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ing that it is no longer the work of Lord Byron tells us (and he should the shipwright, but of Mr. Camp- know that the Grand Canal at Vebell's lofty poetic imagination; and nice is a muddy ditch, without the dedicates its stolen beauty to the stately palaces by its side; but then right owners, the sun, the winds, it is a natural, not an artificial canal; and the waves. Mr. Campbell, in his and finally, he asks, what would the eagerness to make all sure, having desert of Tadmor be without the overstepped the literal mark, presses ruins of Palmyra, or Salisbury Plain no farther into the controversy ; but without Stone-Henge? Mr. Bowles Lord Byron, who is like an Irish; who, though tedious and teazing, man in a row, any body's customer," has “ damnable iteration in him, carries it on with good polemical and has read the Fathers, answers hardihood, and runs a very edifying very properly, by saying that a deparallel between the ship without sert alone “ conveys ideas of imthe sun, the winds and waves,-and measurable distance, of profound sithe sun, the winds, and waves with- lence, of solitude;" and that Salisout the ship. “ The sun,” says Mr, bury Plain has the advantage of Bowles, " is poetical, by your Lord, Hounslow Heath, chiefly in getting ship’s admission.” We think it would rid of the ideas of artificial life, have been so without it. But his “carts, caravans, raree-showmen, Lordship contends that “ the sun butchers' boys, coaches with corowould no longer be poetical, if it did nets, and livery servants behind not shine on ships, or pyramids, or them,” even though Stone-Henge fortresses, and other works of art," did not lift its pale head above its (he expressly excludes “ footmen's barren bosom. Indeed, Lord Byliveries and brass warming-pans” ron's notions of art and poetry are from among those artificial objects sufficiently will, romantic, far-fetchthat reflect new splendour on the ed, obsolete : his taste is Oriental, eye of Heaven)—to which Mr. Gothic; his Muse is not domestiBowles replies, that let the sun but cated; there is nothing mimmineeshine, and “ it is poetical per se," pimminee, modern, polished, light, in which we think him right. His fluttering, in his standard of the subLordship decompounds the wind into lime and beautiful : if his thoughts a caput mortuum of poetry, by making are proud, pampered, gorgeous, and it howl through a pig-stye, instead of disdain to mingle with the objects of Roaming the illimitable ocean wide ;

humble, unadorned nature, his lordly,

eye at least “ keeps distance due and turns a water-fall, or a clear from the vulgar vanities of fashionspring, into a slop-bason, to prove able life; from drawing-rooms, from that nature owes its elegance to art. card-parties, and from courts. He His Lordship is “ ill at these num- is not a carpet poet. He does not bers.” Again, he affirms that the sing the sofa, like poor Cowper. He ruined temple of the Parthenon iş is qualified neither for poet-laureate poetical, and the coast of Attica nor court-newsman. He is at issue with Cape Colonna, and the recol- with the Morning Post and Fashionlection of Falconer's Shipwreck, clas- able World, on what constitutes the sical. Who ever doubted it? What true pathos and sublime of human then? Does this prove that the Rape life. He hardly thinks Lady Charleof the Lock is not a mock-heroic mont so good as the Venus, or as an poem? He assures us that a storm Albanian girl, that he saw mending with cock-boats scudding before it the road in the mountains. If he is interesting, particularly if this does not like flowers and forests, he happens to take place in the Helles- cares as little for stars, garters, and pont, over which the noble critic princes' feathers, for diamond neckswam; and makes it a question, laces and paste-buckles. If his Lordwhether the dark cypress groves, or ship cannot make up his mind to the the wbite towers and minarets of quiet, the innocence, the simple, unConstantinople are more impressive alterable grandeur of nature, we are to the imagination? What has this sure that he hates the frippery, the to do with Pope's grotto at Twick- foppery, and pert grimace of art, enham, or the boat in which he pad- quite as much. His Lordship likes dled across the Thames to Kew? the poetry, the imaginative part of art, and so do we; and so we believe a work of art o'erthrown. In it we did the late Mr. John Scott. He see, as in a mirror, the life, the hopes, likes the sombre part of it, the the labour of man defeated and thoughtful, the decayed, the ideal, crumbling away under the slow hand the spectral shadow of human great- of time, and all that he has done ness, the departed spirit of human reduced to nothing, or to a useless power. He sympathizes not with mockery. Or as one of the bread art as a display of ingenuity, as the and-butter poets has described the triumph of vanity or luxury, as it is same thing a little differently, in his connected with the idiot, superficial, tale of Peter Bell the potter,petty self-complacency of the indi

The stones and tower vidual and the moment, (these are Seem'd fading fast away to him not “ luscious as locusts, but From human thoughts and purposes, bitter as coloquintida "); but he sym- To yield to some transforming power, pathizes with the triumphs of Time And blend with the surrounding trees. and Fate over the proudest works of If this is what Lord Byron means man-with the crumbling monuments by artificial objects and interests, of human glory-with the dim ves- there is an end of the question, for tiges of countless generations of men he will get no critic, no school to

with that which claims alliance with differ with him. But' a fairer inthe grave, or kindred with the ele- stance would be a snug citizen's box ments of nature. This is what he by the road-side, newly painted, calls art and artificial poetry. But plastered and furnished, with every this is not what any body else under- thing in the newest fashion and gloss, stands by the terms, commonly or not an article the worse for wear, critically speaking. There is as little and a lease of one-and-twenty years connexion between the two things as to run, and then let us see what between the grand-daughters of Mr. Lord Byron, or his friend and “ host Coutts, who appeared at court the of human life” will make of it, comother day, and Lady Godiva-as there pared with the desolation, and the is between a reigning toast and an waste of all these comforts, arts, and Egyptian mummy. Lord Byron, elegances. Or let him take-not the through the whole of the argument, pyramids of Egypt, but the pavilion pelts his reverend opponent with in- at Brighton, and make a poetical de stances, like throwing a stone at a scription of it in prose or verse. We dog, which the incensed animal runs defy him. The poetical interest, in after, picks up, mumbles between his Lordship’s transposed cases, arises his teeth, and tries to see what it out of the imaginary interest. But is made of. The question is, how- the truth is, that where art flourishes ever, too tough for Mr. Bowles's and attains its object, imagination powers of mastication, and though droops, and poetry along with it. It the fray is amusing, nothing comes ceases, or takes a different and amof it. Between the Editor of Pope, biguous shape; it may be elegant, and the Editor of the New Monthly ingenious, pleasing, instructive, but Magazine, his Lordship sits

if it aspires to the semblance of a high arbiter,

higher interest, or the ornaments of And by decision more embroils the fray.

the highest fancy, it necessarily be

comes burlesque, as for instance, in What is the use of taking a work the Rape of the Lock. As novels of art, from which “ all the art of end with marriage, poetry ends with art is flown," a mouldering statue, the consummation and success of art. or a fallen column in Tadmor's mar- And the reason (if Lord Byron would ble waste, that staggers and over- attend to it) \is pretty obvious. awes the mind, and gives birth to a Where all the wishes and wants thousand dim reflections, by seeing are supplied, anticipated by art, the power and pride of man pros- there can be no strong cravings after trate, and laid low in the dust; what ideal good, nor dread of unimaginais there in this to prove the self-suf- ble evils; the sources of terror and ficiency of the upstart pride and pity must be dried up: where the power of man? A Ruin is poetical. hand has done every thing, nothing Because it is a work of art, says is left for the imagination to do or to Lord Byron. No, but because it is attempt: where all is regulated by

The very

conventional indifference, the full poetry. But does not the poetical workings, the involuntary, uncon- dignity of the instrument arise from trollable emotions of the heart cease: its very commonness and simplicity? property is not a poetical, but a A bow is not a supererogation of practical prosaic idea, to those who the works of art. It is almost pecupossess and clutch it; and cuts off liar to a state of nature, that is, the others from cordial sympathy; but first and rudest state of society. nature is common property, the un- Lord Byron might as well talk of a envied idol of all eyes, the fairy shepherd's crook, or the garland of ground where fancy plays her tricks flowers with which he crowns his and feats; and the passions, the mistress, as images borrowed from workings of the heart (which Mr. artificial life. He cannot make a genBowles very properly distinguishes tleman-usher's rod poetical, though from manners, inasmuch as they are it is the pink of courtly and gentle not in the power of the will to regu- manly refinement. Will the bold late or satisfy) are still left as a sub- stickler for the artificial essence of ject for something very different from poetry translate Pope's description didactic or mock-heroic poetry. By of Sir Plume,art and artificial, as these terms are

Of amber-headed snuff-box justly vain, applied to poetry or human life, we

And the nice conduct of a clouded cane, — mean those objects and feelings which depend for their subsistence into the same sort of poetry as Homer's and perfection on the will and arbi- description of the bow of Ulysses? It trary conventions of man and society; is out of the question. and by nature, and natural subjects, mention of the last has a sound with we mean those objects which exist it like the twang of the bow itself; in the universe at large, without, or whereas the others, the snuff-box and in spite of, the interference of human clouded-cane, are of the very essence power and contrivance, and those of effeminate impertinence. Pope interests and affections which are not says, in Spence's Anecdotes, that " a amenable to the human will. That lady of fashion would admire a star, we are to exclude art, or the opera- because it would remind her of the tion of the human will, from poetry twinkling of a lamp on a ball-night.” altogether, is what we do not affirm; This is a much better account of his but we mean to say, that where this own poetry than his noble critic has operation is the most complete and given. It is a clue to a real solution manifest, as in the creation of given of the difficulty. What is the difobjects, or regulation of certain feel- ference between the feeling with ings, there the spring of poetry, i. e. which we contemplate a gas-light of passion and imagination, is pro- in one of the squares, and the creportionably and much impaired. We scent moon beside it, but this that are masters of Art, Nature is our though the brightness, the beauty master; and it is to this greater perhaps, to the mere sense, is the power that we find working a- same or greater ; yet we know that bove, about, and within us, that the when we are out of the square, we genius of poetry bows and offers up shall lose sight of the lamp, but that its highest homage. If the infusion the moon will lend us its tributary of art were not a natural disqualifier light wherever we go ; it streams. for poetry, the most artificial objects over green valley or blue ocean alike; and manners would be the most poe- it is hung up in air, a part of the tical : on the contrary, it is only the pageant of the universe ; it steals with rude beginnings, or the ruinous de- gradual, softened state into the soul, cay of objects of art, or the simplest and hovers, a fairy-apparition, over modes of life and manners, that ad- our existence! It is this which makes mit of, or harmonize kindly with, the it a more poetical object than a patone and language of poetry: To tent-lamp, or a Chinese lanthorn, or consider the question otherwise, is the chandelier at Covent-garden, not to consider it too curiously, brilliant as it is, and which, though but not to understand it at all. it were made ten times more so, Lord Byron talks of Ulysses strik- would still only dazzle and scorch ing his horse Rhesus with his bow, the sight so much the more ; it would

an instar.ce of the heroic in not be attended with a mild train of

as

reflected glory; it would “ denote nate with nature, and comes inte no foregone conclusion,” would touch the first class of poetry, but no one no.chord of imagination or the heart; ever dreamt of the contrary. The it would have nothing romantic features of nature are great leading about it. -A man can make any thing, land-marks, not near and little, or but he cannot make a sentiment! confined to a spot, or an individual It is a thing of inveterate prejudice, claimant; they are spread out everyof old association, of common feel- where the same, and are of univering, and so is poetry, as far as it is sal interest. The true poet has serious. A “pack of cards,” a silver therefore been described as bodkin, a paste buckle, “ may be imbued" with as much mock poetry

Creation's tenant, he is nature's heir, as you please, by lending false asso- What has been thus said of the man ciations to it; but real poetry, or of genius might be said of the man poetry of the highest order, can only of no genius. The spirit of poetry, be produced by unravelling the real and the spirit of humanity are the web of associations, which have been same. The productions of nature wound round any subject by nature, and the unavoidable conditions of the curious, but spread out on the

are not locked up in the cabinets of humanity. Not to admit this dis- green lap of earth. The flowers retinction at the threshold, is to con- turn with the cuckoo in the spring: found the style of Tom Thumb with the daisy for ever looks bright in the that of the Moor of Venice, or Hur- sun; the rainbow still lifts its head lothrumbo with the Doge of Venice. above the storm to the eye of infancy It is to mistake jest for earnest, and

or ageone thing for another.

So was it when my life began; How far that little candle throws its beams! So is it now I am a man, So shines a good deed in a naughty world. So shall it be till I grow old and die;

The image here is one of artificial but Lord Byron does not understand life; but it is connected with natural this, for he does not understand Mr. circumstances and romantic interests, Wordsworth's poetry, and we canwith darkness, with silence, with not make him. His Lordship's nadistance, with privation, and uncer- ture, as well as his poetry, is sometain danger: it is common, obvious, thing arabesque and outlandish.without pretension or boast, and Again, once more, what, we would therefore the poetry founded upon it ask, makes the difference between is natural, because the feelings are an opera of Mozart's, and the sing80,

It is not the splendour of the ing of a thrush confined in a wooden candle itself, but the contrast to the cage at the corner of the street in gloom without,--the comfort, the re- which we live? The one is nature, lief it holds out from afar to the be- and the other is art: the one is paid nighted traveller, - the conflict be- for, and the other is not. Madame tween nature and the first and cheapest Fodor sings the air of Vedrai Carino resources of art, that constitutes the in Don Giovanni so divinely, because romantic and imaginary, that is, the she is hired to sing it ; she sings it to poetical interest, in that familiar but please the audience, not herself, and striking image. There is more art does not always like to be encored in the lamp or chandelier ; but for in it; but the thrush that awakes us that very reason, there is less poetry. at day-break with its song, does A light in a watch-tower, a beacon not sing because it is paid to sing, at sea, is sublime for the same cause; or to please others, or to be admired because the natural circumstances or criticised. It sings because it is and associations set it off; it warns happy : it pours the thrilling sounds us against danger, it reminds us of from its throat, to relieve the overcommon calamity, it promises safety flowings of its own breast, the liquid and hope: it has to do with the notes come from, and go to, the heart, broad feelings and circumstances of dropping balm into it, as the gushing human life, and its interest does not spring revives the traveller's parched assuredly turn upon the vanity or and fainting lips. That stream of pretensions of the maker or proprie. joy comes pure and fresh to the tor of it. This sort of art is co-ordi- longing sense, free from art and af,

fectation; the same that rises over tensions; but it is the fall from these, yernal groves, mingled with the the decline into the vale of low and breath of morning, and the perfumes obscure poverty,--the having but one of the wild hyacinth; that waits for last loop left to hang life on, and the no audience, that wants no rehears- sacrifice of that to a feeling still ing, that exhausts its raptures, and more precious, and which could only is still —

give way with life itself,-that eles

vates the sentiment, and has made it Hymns its good God, and carols sweet of find its way into all hearts. Had love.

Frederigo Alberigi had an aviary of There is this great difference be- Hawks, and preserves of pheasants tween nature and art, that the one is without end, he and his poor bird what the other seems, and gives all would never have been heard of. It the pleasure it expresses, because it is not the expence and ostentation feels it itself. Madame Fodor sings, of the entertainment he set before as a musical instrument may be his mistress, but the prodigality of made to play a tune, and perhaps affection, squandering away the last with no more real delight: but it is remains of his once proud fortunes, not so with the limet or the thrush, that stamps this beautiful incident on that sings because God pleases, and the remembrance of all who have ever pours out its little soul in pleasure. read it. We wish Lord Byron would This is the reason why its singing is look it over again, and see whether (so far) so much better than melody it does not most touch the chords or harmony, than base or treble, of pathos and sentiment in those than the Italian or the German places where we feel the absence of school, than quavers or crotchets, or all the pomp and vanities of art. half-notes, or canzonets, or quartetts, Mr. Campbell talks of a ship as a or any thing in the world but truth sublime and beautiful object in art. and nature!

We will confess we always stop to To give one more instance or two look at the mail-coaches with no of what we understand by a natural slight emotion, and, perhaps, extend interest ingrafted on artificial objects, our hands after some of them, in and of the principle that still keeps sign of gratulation. They carry them distinct. Amelia's “ hashed the letters of friends, of relations ; mutton" in Fielding, is one that I they keep up the communication bemight mention. Hashed mutton is tween the heart of a country. We an article in cookery, homely enough do not admire them for their workin the scale of art, though far re- manship, for their speed, for their moved from the simple products of livery--there is something more nature; yet we should say that in it than this. Perhaps we can exthis common delicacy which Amelia plain it by saying, that we once provided for her husband's supper, heard a person observe—“ I always and then waited so long in vain for look at the Shrewsbury mail, and his return, is the foundation of one sometimes with tears in my eyes : of the most natural and affecting that is the coach that will bring me incidents in one of the most natural the news of the death of my father and affecting books in the world. and mother.” His Lordship will No description of the most splendid say, the mail-coach is an artificial and luxurious banquet could come object. Yet we think the interest up to it. It will be remembered, here was not founded upon that cirwhen the Almanach des Gourmands, cumstance. There was a finer and and even the article on it in the last deeper link of affection that did not Edinburgh Review, are forgotten. depend on the red painted pannels, Did Lord Byron never read Boc- or the dyed garments of the coachcacio? We wish he would learn man and guard. At least it stikes us refinement from him, and get rid of so. his hard bravura taste, and swash- This is not an easy subject to ilbuckler conclusions. What makes lustrate, and it is still more difficult the charm of the story of the Falcon? to define. Yet we shall attempt Is it properly art or nature? The something of the sort. 1. Natural tale is one of artificial life, and ele- objects are common and obvious, and gant manners, and chivalrous pre- are imbued with an habitual and

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