man for motion and for rest? Confident are | tune-so the Mains, sir, has been uninhabited we that that obese elderly gentleman beside for a good many years." But he had been the coachman-whose ample rotundity is en- speaking to one who knew far more about the cased in that antique and almost obsolete in- Mains than he could do-and who was not vention, a spenser-needed not to have been sorry that the Old Place was allowed to stand, so carried in a whirlwind to his comfortable undisturbed by any rich upstart, in the venehome. Scarcely is there time for pity as we rable silence of its own decay. And this is behold an honest man's wife, pale as putty the moss-house that we helped to build with in the face at a tremendous swing, or lounge, our own hands-at least to hang the lichen or lurch of the Highflier, holding like grim tapestry, and stud the cornice with shells! We death to the balustrades. But umbrellas, pa- were one of the paviers of that pebbled floor rasols, plaids, shawls, bonnets, and great-coats with as many necks as Hydra-the Pile of Life has disappeared in a cloud of dust, and the faint bugle tells that already it has spun and reeled onwards a mile on its destination.

But here comes a vehicle at more rational pace. Mercy on us-a hearse and six horses returning leisurely from a funeral! Not improbable that the person who has just quitted it, had never, till he was a corpse, got higher than a single-horse Chay-yet no fewer than half-a-dozen hackneys must be hired for his dust. But clear the way! "Hurra! hurra! he rides a race, 'tis for a thousand pound!" Another, and another, and another-all working away with legs and knees, arms and shoulders, on cart-horses in the Brooze-the Brooze! The hearse-horses take no sort of notice of the cavalry of cart and plough, but each in turn keeps its snorting nostrils deep plunged in the pail of meal and water-for well may they be thirsty-the kirkyard being far among the hills, and the roads not yet civilized. May I ask, friend," addressing ourself to the hearseman, "whom you have had inside?" "Only Dr. Sandilands, sir-if you are going my way, you may have a lift for a dram!" We had always thought there was a superstition in Scotland against marrying in the month of May; but it appears that people are wedded and bedded in that month too-some in warm sheets and some in cold-cold-cold-dripping damp as the grave.

and that bright scintillating piece of spar, the centre of the circle, came all the way from Derbyshire in the knapsack of a geologist, who died a Professor. It is strange the roof has not fallen in long ago; but what a slight ligature will often hold together a heap of ruins from tumbling into nothing! The old mosshouse, though somewhat decrepit, is alive; and, if these swallows don't take care, they will be stunning themselves against our face, jerking out and in, through door and window, twenty times in a minute. Yet with all that twittering of swallows-and with all that frequent crowing of a cock-and all that cawing of rooks-and cooing of doves-and lowing of cattle along the holms-and bleating of lambs along the braes-it is nevertheless a pensive place; and here sit we like a hermit, world-sick, and to be revived only by hearkening in the solitude to the voices of other years.

What more mournful thought than that of a Decayed Family-a high-born race gradually worn out, and finally ceasing to be! The remote ancestors of this House were famous men of war-then some no less famous statesmen-then poets and historians-then minds still of fine, but of less energetic mould-and last of all, the mystery of madness breaking suddenly forth from spirits that seemed to have been especially formed for profoundest peace. There were three sons and two daughters, undegenerate from the ancient stateliness of the

But we must up, and off. Not many gentle-race-the oldest on his approach to manhood men's houses in the parish-that is to say, old family seats; for of modern villas, or boxes, inhabited by persons imagining themselves gentlemen, and, for any thing we know to the contrary, not wholly deceived in that belief, there is rather too great an abundance. Four family seats, however, there certainly are, of sufficient antiquity to please a lover of the olden time; and of those four, the one which we used to love best to look at was-THE MAINS. No need to describe it in many words. A Hall on a river side, embosomed in woods -holms and meadows winding away in front, with their low thick hedgerows and stately single trees-on-on-on-as far as the eye can reach, a crowd of grove-tops-elms chiefly, or beeches and a beautiful boundary of blue hills. "Good-day, Sergeant Stewart! farewell, Ma'am-farewell!" And in half an hour we are sitting in the moss-house at the edge of the outer garden, and gazing up at the many windowed gray walls of the MAINS, and its high steep-ridged roof, discoloured by the weatherstains of centuries. "The taxes on such a house," quod Sergeant Stewart, "are of themselves enough to ruin a man of moderate for

erect as the young cedar, that seems conscious of being destined one day to be the tallest tree in the woods. The twin-sisters were ladies indeed! Lovely as often are the low-born, no maiden ever stepped from her native cottagedoor, even in a poet's dream, with such an air as that with which those fair beings walked along their saloons and lawns. Their beauty no one could at all describe-and no one beheld it who did not say that it transcended all that imagination had been able to picture of angelic and divine. As the sisters were, so were the brothers-distinguished above all their mates conspicuously, and beyond all possibility of mistake; so that strangers could single them out at once as the heirs of beauty, that, according to veritable pictures and true traditions, had been an unalienable gift from nature to that family ever since it bore the name. For the last three generations none of that house had ever reached even the meridian of life-and those of whom we now speak had from childhood been orphans. Yet how joyous and free were they one and all, and how often from this cell did evening hear their holy harmonies, as the Five united together ૨

SACRED POETRY.

novelty of sentiment, and very little from novelty of expression. Poetry pleases by exhibiting an idea more grateful in the mind than things themselves afford. This effect proceeds from the display of those parts of nature which attract, and the concealment of those that repel, the imagination; but religion must be shown as it is; suppression and addition equally corrupt it; and such as it is, it is known already. From poetry the reader justly expects, and from good poetry always obtains, the enlargement of his comprehension and the elevation of his fancy; but this is rarely to be hoped by Christians from metrical devotion. Whatever is great, desirable, or tremendous, is comprised in the name of the Supreme Being. Omnipotence cannot be exalted; Infinity cannot be amplified; Perfection cannot be improved.

all didactic poetry? And who ever heard of an essential distinction between piety, and motives to piety? Mr. James Montgomery, in a very excellent Essay prefixed to that most interesting collection, "The Christian Poet," well observes, that "motives to piety must be of the nature of piety, otherwise they could never incite to it-the precepts and sanctions of the Gospel might as well be denied to be any part of the Gospel." And for our own parts, we scarcely know what piety is, separated from its motives-or how, so separated, it could be expressed in words at all.

With regard, again, to descriptive poetry, the argument, if argument it may be called, is still more lame and impotent. "A poet," it is said, "may describe the beauty and the grandeur of nature, the flowers of the spring and the harvests of autumn, the vicissitudes of the tide and the revolutions of the sky, and praise his Maker in lines which no reader shall lay aside." Most true he may; but then we are told, "the subject of the description is not God, but the works of God!" Alas! what trifling

"The employments of pious meditation are faith, thanksgiving, repentance, and supplication. Faith, invariably uniform, cannot be invested by fancy with decorations. Thanksgiving, though the most joyful of all holy effusions, yet addressed to a Being without passions, is what miserable trifling is this! In the works confined to a few modes, and is to be felt rather than expressed. Repentance, trembling in the presence of the Judge, is not at leisure for cadences and epithets. Supplication to man may diffuse itself through many topics of persuasion; but supplication to God can only cry for mercy.

of God, God is felt to be by us his creatures, whom he has spiritually endowed. We cannot look on them, even in our least elevated moods, without some shadow of love or awe; in our most elevated moods, we gaze on them with religion. By the very constitution of our intelligence, the effects speak of the cause. "Of sentiments purely religious, it will be We are led by nature up to nature's God. The found that the most simple expression is the Bible is not the only revelation-there is anmost sublime. Poetry loses its lustre and its other-dimmer but not less divine-for surely power, because it is applied to the decoration the works are as the words of God. No great of something more excellent than itself. All poet, in describing the glories and beauties of that pious verse can do is to help the memory the external world, is forgetful of the existence and delight the ear, and for these purposes it and attributes of the Most High. That thought, may be very useful; but it supplies nothing to and that feeling, animate all his strains; and the mind. The ideas of Christian Theology though he dare not to describe Him the Ineffaare too simple for eloquence, too sacred for ble, he cannot prevent his poetry from being fiction, and too majestic for ornament; to re-beautifully coloured by devotion, tinged by commend them by tropes and figures, is to piety-in its essence it is religious. magnify by a concave mirror the sidereal he- It appears, then, that the qualifications or misphere." restrictions with which Dr. Johnson is willing Here Dr. Johnson confesses that sacred sub-to allow that there may be didactic and dejects are not unfit-that they are fit-for di- scriptive sacred poetry, are wholly unmeandactic and descriptive poetry. Now, this is a ing, and made to depend on distinctions which very wide and comprehensive admission; and have no existence. being a right, and natural, and just admission, Of narrative poetry of a sacred kind, Mr. it cannot but strike the thoughtful reader at Montgomery well remarks, Johnson makes no once as destructive of the great dogma by mention, except it be implicated with the statewhich Sacred Poetry is condemned. The doc-ment, that "the ideas of Christian Theology trines of Religion may be defended, he allows, are too sacred for fiction-a sentiment more in a didactic poem-and, pray, how can they just than the admirers of Milton and Klopbe defended unless they are also expounded? stock are willing to admit, without almost pleAnd how can they be expounded without being nary indulgence in favour of these great, but steeped, as it were, in religious feeling! Let not infallible authorities." Here Mr. Montgosuch a poem be as didactic as can possibly be mery expresses himself very cautiously-perimagined, still it must be pervaded by the very haps rather too much so-for he leaves us in spirit of religion-and that spirit, breathing the dark about his own belief. But this we do throughout the whole, must also be frequently not hesitate to say, that though there is great expressed, vividly, and passionately, and pro- danger of wrong being done to the ideas of foundly, in particular passages; and if so, Christian theology by poetry-a wrong which must it not be, in the strictest sense, a Sacred must be most painful to the whole inner being poem? of a Christian; yet that there seems no neces"But," says Dr. Johnson, "the subject ofsity of such a wrong, and that a great poet, the disputation is not piety, but the motives to piety." Why introduce the word “ disputation," as if it characterized justly and entirely

guarded by awe, and fear, and love, may move his wings unblamed, and to the glory of God, even amongst the most awful sanctities of his

faith. These sanctities may be too awful for "fiction"-but fiction is not the word here, any more than disputation was the word there. Substitute for it the word poetry; and then, reflecting on that of Isaiah and of David, conversant with the Holy of Holies, we feel that it need not profane those other sanctities, if it be, like its subject, indeed divine. True, that those bards were inspired-with them

the name

Of prophet and of poet was the same; but still, the power in the soul of a great poet, not in that highest of senses inspired, is, we may say it, of the same kind-inferior but in degree; for religion itself is always an inspiration. It is felt to be so in the prose of holy men-Why not in their poetry?

If these views be just, and we have expressed them "boldly, yet humbly"-all that remains to be set aside of Dr. Johnson's argument is, "that contemplative piety, or the intercourse between God and man, cannot be poetical. Man, admitted to implore the mercy of his Creator, and plead the merits of his Redeemer, is already in a higher state than poetry can

confer."

There is something very fine and true in the sentiment here; but the sentiment is only true in some cases, not in all. There are different degrees in the pious moods of the most pious spirit that ever sought communion with its God and its Saviour. Some of these are awestruck and speechless. That line,

"Come, then, expressive silence, muse his praise!" denies the power of poetry to be adequate to adoration, while the line itself is most glorious poetry. The temper even of our fallen spirits may be too divine for any words. Then the creature kneels mute before its Maker. But are there not other states of mind in which we feel ourselves drawn near to God, when there is no such awful speechlessness laid upon us -but when, on the contrary, our tongues are loosened, and the heart that burns within will speak? Will speak, perhaps, in song-in the inspiration of our piety breathing forth hymns and psalms-poetry indeed-if there be poetry on this earth? Why may we not say that the spirits of just men made perfect-almost perfect, by such visitations from heaven-will break forth-"rapt, inspired," into poetry, which may be called holy, sacred, divine?

We feel as if treading on forbidden groundand therefore speak reverently; but still we do not fear to say, that between that highest state of contemplative piety which must be mute, down to that lowest state of the same feeling which evanishes and blends into mere human emotion as between creature and creature, here are infinite degrees of emotion which may be all imbodied, without offence, in words -and if so imbodied, with sincerity and humility, will be poetry, and poetry too of the most beautiful and affecting kind.

"Man, admitted to implore the mercy of his Creator, and plead the merits of his Redeemer, is already in a higher state than poetry can confer." Most true, indeed. But, though poetry did not confer that higher state, poetry may nevertheless, in some measure and to

some degree, breathe audibly some of the emotions which constitutes its blessedness; poetry may even help the soul to ascend to those celestial heights; because poetry may prepare it, and dispose it to expand itself, and open itself out to the highest and holiest influences of religion; for poetry there may be inspired directly from the word of God, using the language and strong in the spirit of that word-unexistent but for the Old and New Testament.

We agree with Mr. Montgomery, that the sum of Dr. Johnson's argument amounts to this-that contemplative piety, or the intercourse between God and the human soul, cannot be poetical. But here we at once ask ourselves, what does he mean by poetical? “The essence of poetry," he says, "is inventionsuch invention as, by producing something unexpected, surprises and delights." Here, again, there is confusion and sophistry. There is much high and noble poetry of which invention, such invention as is here spoken of, is not the essence. Devotional poetry is of that character. Who would require something unexpected and surprising in a strain of thanksgiving, repentance, or supplication? Such feelings as these, if rightly expressed, may exalt or prostrate the soul, without much—without any aid from the imagination-except in as far as the imagination will work under the power of every great emotion that does not absolutely confound mortal beings, and humble them down even below the very dust. There may be "no grace from novelty of sentiment," and “very little from novelty of expression"— to use Dr. Johnson's words-for it is neither grace nor novelty that the spirit of the poet is seeking-"the strain we hear is of a higher mood;" and "few as the topics of devotion may be," (but are they few?) and “universally known," they are all commensurate-nay, far more than commensurate with the whole power of the soul-never can they become unaffecting while it is our lot to die; even from the lips of ordinary men, the words that flow on such topics flow effectually, if they are earnest, simple, and sincere; but from the lips of genius, inspired by religion, who shall dare to say that, on such topics, words have not flowed that are felt to be poetry almost worthy of the Celestial Ardours around the throne, and by their majesty to "link us to the radiant angels," than whom we were made but a little lower, and with whom we may, when time shall be no more, be equalled in heaven?

We do not hesitate to say, that Dr. Johnson's doctrine of the effect of poetry is wholly false. If it do indeed please, by exhibiting an idea more grateful to the mind than things themselves afford, that is only because the things themselves are imperfect-more so than suits the aspirations of a spirit, always aspiring because immortal, to a higher sphere-a higher order of being. But when God himself is, with all awe and reverence, made the subject of song-then it is the office-the sacred office of poetry-not to exalt the subject, but to exalt the soul that contemplates it. That poetry can do, else why does human nature glory in the "Paradise Lost?”

SACRED POETRY.

"Whatever is great, desirable, or tremen- and excellence suppose misery, and are imdous, is comprised in the name of the Supreme perfection, but the instrument and capacity of Being. Omnipotence cannot be exalted-In- all duty and all virtue." Happy he whose finity cannot be amplified-Perfection cannot faith is finally "fixed in the beloved point!" be improved." Should not this go to prohibit But even of that faith, what hinders the poet all speech-all discourse-all sermons con- whom it has blessed to sing? While, of its cerning the divine attributes? Immersed as tremblings, and veerings, and variations, why they are in matter, our souls wax dull, and the may not the poet, whose faith has experienced, attributes of the Deity are but as mere names. and still may experience them all, breathe Those attributes cannot, indeed, be exalted by many a melancholy and mournful lay, aspoetry. "The perfection of God cannot be suaged, ere the close, by the descent of peace? Thanksgiving, it is here admitted, is the improved"-nor was it worthy of so wise a man so to speak; but while the Creator abideth "most joyful of all holy effusions;" and the "Out of the in his own incomprehensible Being, the crea- admission is sufficient to prove that it cannot ture, too willing to crawl blind and hoodwinked be "confined to a few modes." along the earth, like a worm, may be raised by fulness of the heart the tongue speaketh;" and the voice of the charmer, "some sweet singer though at times the heart will be too full for of Israel," from his slimy track, and suddenly speech, yet as often even the coldest lips prove eloquent in gratitude-yea, the very dumb do be made to soar on wings up into the ether. Would Dr. Johnson have declared the use- speak-nor, in excess of joy, know the miracle On the same that has been wrought upon them by the power lessness of Natural Theology? ground he must have done so, to preserve con- of their own mysterious and high enthusiasm. sistency in his doctrine. Do we, by exploring wisdom, and power, and goodness, in all animate and inanimate creation, exalt Omnipotence, amplify infinity, or improve perfection? We become ourselves exalted by such divine contemplations-by knowing the structure of a rose-leaf or of an insect's wing. We are reminded of what, alas! we too often forget, and exclaim, "Our Father which art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name!" And while science explores, may not poetry celebrate the glories and the mercies of our God?

The argument against which we contend gets weaker and weaker as it proceeds-the gross misconception of the nature of poetry on which it is founded becomes more and more glaring the paradoxes, dealt out as confidently as if they were self-evident truths, more and more repulsive alike to our feelings and our understandings. "The employments of pious meditation are faith, thanksgiving, repentance, and supplication. Faith, invariably uniform, cannot be invested by fancy with decorations. Thanksgiving, though the most joyful of all holy effusions, yet addressed to a Being superior to us, is confined to a few modes, and is to be felt rather than expressed. Repentance, trembling in the presence of the Judge, is not at leisure for cadences and epithets. Supplication to men may diffuse itself through many topics of persuasion; but supplication to God can only cry for mercy." What a vain attempt authoritatively to impose upon the common sense of mankind! Faith is not invariably uniform. To preserve it unwavering-unquaking-to save it from lingering or from sudden death-is the most difficult service to which the frail spirit-frail even in its greatest strength-is called every day-every hour of this troubled, perplexing, agitating, and often most unintelligible life! "Liberty of will," says Jeremy Taylor, "is like the motion of a magnetic needle towards the north, full of trembling and uncertainty till it be fixed in the beloved point: it wavers as long as it is free, It and is at rest when it can choose no more. is humility and truth to allow to man this liberty; and, therefore, for this we may lay our faces in the dust, and confess that our dignity 24

That" repentance, trembling in the presence of the Judge, should not be at leisure for cadences and epithets," is in one respect true; but nobody supposes that during such moments-or hours-poetry is composed; and surely when they have passed away, which they must do, and the mind is left free to meditate upon them, and to recall them as shadows of the past, there is nothing to prevent them from being steadily and calmly contemplated, and depictured in somewhat softened and altogether endurable light, so as to become proper subjects even of poetry—that is, proper subjects of such expression as human nature is prompted to clothe with all its emotions, as soon as they have subsided, after a swell or a storm, into a calm, either placid altogether, or still bearing traces of the agitation that has ceased, and have left the whole being selfpossessed, and both capable and desirous of indulging itself in an after-emotion at once melancholy and sublime. Then, repentance will not only be "at leisure for cadences and epithets," but cadences and epithets will of themselves move harmonious numbers, and give birth, if genius as well as piety be there, to religious poetry. Cadences and epithets are indeed often sought for with care, and pains, and ingenuity; but they often come forth unsought; and never more certainly and more easily than when the mind recovers itself from some oppressive mood, and, along with a certain sublime sadness, is restored to the full possession of powers that had for a short severe season been overwhelmed, but afterwards look back, in very inspiration, on the feelings that during their height were nearly unendurable, and then unfit for any outward and palpable form. The criminal trembling at the bar of an earthly tribunal, and with remorse and repentance receiving his doom, might, in like manner, be wholly unable to set his emotions to the measures of speech; out when recovered from the shock by pardon, or reprieve, or submission, is there any reason why he should not calmly recall the miseries and the prostation of spirit attendant on that hour, and give them touching and pathetic exQ 2 pression?