to the circumstance, which he tells us distinguishes his poems from the popular poetry of the day, viz. that the feeling dignifies the subject, and not the subject the feeling, I shall consider, by and by, whether it be not calculated to produce originality of a vicious kind, and whether there should not rather be a mutual proportion between the subject and the passion connected with it. Our author's renunciation of such phrases and figures of speech as have long been the common poetical stock in trade, seems again only to place him in a higher rank than the mere schoolboy poet, who pilfers his English Gradus for flowers of rhetoric Every poet that rises above mediocrity, knows that he damns himself by the use of worn-out tropes and metaphors Pope, who introduced a peculiar lan guage into poetry, a set mode of expressing certain things, was original as the first founder of a vicious school, I and in his case the severe good sense of his meaning atoned for the tinkling of his rhyme. Darwin was original from the very profusion with which he heaped these commonplaces toge ther; but their imitators have never risen to eminence; and originality of expression seems to be expected from a writer of any pretensions. But Wordsworth has spoken too vaguely on this head. The term poetic diction, seems to infer a diction common to poets; but the language of metrical composition may be elevated beyond that of prose by modes as various as the authors who use it. The poetic diction of Milton is not, in a certain sense, that of Gray, nor is that of Col lins in its external forms similar to that of Cowper. I am the more explicit on this point, because one of Wordsworth's principal claims to originality seems to lie in his having formed a diction of his own, and in having run counter to the taste of the age in so doing. He magnifies his own boldness by asserting that an author is supposed, "by the act of writing in verse, to make a formal engagement to gratify certain known habits of association, and thus to apprise his reader not only that certain classes of ideas and expressions will be found in his book, but thatothers will be carefully excluded." I reply to this, that the love of novelty is stronger in man than habit itself, and that there would be nothing to gratify this inherent thirst, if we met with nothing but the same classes of ideas and expressions. Wordsworth grants that the tacit promise which a poet is supposed to make his reader, has in different eras of literature excited very different expectations, as in the various ages of Shakspeare, of Cowley, and of Pope. I ask, what made the ages of Shakspeare, Cowley, and Pope? Their own genius. It is the era that conforms to the poet, not the poet to the age. And even at one and the same period there have been, and may be, as many different styles of writing, as there are great and original writers. Spenser was contemporary with Shakspeare, and in our own day more especially we see almost as many schools of poetry as there are poets. Byron, Scott, Southey, Moore, Campbell, and Crabbe, have not only each asserted his own freedom, but have easily induced the world to affix its sign manual to their charter. I should rather affirm, then, that a poet is supposed "to make a formal engagement" to produce something new,-to be a creator indeed,-or his title to the appellation will scarcely be allowed. It follows, then, that Wordsworth's writings may be original, in as far as they differ from the productions of the present day, but not because they differ from such productions. His renouncing the common poetic diction is not an original part of his theory, however it may produce originality in his practice. Having now attempted to shew that what is good in Wordsworth's theory is not new, I will endeavour to prove that what is new is not good. Wordsworth tells us that, in his choice of situations and incidents, "low and rustic life was generally chosen, because, in that condition, the essential passions of the heart find a better soil in which they can attain their maturity, are less under restraint, and speak a plainer and more emphatic language." I answer, that they do so or not according to the powers of him who is their interpreter. I urge, that a true poet finds the same passions in every sphere of life, and makes them speak a plain and emphatic language by his own art. Love and hatred, hope and fear, joy and sorrow, lay bare the human heart, beneath the ermined robe, not less than beneath the shepherd's frock, and strong emo◄ tion breaks the fetters of restraint as easily as one would snap asunder a silken thread. "One touch of nature makes the whole world kin." Naked we all came into the world, naked we must all go out of it, and naked we all appear, in a mental sense, when nature's strong hand is upon us. Accordingly, Shakspeare makes his Cleopatra scold like any scullion wench, when the messenger tells her of Antony's marriage with Octavia; nor does she confine her rage to words, but expounds it more intelligibly still by striking the unlucky herald, and "haling him up and down." The great interpreter of nature contrives to "keep his reader in the company of flesh and blood, while he leads him through every sphere of existence." Wordsworth also chose rural life," because in that condition, the passions of men are incorporated with the beautiful and permanent forms of nature." I fear that more of the poet than the philosopher is apparent in this sentiment: or, if Wordsworth will have it that poet and philosopher are nearly synonymous terms, I fear that he has given his own individual feelings as representatives of those belonging to man as a species. The philosophic poet should take care to support his theory upon facts established by observation, or (as Wordsworth himself elsewhere says) should possess "the ability to observe with accuracy, think as they are in themselves, and with fidelity to describe them, unmodified by any passion or feeling existing in the mind of the describer:" but Wordsworth, though, doubtless, conversant with humble life, has thrown the lines of his own mind over its whole sphere; otherwise he never could assert that the passions of men in that condition are incorporated with the beautiful and permanent forms of nature. "The necessary character of rural occupations" seems rather to have a tendency to blunt the mind's sensibility to external nature, than to sharpen its perceptions of grace and beauty. "Our elementary feelings," indeed, may be said to co-exist in a state of greater simplicity" in humble life-if by "elementary feelings" the poet means such feelings as are connected with the care of our subsistence. To support life is the great object of the poor, and this object absorbs their powers, blunts their sensibilities, and confines their ideas to one track of association. The rustic holding his plough looks at the furrow which he traces, and not at the mountain which soars above his head. The shepherd watches his dog and his sheep, but not the clouds that shift their hues and forms in the western sky-or if he regards them, it is only as prognostics of such and such weather. I have conversed much with those in rustic life, and amongst them have scarcely ever met with one who manifested any sympathy with external nature. There may be exceptions to the general insensibility of the poor, but Wordsworth has mistaken the exceptions for illustrations of the rule itself If any class of men, in a low station, betoken that the beautiful objects of nature are incorporated with their passions, we must look for them not amongst the tillers of the earth, but amongst those who occupy their business in the great waters. Sailors have leisure to admit the wonders of nature through the eye into the mind. The stagnation of a calm, or the steady movement of their vessel, often leaves them unoccupied, and throws their attention outward. The natural craving of the mind after employment makes them seize whatever offers itself to fill up vacuity of thought, and nature becomes less their chosen pleasure than their last resource. Accordingly, I have often remarked that more unconscious poetry drops from the lips of sailors, than from men in any other low station of life. Again, the affections of the heart become deadened in the poor, or rather change their character altogether. Life, which is so hardly sustained by them, is not in their eyes the precious thing which it is in ours; death, which they only view as a rest from toil or pain, Cleopatra herself says, on being addressed by her handmaid Iras, as 61 Royal Egypt's Empress," "Peace, peace, Iras, No more but a mere woman, and commanded is not looked upon by them with the same emotion with which we regard it. Whether" to be, or not to be," is most desirable, is a question which they decide by a balance of utility. A poor woman once said to me, "If the Lord pleases to take either me or my husband from our dear children, I hope my husband will go first; for I think I could do better for them than he could ;" and I am sure she gave the true reason for wishing to survive her partner, and was not influenced in her wish by any selfish love of life. Here the essential passions of the heart (of which love between the sexes may be considered the very strongest) had given place to factitious feelings gene rated by a peculiar condition of life, and, this being the case, those feelings were no longer elementary, or such as are common to all mankind. In fact there seems to be no surer way of preventing oneself from seeing man as he is, than to confine one's view to any, even the most apparently natural condition of life. Man must be weighed in the gross, before he can be estimated in the abstract. Wordsworth, moreover, informs us, that he has adopted the very language of men in low and rustic life," because such men hourly communicate with the best objects from which the best part of language is originally derived; and because from their rank in society, and the sameness and narrow circle of their intercourse being less under the influence of social vanity, they convey their feelings and notions in simple and unelaborated expressions." I have before attempted to shew that the "hourly communications" of these men are with their implements of husbandry, and that, like oil and water, they and the beautiful /forms of nature may be in perpetual contact, without becoming incorporated. That they are less under the influence of social vanity I doubt, and for the very same reason that Wordsworth believes it, viz. from the narrow circle of their intercourse; for the fewer opportunities men have of comparing themselves with numbers, the less do they know their own deficiencies,and I doubt not but that the vanity of an alehouse politician is as great as, and infinitely more besotted than, the vanity of a member of parliament. I have also little doubt, but that the contempt with which a ploughman would look down upon me for not knowing oats from barley, would transcend that of an astronomer at my not being able to distinguish between Cassiopea and Ursa Major. However we human beings may differ in other respects,-in station, language, temper, and disposition-here at least we are all alike. Pour into separate. vessels the blood of various men, analyze it, decompose it, distil it, till all factitious differences evaporate and disappear, and I will answer for it that there will be found a large residuum of vanity at the bottom of each alembic. Wordsworth gives as a reason for his deducing strong feelings from low and unimportant subjects, that "the human mind is capable of being excited without the application of gross and violent stimulants;" and that 66 one being is elevated above another, in proportion as he possesses this capability." There appears to be a mixture of truth and falsehood in this sentiment. The mind that demands the violent excitement of "frantic novels," or the gross nutriment of" sickly and stupid German tragedies," is, I grant, indeed in a diseased state; but that the mind is in a sane state in proportion as it recedes from this diseased torpor, I deny. For it may recede until it shall have crossed the boundary line which separates the height of what is good, from its declension into evil of an opposite kind. A person who, by improper abstinence, shall have brought himself into such a state that he is intoxicated by milk and water, is not less an invalid than he who, by perpetual intemperance, has blunted his senses, until he calls for brandy in his wine. In the same manner, the mind may be too excitable, as well as too dead to gentle and healthful_excitement. If one being be indeed elevated above another in proportion as his mind is capable of being excited without a violent stimulus, then is the man who goes into ecstasies at the sight of a sparrow's egg, the first of his species. But perhaps this was precisely what our author wished to prove. After all, may not a violent stimulus be of a salutary nature, and in some cases necessary to bring back a healthful state of feeling? A strong medicine can alone master a strong disease; and if (as Wordsworth imagines) the minds of the present generation are "in a state of almost savage torpor," can they be aroused by 1 the mere prick of a pin-if they thirst May kill a sound divine," In order to justify himself for adopt ing (as he thinks he has) "the very language of men," Wordsworth as serts a most untenable proposition, viz. "that there neither is nor can be any' essential difference between the language of prose and metrical composition." He thinks "it would be a most easy task to prove this, by innumerable passages from almost all the poetical writings, even of Milton himself;" but he confines himself to quoting the following sonnet of Gray, in order" to illustrate the subject in a general manner:" "In vain to me the smiling mornings shine, And reddening Phoebus lifts his golden fire: The birds in vain their amorous descant join, Or cheerful fields resume their green attire. These ears, alas! for other notes repine; A different object do these eyes require ; My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine, And in my breast th' imperfect joys expire. Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer, And new-born pleasure brings to happier men ;The fields to all their wonted tribute bear; To warn their little loves the birds complain. I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear, And weep the more because I weep in vain.” He observes upon this: "It will easily be perceived that the only part of this sonnet which is of any value, is the lines printed in italics; it is equally obvious that, except in the rhyme, and in the use of the single word "fruitless," for fruitlessly, (which is so far a defect,) the language of these lines does in no respect differ from that of prose."-" It will easily be perceived."-By whom? By Mr Wordsworth. "It is equally obvious." To whom? To Mr Wordsworth. Thus apt we are unconsciously to substitute our own ipse dixits for the general consent of mankind. So far from easily perceiving the five lines in italics the only ones of any value in the sonnet, I seem to perceive that they are worthless and unintelligible without the other nine. "A different object do these eyes require."-Different from what? From the "smiling mornings," and the sun's "golden fire!" "My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine."-In contrast to what? To the birds who "join their amorous descant." "I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear, And weep the more be Icause I weep in vain." How unaf fecting is this complaint disjoined from that which aggravates the written sorrow-the general joy of nature previously described! Having shewn how easily the truth of Wordsworth's first assertion may be perceived, I grant that it is equal ly obvious that the language of the lines in italics does in no respect differ from that of prose. There can be no question, but that if any one were about to express in prose that he had no one to share his joy or sorrow, he would talk of "lonely anguish," and" imperfect joys." But the fact is, that no man would dream of expressing such thoughts in prose at all; which leads me to assert that poetry does differ from prose in two essential points, viz. in the cast of the thoughts, and the nature of the language. By the act of writing in metre, we place ourselves in communion with the best part of our species, and we enjoy a license to speak of the higher feelings of our nature without the fear of ridicule. Poetry is a language accorded to beings of greater sensibility than the rest of mankind, as a vent to thoughts, the suppression of which would be too painful to be endured. Our ideas, therefore, in poetry, run in a purer, a more imaginative, a more impassioned vein, than in prose; and as to write poetry presupposes the presence of some emotion, there is in poetry an abruptness of transition caused by excitement, which is not to be found! 1 in prose. The language of poetry partakes of the same character as its thoughts. Since the poet's eye "bodies forth the shape of things unknown, and gives to airy nothing a local habitation and a name," the words of poetry are images. She speaks in pic tures. Take any speech of Shaks peare, and observe how almost every word touches upon a train of associated ideas. In poetry, language is but the echo of something more than meets the ear it is a spell to suggest trains of thoughts as well as to express them. If poetry and prose be so identical that we cannot "find bonds of connexion sufficiently strict to typify the affinity between them,"-if the language of poetry differ not from that of good prose, it follows that all good prose is poetry. But surely the prose in which an historian narrates his facts may be good, and yet no one would allow it to be the language of poetry. Unfortunately, too, such prose as most resembles poetry is not good. Although Wordsworth says, that "lines and passages of metre so naturally occur in writing prose, that it would be scarcely possible to avoid them, even were it desirable," yet the prose, which contains such disjecti membra poetæ, is generally considered vicious. There is a swell and cadence in the periods of prose, essentially different from the rhythm of poetry. Therefore, when a poet writes in prose, his thoughts are too passionate, his style generally too concise, too abrupt, and at the same time in too measured a cadence; and on the contrary, when a good prose writer attempts to compose poetry, his thoughts are of too cold a complexion, his language too stiff from unusual restraint, his words too uncoloured by imagination, too exact and literal in their signification. The full mantle of Cicero's eloquence flowed but ungracefully when confined by the hand of poetry. Why is it, if prose and poetry speak the same lan guage, that so many great prose writers have vainly tried to snatch the poet's wreath? Let any one take a well-expressed idea in prose. Would it be well expressed in poetry? Try to turn it into poetry. You must recast it, and change the whole method of expression. You must even endeavour to forget the words in which it was clothed, and having to melt it into a pure idea, to run it into a new mould of expression. But "I will go further" still, (as Wordsworth says.) "I do not doubt that it may be safely affirmed," (as Wordsworth also says,) that the mere language of poetry, exclusive of the thoughts which it may convey, is a sufficient distinction between poetry and prose (as Wordsworth does not say). Let me not be mistaken; I speak not of such a distinction as is produced by rhyme, or even metre. I speak not of "those ordinary devices to elevate the style," which Wordsworth abjures, such as "the personification of abstract ideas;" the invocation, whether to Goddess, Nymph, or Muse-the use of glittering and prescriptive epithets, "the family language" of (bad) poets-I speak of the imaginative use of language as the distinguishing mark betwixt Poetry and Prose. To exemplify my meaning, I will bring forward two passages-the one from Shakspeare, in which common thoughts become poetry, by the mode of expressing them; the other from Gibbon, in which a poetical thought becomes prose by the mere language wherein it is couched. Coriolanus speaks "I'll know no further: The thoughts here are not such as can would have said,-I'll know no more. Let them condemn me to die by the Tarpeian rock, to banishment, to be flead alive, to a lingering death by hunger, &c.; but in poetry he says "I'll know no further. Let them pronounce the steep Tarpeian death, |