What more can be effected by this particular style which is to exclude all others? Will its admirers maintain its superiority because it pleases them most. The admirers of every other style can make use of the same argument, and therefore every style can be proved best and worst at the same moment. Besides if we cultivate only one style of poetry, we shall have neither poetry nor poets in the course of a century. This effect I believe, has not been anticipated by the most sagacious legistor in any of our modern schools; but without pretending to the spirit of prophecy, I feel confident that this would be the result. Let us suppose the Lake School were to exclude all others, it is obvious that every person who had not a genius for this species of poetry, should desist from writing altogether, and that our poets would consequently be limited to a very small number. The poetic spirit which is at present communicated from mind to mind, that spirit which is purified by communication, and strengthened by expansion, would, in this case, instant ly perish. In whatever style a poet writes, he is continually, though often unconsciously, taking his il lustrations, associations, images, sentiments, shade and colouring, from the great poetic spirit which is already abroad and diffused through an endless diversity of styles, and peculiarities of manner. But this diversity would be at an end, this spirit would die of itself, if only one style of poetry were once cultivated. It would not, therefore, be cultivated long, because it would soon lose that peculiarity of manner which characterized it at the moment, being only a certain ramification of the great poetic spirit of the age. This spirit may be aptly compared to a great river, which branches into different directions, and supplies each branch with the waters of its parent stream. As none of these branches can exist unless supplied from the main river, so can no particular style or school of poetry exist, that attempts to exist by itself, and that does not draw its strength and vigour from that poetic spirit which is diffused, as I have just observed, through an endless diversity of style and manner.

If this circumstance, however, could not totally extinguish an exclusive style or school of poetry, it would receive its death blow from another quarter. There can be no poets unless there be readers of poetry, for without readers no one would publish. The readers of poetry, however, would now be so comparatively few, being confined to the mere admirers of the Lake School, that the sale of poetic works would not defray the expenses of publication, and publishers are too wise to publish at a certain loss. Perhaps it may be said, that the Lake poetry is at present confined to its admirers, and still enriches the publisher and the poet. This however is not the fact: for one real and unaffected admirer of the Lake poetry, there are perhaps ten readers, and consequently ten purchasers. One half of these readers at least, are merely pretended admirers of the Lake School, people who, having no judgment of their own, blindly admire whatever they find admired by such of their friends as appear to have wiser heads than themselves. The other two fifths are probably composed of those who read or purchase all the poetical productions of the day, soine through a laudable curiosity of becoming acquainted with whatever is excellent, and others, through a fear of being found ignorant of any new publication. It is obvious, however, that if the Lake School once became an exclusive one, those who read it at present merely to shew their judg ment in preferring it to all others, would immediately fall off, for as there would remain no opportunity of giving it a preference, there would be no pretension consequently to the exercise of a superior judgment, and no one would continue to read the Lake poetry who did not really admire it.

Though no school of poetry has as yet succeeded in putting down the rest, there is a mistaken opinion, which has, more or less, infected all the schools, or, at least, a portion of each, and this opinion is, I believe, peculiar to the present age, that there must be some certain style of poetry, some certain measure, some certain manner, some certain class of subjects and of images, superior to all others, and that, consequently,

all others should give way to them. We all seem to forget, that neither style, measure, nor manner, constitutes a particle of the essense of poetry, and that the prosaic form is as capable of being poetic as any measure that can be pointed out. Some writers have gone so far, as to place Ossian at the head of all poetic productions; but to judge of poetry by the squabblings of modern critics, it would not be poetry at all. We must seek for the essence of poetry, therefore, in sentiment, pathos, imagery, delineation, invention, sublimity of conception, &c. And the greatest poet is he who excels in these; not the tame and starched advocate of one unvaried style and manner. In the days of Pope, we hear of no disputes relative to measure, style, and manner, because they had sense enough to perceive, that the best style was that which was most accordant to

the genius of the poet. In comparing a poem written in hexameter verse with one written in the Ottava rima, no critic thought of preferring one to the other, in consequence of the measure. This was not the criterion by which they estimated poetic pre-eminence. The same observation applies to subject, images, &c. It never once occurred to them, that to appreciate the true merit of a poem, they should take into consideration the subject and images. They did not go thus mechanically to work, for they had not, as yet, invented a scale and compass, by which the merit of all poems whatever might be ascertained at once, without the trouble of judging every poem by laws peculiar to itself. It was, then, imagined, that what constituted the excellence of one poem, was not what constituted the excellence of another; that each required a treatment, a class of images, a disposition of parts, and a light and shade, peculiar to itself; and they, consequently, judged it necessary to enter into the design and spirit of the poet, before they could venture to determine its comparative worth. At present, an easier road lies open to the critic: he has only to run over a poem, and see whether the subject be of a romantic character; whether the images be scrupulously and studiously selected from natural Eur. Mag. Vol. 82.

objects; whether it be written in Ottava rima, in the stanza of Spenser, &c.; whether the phraseology possess a certain antiquated form and turn of expression, and a certain infantine simplicity and carelessness of manner, which not only leads us to suppose it was written without the least thought or reflection, but inclines us to fall in love with the baby innocence of its author. These matters can be ascertained in a trice; they may be taught to a child at the age of nine, and, consequently, we can now be better critics at nine, than we could formerly at forty, with the additional advantage of being able to decide the merit of any poetical work, in one-fortieth of the time.

It would be an insult to the intellectual character of the present age, to prove, that our modern poetic scales and compasses tend only to the perversion of true taste and sound judgment, and that the critic who would confine a great genius to the stanza of Spenser, or to any other stanza, to subjects, images, styles and measures of a certain character, is actually labouring to complete this perversion. Every school of poetry is, therefore, a nuisance, because they all draw certain lines around them, beyond which the poet must not venture his excursive flight. It is useless, however, to prescribe laws to the poet. Of all men, he pays least obedience to the precept,

he

hither shalt thou go, and no farther." He wanders wherever imagination solicits his presence: he tramples under foot every obstacle which impedes his career; wings his majestic flight beyond the niggard empalement within which critical sagacity would confine his flight. Ocean is only a drop, and the earth a speck in the immensity of his creation; and if even space had bounds, he would spurn its empalement, and explore new. regions of" untried being." The poet, who exults in the security of his own strength, either laughs at or pities the solemn gravity and affected wisdom of those who "write receipts how poems may be made.". A mechanical critic, prescribing laws to a poet, is like an apothecary prescribing medicine to a physician. The apothecary has only one receipt

3 F

for curing his patient; the physician has a hundred, so, also, has the pseudo-critic only one way of arriving at excellence, while the poet, gifted with the eyes of Argus, perceives, at a glance, a hundred approaches to the temple of fame.

It seems obvious, then, that the rage for particular modes, styles, subjects, measures, images, phraseology, &c., which characterize the present age, is not the offspring of improved taste, and that, instead of enlarging the career of genius, as we pretend to do, we only circumvent its excursions, and enchain its energies. This rage must, there fore, have been brought about by one of those revolutions in literature, which works itself into existence by slow and imperceptible degrees. How this revolution has been effected, is not unworthy of our attention.

Formerly, a classical and liberal education was confined to a small portion of society. There were no means of acquiring it, but by a close and unwearied application to books, and an acquaintance with the best writers, ancient and modern. The mind, therefore, became naturally enriched with the treasures of classic literature and classic taste; and whoever united to these acquire ments that original susceptibility of impressions, which constitutes genius, naturally took his images, ilJustrations, sentiments, and conceptions, from that extensive magazine of literature, which was bequeathed to him by the most illustrious writers and poets of every age, and of every clime. The poet, thus furnished with classic knowledge, was, therefore, enabled to trace the naked nature and the living grace," because he viewed nature, not only with his own eyes, but with the eyes of others. His ambition was, therefore, to equal the great models which he had studied, in beauty of expression, delicacy of sentiment, luxuriance of description, richness of Imagery, purity of style, sublimity of conception, elegance of selection, perspicuity of arrangement, and splendour of illustration. He knew, that without these qualities of poetic excellence, it mattered little what subject he chose, in what measure be wrote, or what cadences he observed; and

that where these were attained, excellence was also attained, whatever might be the subject that exercised his pen. In examining, therefore, the merits of his contemporaries, he never inquired whether the subject was plaintive, amatory, heroic, elegiac, romantic, or pathetic; he knew, that Gray's " Elegy," though it had not a particle of romance, was not inferior, in point of merit, to Spenser's “Faerie Queen,” and that of Shenstone's "Pastoral Ballad," though

written in Ottava rima, was a better poem than Blackmore's "Creation," though written in heroic verse. His whole attention was, therefore, directed to the treatment of the subject, or those qualities of excellence which I have just mentioned; and in deciding the merits of a poem, he never inquired whether it was romantic or not. He, consequently, never thought of forming a poetical creed, or a poetical school, which confined all excellence to a romantic subject, or a romantic manner. But in subsequent times, when literature became extended to a greater portion of society, the knowledge, which was heretofore acquired through an intimate acquaintance with the best writers, became partly supplied by conversation, and the advantages of a more enlightened society. In the days of Pope, every man was a profound scholar, or an ignorant clown: there was scarcely any medium.These two classes never mingled with each other, so that little knowledge was acquired through the mere intercourse of society. The first class, accordingly, were almost all writers or critics, and the latter class knew they had no pretensions to be either. At present, the matter is quite otherwise; we have so many classes, that it is impossible to distinguish them from each other. We have few who can be called perfectly ignorant, and the profoundly learned are, perhaps, as few as ever. But between these extremes of knowledge, we have intelligences of all shapes and sizes, men, whose knowledge is less acquired from books, and a regular classical education, than from an intercourse with those who have acquired their knowledge through the regular channel. In conversation it always happens, or at least generally so, that men who

appear nearly on an equality in treating any subject, are at an immense distance from each other, in point of real information. A learned man, or a man of profound thought and extensive views, cannot, in the rapidity of conversation, bring forward the whole chain of reasoning that lies unconnected in his mind, but which he is capable of connect ing at his more retired and contemplative moments. Unable, therefore, to say all he wishes to say, and feeling he cannot do the subject that justice of which he knows himself capable, he often speaks less to the point than he who has a most superficial knowledge of it. He has so much to say, that he is at a loss, for the moment, where to begin; while he, who views the subject only in one point of view, feels no loss whatever in expatiating upon it. The little he knows he has always ready, and out it pops, whether it be applicable or not. No wonder, then, that men of superficial knowledge, and who owe the greater part even of this knowledge to mere conversation, should think themselves qualified to appear before the public in print, when they find such little apparent difference between them selves and men of profound and acknowledged ability.

The consequence of such men engaging in authorship is easily anticipated, had we no experience to confirm the speculations of theory. They are continually mingling the more abstract parts of science, of which they have only glimmering conceptions, caught up hastily from conversation, with those more obvious and plainer truths which are placed within the comprehension of ordinary minds. Hence, they cannot descry the "naked nature" through the chaos of thought, and the rubbish of ideal knowledge or of "nameless somethings," which they have thrown over it themselves, and which, accordingly, conceal it from their view. He, who is totally ignorant of things, has a great advantage over him who has a smattering knowledge of them. From knowing them in part, he is led to believe that he knows them entirely, and, consequently, his general idea of each of them is false and confused. This confusion and

false perception of things extend to every new subject which engages his attention, because we invariably, the learned as well as the unlearned, make use of the knowledge which we already possess, or imagine we possess, in judging of every new subject to which we apply ourselves; and where this previous knowledge is false and confused, it must, necessarily, lead us into a similar confusion and false perception of every thing, which we subsequently view through the medium of it. The man who contents himself with knowing nothing that he cannot know perfectly, who prevents his attention from straying to objects which are placed beyond the sphere of his comprehension, is seldom confused in his ideas, or mistaken in his judgment. Where he cannot decide clearly, he does not venture to decide at all: his judgment is not confused, by resting it on that heap of false knowledge which deceived the other. So far as he knows, he knows clearly, and, therefore, he rests every new judgment on this clear and accurate knowledge. If it be too contracted to enable him to judge, he suspends his judgment altogether, and, therefore, escapes the deception and confusion which unavoidably ensue from imaginary knowledge.

It is obvious, at the same time, that where the facilities of acquiring knowledge without recourse to books are increased, where conversation supplies the place of study and mental application, this confusion and false perception of things must necessarily extend to a greater portion of society. If every man we converse with were a Newton or a Locke, it would be impossible for us to derive any advantage from it, unless we first prepared ourselves to analyse and digest the knowledge which is acquired through the medium of conversation by previous study, and an unwearied application to books. Without this previous preparation, we take every thing for granted that is told us, because we are ourselves too ignorant to discover whether it be true or false. Hence we store up a thousand errors which to us are as true as demonstration itself, and accordingly they become the data of our subsequent reasoning. But this is not the only

evil: without the preparation of which I have spoken, we are not qualified to understand what we hear in conversation, and, therefore, even when we are told what is true, we convert it into what is false by understanding it differently from what the speaker intended. It requires but a slight acquaintance with the history of English literature to perceive, that youth receive a more superficial classical education, and that their course of studies is more lightly and more quickly got over, at present, than during the three last centuries, though education of one kind or other is imparted to a much greater number of individuáls now than formerly. It is now become a popular doctrine, that we should study men, not books, and accordingly we throw away our books, and enter early into society to acquire a practical acquaintance with the world. This is a grand mistake;— here, as well as in the sciences, the ory should always precede practice; and he, who begins with the practical part, will always remain ignorant of both theory and practice. He who would be a man while he is yet a boy, will remain a boy when he ought to be a man; and he who begins to study men and manners before books and intellectual acquirements have enlarged his ideas, and taught him to distinguish between appearances and realities, will always remain a novice in the science of human nature. It is certain, however, that we have more writers of this latter class at present than we ever had before, and the causes which I have mentioned sufficiently account for the effect. A writer of this stamp, consequently, obtrudes on the public that "rude heap of wit" which is generated by the confusion and false perception of things which I have just mentioned. His blunders and perpetual inconsistencies are immediately exposed by the critics. He perceives, though he may be unwilling to acknowledge, the justice of the chastisement with which they have visited him. He strives to reform; and particularly he strives to avoid the errors which they have pointed out; but in doing so he runs into the opposite extreme, believing that the opposite to deformity must necessarily be beautiful.

He does not perceive that what is proper in one place is absurd in another, and that the beauty and propriety of every thing depends not on its being the opposite to something else, but on a thousand circumstances of which he is ignorant. He is again chastised, and again transgresses, and at length, becoming desperate, he leagues with some of his fellows who are suffering under the same lash. They see their only resource, and they eagerly embrace it. Aware that while poetry is subjected to critical rules, they have no chance of success, they come forward in a body, and maintain that all true poetry consists in writing as the spirit moveth. This is the origin of the romantic school of poetry; for those who produce merely what the spirit moveth, without ever inquiring whether it be a good or an evil spirit, whether it be clothed in light or in darkness, must unavoidably produce something wild and romantic. To prove that they have not recourse to this species of poetry through their inability to write what would stand the test of classical criticism, and that it is the real spirit that moved them, and not an affected inspiration, they frequently imitate the simple and innocent language of children, a simpli eity which they know cannot be affected, an innocence which cannot be feigned. Here, however, they have been seldom successful, for a discriminating mind will easily distinguish between the simplicity of a child and the simulation of a literary sinner who is hoary with age. Fear ing, however, that this romantic licence of sentiment would not entirely skreen them from the tribunal of criticism, and that though they succeeded in screening the absurdity of their sentiments under the veil of inspiration, they might still be exposed, if their number and versification were not sweet and musical, they went a step farther, and maintained, that true poetry ought not to be restricted to any certain measure, and that musical cadences were only good when they came of themselves, that is, when the spirit gave them birth. Accordingly, much of our modern poetry is mere prose; but when the spirit so willeth, what right have we to complain ?