ledge they want? That is utterly impossible, from the very nature of his lectures, few, detached, and coming, in their own unassisted strength or weakness, into the midst of the ardent avocations of life. But it will be said, they may shew people what that knowledge is they may open up access to it-they may give them a taste of the pleasures with which it is accompanied. And something of this they probably will do; but a little consideration may, perhaps, serve to shew that it cannot be to a great degree-certainly not to such a degree as to make amends for many evils that must spring out of so very imperfect a method either of communicating knowledge or inspiring the love of it, at least in poetry or literature. The subject of lectures at such Institutions should not be the works of imagination. Are books inaccessible or rare? Is it to make an English audience acquainted with the contents of the volumes of Shakspeare or Milton, that they are to be lectured upon? Why, it is probable that, of such an audience, many have little poetical delight in those works. It is probable, that with the works of many poets they are not acquainted at all, and that the poetry of Chaucer, and Spenser, and Fletcher, &c. may, then, for the very first time, be laid open to them. Is it, then, to dictate a taste to men, that such lectures are given? If so, then we are led to inquire what is the real natural process by which the works of imagination diffuse themselves among a people, and establish their hold in their minds. They are propagated from one to another by delight. They are universally accessible, and are brought to the hand of all. It is true that works of great interest lie dormant among a people-and why? because the present temper of their minds does not bear them. But the mind of society changes, and that which it demands, it will bring forth. It will call buried writers from the dust, as it will call into life writers that shall minister to its delight. If a man does not know what is in the pages of Milton, it is because his mind does not desire poetry. It is, of all the desires a man can have in this country, the one most easily and cheaply administered to, and therefore it would be quite idle to talk of grounding lectures on poetry, on the sole object of introducing poetry to unacquainted minds.

But let us suppose that the lecturer is appointed to instruct and guide the public taste in poetry. And this, no doubt, is the purpose seriously proposed-to cultivate taste-to preserve men's minds from running riot in délight-to teach them how to admireto be wise in their enjoyment. The audience of such a lecturer is one we shall suppose acquainted, but imperfectly so, with poetry, so that his object is to chastise, to guide, to enlighten a beginning taste. But this is to confound the nature and the uses of things. Nature herself instructs us in poetry, by taking strong hold on our imagination, by opening up our feelings, by preparing and kindling our passions. Men are led into poetry, as into all other courses of natural delight, by the tenderness and powers of their own minds. The works of great poets are before them, as the fields, the woods, the rivers, the vales, and the mountains of their native land. If desire leads their steps abroad, delight once finding them, will lead them on. They are in the midst of nature, and impressions are showered upon their hearts, which deepen their desires, continually recurring upon them with finer and more ethereal enjoyment. It is because a man has imagination of his own, that, when the objects of imagination are presented to him, he knows and rejoices in them. The processes of nature are both sudden and slow. Objects are presented for the first time to the mind, and are received with impassioned transport, which never passes away; or they awaken a gentle pleasure, and still, with the renewed impression, the pleasure grows more vivid, till at last it infuses a vital delight through the whole frame of the soul. But in either case, the principle of nature's operation is the same; it is the natural action of the object on the mind, and which takes effect, because the mind has faculties that answer to the object. Such is the natural love of poetry. Upon some minds it comes with rapture, from the first work of true poetry that is opened to them; on others it gradually grows, as they are led on with increasing delight through successive years. But in none of these processes do we recognize the artificial skill of human instruction. Means there may be of engendering a false seeming of the love, and of producing an imitative

taste. But this is the growth of the genuine native love, which may be wild and erring to be sure, though, as we conceive, no more to be set right than produced by men lecturing upon it-for the only kind of cure lies in all instruction, in every association that teaches self-suspicion, self-govern ment, and sobriety of mind-in short, in all mental discipline.

We may, in farther prosecution of this view of the subject, remark, that instruction in poetry must be intended either to impart a taste for poetry, or to correct it. Now, as to giving, implanting, diffusing, a taste for poetry, such a taste is a feeling, an affection of the imagination, and of the passions; an application of natural sensibility to its peculiar object. Knowledge and skill may be imparted by instruction; but emotion, enjoyment, fervour, seem by their very nature, excluded from its province. The love of poetry, in truth, belongs to sensibility, not to intellect. The only legitimate object then, we might say, the only intelligible object of instruction in poetry, is to rectify the taste. How then is this to be done? In the first place, it supposes a taste to be rectified, it presumes a love of poetry, and a very considerable acquaintance with its productions. It not only supposes a love, but that such love has grown up into too wild luxuriance. To correct all this will be important, only in as far as poetry itself is an object of importance to the mind. Now poetry may have an undue and dangerous importance, by taking too much of a practical hold on the sensibilities; by entering into, exciting, and disturbing, the feelings that belong to real life. This is a danger, that does, beyond all doubt, attend poetry, with young and susceptible minds. Most surely it is not to be guarded against by instruction in poetry,-by any developement of canons of criticism,-by leading the over-excited mind to blend more of its power, and its more subtle faculties with an object already too dear, not surely by heightening the dignity and importance of poetry,-by calling the reason itself to its study, and setting the chief faculty of life to minister to the play of fancy, and the cravings of distempered sensibility. Much rather is it to be done, by closing the volumes altogether, and recalling the distempered mind to the discipline

of severer studies,-to simpler,healthier pleasures, and to the service of real life.

As far as the

But poetry may have importance to the mind also, as the character of that mind, and the external circumstances of its condition, permit the study of the arts of imagination lawfully to be made an important pursuit. To such a mind it is evident, that a just regulation of taste does become important; because so much of its powers is given to the pursuit, that no less is therein implied, than a just regulation of the intellectual faculties. By what means then, is a youthful or more advancing mind, to which the just study of poetry, and the just regulation of the action of so many powers, is an object of real importance,-by what means is such a mind to get the benefit of such regulation? By instruction in poetry, as a part of systematic education? Rather by universal instruction. mind itself is to be formed and governed,-by all those serious and dignified studies which call the higher faculties into strenuous and ardent exertions; and as far as poetry itself is concerned, by setting before it the highest models, and leaving them to work their own effect. The study of poetry will itself receive the influence of such general high intellectual instruction. For the light which is in the mind, will fall upon all its works. It will itself turn thought, intelligence, knowledge, upon that which is to itself an important and cherished pursuit. In every mind, the love of poetry, in whatever degree it exist, is of the nature of feeling and passion. It is of the things therefore, which belong, we might almost say, to the privacy of the mind; to the things which it keeps to itself, and into which another cannot penetrate. To intrude upon it, to interrogate it,-to lay it out in public examination,-is not to rectify but to destroy it. It is lowering the dignity of the mind, and weakening its self-dependence, to bring the inquisition of instruction into such parts of it. The aind that is ardent in these pursuits, must in youth be wrong by enthusiasm,-it can only get right by the self-correction of its maturer years.

It sufficiently appears, then, that the principle on which all public instruction in poetry is founded, is in nature false; and the lectures which,

even in the most authoritative academical forms are given on this subject, would be inefficient if not injurious, were it not that at universities, a course of reading and study is pursued, almost exclusively, of those grand books with which what is called philosophi cal criticism is conversant; and that there the enlightened youth is drinking for himself at those living fountains from which his teacher either has or pretends to have drawn his inspiration. But in such a school as that of which we are now speaking, this only possible ground of argument is from the beginning removed. For what is the audience that will attend the poetical lectures of such an Institution? Rather let us ask on what footing does poetry stand to them? What can it be more to them than a pleasure, or in what other light important? And do they choose to go to a place of public instruction, to be set right, to be lectured on their pleasures? To those who in the midst of serious and useful avocations, can find leisure and inclination to turn to the works of eloquent writers, for relaxation of their own strained faculties, for refreshment and restoration to their overtoiled minds,such works must be a precious delight, a spring of gushing waters. In these, a simple pure pleasure is granted, and preserved to them by the truth of their minds, and the openness of their affections. What purpose can be served by turning this genial love of literature into a curious, intricate, and doubtful study or why seek to disturb it by listening to imperfect and perplexing disquisitions, penned by lecturers who can know nothing of the secrets of the heart, or understanding of those to whom their speculations are addressed? Such minds, naturally open to the interest of poetry, feel its highest, purest, and dearest feelings set in motion by its works, feelings great and undefined, for which they neither know, nor seek expression. It is little likely, that public lecturers will give expression to such feelings, unless it happen-as it has happened that he be himself a true poet, like Coleridge or Campbell. It is probable, that he will be able to give much fuller expression to feelings of lower rank, and thoughts of lesser moment, that he will make these

predominant in the mind, and will rather lower than exalt the tone of its sentiments. It is surely unnecessary to say any thing of the evil done to such ingenuous minds, by being trained to talk, and hear talk of all kinds of vain and idle conversation, about objects and thoughts and feelings, once so dear to them perhaps in the sacred privacy of their own closed hearts, but which come at last to be valued by them merely as affording means of the display of talent or the gratification of vanity.

But there is one general view of the study of poetry which perhaps might serve instead of all arguments upon this subject. The love of poetry, it is true, is one of the simplest delights of the mind; but the study of its principles is one of the most abstruse and highest speculations. It is one of the most complicated and difficult parts of metaphysics. An exposition of these principles never has been given-perhaps never will be. But every mind that, with intellectual power, pursues poetry as an important study, does make, according to its faculty, metaphysical discoveries in these principles, and so far finds light. In poetry,-imagination, reason, and passion, are all blended together in the same act of the mind, and to understand the principles of poetry is to have analyzed, in its most subtle products, this joint operation. It is an undertaking to baffle the ablest metaphysician; and is it to be made the subject of lectures to youthful students and to popular assemblies? The true character of the real study has assigned the character of the false shows of that study. In the schools, and in the hands of professed critics, the commentaries on poetry, and the expositions of the rules and principles of the art have been intelligible, for there was serious purpose of instruction; but, to be so, they have relinquished every thing essential to poetry-have confined themselves to the plainest matters of understanding which the works of poets would afford; and from Trapp to Blair, have offered notorious examples of uninteresting treatises on most interesting subjects.* But where the nature of the plan and occasion have afforded such license to the instructor

or lecturer, he has made it an object to please, and no object to instruct. The public teacher has been converted into an orator-a declaimer. From all the deep passions which poetry commands-from the power and splendour of imagination with which it is filled-it is open to a man of any talent in this kind to captivate an audience, and, without impeachment of their understanding, to raise in them unusual and undue interest, but with no result as instruction in poetry. If their views be imperfect, and their feelings erroneous or confused, will they be made just and true by the subjection of the mind, for a time, to the influence of eloquent declamation? By having been held in the midst of the contagious emotions of a thronged assembly, listening with excited feeling to a mixture of reasoning and passion? Surely a just taste would have been more advanced by contemplating in its single self, and in undisturbed solitude, the work which was the subject of the lecture, than in such a situation fragments of that work, intermingled with what can only be itself considered a work of art, and that of a very inferior kind-a piece of criticism. To this, then, it comes at last, that there is neither instruction nor pleasure of any value conferred on an audience by a lecturer, as far as poetry is concerned-but that a work of art of his own, namely a disquisition or an oration, or, it may be, a batch of paradoxes piping from the oven of a heated fancy, is delivered to a number of persons who may be all the while imagining themselves absolute and downright students of poetry and philosophy.

pictured remembrance of what was seen. What remains in the mind of the sensation felt-of the scenes beheld-while the spell of poetry was in operation, or while the events of history rose up before it in august procession,-or while it accompanied the perilous adventures of the traveller,-or penetrated the still seclusion of him who rendered no other service to men than to live on their earth in virtue,— all that remains from such contemplation will recur with renewal of the same feelings, in its own vividness, and by its own power, unbidden, when motion of life plays in the mind. But in all this there is nothing of opinion— of elaborate intelligence. It is mere natural remembrance-a fainter living over again of that which has been more vividly lived before. But to turn sensation into opinion-to convert membrance into criticism, is either the work of a mind much advanced in thought, or it is a forced and unnatural process. Then the mind, instead of simply surrendering itself to its own impressions in reading, reads with a purpose. Instead of recollecting by pleasure, it recollects by an imagined opinion; instead of a strong native sense growing up in it by the force of nature, there is engendered a factitious. conception of things which leads to nothing.

We cannot conclude without once more insisting on the injurious effect which all kind of literary criticism must have on the mind, unless that mind receives it with caution, and imbibes what may be congenial with its own feelings, instead of slavishly forming its faith on dogmas. Every view is a false one which is not a view fitted to the mind that entertains it. The impression which a natural mind takes of a book, is an impression of pains, and pleasures, and sympathies, and is no reasoned opinion. It is like the impression that remains from traversing some new and beautiful region of external nature; and the delight which struck upon the sense recurs with the

re

If the minds of men were to think and feel more freely for themselves on all subjects of their country's literature, it would come to fill their hearts with a far deeper and more empassioned love. The voice of the present times would be to them sacred as that of the days of old, and they would acknowledge in it a similar power over the presumption of modern criticism. To rail, or to scoff at the divine productions of mortal men, would then seem to them to have in it something of the wickedness and madness of infidelity; to be indifferent or callous to beauty and to grandeur, would be a shame and a degradation. There would be a generous and a reverent gratitude in the mind of the people towards all who immortalized the noblest qualities of that mind in works of literature; and literature would then come to have a deeper and wider influence on human life. How strong might be this love of literature, may be illustrated by the attachment of a people in simple unaltering life to their

traditionary poetry. It is to the shepherd an integral part of his being, blended with, and ennobling all his affections. Now, is it not possible, that, when farther refinement has brought the works of genius in more various shapes before the apprehension of men, that a similar character and influence might still remain to them? If history is now in books instead of tradition, must it therefore be separated from the native feelings of the reader, from his personal interest, from the relation that he feels in his own person to the society of which he is a portion? If the voice of the muse is committed to written characters, has it therefore acquired a different relation to the human mind? Has it become so severed from human life that it has no longer any profound interest to the man himself, that it must become merely the play-thing of idle imagination, and nothing, or less than nothing, to the man himself looking around him over all the shews of the world that overshadows him? It need not be so-it will not be so with them who give nature fair play, and consider the works of genius in all their forms, as at once symbols of the soul's immortality, and guardians of the consciousness of that immortality in every mind that can intensely feel their beauty and their grandeur.

To general readers the literature of their country ought to be what we may imagine it to have been to an inhabitant of Athens to walk among the edifices and statues of his city of Minerva. Or, what it is to an inhabitant of Switzerland to traverse his mountains and mountain-vales? The delight of the native lies in the original impression remaining upon the soul pure and entire. But that reflex act of the mind which brings upon this original and great impression, intellectual inquisition, dissolves the power of nature; and that which was sublimity and beauty becomes a critical question. Imagination and sympathy are the faculties, by which we are moved with delight from the great works of art. To cherish these faculties ennobles our nature, and in some degree preserves us from the contracting and abasing effects of the ordinary business of life. But that dominion is maintained by giving just play to the faculties, and not by making their workings matter of disquisition.

It

has sometimes been said, that the best canons of art have been produced in its decline. No doubt the best canons of art were those which were known to the greatest masters, and which were produced to their own minds by their own experience of art. But such canons were their own possession, and were not promulgated in literature. This it is that belongs to the decline of arts,-that which was done and felt is then talked of the experience of greater times is at last gathered into words by a feebler generation-the result is collected, and the art finally exists only in its canons. That which was active in the life of creative genius, is transferred to the department of mere speculative literature.

Now, it is easy to apprehend, that what really takes place in such cases is a decay in that energy of passion which originally and properly belongs to art. That energy of intelligence, which subsists only in passion must decay with it; but an intelligence clear, though cold and tranquil, remains, and that comes in place of the great creative power of art. It might not be difficult to shew, that, in certain states of society, in great refinement, there is an aversion to strong emotion; that the energies of passion are found painful; and that mens' minds gladly seek a refuge from passion in the mere intelligence of passion. The true and simple sympathy, with great power of any kind, demands a corresponding power of life which the weak being does not bear in himself, and, as all effort beyond the strength of nature is painful, he shrinks from such sympathy with a mortifying sense of his own imbecility. But those great powers of our nature which we ought to possess and do not, we can still flatter ourselves with discovering in our own bosoms, when we have only to trace over their lines in ourselves with the finger of intelligence. If we can study even the outline of the passion in ourselves, we have good evidence that we are not bereft of those noble properties of our nature, and in the indolence of excessive refinement, can still have the satisfaction of knowing ourselves kindred to the great natures of a greater time-an illusion not lightly to be rejected. There is strong temptation, therefore, to an age of refinement to seek, in all kinds, passion in the disquisition of passions. But it