supported only by the strength of argument and attended to with a gentle and unprejudiced mind; while, on the other hand, if such debates were carried on with violence and tumults, as the most wicked are always the most obstinate, so the best and most holy religion might be choked with superstition, as corn is with briars and thorns; he therefore left men wholly to their liberty, that they might be free to believe as they should see cause," only drawing the line at absolute materialism. That the author of sentiments so lofty and catholic (in the best sense of the word) as these should be a man who, by his own confession, imprisoned and beat Protestants, and who died for the worst of all possible causes-that of the re-establishment of the Pope's authority in this country11-is so strange an inconsistency that his being at the same time a civilian and a common lawyer is small beside it. It was said of Dr. Thomas Ryves, Advocate-General to Charles I, that he "understood the Common Law as well as his own." Of More, I take it, the converse might be said that he understood the Civil Law as well as his own Common Law. If the cause for which he died was a bad one, the putting him to death for it was infinitely worse. There is no story in our annals more melancholy than that of his trial. He was arraigned on four charges, not one of which amounted even to a misdemeanour. 14 The Lambeth MS. 179, calls him "the protomartyr of England in the degree of the laity that suffered for the defence of the union of the Catholic Church." The offence for which the King resolved to put him to death was, no doubt, his opposition to the King's marriage; that of which he was convicted by Rich's evidence was his denial of the King's supremacy. Nothing worthy of the name of evidence was adduced even in support of these, for no candid mind could accept Rich's perjuries in the face of More's indignant denial. Yet, on this unsubstantial charge, which would have been no crime if proved, but was not proved at all, a British jury retired for 15 minutes, and then brought in a verdict of "guilty," and the fiendish sentence then awarded to those convicted of treason was passed in due form, though afterwards commuted to beheading. His only crime was differing in opinion from King Henry the Eighth, and if the King called that treason, treason it was so far as the jury were concerned. The particular opinion which he held and for which he died-that God had made the Pope head of the Church and that therefore the English Parliament could not put Henry in that place was false enough, for it implied a denial of the rights of the nation to self-government and of the individual to free thought: but, though he was wrong and Henry right on the theoretical question at issue, any one who had the choice would rather occupy the place in history filled by Thomas More than that devoted to his murderer. E. W. BRABROOK. WHAT IS POETRY? BY GEORGE WASHINGTON MOON. (Read April 23, 1879.) In the following paper there is little that is original except the poetry. I merely bring before you the opinions of the writers best qualified to answer the question, "What is poetry?" and endeavour to illustrate those opinions by a few original compositions for which I claim your kind indulgence, poetry not being my forte, though it is one of my greatest delights. What is poetry?" is a question which has often been asked; and many are the brief definitions of it that have been given: each expressing some phase or quality of it, but none comprehensive enough to embrace the whole. It is as difficult briefly to answer the question "What is poetry ?" as it would be, in a few words, to define "life," or "truth," or "beauty;" for poetry may be said to be all these. There must be "life" in that which we call poetry, or it is unworthy of the name. It may be quiet life, or be life heroic; but there must be life, there must be soul, or it is "Words, mere words." So, also, there must be in it "truth," not necessa rily truth of narrative as to facts; it may be fact, or it may be fiction; that is immaterial; but in its every utterance it must be true to Nature, true to the essential characteristics of that which it describes. And as to its third element, "beauty," this is as necessarily and inalienably a part of all poetry, as is either "life" or "truth." Were I asked to personify poetry, I should say that "truth" is its body; "life" is its very soul; and "beauty" is its bright adornment. 66 Poetry," says Campbell, "is the eloquence of truth." "Poetry," says Ebenezer Elliott, "is impassioned truth." Poetry," says a writer in the "Eclectic Review," "is love, pure, refined, insatiable affection for the beautiful-for the beautiful forms of this material universe, for the beautiful feelings of the human soul, for the beautiful passages in the history of the past, for the beautiful prospects which expand before us in the future. "Such love, burning to passion, attired in imagery and speaking in music, is the essence and the soul of poetry. It is that which makes personification the life of poetry. The poet looks upon Nature, not as one who is merely a philosopher looks upon it, regarding it as composed of certain abstractions, certain cold material laws-the poet breathes upon them, and they quicken into personal life, and become objects, as it were, of personal attachment." The winds with him are not cold currents of air, they are messengers of love, now bearing on their wings the mighty clouds to refresh the parched earth, and anon wafting the incense of the flowers to some object of their adoration. To the Hebrew poet, David, the thunder was not a noise produced by the concussion of the atmosphere. He regarded it, truly, as an effect caused by the lightning; but what was that effect? He says:— "His lightnings enlightened the world; the earth saw, and trembled." This is true poetry. The stars may be distant worlds, but to the poet they are something more than that; they are eyes looking down on man, with intelligence, with sympathy and with love: he sings of them thus :-calling them EYES OF LOVE. The sunny smile of day is past, And all the scene in slumber lies; And so, when grief's night gathers o'er, And life's sweet joys, like flowers sleep, To the poet, creation has a conscious existence. |