheless, moral utility may result from employments of the mind

which have pleasure for their object, in the same manner as bodily health may be promoted by agreeable exercises. It is of momentous consequence in the economy of life, that its hours of leisure should be rescued from listlessness, or corrosive humours, or sensual pursuits, and devoted to studies which, at least, engender no evil affections. How far the mass of novels answer this description, it is unnecessary for me to attempt determining. My opinion is, that if they increase the sum of human idleness, they mitigate its pernicious effects. But I have endeavoured to discriminate the dissipation of the mind, produced by common-place fiction, from its elevation and excitement by the true language of imagination. And if it be asked, what general security we possess, for the probability of the poet's talents being employed in supporting the interests of virtue, it may be answered, that the nature of Poetry itself forms a mighty strong-hold. Impurity is an anomalous mixture, in its character. In the same manner as the artist, in visible forms, regards all profligate hints to our associations as utterly foreign to the spirit of art; in like manner, the poet finds no sentiments fitted for the universal admiration of mankind, but those which can be delivered unblushingly from age to age. Hence the poets of barbarous times were the prophets of future civilization; and those of enlightened ages still impel our imaginations forward into conceptions of ideal virtue and happiness, that make us love to suppose the essence of our being to be immortal. It is therefore but a faint eulogium on poetry to say, that it only furnishes an innocent amusement, to fledge the lagging hours of existence. Its effects are incalculably more beneficent. Besides supplying records of human manners, in some respects more faithful than those of history itself, it upholds an image of existence that heightens our enjoyment of all the charms of external nature, and that deepens our sympathies with whatever is amiable, or interesting, or venerable, in human character. We cannot alter one trait of our bodily forms; but the spiritual impressions made on the mind will elevate and amend the mind itself. And the spirits that would devote themselves to be the heroes and benefactors of mankind, are not likely to be less cherished by the philosophy that restrains their passions, than by the poetry that touches their imaginations with humane and generous senti

ments.

End of the First Lecture.

ANECDOTES OF J. MACPHERSON, THE ANCIENT FREEBOOTER AND MUSICIAN.

MR. EDITOR,-You are, no doubt, acquainted with many traits of character peculiar to the Gael; and it is believed the following account of a gipsy freebooter will shew, how much the ferocity and meanness of his maternal tribe were corrected by occasionally associating with the generous mountaineers who countenanced him, for the sake of his father. James Macpherson, the subject of our memoir, was born of a beautiful gipsy, who at a great wedding attracted the notice of a half-intoxicated highland gentleman. He acknowledged the child, and had him reared in his house, until he lost his life in bravely pursuing a hostile clan, to recover a spraith of cattle taken from Badenoch. The gipsy woman, hearing of this disaster, in her rambles the following summer, came and took away her boy; but she often returned with him, to wait upon his relations and clansmen, who never failed to clothe him well, besides giving money to his mother. He grew up in strength, stature, and beauty, seldom equalled. His sword is still preserved at Duff-house, a residence of the Earl of Fife, and few men in our day could carry, far less wield it as a weapon of war; and if it must be owned his prowess was debased by the exploits of a freebooter, it is certain no act of cruelty, no robbery of the widow, the fatherless, or distressed, and no murder, was ever perpetrated under his command. He often gave the spoils of the rich to relieve the poor; and all his tribe were restrained from many atrocities of rapine by their awe of his mighty arm. Indeed, it is said that a dispute with an aspiring and savage man of his tribe, who wished to rob a gentleman's house while his wife and two children lay on the bier for interment, was the cause of his being betrayed to the vengeance of the law. The magistrates of Aberdeen were exasperated at Macpherson's escape, when they bribed a girl in that city to allure and deliver him into their hands. There is a platform before the jail, at the top of a stair, and a door below. When Macpherson's capture was made known to his comrades by the frantic girl, who had been so credulous as to believe the magistrates only wanted to hear the wonderful performer on the violin, his cousin, Donald Macpherson, a gentleman of Herculean powers, did not disdain to come from Badenoch, and to join a gipsy, Peter Brown, in liberating the prisoner. On a market-day they brought several assistants; and swift horses were stationed at a convenient distance. Donald Macpherson and Peter Brown forced the jail, and while Peter Brown went to help the heavily-fettered James Macpherson in