out knowing all that the literature of his age and country could impart. Those who say that learning weakens the original fire of poetic genius, tell us very plainly, that they have themselves so very little fire, that it is continually in danger of being extinguished; you cannot extinguish the original propensities of nature. Naturam expellas tamen usque recurrat : "drive nature out at one door, and she will come in at the other." Intense study, indeed, will temper and restrain, but it can never extinguish the fire of natural genius on the contrary, by concentrating its rays, it gives it a power and activity of operation unknown to all the affected disciples of nature. A man of genius cannot read too much, a dunce cannot read too little; for, in the first place, he wrecks his brains, and, consequently, his health, in striving to comprehend his author, whereas, after all, he comprehends only just enough to bewilder him. The man of genius, on the contrary, understands every thing he reads at a glance, forgets what is not worth remembering, and converts what is, into gold. Our present pretenders to poetic inspiration, affect to talk of Pope as no poct.-What an admirable discovery! Pope sometimes talks sense. This they cannot endure. The poet must speak without reflection; he must write as the spirit moveth, not as the understanding dictates. This is not only Mr. Wordsworth's theory, but the theory which is actually followed by most of our modern poets, for they pride themselves in rejecting and avoiding, as much as they can, all those rules which Horace and Virgil, and all the great poets of antiquity, have sanctioned by their authority, and to which they have themselves conformed. Simple children of nature, how mournful is it to think, that while the artful Horace, who could not write as much poetry in a day as even one of his own dull contemporaries could while he stood upon one foot, much less as much as you, who have only to run the pen along the paper, and write as the spirit moveth, how sad, we say, is the reflection, that this crafty, this artful,-this tortoise-moving Horace, should become immortal, while you, with all your simplicity and close adherence to nature, while you, innocent as doves, and talking the very language of childhood, the very lispings of babyism, the very "milk of human kindness," are destined, notwithstanding, to glide peaceably and quietly into the great gulf of oblivion. Nor is it less to be regretted, that this Pope, who was no poet, but whom some pedantic readers have erroneously termed one, should be read, not only by you yourselves, and the critics, but read,-aye, read and admired too, by all the nations in Europe,-by all the nations in the world, acquainted with British literature, while you, poor babes, are known only here at home, among ourselves, and destined to be so only for a few years. That affected simplicity, both in language and in sentiment, and that affected contempt for classical elegance, and purity of expression, which characterize the poetry of the day, prove only, that most of our modern poets are men, who pick up their little modicum of knowledge from reading and admiring each others' nonsense, without any acquaintance whatever with Greek or Roman literature. No wonder, then, they should affect to despise that with which they are unacquainted. Greek and Roman literature is as bitter to them, as the grapes to the fox, when he could not reach them; and yet, how difficult is it to suppose such admirers of simplicity and rustic language to be all foxes in disguise: yet so it is. Poetry, according to these gentlemen, is the mere expression of natural feeling, and, therefore, they take it for granted, that whatever feeling suggests must be right. In order to obtain this simplicity, and to avoid every chance of not being simple, Mr. Wordsworth tells us, that the language of low and rustic life ought to be preferred, because, in his opinion, the essential passions of the heart find a better soil, in which they can attain their maturity, and because, in that condition of life, our elementary feelings co-exist in a state of greater simplicity. Mr. Wordsworth knows but little of the philosophy of the passions, when he writes in this strain. All mental pleasures arise from mental perceptions, and each new perception creates a new pleasure. The more, consequently, we multiply our perceptions, the more we multiply our mental pleasures; and the pleasure arising from any particular perception, no matter what it be, is just as natural as that arising from any other perception whatever, because it is natural that the effect should follow its cause. The mental pleasures of a scholar are, therefore, just as natural as those of a peasant, though they are infinitely more diversified, and the language in which he expresses them must, consequently, be as natural, if he write as he feels, as the language of the peasant. The fact, however, is, that his language will be more natural, because the vocabulary of the former is too scanty to supply him with words to express exactly what he wants to express. How erroneous, thien, is Mr. Wordsworth, in asserting that the language of low and vulgar life ought to be preferred, because, in his opinion, the essential passions of the heart find a better soil, in which they can attain their maturity, and because, in that condition of life, our elementary feelings co-exist in a state of greater simplicity. If Mr. Wordsworth had paid a little attention to the study of human nature, he would not talk of essential passions, and elementary feelings, because there is no passion or feeling essential or elementary. We have no passion or feeling whatever, but what is caused by external agency, and as each different modification of agency produces a different feeling and passion, it is obvious that all passions and feelings are equally natural. To call any passion "essential" or "elementary," conveys either no meaning, or an erroneous one; for what passión can be termed more essential or elementary than another? No passion can be felt without a cause to excite it; and if this cause should never occur, the passion would never be felt. Is not love a natural passion? But who was ever in love before he saw a female capable of engaging his affections? Love, then, is neither essential nor elementary, for it may never be felt; and never can be felt without a cause to excite it. Its existence, then, depends upon chance, and what is contingent cannot be elementary. All other passions are the same. Mr. Wordsworth cannot point out one passion that springs up naturally and spontaneously in the human breast, of its own accord. All are the re sult of external agency, and where no agency is exercised, no passion can be felt. If, then, all passions be the result of certain influences, all passions are effects, of which these influences are the causes, and, therefore, all are equally natural. The passions of a peasant, then, cannot be more natural than those of the poet, who feels a thousand passions, emotions, and sympathies, of which the peasant cannot even form an idea. As all these passions and modes of feeling are unknown to the peasant, they must, consequently, be different from all his passions, and, if different, they must be expressed in different language, if they are expressed naturally; but, according to Mr. Wordsworth, it would be unnatural to express them differently, because he would have them all expressed in the language of the peasant, as if the peasant could give expression to feelings of which he knows nothing. If any poet should use the language of low life, it is only he whose feelings are low and rustic, and to whom all those mental pleasures that sport with airy wing, beyond the contracted limits of vulgar perception, are totally unknown. To say, then, that we should adopt the language of low and rustic life, is to say, that we should only feel and think like a peasant. We, therefore, maintain, that this language of low life, this affectedly natural and simple language,—this language of the untaught spirit, so admirably suited to certain religious sects, is the result of the most perverted taste, and the most vitiated reasoning; but, to put it properly to the test, we shall select a few examples from the real language of low life, so real, that no person can mistake it, and then ask our readers whether it be language meet for a poet. The examples we shall select, are epitaphs on tomb-stones, evidently the production of the rustic, unlettered muse. IN MEMORY OF Sarah Palmer, who departed this life March 16th, 1782, in the 91st year of her age, leaving children, grand children, great grand children, and treble grand children, 166. By his kind help, who sits on heaven's throne, At eighty-nine, I halv'd my dose of gin, For I am dead, and she wont follow- Shadow'd with doubts, and agoniz'd with fears, Hear from the tomb the warning voice of truth' |