animal in our nature, and belongs in common to the uneducated and the educated, than to those mental qualities which distinguish the educated and intelligent above their fellows. Its attractions certainly were numerous. It had exuberant and brilliant imagery, striking appeals to sensibility and passion, energy, sweetness, all that was felicitous in language, and all that was melodious in versification. But these attractive qualities were unsubstantial and evanescent; partly because they were too exclusively addressed to the excitabilities (if we may so speak) of our nature; partly because they were not sufficiently founded on truth. They seem to have been the work of writers, in whom feeling greatly predominated over thought. They adopted,' as Mr Taylor justly says, a tone of language which is hardly consistent with the state of mind in which a man makes use of his understanding. The realities of nature, and the truth which they suggest, 'would have seemed cold and incongruous, if suffered to mix ' with the strains of impassioned sentiment and glowing imagery in which they poured themselves forth. Spirit was not to be debased by any union with matter, in their effusions; dwelling as they did in a region of poetical sentiment which did not ' permit them to walk upon the common earth, or to breathe the common air. They were writers who either did not look upon ' mankind with observant eyes, or did not feel it to be any part ' of their vocation to turn what they saw to account. It did not 'belong to poetry, in their apprehension, to thread the mazes of ' life in all its classes, and under all its circumstances, common ' as well as romantic, and seeing all things, to infer and to in'struct; on the contrary, it was to stand aloof from every thing that is plain and true; to have little concern with what is 'rational or wise; it was to be, like music, a moving and enchanting art, acting upon the fancy, the affections, the pas'sions, but scarcely connected with the exercise of the intellec'tual faculties.' To write poetry of this description was to sacrifice permanent ascendency for temporary effect. It is truly said by Mr Taylor, that poetry, of which sense or truth is not the basis, though it may be excellent of its kind, will not long be reputed to be poetry of the highest order. It may move the feelings and charm the fancy; but, failing to satisfy the understanding, it will not take permanent possession of the strong' holds of fame.' That predominance of the imaginative faculty, or of impassioned temperament, which is incompatible with the ' attributes of a sound understanding and a just judgment, may make a rhapsodist, a melodist, or a visionary, each of whom may 'produce what may be admired for the particular talent and beauty belonging to it: but imagination and passion, thus un

supported, will never make a poet in the largest and highest sense ' of the appellation.'

Let it not be thought that the soundest judgment is incompatible with the loftiest exercise of poetical genius. Let it not be thought a startling proposition, that the only sound basis of poetry is truth. Poetry is not lowered by an association with good sense; nor is imagination unwarrantably restricted in its flight by limitation within the realms of truth. Shakspeare and Milton, the loftiest of our poets, are perhaps those in whom good sense is most apparent those in whose most imaginative flights truth is ever most rigidly regarded. It would be an error to suppose that a regard for this quality may not attend the poet in his widest excursions, even among personages and situations purely fictitious -even in the dreamy land of spirits. Let it be remembered that wheresoever the poet's fancy may lead him, he can, strictly speaking, create nothing. Johnson, in a tone of venial exaggeration, said of Shakspeare, that he exhausted worlds, and then 'created new ;' but this rhetorical flourish is to be taken only as an illustration. The finite faculties of man can add nothing to the materials of nature. He can only arrange and combine the existing phenomena of mind and matter; and this he can do, either in accordance with those immutable principles of analogy and congruity, of which our minds have cognizance, or in violation of those principles. But it would be an error to suppose, that those principles will not reach wherever the imagination of man can soar, and that a violation of them will enable us to take a loftier or a wider flight. They are essential ingredients of all that we can conceive-and let our fancy travel where it will, we cannot disembarrass ourselves of a sense of their being either violated or observed. An observance of them is that truth, an adherence to which we advocate in poetical writings, and which is perfectly applicable, even to the supernatural. When Shakspeare's preeminence in the exhibition of fairies and other supernatural productions of his fancy was extolled in the assertion, that he makes us feel that if there were such beings, they would resemble his descriptions-what is this but to say, that in this most fanciful department of his art he is guided by an adherence to truth? Even here, that homely quality 'good sense' does not desert him, and he charms our imaginations most, when at the same time he satisfies our reason.

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The poetry which will produce the most permanent effect is that, in reading which, we mentally exclaim, not only how beautiful!' but how true!' and the highest and most enduring species is that which is not only felt to be true, but which is rendered the vehicle of knowledge. In saying this we do not

mean to advocate what has been often called didactic poetry.' We do not desire that it should convey what is termed information.' We do not wish that other Darwins, or Dyers, or Graingers, should bring botany, or chemistry, or the processes of agriculture, or the mysteries of sugar-making before us in a rhythmical form. Science and the details of art are foreign from the legitimate province of poetry; and foreign too are all such circumstances as produce no gratification or emotion. Yet the knowledge which poetry may and should impart is sufficiently various and extensive. It should impart a knowledge of ourselves -it should unfold to us the great book of human nature-it should quicken and make clear our perception of the phenomena of thought and feeling—should teach us to trace the workings of our own minds, and comprehend more perfectly our relation to others. The soundest philosophy may be conveyed in a poetical garb, and may be rendered attractive, if the requisite skill be not wanting in the writer. Again, a more extensive and accurate acquaintance with the phenomena of external nature, is another kind of knowledge which poetry may impart; and although this is less useful than a knowledge of our own nature, yet the poetry which conveys it has, like the other, this advantage-it opens to us sources of pleasure which can spring into action when the page is closed. The intelligent reader of descriptive poetry cannot look forth upon the face of nature, without a gratifying recognition of those beauties, to which the writer had directed his attention; and the reader of moral and philosophical poetry may ever carry with him the pleasing power of comparing, with the written page, the workings of his own mind, and the characters and actions of his fellow-beings. The descriptive poetry of the present century is for the most part greatly to be admired. Our censures are to be applied, not to this, but, almost exclusively, to that other great department which comprehends as its subjectmatter, human passions, thoughts, and actions. It is in this department that an extensive class of modern writers, at the head of whom we may place Lord Byron, are censurable both for an excess of what is wanting, and a deficiency of what is true. Writings of this class cannot be said to contribute any thing either to our self-knowledge, or to our knowledge of mankind in general. Their representations are striking, not from their likeness, but from their exaggeration; and they have sometimes a dreamy vagueness which seems philosophically profound, when in fact it is only obscure. They excite no thoughts that we can carry with us into the commerce of everyday life; they rather seem to unfit us for it. They not only absorb, they disturb our minds. The mental vision becomes familiarized with false glare,

till, like the dazzled eye, it sees a coloured spectrum mingled with the image of all that it beholds. It is true that the temporary pleasure derived from poetry of this kind is great-that it transports us into another sphere, and we feel a glad sense of emancipation in quitting for a while, in fancy, the dull realities of common life. But this mental intoxication, though it gratifies for a time, can no more increase our permanent stock of pleasurable resources, than can the degrading vice to which it is in some sort analogous. In producing distaste for the affairs of life, and for mental aliment of a more useful and invigorating kind—it diminishes rather than augments our pleasures-it renders us dissatisfied with a position from which we cannot escape, and with duties which we may not neglect—and it offers, as a substitute, only an excitement of which the pleasurable effect is progressively weakened, and ends in satiety and disappointment.

With Mr Taylor's estimate of Lord Byron's poetry we cordially concur; and equally, with his opinion of the poetry which may be considered to have sprung from the example of that brilliant prototype. It consists, as he truly says, of little more than a poetical diction, implying a sensitive state of mind, and therefore calculated to excite corresponding associations; but addressing itself to the sentient rather than to the percipient qualities of the mind, and displaying, for the most part, merely types of feelings which might exist with equal force in beings barren of understanding. In truth, Lord Byron has added little or nothing to our knowledge of the human heart. What he has introduced, is a more extensive and familiar use of the vocabulary of passion. He has enlarged this portion of our poetical diction; he has furnished abundant formulas for the expression of strong emotions; and has rendered it comparatively easy for inferior writers to convey in words what they cannot feel. But the public is at length satiated with the counterfeit language of extravagant emotions. Even the transcendent energy of Lord Byron's verse would have palled with repetition-and how then is it to be expected that we should receive with favour such poor substitutes as can be offered by inferior writers of the same school? That which the public now requires to give a new impulse to its taste for poetry, and to establish that taste upon a more substantial basis, is, not a poetry which shall still address itself, though by some novel mode, exclusively to our sensibilities; but a species of poetry which, while it affects our sensibilities, shall at the same time address itself chiefly to the understanding. Of such a species is Philip Van Artevelde;' and we congratulate the author and the public on the success of this coup d'essai.

When we consider this work as an experiment, we do not like

it the less, on account of some qualities which, in any other light, may be viewed as imperfections. We mean its unattractive air -its form-its subject-its disregard of ornament and effect-an apparent disdain to humour the conventional tastes of the great bulk of the readers of poetry, and a certain sturdy reliance for success (even at the risk of unpopularity) on the more essential ingredients of poetical excellence.

Among the difficulties which Mr Taylor has voluntarily encountered, is the form which he has given to his production. A Dramatic Poem is a literary hybrid, combining in one both play and poem, without possessing the completeness, or fulfilling the purposes of either. Unlike the play, it cannot be represented on the stage-unlike the poem, it excludes all description and sentiment, except such as may be conveniently placed in the mouth of some of the dramatis personæ. Philip Van Artevelde, as Mr Taylor tells us, is properly an historical romance, cast in a 'dramatic and rhythmical form.' To the elevation which metre affords, there can be no objection; but in the dramatic form, with its exclusion of all save dialogue and soliloquy, and its division into acts and scenes, we see no advantage, independent of its applicability to scenic representation. One generally deviates from good sense when one loses sight of an original intention. Now, the original intention with which the dramatic poem was devised, had reference solely to the stage. Among the ancients, and in our Elizabethan age, plays were no more composed for mere perusal, than essays are written to be acted. It is only in these later times, when the spectacle-loving public of the seventeenth century has been succeeded by a reading public, that the drama has been not unfrequently accommodated to the altered habits of the community. But the authors of such works, influenced, we suppose, by associations, and reverence for precedent, have omitted to disenthral them from forms, of which, when the destination was altered, the utility ceased. Dramatica Poesis,' says Bacon, in a passage which Mr Taylor has placed as a motto in his titlepage, 'est veluti Historia spectabilis. The dramatic poetry which Bacon had in his mind when he wrote these words, must have been very different from Philip Van Artevelde;' for, with no propriety could the epithet 'spectabilis' be applied to a work, of which, according to its author, it is almost unnecessary to say, that it was not intended for the stage.' Its length, which, as the author tells us, is equal to about six such plays as are adapted to repre'sentation,' is alone a sufficient obstacle; but length is not the only cause of its unfitness. Though it bears much evidence of dramatic talent, and contains some scenes which would be highly effective, yet it is too slow in its development, and often too

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