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so that whoever would do God and good men service, get himself immortal honour in this life, and eternal glory in the next, must make himself powerful enough to extirpate this cursed and apostate race out of the world."*

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They profess themselves the only instruments which God hath chosen to teach and reform the world, though they have neither moral virtues, nor natural parts equal to other men; and by this pretence they have prevailed so far upon the common sort of people, and upon some too of a better quality, that they are persuaded their salvation, or eternal damnation, depends upon believing or not believing of what they say.""I would not be understood to dissuade any from honouring the true apostolical teachers when they shall be established among us; or from allowing them (even of right, and not of courtesy,) such emoluments as may enable them cheerfully to perform the duties of their charge, to provide for their children, and even to use hospitality as they are commanded by St. Paul. But this I will prophesy, that if princes perform this duty by halves, and leave any root of this clergy or priestcraft as it now is, in the ground, then I say I must foretel, that the magistrates will find themselves deceived in their expectations; and that the least fibre of this plant will overrun again the whole vineyard of the Lord, and turn to a diffusive papacy, in every diocese, perhaps in every parish. So that God in his mercy, inspire them to cut out the core of the ulcer, and the bag of this imposture, that it may never rankle or fester any more, nor break out hereafter, to diffuse new corruption and putrefaction through the body of Christ, which is his holy church, to vitiate and infect the good order and true policy of Government.”—“ If I have been a little too punctual in describing these monsters, and drawn them to the life in all their lineaments and colours, I hope mankind will know them the better to avoid them."-" Whosoever takes upon him so execrable an employment as to rule men against the laws of nature and reason, must turn all topsy-turvy, and never stick at any thing; for if once he halt, he will fall and never rise again. And so I bid you farewell."

I may trouble you with some farther remarks, should this subject be investigated; and in the meanwhile remain,

Gentlemen, Yours truly,

J. G.

* Some of your readers may not know that Machiavel had formerly been put to the torture, from the effects and marks of which he never recovered.

61

Thoughts on English Poetry.

[From the similarity of reasoning in some parts of the following Essay, and that on Chivalry, inserted in their last Number, the EDITORS think it necessary to say, that the paper now published, was transmitted from a distant part of the country several weeks previous to the publication of their last number; and that any coincidence of thought or expression must therefore be quite accidental.]

THE poetry of the present day is peculiarly characterized by its deviation from those rigid canons of criticism to which the most distinguished writers of the last century paid such implicit deference. The same bold reliance on the energies and resources of their own genius, is apparent in the master spirits of the most brilliant period of our poetic annals; and whatever may have been the errors and absurdities into which it has occasionally led our cotemporary bards, there needs perhaps no better proof of their well-grounded claim to the popularity which has been awarded them, than the marked change in the tone of periodical criticism, which their works have effected.

An undiscriminating veneration for antiquity is certainly not the literary prejudice of our age. Yet there are not wanting some lingering adherents to the creed of those fathers of the art, whose principles, founded on works the reputation of which has increased with the lapse of ages, have been considered by their followers as possessing an authority little short of the boasted infallibility of the Church of Rome. Few, perhaps, of the present race of critics, professedly rank themselves under the banner of the Stagyrite, or would attempt to subject the British muse to the trammels she has so lately and indignantly cast off. They have laid aside their books, but have not buried their wands, and would circumscribe "her freedom in the air" to a magic circle, which is visible to none but themselves.

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The pedantry of criticism still hangs loosely about them, and they would continue at times to restrain the erratic genius of British poetry, by the dictates of a taste formed on the "pure models of antiquity." But this we may exclaim with Sir Hugh, "is affectatious:" it is forcing a comparison where there is no analogy. Those who possess the

finest relish for the beauties of the classic muse, are most convinced how impossible it is to transfer them into our language. Every attempt to erect the ancient authors into a standard of poetic taste is more calculated to foster a tone of dogmatism, and a spirit of narrow prejudice in the critic, than to promote the improvement of poetry. Even their inimitable excellence is rather an argument for deviation into “fresh fields and pastures new," than for continuing to tread their awful footsteps in undeviating and hopeless mediocrity. The profuse and fanciful imagery, the wild and gloomy sublimity of the English muse, is incompatible with the correctness of the ancient model; but he has little cause to exult in the classical severity of his taste, who has lost his susceptibility to the sweetness of our "native wood-notes wild," who would trample unregarded the rich ore, which ripens beneath a northern sun, because it is sometimes mingled with worthless dross: nor can we envy his feelings who can find matter for harsh censure, or heartless ridicule, in the occasional vagrancy of a brilliant, but unrestrained imagination. Such criticism is calculated not to direct, but to retard the aspirations of young and trembling genius,

"Hangs on his flight, restrains his tow'ring wing,
Twists its dark folds, and points its venom'd sting."

We may be allowed too to doubt the wisdom of that advice, which would urge a young poet to form his taste by the assiduous study of any particular class of authors, ancient or modern. The subtle spirit, which breathes and burns through their finest passages, is too impalpable to be caught;

"Speret idem; sudet multum frustraq; laboret
Ausus idem."-

Even of the more mechanical graces of diction, it is far easier to produce a caricature than a resemblance. Should he escape the danger of servile imitation, he would be liable to contract peculiarities which would hang upon and embarrass his maturer efforts, with the troublesome pertinacity of Sinbad's old man of the mountain.

With more advantage, we think, might his imagination wander unrestrained through the works of preceding poets, and collect from each its congenial food. While the ancients rendered his ear more delicately alive to the harmony of verse, furnished him with a store of interesting allusions, and increased the correctness of his taste; the great bards

of our own country would teach him to pursue, with rational confidence, the promptings of his imagination, and to seek no model but that image of uncreated beauty which dwells in his own breast. Too rigorous a discipline of the intellect is little favourable to the developement of the creative powers; and nothing can be more fatal to the success of a British poet than the want of originality, a fault for which no charms of diction can compensate.

The advice of Horace,

"Vos exemplaria Græca

Nocturnâ versate manu, versate diurnâ,"

was judicious and universally adopted by all, whose works possessed sufficient merit to descend to posterity; but it is, perhaps, as difficult to adapt the intellectual habits of a people to foreign criticism, as their political ones to a foreign constitution; and when Pope repeated and enforced this advice with additional strictness, he appears to have shewn a wilful blindness to the splendid efforts of native genius, and a want of attention to the peculiarities of our language and national character.

The Romans were not a poetical people. We find no traces of the footsteps of the muse (for the doggrel satire of their clowns can scarcely be considered as such) in the early records of the "eternal city." No inspired bard stimulated the rough warriors of the infant state to those deeds of valour which made her mistress of the world, or gave the names of her primitive heroes to immortality. With them poetry was an exotic, imported among other refinements at an advanced period of their history, from the conquered states of Greece. The most successful of their poets were confessedly little more than imitators, and though their works exhibit an elaborate elegance of diction, a chastened beauty, and at times a calm sublimity, which have secured to them the meed of immortality, they can hold but an inferior rank to their Grecian masters. If there be any path in which they can lay claim to superior excellence, it is in the bold and energetic character of their satire. Here indeed they have an undoubted right to the merit of originality; but in the higher regions of imagination they never ventured far from the track of their predecessors.

Virgil has carried his success, as an imitator of Homer, to a higher pitch than any modern can hope to attain. The polished correctness of his style, and the harmony of his versification, must remain unequalled, for he possessed

advantages which no successor, of even superior powers, could such be found, can possibly enjoy. Next to the Greek, the Latin language was the most artificial in its structure, and admitted of the most elaborate euphony in its poetic numbers. In this respect our own tongue labours under peculiar disadvantages, and those who speak it are probably as inferior to the Romans in susceptibility to the more delicate refinements of style, as is their language in admitting of them. For a people, whose very mob could be roused into a clamour of applause by a well-turned period in the speech of a public orator, *the mere melody of verse might amply compensate for a deficiency of novelty and interest in the matter. But could such harmony be produced from the materials which our language furnishes, how few are there among us capable of estimating it? We should be too apt to exclaim with honest Christopher Sly, "It is an excellent piece of work, madam lady,-would it over."

But these inherent defects of the English language are more than redeemed by an inexhaustibe fertility of invention, a powerful delineation of character, splendid and picturesque imagery, deep pathos, and bold sublimity. Ĉertainly no nation can boast such variety of poetic excellence. The poetry of every people of Gothic origin possesses, in a greater or less degree, the characteristics we have mentioned, and perhaps will be found to deviate farther from the classic model, in proportion as their language is less capable of harmonious versification; but the British bards alone have combined their respective beauties into a perfect whole. They have levied contributions on the poets of almost every country as conquerors, not servilely received as followers.

Even at the very dawn of the art, in an age of comparative barbarism, the works of Chaucer displayed a nervous vigour of sentiment, a bold and characteristic colouring, a distinctness of imagery, and occasionally a touch of natural pathos, which cause them to be still read with the highest interest. His pictures dwell on the imagination with the force of realities. Who can ever forget the "pleasaunt herber," surrounded with its crowd of moving images? The age of Elizabeth saw our poetry at its zenith, and stamped it with a distinctive character. It is needless to dwell on

*Patris dictum sapiens, temeritas filii comprobravit.

Carbo apud Ciceronum.

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