so much, when I run my eye down the long newspaper announcements of new publications, as the amazing intellectual activity of England. Winter brings forth its mental crop as regularly, and almost as abundantly, as the earth yields its autumnal harvests. The head must be fed as duly as the stomach, and its voracity is still more insatiable. Booksellers may literally be termed capital cooks, perpetually dishing up new dainties adapted to the public taste; and if Osymandyas, the Egyptian king, were to live in our days, instead of writing over the door of his library-" Medicine for the soul," he might be tempted to inscribe "Victuals for the head." What books, what libraries, what languages, what whole æras of literature have perished since his days, since the period when Job exclaimed-" My desire is that mine adversary had written a book!" and yet what are the works that have been written and perished, compared to those which have been conceived, projected, dreamt of, decided upon, planned, and never written? Few have published, but how many have imagined books; how many, in the perpetual fermentation and ebullition of the intellectual faculty, have started ideas which they have resolved to commit to paper and expand, but which have been driven from the memory by new projects, to be left as unrealized as their predecessors! Nothing is to me more interesting than to trace these unembodied outlines, these dim and visionary configurations of uncomposed works, whose "coming events cast their shadows before," sometimes to swell into the subsequent tangi bility of actual existence, and sometimes to evaporate into airy nothing. Can any one avoid sympathizing with Milton's proud consciousness of power and difficulty of determinate object, when, after promising to undertake something, he yet knows not what, that may be of use and honour to his country, he proceeds: "'This is not to be obtained but by devout prayer to the Eternal Spirit that can enrich with all utterance and knowledge, and sends out his seraphim with the hallowed fire of his altar to touch and purify the lips of whom he pleases. To this must be added industrious and select reading, steady observation, and insight into all seemly and generous arts and affairs; till which in some measure be compassed, I refuse not to sustain this expectation." Well might Johnson add, that from a promise like this, at once fervid, pious, and rational, might be expected "Paradise Lost." In Milton's Latin verses to Manso, Marquis of Villa, whom Tasso in his Jerusalem compliments, "Fra cavalier' magnanimi e cortesi Risplende il Manso," he indicates his intention of selecting the exploits of King Arthur for his muse. Prince Arthur as well as King Arthur fell subsequently into the very different hands of Blackmore; and the blind bard," long choosing and beginning late," having at length made good advances in his sacred poem, seems to rejoice that he had not sung the exploits of chivalry, not being sedulous by nature "To describe races and games, Or tilting furniture, emblazon'd shields, Impresses quaint, caparisons and steeds, At joust and tournament; then marshall'd feast, While, still preserving his proud confidence in his subject, he adds: "Me of these Nor skill'd, nor studious, higher argument Pope, besides many hints and schemes of intended works, has left behind him the complete plan of an epic poem, to be written in blank verse, on the subject of the Trojan Brutus. Dr. Johnson gave Mr. Langton a catalogue of books which he had projected, amounting to forty-four in prose, and five in poetry. Hayley contemplated a grand national poem about King John's barons and Magna Charta. Mr. Coleridge, in our own days, is understood to be so voluminous an author of unwritten books as to be obliged to keep a copious catalogue for the purposes of reference to them. "Half of your book is to an Index grown; You give your books contents, your readers none.” ""Tis true, 'tis pity, and pity 'tis 'tis true," that a mind so richly stored as his should impart so little of its intellectual opulence. His overloaded head is like an overfull bottle of nectar, whose particles, in their contention for preference of escape, do mutually "choke their utterance." STANZAS TO PUNCHINELLO. THOU lignum-vita Roscius, who Thou grinning, giggling, laugh-extorting fellow! At other times mine ear is wrung Waking associations melancholic; But that which heralds thee recalls All childhood's joys and festivals, And makes the heart rebound with freak and frolic. Ere of thy face I get a snatch, O with what boyish glee I catch Thy twittering, cackling, bubbling, squeaking gibberSweeter than syren voices-fraught With richer merriment than aught That drops from witling mouths, though utter'd glibber! What wag was ever known before To keep the circle in a roar, Nor wound the feelings of a single hearer? Engrossing all the jibes and jokes, Unenvied by the duller folks, A harmless wit-an unmalignant jeerer. The upturn'd eyes I love to trace I love those sounds to analyse, To age's chuckle with its coughing after; To see the grave and the genteel Rein in awhile the mirth they feel, Then loose their muscles, and let out the laughter, Sometimes I note a hen-peck'd wight, To him a beatific beau idéal ; He counts each crack on Judy's pate, Then homeward creeps to cogitate The difference 'twixt dramatic wives and real. But, Punch, thou 'rt ungallant and rude In plying thy persuasive wood; Remember that thy cudgel's girth is fuller Than that compassionate, thumb-thick, Establish'd wife-compelling stick, Made legal by the dictum of Judge Buller. When the officious doctor hies To cure thy spouse, there's no surprise Thou shouldst receive him with nose-tweaking grappling; Nor can we wonder that the mob Encores each crack upon his nob, When thou art feeing him with oaken sapling. As for our common enemy Old Nick, we all rejoice to see The coup de grace that silences his wrangle; |