often will we find the person, whom I have mentioned, on this account preferring the flimsy to the solid, the turgid to the pure; how often see him sacrificing good taste to the comparatively frivolous desire of producing novelty. Looking back upon those that preceded him, he perceives, or thinks he perceives, every avenue to fame already trod, and he cannot bring his mind to enter the same path as any before him. Despairing of being able to discover one as yet unentered and unexplored, he at last strikes out a way for himself, and it may happen to be in violation of the principles of pure taste, and of his better judgment. If he fails in this manner, is it to be wondered at if evil consequences follow? The path is destitute in itself of real beauty, and he finds himself called upon to adorn it with all the strength of his genius; so that no flower blooms in it but what is planted by his own hand, not a prospect unfolds itself, but what owes its existence to his imagination. In short, an unworthy or insignificant subject is tricked out in all the finery which can render it attractive-it becomes so and the pillars of true taste being thus undermined, the whole superstructure is overthrown. In this way has sound taste been too often sacrificed to the vain desire for originality, and a truly powerful genius been perverted by expending its strength in an improper manner. Such in some degree is the case with our two poets Wordsworth and Coleridge. No one can peruse the writings of these authors without perceiving marks of a lofty imagination, and a truly poetical genius, but how must we lament to see these powers obscured by the continual aspiring, for it can be nothing else, at appearing original. The first mentioned poet, conceiving from the beginning, that true poetry consists in simplicity alone, has followed that with unabating ardour. To him, however, it has proved but an ignis fatuus, has seduced him from the true road by which he might have arisen to perfection, and has led him into ridiculous sensibility and silly puerilities. At the commencement of his literary life, he saw, or fancied he saw, a road to poetical eminence as yet unentered; and, delighted by its novelty, he proceeded in it with unceasing activity. The attempt was novel, and in consequence he obtained not a few admirers. All the while, however, he was grasping merely at a shadow, was aspiring at a new species of sublimity, but at the same time verifying the French proverb " Du sublime au ridicule il n'y a q'un pas." He has been extensively read, but it is well for the taste of the country that he has had few, if any, imitators. Had it indeed been otherwise, taste would certainly have been corrupted, and the manliness and vigour of English poetry would have been lost in a torrent of sensibility on a withered leaf, or in a foolish attempt to celebrate the gambols of a kitten. I speak thus of Wordsworth-not that I think lightly of him as a poet. Amid all the dull morality of the "Excursion" there are passages of the most unaffected grandeur and finest poetry, and in his minor Poems,-the "Lines written while sailing in a Boat at Evening" are worth half the volume besides, and equal to any thing in the language. With Coleridge the case is different. In his poems we may trace the breathings of a lofty mind, and a rich vein of heavenly poetry, yet we cannot but regret that with this there is not unfrequently conjoined much that offends against the purity of taste. Having an evident predilection for the German

school, and being the avowed disciple of Kant, he has too often transferred into his own writings the ravings of a distempered imagina tion-the characteristic of the sect he admired. Nor is he free from the childish prettinesses of Wordsworth.

"We have so much to talk about,

So many sad things to let out,
So many tears in our eye-corners
Sitting like little Jacky Horners :
In short, as soon as it is day,

Do go, dear Rain, do go away."

Who could have supposed that such puerility could have proceeded from a mind capable of producing the following noble lines?—

They parted,-ne'er to meet again!

But never either found another

To free the hollow heart from paining-
They stood aloof the scars remaining,
Like cliffs which have been rent asunder;
A dreary sea now flows between,

But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
Shall wholly do away,
I ween,

The marks of that which once hath been."

Such are the effects which a desire for novelty can produce on the minds of the candidates for fame in literature or the fine arts, and on minds too, I have shewn, of no inferior order. An author should certainly be as original as possible, but that originality ought to consist in the matter rather than the manner. Let him by all means lay before the public whatever is new, provided it be really so, but let him not attempt to disguise the poverty of his subject beneath quaintness or turgidity of style, or endeavour to corrupt the taste of his country by introducing the practice of giving weight to trifles, or of changing freedom and boldness of expression for foolish ornament or affected simplicity.

2. Novelty, however, produces a corresponding evil effect upon the taste of the nation at large. It is in this point of view, properly speaking, that the principle which we have been considering is really hurtful. No author, for example, provided he was possessed of sufficient judgment, would ever think it particularly necessary to be strictly original, were he not in the first instance, in a manner, impelled to it by the prevailing opinion of the nation. He knows that the great body of the reading public are accustomed to look upon novelty with the greatest respect, and regard the contrary with contempt; and accordingly he must suit himself to circumstances. That this opinion of the world is sometimes of advantage I have already admitted, but it is also one of the most effective agents in the deterioration of taste. Novelty is every thing; and when that is abundantly furnished, men seldom care about any thing else. The consequences resulting from this may easily be conjectured. That which has merely the advantage of being new, though it has no other solid merit, will acquire the highest approbation, while men, willing at any ex

pense to purchase a new pleasure, will be disposed to cast into the shade what really deserves commendation, but which has not the fortune to be dressed in the garb of strict and striking originality. But let us enquire a little more particularly into the evils resulting to the taste of a nation from indulging too much the desire of novelty.

First, then, the desire for novelty leads to the admiration of false and meretricious ornament. True excellence is of such a nature that it admits of no very extensive variety, and those who aspire after novelty will often find it expedient, in order to gain their end, to transgress not a little against the "modesty of Nature," and surround her with splendours that do not exist. To say that this is inimical to true taste, is to assert a thing almost self-evident. Nature is beautiful enough of herself-she needs not the assistance of foreign and gorgeous ornament to shew off her excellences. The man of a pure and refined mind sees her to most advantage when clothed in simple and unassuming attire, and can perceive no real beauty in the tinsel and splendour with which vitiated taste desires to invest her. The great painters of the Italian school depend for their celebrity upon the accuracy of their delineations without the intervention of gaudy colouring; and Sir Joshua Reynolds relates, that when first he saw their works, the prevailing feeling in his mind was that of disappointment. The cause of this is obvious. His taste was vitiated by the study of the English paintings of his day, which, however well they were executed, were decked out with the most gorgeous and glaring colouring, and it was not until he got the better of his prejudices towards these, that he felt and perceived the beauties of the great painters of Italy. It is indeed with the mental as with the physical palate-both, when in a healthy state, prefer the simplest viands. When the appetite is cloyed with abundance, and the sickening taste is pleased with nothing but variety, the simple food which was formerly agreeable becomes disgusting, and is only tolerated when garnished with high-seasoned stimulants and other new appurtenances. This very cir cumstance, however, proves that the faculty is in no sound state, for it is only when taste is squeamish and unhealthy that such things become requisite. In like manner the mental taste, when pure and perfect, has little relish for high-seasoned dainties, and it is only when its vigour is blunted by excess, and it is in an unhealthy condition that it wishes to add to the simplicity of nature.

But, farther, the inordinate desire for novelty leads to a delight in ornament instead of in that which is useful, and to the preference of tinsel and show to more substantial though less gaudy beauties. When overwrought splendour of any kind becomes pleasing, it soon attracts the chief attention, and real merit which is inconsistent with such a state of things is thrown completely aside and neglected. The truth of this assertion may easily be shewn by the rage for novelty at present existing in our dramatic establishments. Lord Byron tells us that at Drury Lane theatre the "School for Scandal," certainly one of the finest comedies in the language, has always been among the least attractive, and it is notorious with how great applause the public hail every new melo-drama or opera, provided it has a sufficient quantity of show and gaudy splendour. The divine aspirations of the dramatic muse of Shakspeare are next to being banished from the stage, and the

legitimate tragedy and true comedy must give place to some gilded mass of insipidity, some tissue of vulgarity and execrable punning in the shape of a "Life in London," some "Der Freyschütz" teeming with romantic foolery and absurd horror. It is not sufficient to improve upon nature and surround her with a glitter she does not possess, the bounds of reason and probability must alike be passed, in order to gratify the insatiable desire of the million for novelty.

The principle of which we are speaking leads also to the admiration of whatever is quaint and possessed of affected singularity. This is a practice which the unthinking public are disposed to encourage to the greatest extent, and into which the highest minds may often be led. The mincing quaintness of Seneca was popular in his day, and so was the style of Lucan, although in the words of Scaliger, "he rather barked than sung." Sallust, by raking up from the ruins of time obsolete words and antiquated expressions, gave to his works a naiveté grateful to the public for whom he wrote. Nor is the taste of our own day so distinguished for purity as to reject every attempt of a similar kind. The "tu whits tu whoos" of Coleridge are not without admirers, and Leigh Hunt's writings are by many read with pleasure, notwithstanding the strange romantic turn of his style, his uncouth phrases, and odd expressions, which, to use an epithet of his own, he scatters about with a "how-do-you-do-pretty-well-I-thankyou sort of freedom." That this can have no good effect upon taste does not admit of a doubt. There may be some phrases of this kind which in certain situations are more expressive than those in common use, but by far the greater number of them are clumsy and uncouth, and are permitted only from an inward sort of low admiration at their singularity and conceit-in short on account of their being novel. The practice, however, is highly reprehensible, tending to barbarize the language, and at the same time, by implication, to blunt the edge of the relish for true excellence possessed by every mind of cultivated and pure taste.

Such are several of the evils resulting to the taste of a country from the unrestrained indulgence in novelty. Perhaps it would not be difficult to swell the list to a greater extent, but I shall now pass to other circumstances which are no less effective in corrupting the taste of a nation.

The principal causes which exert an influence over the taste of a country, are, in my opinion, chiefly these-viz. its political situationthe state of its religion and morals-and the several pursuits in which it is principally engaged. These, according to circumstances, may be either favourable or productive of evil effects, but that their influence is extensive may be shewn both by theory and by an appeal to actual facts.

1. If we look back into the history of those nations which have been famous in the world for the refinement of their taste, we will always find that their mental improvement has followed their progress to political eminence. The taste of Greece was not matured till in arms she shone unrivalled, and Roman science and literature had not attained their zenith, till the empire of the Eternal city extended from sea to sea, till the whole known world was comprehended within her dominions. Arms must first raise the state to superior power, and

lay open the streams through which knowledge may flow into it from all the world besides, and soon it will shine in science as unrivalled as it did in the arts of war. Let us ask ourselves by what means such political eminence is attained, and we will find it to be the result of independent feelings and a noble spirit. As long as these continue unimpaired, will it maintain the power it has acquired, and will its taste flourish in all its pristine refinement. But if, by contemplating its own greatness, it is lulled into a sense of self-security, and becomes listless or inattentive to its national honour and privileges, when the lofty independence of mind, which raised it to the glory it possesses, is lost, the road is open to mental as well as national degradation. Pure taste, while it leads a man through the creation and teaches him to admire all that is beautiful and excellent in it, expands and sublimes his mind, while it turns his eye upon himself and points out to his view the wondrous and fearful conformation both of his body and his soul, it elevates his mind with noble sentiments, it inspires him with noble daring as it marks out for his admiration and imitation those worthies of antiquity who remain embalmed in a nation's history. In a word, true taste and independence of spirit are coeval with and dependant upon each other—as the one declines, the other sinks into decay.

But, further, the taste of a country is, in a great degree, determined by the state of the government, and the manner in which its laws are administered. If the government is framed according to the genius of the people, and the laws are formed on principles of strict equity-there is no doubt but that taste will keep pace with the increasing internal happiness of the country; but if on the contrary there is any dereliction in their administration, while the people are distracted, taste must also suffer. A free government is perhaps the most favourable for the improvement of science and the fine arts, and accordingly we will find that in all cases knowledge has under such a constitution arrived at the greatest perfection. It is only when the "mind's ethereal spring" is uncurbed by foreign power or domestic despotism, when it has unrestrained scope for exertion, that the soul of man will rise upon the wings of freedom, and display all the energies of its might. It is then only that taste can flourish, that man can enjoy and relish the beauties of nature and the real excellences of art. The causes are various which may overthrow such a state of affairs. The nation may lose that spirit of freedom, of which I have spoken above, and luxury may infuse its contaminating influence into the minds of the people. When this takes place, the constitution will soon be materially changed; and if it is not overturned by a foreign power, it will at last sink under the iron hand of despotism and tyranny. In a despotic government it is certainly possible that taste in some degree may occasionally be found to exist, but it never can continue for any length of time in perfection, or even in comparative refinement. "Knowledge," says the proverb, "is power," and men that are possessed of it are naturally objects of fear to every despot, who for his own sake is desirous of keeping the people in a state of contented ignorance.

As taste, then, is corrupted by the loss of free and independent sentiments, so it declines and finally is destroyed beneath a despotism.