us.

though many will hardly believe that it can be otherwise, when they happen to coincide in point of time; as the people of Norway were out of patience with inoculation, because fish were scarce upon their coasts at the time when it was introduced. We have no fears, that the public attention will be so absorbed, for any length of time, by one pursuit, as to disregard all others. Such, certainly, is not the lesson of experience. Nothing is more common, than to attach an undue importance to the passing event, and the object before The complaint, in Johnson's day, was of quite a different sort. Then," the cook warbled her lyrics in the kitchen, and the thresher vociferated his dithyrambics in the barn." That was a season of fat poetical kine. But there has been no perceptible increase, since his day, in the melody of the one, or the inspiration of the other. One age, or, what is the same thing, man in one age, is much more like man in another, than we are always willing to allow. Great genius, of any kind, is among the most rare of heaven's gifts; great poetical genius, perhaps, the most rare of all. And it would be quite unreasonable to complain, that blessings, which have been dispensed, in times past, in numbers scarcely equal to that of the centuries, should be lavished in showers upon this generation. We have had our share. As the shades were closing on the last century, there were many stars, of no ordinary promise, going up in the sky; and it has been given to us to walk in their light. There is no period in English history, of the same length, more fertile in poetical talent, than the last fifty years; not that the names of Shakspeare and Milton are not far greater than any which this age can show; but that the diversity and brilliancy of those, who are but a little lower than the angels, have been far more signal than in former time. The present moment of repose may be regarded rather as a dying fall, to be followed by a bolder strain, than as the stillness of death.

We propose to offer a few cursory remarks on some of the principal poets of our time; and it will readily appear, to what extent they have, perhaps at first unconsciously, availed themselves of the influence of novelty in attracting the general attention. Scott is the most striking illustration of this; as he was among the first. His "Lay of the Last Minstrel " was written at the suggestion of a lady, and gradually ex

tended far beyond its original design; but he appears to have had little expectation of the triumphant welcome with which it was received. The idea was not new, though novel to modern readers. It was rather a revival of the old metrical romance, in which the exploits of the heroes of chivalry were recorded, for the edification of readers of ages long gone by. One would have thought it rather a hazardous experiment to attempt to excite much interest in the exploits of cavaliers, which displayed little more intellect, than the swinging of a blacksmith's hammer, or in those of mosstroopers, whose only appropriate station would have been the gibbet. But Scott's knowledge of the world taught him better. He knew, that the recollections of the old glories of chivalry had a charm, like that of the green that overhangs its ruined fortresses; and that, empty as it was, and senseless as were its usages, beside that modern civilization was very much its debtor, the world would never be weary of admiring its strange union of the liberal grace of refinement with the sternness of the rudest barbarism. But his true taste divined full well, that he could not reproduce the heroes of Froissart precisely as they were, and he therefore blended their harsher traits with modern sentiments and manners, and thus produced a picture, which, compared with the reality, was like the feudal system, as it appears in "Ivanhoe," by the side of the same system, as portrayed by the venerable sages of the law.

The Lay of the Last Minstrel" was a story of little interest in its details; but, inspired as it was with all the wild and thrilling associations of chivalry, uttered in a measure singularly bold and animated, and fitly imagined to proceed from one of the bards, who seem to make a part of the romantic drama, its cadences fell upon the ear like the triumphant strains of martial music. It would be vain to attempt to describe their effect to those whose memory goes not back so far as the period when the poem was first published. Nobody saw or felt, that the versification was often hurried and ungraceful, almost extemporaneous, and rarely indicative of much revision. The right chord was touched; and, when all readers were under the shadow of the spell, poetry of a much higher cast would have found neither "fit audience," nor even "few." "Marmion," with its glorious battle

scene, kindled even fiercer enthusiasm. But the charm of novelty was passing by; and the "Lady of the Lake," one of the most beautiful romantic fictions which ever poet dreamed, found less favor, though more judicious approbation, than the "Lay." In the course of a few years, the tide had fairly turned; insomuch that the "Lord of the Isles," a hastily wrought, but thrilling tale, founded on one of the most memorable events in Scottish history, and presenting one of the few instances, in which the writer attempted to paint the real heroes of his country, was received either with indifference or faint applause. The poet, with the modesty which forms the unusual grace and ornament of popular talent, believed, that the fiery lustre of Lord Byron's star had diminished the brightness of his own. But it was not so; the probability is, that, had the order of their appearance been changed, he would have become the idol at the expense of his great rival. But the novelty was gone; and, with the elastic energy, in which no man ever abounded more, he entered upon another, and even more successful, path of labor; one, in which he was enabled, free from the shackles of poetical measure, to pour forth the rich results of his study, keen observation, and knowledge of mankind, in a series of romances, which will be remembered long after all his critics shall have been forgotten. No doubt these are poems as truly as the metrical ones. But the form was one, which gave him the full command of his powers. perception of character, hardly inferior to that of Shakspeare, he could not, like him, fix it upon the canvass with a single touch of his pencil. But his sketches, though more slowly wrought, were nearly as lifelike and real.

With a

The impression, made by these romances, was, in the first instance, in no degree inferior to that of the metrical ones, and it was much more durable in its character. If they excited attention by their novelty, they secured it by some. higher qualities. If they have now given place to other forms of the novel, the world is certainly no gainer by the exchange. Inferior minds have naturally resorted to inferior means to gain the public ear; and, be the objections to the historical romances what they may, the cause of virtue will gain little by the substitution of what has followed them, from the swaggering dandyism of the Pelham school, down to VOL. L. - No. 107.

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the loathsome abominations of "Jack Shephard." Such things attract attention, doubtless; and the dramatist, who should build a gibbet on the stage, an appropriate implement, by the way, for the use of many modern fashionable heroes, would be sure to find an audience; not from any talent displayed in the achievement, but from the unusual character of the exhibition.

In some respects, it was with Lord Byron as it had been with Scott. At first he appears to have mistaken his powers; he had set his heart upon excelling in satire, and regarded "Childe Harold," the foundation of his fame, as the mere amusement of an idle hour. But satire certainly was never meant for him; he was too obedient to passion to preserve even a decent show of justice towards the objects of his wrath. Compare, for example, his "English Bards" with Dryden's "Absalom and Achitophel," and it will be readily seen what a keen and fatal edge is given to satire by allowing the merit of its object, and thus presenting the evil qualities in revolting shade. When Childe Harold" appeared, this delusion passed for the time away; for its high poetical beauty, aided in some degree, no doubt, by its author's exalted rank, made it at once a favorite with all readers. From the moment that he caught the gale, he spread his sail to welcome it, with consummate skill. The man of mystery, half concealed, like Eneas, in a cloud whose edges were bright with the glitter of rank and fashion, moving among men as if he were not of them, partly from a jealous shyness and partly from a sad contrast between his personal circumstances and his social position, became an object of deep and almost painful interest. Nor was this unnatural; with powers that might have raised him to the highest place in any way of life he had chosen to pursue, he had within him all the elements of a noble character; but all, all were darkened by circumstances, that fill the mind less with indignation than with sorrow. His father was eminently distinguished as a worthless libertine, in an age when such distinction was any thing but rare; his parents lived apart, and he was early consigned to the exclusive charge of his mother, a woman of little sense and tempestuous passions, who would occasionally reproach and ridicule her son in consequence of that personal deformity, the consciousness of which was torture to him till his latest hour. Under such circumstances,

the only wonder is, that his intellect and his heart did not become equally desolate. The heart perished, but the intellect survived. In the one, kind affections flashed occasionally forth, like the warm sunbeam through the gloom of a November day; but fixed principles of character there were absolutely none; all that he thought or did was the result of impulse. In the other, there was nobleness enough to call forth in us deep and lasting sadness, that "the inward prompting, which grew daily upon him," should have been so unlike those by which Milton consecrated himself to his high and holy task.

All this, however, gave powerful aid to the effect of his poetry; nor is it unjust to him to believe, that he was not reluctant to find the public eye fixed upon himself as well as on his works. Both were sufficiently out of the common track to attract immediate attention. A young nobleman, eminently distinguished for his personal beauty, flies from the brilliant circles that burn to welcome him, wraps himself in mysterious reserve, and becomes the victim of melancholy. When all appears bright and joyous to the common eye, his personal history and dark thoughts are shadowed forth in the wild and unearthly music of his poetry. He wanders in regions. inspired by chivalrous and classical associations. Now, he stands in the Eternal City, and the shades of orators, poets, and heroes, start from her ruined arches; his foot is on the soil of Greece, and all the loveliness and glory of that treasury of literary fame are warmed into life before him; once more upon the waters, and deep calleth unto deep; and again he turns to the battle-field, where are gathered the buried martyrs of ambition; and the earthquake of its artillery would hardly stir the soul, like his unveiling of its dark and bloody record.

The great Mokanna dies; his silver veil drops from his brow; the mysteries of his seclusion, alas! no holy ones, are revealed; the friends who shared his table sell the results of his misplaced confidence before he is cold in his grave. Then the romantic interest attached to his person perishes, and he stands at the literary bar, shielded only by the majesty of his commanding talent. But the perversion of his genius is scarcely inferior to that of his moral powers; and, with an infirmity like that which vice draws after it, he is perpetually pursuing the same course which he perpetually denounces and condemns. His own poetical system, and those of most