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THE MANIAC'S CONFESSION, 
 
 A FRAGMENT OF A TALE. 
 
 4^ 
 
 J. W. SIMMONS, 
 
 Author of the Exile^s Return. 
 
 Dark Spirits are abroad — and gentle Truth, 
 
 Within the narrow house of death — is laid, 
 
 An early tenant. Miss Baillie. 
 
 %i 
 
 O 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY MOSES THOMAS. 
 J. MAXWELL, PRINTER. 
 
 

TO 
 
 BENJAMIN R. GREENLAND, M.D. 
 
 THIS TALE 
 
 IS INSCRIBED, 
 
 BY 
 
 HIS SINCERE FRIEND, 
 
 THE AUTHOn. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The Exile's Return, the Author's first proeluction, 
 having been passed " sub silentio" by the critics, for rea- 
 sons best known among themselves, he cannot be sup- 
 posed again to publish, in consequence of any literary pa- 
 tronage, which has been extended him, but simply, because 
 he prefers a clear type to an obscure manuscript. The num- 
 berless typograpliical errors to be met with in the above- 
 mentioned Poem, together with the desire the Author feels 
 of expunging certain lines, very defective, and of substi- 
 tuting others in their place, will induce him, injustice to 
 his own feelings, to republish it some time hence; wiieth- 
 er these proposed amendments may prove for the better, 
 it will not be for the Author to determine. There is one 
 remark relative to the Exile's Return, he begs leave to 
 make, which is, that " the ingredients," were not " cauglit 
 from Maturin's Bertram," as a writer in the Charleston 
 Patriot observed, and upon an attentive reading, it would 
 seem impossible that any one should have formed that 
 
VI . PREFACE. 
 
 opinion. However willing the Author may be to admire 
 the genius of Maturin, he certainly does not think wor- 
 thy of imitation, those disgusting illustrations of the per- 
 verted principles of his moral Creed, that are found to 
 darken the pages of his every work. Flavian, though 
 no doubt as much " a man of wo" as Bertram, is no 2:ross 
 sensualist however, no murderer of the innocent husband 
 of an innocent woman, innocent but for that same mur- 
 derer, no vile ingrate to the very being whom he pre- 
 tended to love, no hair-brained enthusiast, who in a gush 
 of phrenzy commits "self slaughter," boasting that he 
 died no " felon death." Bertram is accidentallv ship- 
 wrecked near the Castle of Aldobrand, his enemy — is res- 
 cued by its inmates from destruction, whose humanity 
 and kindolBces he returns with scorn, because forsooth, 
 they happened to be "men," imploring them to replunge 
 him in the waves, as in that case, the sin would " be on 
 iluir heads and not his," wishing, it would seem, that 
 they should entail upon themselves responsibility for his 
 fate, and that too in obliging him; here we have the lan- 
 guage of confirmed misanthropy, and not of revenge as 
 directed against some particular individual — and this 
 morbid spirit of unfounded hostility, unfounded because 
 general, levels its shafts of venom indiscriminately — the 
 outlaws with whom, through motives of wild policy, he 
 chose to league himself, he afterwards, when having at 
 
PREFACE. Va 
 
 his pleasure withdrawn himself from their fraternity, they 
 become no longer subservient to his purposes, inveighs 
 against in the most contemptuous language, because they 
 were outlaws — choosing to forget vvhat he himself had but 
 lately been — the very woman, for whom at one moment 
 he makes such a display of affection, at another, he re- 
 viles in bitterest invective, stigmatising her name with 
 every opprobrious epithet, and wherefore? Why, because, 
 after a lapse of many years, when she might well have 
 supposed him lost to her, " to save a famishing father," 
 she marries a man, whom though slie may not have 
 loved, she must have respected, because he was virtu- 
 ous, and to whom she must have felt grateful, because 
 he was fond of, and cherished her; but Bertram, does not 
 choose to listen to any thing that she may have to say, 
 in her own defence — no — though herding with the very 
 refuse of society, still she should have regarded him as 
 "a thing of light;" though dead, at least to her, she should 
 have been wedded to his memory — though a father's life 
 depended upon her uniting herself with Aldobrand, she 
 should rather have seen that father perish, than insult 
 the spirit of her departed lover, by bestowing her hand 
 upon the man it hates — well, for these weighty reasons, 
 he pronounces upon her the blessing of his curse, and 
 the curse of his blessing, hopes that her child may " stab 
 her with its smiles;" — a keener malediction never wasim- 
 
Vm PREFACE. 
 
 plored — that she may become the mark against which the 
 hand of scorn may point its finger, loathsome in life, and 
 sleepless even in the grave; and to top this catalogue of 
 evils, which he himself has framed as destined to await 
 her, he wantonly and fiendishly triumphs over the pic- 
 ture of her depravity and misfortunes, by maliciously 
 lulling her into a criminal connection, and then spurns 
 her for her infidelity — now, however willingly the author 
 would imbibe the spirit of Maturin's beauties, he feels 
 assured that no defects of the nature of those he has 
 just enumerated — whatever others may exist — are to be 
 found in the pages of the Exile, consequently, there can 
 be no imitation; for, as these are inherent defects of cha- 
 racter, of the inward man, not such as tlie dramatist 
 alone conceives him, but as he may be found in living 
 nature — diseased traits of mind, given birth to in pro- 
 minent passions that characterise the hero of the Trage- 
 dy, the careful delineation of which is the peculiar bu- 
 siness of the Poet, and whose influence and progress 
 tend to individualise the drama — we say, that as these 
 are frailties of the natural character, which however dis- 
 gusting, constitute the most striking lineaments of the 
 picture, with which we are presented in the Play — if the 
 agency of the same moral elements be not found to be 
 employed in the poem — Flavian cannot be said to bear 
 any marked resemblance to Bertram — and that siich 
 
PREFACE. IX 
 
 agency has not been made use of — the author, who may 
 be allowed to know something of his own design, takes 
 upon him to assert — the outlines indeed of the two cha- 
 racters may correspond in some measure, as the faces 
 of those fabled Sisters, which are described as being so 
 much alike, that at a distance, each was taken for the 
 other, but when narrowly examined, were found to be 
 totally dissimilar — and as to any general correspondence 
 of features, we observe the same almost daily in men 
 differently constituted notwithstanding, the very struc- 
 tures of their minds may somewhat resemble one the 
 other, while no two men at the same time have ever been 
 discovered to be perfectly alike; one might as well say, 
 that Milton's hero was copied from the Grecian Achil- 
 les, because both are drawn with high and martial qua- 
 lities, as pronounce Flavian the counterpart of Bertram, 
 because, like the latter, he is represented as actuated by 
 feelings of revenge. Zanga is as unlike lago, or Fitz- 
 harding, as Falstaff differs from Macbeth, yet the prin- 
 ciple of action is the same in the Revenge as it is in 
 Othello, and the Curfew: but without detailing exam- 
 ples, it may be observed, that the great fundamental 
 principles of human nature are the same in all men, and 
 that those shades of contrast, which mark the several 
 individuals of the same species, are the result of various 
 contingencies — were this not the case, all the heroes of 
 
X PREFAOE. 
 
 the Epic Fable — from Homer down to Cumberland, might 
 claim affinity so striking, one with the other, as to create 
 a general identity. We liave said perhaps much more 
 than the occasion called for, or the importance of the 
 subject demanded — but really, unless an Author now then 
 presume, in self-defence, to oppose the pompous judg- 
 ment of the critic, such is the peculiar and happy com- 
 placency of the latter, that, if let alone, he will not un- 
 frequently endeavour to persuade a writer, contrary to 
 his senses, that he meant one thing, when he designed 
 another; Voltaire is said to have indited a fearful critique 
 upon the Lusiad, afterwards confessing he had never 
 read it; and Addison ridicules with much fancied plea- 
 santly, Sylvia's speech to the Flowers, in the Aminta of 
 Tasso, as an instance of bad taste in the Italian writers, 
 without having been acquainted, as Dr. Blair remarks, 
 either with the original or the translation of that pei'- 
 formance. " Of all the cants that are canted in tliis 
 canting world," says the author of the Sentimental Jour- 
 ney — " though the cant of the Hypocrite be the worst, 
 the cant of Criticism is the most disgusting." 
 
 In speaking as we have done of the tragedy of 
 Bertram, we would not be understood as affecting to 
 undervalue it as a performance — on the contrary, we 
 cannot but entertain the highest admiration for those 
 extraordinary powers of the writer, which have enabled 
 
PREFACE. XI 
 
 liim to do justice to such a character, while we abhor 
 the character itself — is it no fault of Mr. Maturin's that 
 his hero is stern, savage, and relentless — the error lies in 
 nature, that is if probability be allowed to be the stand- 
 ai'd of poetical invention — this is a reflection not often 
 made. 
 
 The Fragment that ensues — was written shortly after 
 the publication of the Exile's Return, at the commence- 
 ment ofthe Author's twentieth year; the Observations upon 
 Poetry and the Drama, and American Literature, were 
 also written some months previous to the Author com- 
 ing of age — he does not mention this circumstance as 
 tending to apologise for their very imperfect execution; 
 apologies are but awkward things at best, and for which 
 the Author has no predilection whatever — those who may 
 think it worth their time to read them, will no doubt 
 find mucli to censure. 
 
 Philadelphia, March, 1821. 
 
THE MANIAC'S CONFESSION, 
 
 A FRAGMENT OF A TALE. 
 
 There is a fever of the soul, 
 A cureless malady that preys 
 Upon the heart, upon the brain, 
 That riots in each bursting vein. 
 And quick diflfusing o'er the whole. 
 Of ardent frames — more surely slays 
 Than arquebus or atagan — 
 When man in fight oppos'd to man, 
 Meets death in ev'ry winged blow. 
 Dealt by the fervour of his foe. 
 
 It is that heated glow of mind, 
 That loves to revel in the wild 
 
!:i THE maniac's CONFESSION. 
 
 Of its own worlds — with power to bind 
 
 The victim of its phantasy. 
 
 In fetters of such varied hue. 
 
 As mocks the tongue that feign would tell 
 
 The magic of its miracle; 
 
 Glittering chains at first, whose light 
 
 Disorders and deceives the sight; 
 
 Refusing still to pour the beam, 
 
 Whicli might dissolve the fatal dream; 
 
 As shadows melt before the ray, 
 
 That heralds the approach of day. 
 
 It is a dark and fatal spell. 
 That doth uncliarnel its OAvn hell — 
 Too vainly late from him to fly. 
 Who hath been made its ministry — 
 It is the curse that inars the life 
 And beauty of this nether sky, 
 And wages an eternal strife 
 With all who spurn its potency — 
 It is the blast that blights the heart, 
 
THE maniac's confession. 5 
 
 And ev'ry blossoni of its bloom. 
 Its chill and black'ning ne'er depart, 
 Until the substance they consume — 
 Whereon thej feed — until the tomb 
 Hath clos'd upon the sufferer's head, 
 For there is quiet 'mong the dead. 
 This visitation never fails 
 To visit they that least can bear 
 The after shock that still prevails, 
 The rankling of the wounds that tear, 
 Enfeebling ev'ry fiber' d nerve. 
 Until their functions fail to serve; 
 And then they wind into the core, 
 
 To riot there for ever more! 
 
 * * * * * * * 
 
 Thou Soul of softness — wing'd with fire, 
 Thine are the powers that conspire 
 To dazzle yet to torture life, 
 Whose stern afflictions ever rife 
 To feeling's fineness — dash the bowl 
 
4 THE maniac's confession. 
 
 Of brief enjoyment with a drop. 
 Whose poison weighs upon the soul — 
 Until it wastes — without the prop 
 Of one reflection, that can bring 
 A balm to 'suage the mortal sting, 
 Which, like to Scorpion, wounds the breast. 
 The very source within whose rest 
 Was nurtur'd first the venom'd bane 
 That doth inflict an age of pain — 
 Bought by a moment's fleeting joy; 
 When Fancy loves to play the boy; 
 Dazzled with some glittering toy. 
 It seeks to win the splendid prize, 
 And weeps to find it fled its eyes. 
 
 * * « * * ■■¥■ * 
 
 Oh! who can tell — save he whose heart 
 Hath reel'd in fullness 'neath the glow. 
 The pressure of those lava worlds. 
 That circumfuse o'er ev'ry part 
 Of the warm blood — whose currents flow, 
 Delerious fiom the source that hurls 
 
THE maniac's confession. O 
 
 Its boiling waves of tortured light. 
 Howling and hissing in the might 
 Of their disorder'd powers — who 
 Save he— can tell what 'tis to feel. 
 That the first breath of life we drew, 
 Breath'd frenzy's taint from out the hell 
 Of our own souls — whereon the seal 
 Of the eternal curse was set. 
 The source of ills that once befell. 
 The ancestry of they who yet 
 Are doom'd to feel the woes they felt. 
 To own the agony that knelt 
 Before the Eternal throne to plead 
 Some respite from the inv/ard throes. 
 That burnt the heart, and then that froze 
 The very blood within the vein. 
 In interchance of varied pain. 
 
 * * * * « «- « 
 
 The winds are loud upon the lake. 
 That hurls its waves of sheeted blue, 
 B 2 
 

 O THE maniac's CONFESSION. 
 
 'Gainst billowy clouds whose bosoms shake 
 
 With the eternal thunder's roar: 
 
 And far around the light'nings strew 
 
 Destruction's splinters with a dash. 
 
 That dams the waters — and a flash. 
 
 That bears a naked world of wide 
 
 And dismal waste — Look back! the tide 
 
 Comes thund'ring in redoubled might. 
 
 To reassert its ancient right. 
 
 And seek the channel whence its course, 
 
 Had fled in terror from the force 
 
 Of the giant Storm that wrapt in night. 
 
 Swept hideous upon the might 
 
 Of iron pennons — o'er the deep 
 
 It hurls tremendous — now its sweep 
 
 Hath reach'd the mountain wilds that stand. 
 
 Like guardian spirits of the land, 
 
 Pillar'd on their unbending base, 
 
 Immortal in the wing'd race 
 
 Of Time, alone in majesty. 
 
THE MANIAC'S CONFESSION. 7 
 
 They view the course of things that die. 
 The shadows of the world that pass, 
 In one disorder'd varied mass. 
 Beneath their brow — yet still the same. 
 These flourish in immortal fame. 
 Amid the storm sublime they rear 
 Their shadowy front, and waving height, 
 Reechoing the madden'd air. 
 Pregnant with such sounds of fear 
 
 As well accorded with the night. 
 
 * * « . * * * * 
 
 Tlie storm is hush'd, the winds are laid, 
 
 Gloom and silence now pervade 
 
 The scene which late the tempest shook. 
 
 And save the moan of the gust that swells. 
 
 From out the hollowness of distant dells. 
 
 There's not a sound in earth or air, 
 
 But stillest bubbling of the brook. 
 
 And the boughs that fitfully wave on high. 
 
 Chanting their wild and midnight melody. 
 
8 THE maniac's confession 
 
 There is a power in the Elements, 
 
 To stir the soul to noblest thought: 
 
 And when the terror of the tempest vents, 
 
 Itself around, as though it caught, 
 
 The majesty of Him who gave 
 
 Its might unto the wing'd wave. 
 
 The giant mountain — and the wild. 
 
 Of the cloud embosom'd forest; 
 
 We feel unearthly, as the child 
 
 Of Nature, and her very wrath 
 
 Is beautiful — along her patli 
 
 We move mysteriously blest; 
 
 And converse hold with shapes of air, 
 
 A peopled infinite, for there. 
 
 In pathless wood and silent shore — 
 
 Are beings terrible and fair. 
 
 Such as the heart for ever more, 
 
 May dwell upon, and ceaseless pore 
 
 O'er recollections of the past. 
 
 When we were wanderers of the vast 
 
THE maniac's confession. 9 
 
 • 
 
 And unprun'd wild — ere step of man, 
 
 Profan'd the awful and the giand 
 
 Of Nature's own primeval plan. 
 
 When e'en the shrub, the wave, the strand, 
 
 Bore impress of that mystic hand, 
 
 That stampt sublimity on all 
 
 The world's wide garden — ere the fall, 
 
 Of erring man from his estate 
 
 Of envied greatness — threw the pall, 
 
 Of misery and littleness 
 
 O'er human Nature's heretage. 
 
 Disease and death, the woes that press, 
 
 And grind to very nothingness 
 
 Full many a noble heart, which yet 
 
 Had else beeA purg'd from ev'ry taint 
 
 That mars it now — and doth beget 
 
 The sorrows that impose restraint 
 
 Upon the wings that fain would soar 
 
 To noblest flights, but which no more 
 
10 THE maniac's confession. 
 
 Can spread their anxious pennons now, 
 'Neath fallen greatness' yoke we bow 
 Like prostrate captives at the car 
 Of some imperial God of war. 
 
 "'jf -|f ^ "K ^ ^ 'K 
 
 What step is heard upon a night. 
 Whose depth of darkness might affright. 
 The very forms that cleave the clouds. 
 Whose midnight sableness enshrouds 
 Their mystic meetings from the eye 
 Of the hush'd world— that would descry 
 The strife of fiends, the glare of hell. 
 Their frantic laugh and hideous yell? 
 No mortal step it sure can be, 
 But some infernal Deity—- 
 That dares walk forth at this dread hour, 
 When Nature sleeps, yet tempests lour — 
 A human form by ev'ry fear. 
 That blackens in impending air! 
 
THE maniac's confession. li 
 
 What doth it here alone and dark, 
 Mor^ terrible than all — ^but hark! 
 Mysterious accents, broken, wild. 
 Like hollow winds in cavern-tomb. 
 Where cabin'd-cribb'd, confined in gloom, 
 Their yawning moans come fitfully 
 Through dreariness of space — a child 
 Of with'ring woes must sure be he. 
 And now his step hath gain'd the verge 
 Of yon steep precipice — the surge 
 Heaves darkly boiling from below. 
 To him there's music in its flow; 
 For there he listens, and he stands 
 With fixed eye and clasped hands; 
 Like one wi'apt in a spell-born dream 
 He gazes on that sable stream — 
 A long and hideous trance I ween. 
 To mortal of so wreck'd estate: 
 Though seeming his unconsciousness. 
 Yet thought is busy, forms are seen 
 
12 THE maniac's confession. 
 
 No other eye but his can seej 
 And there he stands, and seems to bless 
 Some phantom-form in his caress. 
 And now in joy he seems elate, 
 And now again comes agony — 
 A deep o'erwhelming tide of wo 
 Seems urging him to leap below — 
 Why doth he pause — to one unblest. 
 That wave affords the surest rest; 
 And yet he lingers — now away — 
 He speeds like one whom long delay 
 Hath startled into memory. 
 Of something he had forgot. 
 Away he speeds — but who or what 
 This human spectre form can be? 
 His life seems wrapt in mystery. 
 
 He sudden came, as sudden past. 
 As gloomy as the desert blast. 
 
THE maniac's confession. 13 
 
 A youthful form erect and tall. 
 And wrapt within a dungeon pall; 
 His fett'ring chains were heard to sound. 
 As clanking loose upon the ground; 
 A moment more in suddenness 
 He grasp'd them with a phrenzied look. 
 Which did betray an eagerness. 
 To hush the sounds that lately shook. 
 Dark wretch! as though the passive night- 
 Could listen or oppose his flight — 
 But he collected them in care, 
 And glanc'd around his hagard eye. 
 Which did betray the wildest fear 
 Of some approaching treachery: 
 And then as if by death pursued. 
 He rush'd — ^but paus'd — an instant stood, 
 Then sullen stalk'd — as though his blood 
 Indignant rose, he strode away. 
 Night fled with him — and rose the Day. 
 
14 THE maniac's confession. 
 
 A lovelier light ne'er lit the sky 
 
 Than that which now beam'd tranquilly 
 
 Upon the City's glitt'ring Spires; 
 
 A golden flood of living fires 
 
 Stream'd broad upon the Mountain's brow. 
 
 And circling form'd a radiant bow, 
 
 Whose dazzling glories shed below. 
 
 Above, around, a genial glow. 
 
 That lit all hearts to love and life 
 
 Within that busy city's strife; 
 
 A checquer'd scene of many cares. 
 
 Of many pleasures, many tears; 
 
 But Grief's a solitary guest. 
 
 And while the Mass of joys possest, 
 
 Float gayly o'er life's smiling sea. 
 
 The with'ring shade of Misery 
 
 Ne'er throws a damp upon the scene. 
 
 Or clouds the laughing Sun serene. 
 
 Of libertine Prosperity; 
 
 Merit pines within the shade, 
 
THE maniac's confession. 15 
 
 And Virtue droops for want of aid; 
 
 In many a hard extremity. 
 
 Sorrow sheds its secret tear. 
 
 Within the city wan Despair 
 
 Is often seen to stalk alone. 
 
 While gayly sounds the general tone 
 
 Of festive mirth and revelry; 
 
 At height of noon the peopled street 
 
 Is often trod by naked feet. 
 
 And unhous'd heads and unfed sides. 
 
 The city's splendid pomp derides; 
 
 For still the Mass brush gayly by, 
 
 Nor pause to pity they that lie 
 
 Along their path — or darkly die, 
 
 The children of adversity. 
 
 And yet 'tis justice to aver, 
 
 Tliat though the many, 'mid the stir 
 
 Of eager haste and duty's call. 
 
 Feel not the wound that silent winds 
 
16 THE maniac's confession. 
 
 Into the solitary heart. 
 Where neither tie of nature binds. 
 Or friendship's sympathy impart 
 A feeling that may mourn the fall 
 Of that it lov'd — ^yet still they feel. 
 And deeply, when the general weal 
 Of the moral world is clog'd by crime, 
 Or sour calamity in any shape. 
 Call it self-love, or what you may, 
 Yet still the multitude betray 
 Solicitude in peril's time. 
 Though even then some idly gape. 
 And heedless pass what other eyes 
 Behold with tend 'rest sympathies; 
 But still the greater number far 
 Are subject to the shocks that jar 
 The feeling frame — at sight or sound 
 Of guilty deeds — impelled by fear. 
 Ambition— phrenzy — whatsoe'er 
 
TH2 ^lANIAC's CONFKSSION. 17 
 
 Can sway the soul to acts of blood— 
 And such afforded now its food. 
 To nurse the appetite of they 
 Whom deeds of terror ne'er betray 
 To Nature's holiest charity; 
 The tear that flows from Pity's mine, 
 The little all of Misery— 
 From Splendour's minions more divine 
 Than glories of ancestral line; 
 Ay — words are waxing wild and wide 
 Throughout that city's far domain. 
 That seem to quell awhile its pride, 
 Restoring Nature's reign again; 
 Words that breathe of some dark deed. 
 The trembling spirit fears to heed. 
 And pale the lip and sad the eye 
 Of they who pass in silence by 
 The stranger whom tliey frequent meet. 
 Yet without liberty to greet; 
 2 
 
18 THE maniac's confession. 
 
 And echo back the tidings wild. 
 That seem to startle e'en the child. 
 As resting on its mother's heart; 
 And well may child and mother start— 
 It is a tale that sure must freeze 
 The current of its purple seas. 
 And spread the pall of dunnest night 
 Upon that guilty city's light. 
 
 Oh God! 'tis fearful sight to see 
 The desert of a ruin'd mind. 
 The wreck that Memory leaves behind. 
 When she takes flight on wing of fire, 
 And leaves a blacken'd mass to be 
 The all that tells of heaven's ire; 
 To mark the lip of infancy. 
 Without its bloom of purple light. 
 The wildness of the unconscious eye, 
 Without its beam of cherub glow. 
 
THE maniac's confession. 19 
 
 But flame that breathes of inward night. 
 And desolation's work below — 
 The hectic of so young a cheek, 
 And the faint veins that sadly streak, 
 Its passive langour, like the bloom 
 That haunts the flowret of the tomb. 
 As soft — as melancholy fair- 
 Caught from its with'ring death bed there. 
 The doubtful tinge that mantles o'er 
 All that was beautiful before. 
 
 * ****** 
 
 The worm that feeds upon the leaf. 
 
 Is veiled in fulness of perfume. 
 
 Till stampt with an eternal grief. 
 
 That bud betrays the settled doom 
 
 That early mark'd it for the tombj 
 
 And Oh! to view each darker day 
 
 Returning, waft its hues away 
 
 In solitary — still decay, 
 
 Each wasting hour with it bring 
 
 The blast that blights its early spring, 
 
20 THE maniac's confrssion. 
 
 Till hue, and bloom, and beauty fled, 
 'Tis left to wither on its dreary bed: 
 The source whence first its beauteous head 
 Waved richness to the winged gale. 
 But rifled now its morning bloom. 
 No gentle breeze to breath its tale, 
 
 It silent meets its certain doom. 
 
 » * * * * * « 
 
 So falls the Son of sterner fate. 
 
 Dark victim of eternal Hate, 
 
 The phial of whose wrath was pour'd 
 
 Upon the heads of they that first 
 
 Incur'd the weight of woes that hoard 
 
 Their mountain for the wretch accurst. 
 
 Who stands hereditary heir 
 
 To all his fated sire bore: 
 
 A living monument of fear, 
 
 A few brief seasons winged o'er, 
 
 He rears his blasted front on high. 
 
 The terror of each passing eye. 
 
THE maniac's confession. ^1 
 
 And wherefore is he made to feel 
 The rank'ling of so deep a wound? 
 His breast is not a breast ot steel. 
 But pierce its core the blood will bound; 
 His soul is free from taint of sin. 
 And is as clear as it hath been. 
 'Tis sooth that his dead ancestry 
 May have incurr'd the wound withal. 
 They darkly bled and died — ^but why 
 Must chilling Mis'ry's dunnest pall 
 Descend from sire unto son? 
 The crimes of many wreak'd on one- 
 Why must the guiltless bear the doom 
 Til at sweeps them to the guilty 's tomb? 
 The very woes that press'd the heart 
 Of they who played a dam'ning part. 
 Are visited in equity, 
 As canting bigots meekly lie- 
 Up on the head of innocence. 
 
22 THE maniac's confession. 
 
 A dismal change effecting thence. 
 That leaves of life but twilight sense. 
 
 The weary Sun hath sunk to rest — 
 Beneath the Mountain's shadowy brow 
 He slowly sinks into the West, 
 But leaves behind a summer glow. 
 That tells of his bright presence fled, 
 Hesperian hallo of the dead. 
 Twin-born with Silence — Twilight waves 
 Her dewy mantle o'er the scene, 
 In the blue Deep her form she laves. 
 And noiseless as a dream appears; 
 Her cherub eye suft'us'd in tears. 
 She pensive glides along the green 
 Of far extended plains between. 
 And sheds her balmy presence o'er 
 The land that Phcebus parch'd before; 
 Upon her virgin brow a Star 
 Is softly seen to shine afar, 
 
THE maniac's confession. 2 
 
 As if his pensive vigil there 
 Was meant to guard a world so fair; 
 Enamour'd of her loveliness. 
 He lives but in her fond caress. 
 And when she meekly bids adieu 
 To all the world — her Lover too — 
 Sleepless near the spot he mourns. 
 Like early Love at Mem'ry's shrine. 
 But oft again her form returns. 
 And oft renew their joys divine: 
 Not thus in fleeting life's young day. 
 When mingling hearts delight to blend, 
 Our promis'd joys, once passed away, 
 
 Do ne'er return their light to lend. 
 
 * * * .* * « * 
 
 There is a voice of deepest wail. 
 
 That fitfully upon the gale 
 
 Comes — hushing ev'ry sound beside, 
 
 In depth of its agony's tide — 
 
 At times 'tis lull'd — and then again. 
 
 It wakes in Sorrow's loudest strain, 
 
24 THE maniac's confession. 
 
 What Spirit on an eve like this 
 
 Should breathe its woes 'mid so much bliss. 
 
 As woos around the softest kiss. 
 
 From ev'rj flowret and leaf. 
 
 That wontons in the laughing breeze? 
 
 As gayly 'mid the clust'ring trees. 
 
 It snatches joy rich, but brief 
 
 As Her's I ween — poor child of grief. 
 
 Whose misery would seek relief. 
 
 In venting thus the inward throes. 
 
 Which tell at every pausing close. 
 
 How keen they search that bosom 'mid its woes. 
 
 'Tis Woman's voice — for soft, though deep. 
 
 The accents on the gale that sweep — 
 
 'Tis Her — that city's boasted pride, 
 
 Young Lora — destin'd Osma's bride — 
 
 Osma — man of doubtful fate. 
 
 Whom it were well if thou didst hate; 
 
 But where is he, thy plighted love? 
 
THE maniac's confession. 25 
 
 Some fearful ill may soon betide 
 The blooming partner of his heart. 
 And he should ne'er forsake the side 
 Of her he loves — should, never part 
 From form as fair as thine, young maid; 
 But surely now thou art betray'd — 
 Or he could ne'er thus have stray'd. 
 And left thee wand'ring — no, his word 
 Hath duped thy young simplicity. 
 What else could cause him to desert. 
 Save that thou art not what thou wert. 
 To his impetuous spirit — girt 
 By fiery passions — Ah! — you wrong 
 His thoughts — to deem fidelity, 
 Which doth to him alone — of all — ^belong, 
 Had ever lost its influence, 
 With heart, whose love was so intense 
 For thee, his soul's Divinity; 
 But thou wilt pardon him that he 
 Should thus appear to banish thee. 
 
26 THE maniac's confession. 
 
 He is a man of musing mind. 
 
 Nor loves to mingle with his kind. 
 
 And thou should 'st sure have somewhat glean'd. 
 
 Of his strange temp'rament — not weaned 
 
 From the suggestions of his thought, 
 
 Which still effect, as they have wrought. 
 
 Strange phantasies that gather round 
 
 His mystic being — and have bound 
 
 Their victim in a fatal chain. 
 
 Whose bondage ne'er may cease again. 
 
 But wherefore art thou here thus lone? 
 
 Thine eye is wild, thy cheek is pale. 
 
 Night wears apace—thou must begone — 
 
 Or seek repose in yonder vale; 
 
 Where evening winds are at their solemn song. 
 
 Mystic minstrelsy that to wilds belong: 
 
 It cannot be that thou art here. 
 
 To seek for him— that man of fear, 
 
 Fond Lora — beauteous maid — beware— 
 
 He is not now that he hath been. 
 
THE maniac's confession. 27 
 
 And thou would'st shrink from him I ween, 
 
 Could'st thou behold his alter'd mien; 
 
 Some little hours much change have wrought, 
 
 A wand'rer now is he in thought; 
 
 He'd gaze upon thy stranger brow. 
 
 Unconscious of his early vow; 
 
 And thou would'st chide his apathy, 
 
 Or else thy bosom heave the sigh, 
 
 That mourn'd his infidelity; 
 
 And he would grasp thy dewy hand, 
 
 And wave his own like wildest wand. 
 
 Commune with forms unseen by thee. 
 
 Then hush'd in tranced vacancy, 
 
 His ev'ry nerve would seem enchain'd. 
 
 And then as if a something pain'd 
 
 The recollection of liis brain, 
 
 As if a fiery chain around 
 
 His throbbing temples fiercely wound, 
 
 He'd gently wave his finger o'er 
 
 Its beating pulses — and implore. 
 
28 THE maniac's confession. 
 
 With supplicating look on high, 
 
 A respite from the agony. 
 
 That preyed upon his ev'ry nerve. 
 
 And caus'd him thus to turn away 
 
 From one he lov'd — through ev'ry day 
 
 Of better life — ere dark decay 
 
 Had yet commenc'd its with'ring sway. 
 
 Yes — such is he, young Lora — such, 
 
 "Whom thou dost love with far too much 
 
 Of passion's deep intensity; 
 
 But who hath heart to tell thee this. 
 
 And mar a world of so much bliss 
 
 As mantles round thy faithful soul. 
 
 And drug the draught of the glitt'ring bowl. 
 
 That early life now proffers thee. 
 
 With venom of such subtlety? 
 
 But thou must wake — and wake to weep 
 
 The dismal tale that sure must steep 
 
 Thy senses in oblivion's wave. 
 
 Or sweep them to the happier grave. 
 
THE maniac's confession. 29 
 
 And Lora's missing — Ostna fled — 
 Pexxhance he slumbers with the dead — 
 No tidings since that dismal night. 
 He burst his bonds in Maniac might. 
 And vanished in mysterious flight, 
 Are heard to tell or how or where 
 Exists or perished his despair — 
 And there are mourning hearts for him. 
 And angel eyes are darkly dim. 
 In joys flow that once did swim. 
 Whene'er they caught the light of his. 
 Nor sought to know if it were bliss. 
 That flooded from that speaking soul. 
 And burnt delirious o'er the whole, 
 Of ardent features stamp'd in pain. 
 She only deem'd he loved again; 
 And now that eye hath clos'd for ever. 
 Some dreary months have passed away, 
 D 2 
 
30 THE maniac's confession. 
 
 Since first he forced himself to sever 
 From Lora's heart — nor dar'd obey 
 The fonder dictates of his own — 
 That urged him still to linger near 
 The spot that held a thing so dear; 
 But other powers possess'd him then. 
 That struggled for stern mastery. 
 Which being gained — he ne'er again. 
 May look upon a form as fair 
 As her's— whom he hath darkly flown. 
 And left to waste away in lone 
 And painful vigil, set within 
 A heart that ne'er knew taint of sin. 
 Till first it loved — then so intense 
 The flame that burnt within the vein 
 Of her affections — penitence 
 Can ne'er perform lustration o'er 
 The heart that madly knelt before 
 An eai'thly image as divine. 
 
THE maniac's confession. 31 
 
 But such all truer feelings are, 
 Wliate'er this callous world may say, 
 Though such alas! — too oft betray 
 Their own sublime intensity; 
 Of jamng elements — the war 
 Then comes like an Eternity, 
 And revels in the reeking spoils 
 Of human agony — that boils 
 Delirious in each bursting vein. 
 Till consciousness awake — in vain 
 She struggles — shudders, and recoils. 
 From inward desolation's waste. 
 She hath no power o'er the past; 
 And then comes settled ruin's reign; 
 That ever loves to wear the smile, 
 That is a mockery of pain; 
 As if the spirit bloom'd the while. 
 The beam that paly chequers o'er 
 The features that it warm'd before — 
 
32 THE maniac's confession. 
 
 That sheds a calm serenity 
 
 Upon destruction's mass around. 
 
 Is like the Moon, that tranquilly 
 
 Looks down upon an Earthquake's wreck, 
 
 That darkens o'er the barren ground. 
 
 Revealing ev'ry ghastly speck. 
 
 That shadows forth within the light. 
 
 Which only serves to aid the horrid night. 
 
 * ****** 
 
 Around her dark eye's pensile orb, 
 I've mark'd the beams of sorrow play. 
 Like Night upon the verge of Day. 
 Her mental being did absorb 
 All other powers — and the light. 
 Which should have lit her youthful cheek. 
 With hues that richly burn and speak. 
 Had vanish'd from all outward sight. 
 But doubly fervent glow'd within. 
 Oh! there it was the spirit wrought, 
 
THE maniac's confession. S3 
 
 And could external glance but win. 
 
 The beauty of her ev'ry thought. 
 
 Survey the features of her mind. 
 
 The world would bend to womankind. 
 
 As to the Deity we adore; 
 
 Then Scandal's tongue would cease to ply. 
 
 Its venom o'er each purer name. 
 
 And lovely woman's worth and fame, 
 
 Would reascend the purity. 
 
 Upon whose height they lov'd to soar. 
 
 And be a worship as of yore. 
 
 Her beauty was the light of Love, 
 Its purity and grace, — 
 Her worth was virtue from above. 
 That nothing could efface— 
 Her stern fidelity was truth. 
 That heaven might adore, 
 It was the glory of her youth, 
 A solitary power— 
 
34 THE maniac's confession. 
 
 That nought could weaken or destr(»y, 
 The source of all her tend'rest joy. 
 Nor would admit the least alloy, 
 From any thought that was not hisj 
 What was the world to her — the bliss, 
 That flow'd from love of one fond heart, 
 That world she felt could ne'er impart; 
 And well she deem'd it waste of life, 
 To mingle in its wretched strife — 
 To be that busy, idle thing. 
 That buzzes upon silken wing — 
 The insects of our fleeting spring — 
 That sun themselves within the ray 
 Of the poor heart's prosperity. 
 But when the shadows of dismay. 
 The glooms of chill adversity — 
 Are mantling round our little day. 
 And promise cheerless night to come — 
 These gayer things with gayest hum. 
 Then wing their glitt'ring plumes away 
 To sun them in some happier sky. 
 
THE maniac's confession. 35 
 
 And thus they flit from scene to scene. 
 Creatures of a soulless being. 
 Without a moment's real pleasure, 
 Simp'ring on in Folly's measure-^ 
 Striving from each stranger flower, 
 To win the joy of one poor hour. 
 Without a heart that throbs in sooth. 
 Without an eye that wakes to hail. 
 Return — or sight of absent love. 
 Without fidelity in youth. 
 Without — when life begins to fail. 
 
 That friendship which is from above. 
 
 * * * « * « * 
 
 A Maniac from his dungeon bed. 
 Where fett'ring chains had held him long, 
 Plunged in the hell that glar'd around. 
 His youthful limbs in iron bound. 
 Hath Osma burst his bonds — and fled. 
 Report is busy with his fame, 
 But Scandal ne'er can mar a name 
 
36 THE maniac's confession. 
 
 That hath descended from a line, 
 
 Of high and martial ancestry; 
 
 But he's inheritor of woes. 
 
 That chill the warmth of soul divine, 
 
 And to the malice of his foes. 
 
 Of food afford the full supply; 
 
 E'en in his boyhood stern and proud. 
 
 He box-e the mem'ry of his race, 
 
 Stamp'd in each lineament of face; 
 
 Though o'er his brow a fatal cloud 
 
 Hung dark and dreary — in each look, 
 
 A Soul beam'd forth that ne'er could brook 
 
 Dishonour's slightest taint or stain. 
 
 Inflexible in ev'ry vein. 
 
 That throbb'd alarm at sound or dread. 
 
 That rose indignant at the breath, 
 
 That dar'd to breathe suspicion's breeze; 
 
 The wisper'd subtlety that said. 
 
 Who wins a glance of character, 
 
 Through human nature shrewdly sees. 
 
THE maniac's confession. 37 
 
 Venom of busy tongues thus saith, 
 And that it fables will aver. 
 
 The Moon is up — and still and deep, 
 Her faithful vigil o'er the sleep 
 Of Nature holds — serenely bright. 
 Companion of the lonely night, 
 Her image o'er the sable Tide, 
 Chequers in solitary pride; 
 And not a breath disturbs the scene— 
 And not a sound is heard between — 
 The fitful pauses of the breeze. 
 As stealing through the moonlight trees — 
 It faintly wakes a boding plain, 
 That scarcely swells — ere lull'd again— 
 It is the hour when Spirits walk 
 Unhail'd — and hold mysterious talk 
 With kindred phantoms of the air- 
 Invisible to mortal eye. 
 Like Heralds of eternity, 
 
38 THE maniac's confession 
 
 Through fell, and flood, and mountain-wood, 
 Mutt'ring mysterious spells are heard 
 In nightly converse still to keep- 
 When not a leaf upon the gale. 
 And not a solitary bird. 
 Wakes music in the azure deep 
 Of thehush'd sky — and heaven and earth 
 Stand mute — as if an earthquake's birth 
 Were darkly struggling in its womb — 
 And all the powers of nature stood 
 In hideous trance — as if a tale — 
 With potency to damn — were then 
 To be disclos'd — as if the tomb 
 Of the slumb'ring world were yawning wide, 
 And they into the whelming tide, 
 That rolled them to eternity— 
 The awful leap not yet quite ta'en — 
 Were pausing their last glance to take — 
 The freshness of this upper sky. 
 Awhile to breathe — ere yet the sleep. 
 
THE maniac's confession. 39 
 
 That rounds the span of this poor life, 
 And closes upon all its strife — 
 The only slumber sorrow cannot wake, 
 Its cloudy curtains round them sweep — 
 And whelm them in oblivion's wave. 
 
 That soothing solace of the grave. 
 
 * * * * * * * 
 
 But there are mortal steps that tread, 
 And sudden wake the slumb'ring voice 
 Of echoes o'er the distant plain — 
 And lulls resound the hideous plain — 
 j\ low — dull murmur — of dread tone — 
 Like midnight warning from the dead — 
 It comes again — in hollow moan — 
 And now a louder — and a deadlier burst. 
 And silence all — some Soul accurst- 
 Some Spirit that may not rejoice, 
 That man and nature seem so fair. 
 Some Maniac — madden'd by despair. 
 
40 THE maniac's confession- 
 
 Oh! who can tell, save he who keeps 
 His secret watch with thee — old Night — 
 And pries with thee into all place — 
 And wanders with thee in all time — 
 How many a damning sound and sight. 
 Pollute thy sanctity, and mar thy grace — 
 How many a deed of crimson crime. 
 Thy holy vestment in its colour steeps. 
 And Oh! when sleeps the peaceful eye, 
 And when the happy breast is still. 
 Then starts the tear—and swells the sigh — 
 
 Of hearts o'erflowing fast with sorrow's fill. 
 
 * * •* * * * * 
 
 Cold as that starry sky She lay. 
 
 All bare and beautiful the snow 
 
 Of her bleak bosom, bleach'd to night — 
 
 Oh God! it was a straining sight. 
 
 To view the heaven of that decay — 
 
 When not a breeze that seem'd to blow, ' 
 
THE maniac's confession. 41 
 
 To fan hei- dewy tresses there— 
 But wafted on its wing away 
 Some perfume richer than the tear 
 Of orient worlds — .when not a breath, 
 That breath'd its music from on liigh. 
 But seem'd the fervour of her spirit's sigh— 
 The plaining of that purple wound- 
 That gleam'd a rose-tint on the cheek of Love- 
 A warm suffusion from above- 
 Blushing unutterable thought— 
 As pure — as eloquently wrought—- 
 Yes — there all beautiful in death — 
 A blessed smile around her lip. 
 The sunset-softness of a cheek. 
 Where Love had lavish'd all his breath, 
 Where parting passion still might sip — 
 Amid the fragrance of its streak, 
 So softly sweet — and sweetly weak — 
 The last — cold dews of its despair — 
 E 2 
 
4s: THE maniac's confession. 
 
 And Madness, in an hour like this. 
 
 Might well have ta'en its icy kiss — 
 
 And there too lay the willow-hand, 
 
 With frozen vien of lifeless blue — 
 
 Whereon the waves of midnight dew. 
 
 In genial icyness repose. 
 
 That hand — which late was warm with love— 
 
 Which late return'd its pressure's thrill — 
 
 Is languid — impotently still — 
 
 One snowy arm was resting there. 
 
 On leaflets of a rifled rose — 
 
 Whose tints where emblem of her fate—- 
 
 Too rudely torn from tender wand, 
 
 Where in its pride it bloom'd of late— 
 
 Yet breathing o'er th' enamour'd aii'. 
 
 The richness of a warmer glow: 
 
 The other resting — as in prayer — 
 
 Upon the heart — seem'd yet to say. 
 
 Oh! spare me — I have lov'd thee well, 
 
 Better than human tongue can tell. 
 
THE maniac's confession. 43 
 
 Her Spirit fled to realms above — 
 That stiffen 'd tenement of clay. 
 Alone may feel the sterner blow. 
 That Phrenzy dealt — and there the eye — 
 Once fraught with Passion's holiest fire— 
 A shrouded orb of rayless light. 
 Without the love of yesterday. 
 Without the beam that e'en to night — 
 Few moments ere her spirit's flight- 
 Had lit the temple of a soul of flame. 
 ******* 
 
 Oh God! 'twas chilling to survey, 
 The progress of that still decay. 
 That slowly dim'd Expression's ray — 
 Like some dark Cloud — whose dull advance- 
 Is heralded by shadows cast — 
 Faintly and fitfully at first. 
 On trembling light of a lone Moon- 
 Its lustre fades by slow degree. 
 As the vast volume nearer winds — 
 
44 THE maniac's confession. 
 
 More feeble now — and now more light- 
 Each tint successive varying still— 
 And each still lovelier than the last — 
 Till — as the sable density. 
 Full circumfusing round its noon. 
 Of gath'ring night — and nigher— nigher— 
 Suspended o'er its surface blends 
 Its dull shadows into one — ^till 
 O'er its lustre, with sudden burst — 
 Substantial darkness comes — as came 
 The fearful midnight of that cheek- 
 Yet still the Spirit seem'd awhile. 
 To linger there — so coldly pure — 
 She slept like one in dreamy trance— 
 The lips could scarce forbear to speak. 
 Just parted by a placid smile- 
 To sever e'en a breath had power; 
 Oh God! — that smile smote on the heart~ 
 And told a truth too dearly prov'd, 
 
TH!': maniac's confession. 45 
 
 It might have froze the gazer there, 
 
 To monument of fixed wo — 
 
 If human was the hand that dealt 
 
 Upon a form like that, its blow; 
 
 Well maj it shrink 'neath palsied blast, 
 
 Or seek the fate it late had given. 
 
 In refuge from an angry heaven, 
 
 (That must requite that deed at last.) 
 
 * ****** 
 
 But who art thou with crimson steel. 
 
 Triumphant reeking from its belt 
 
 Of iron — that o'er snowy heel. 
 
 Is glitt'ring to the night afar? 
 
 With mutt'ring lip and glased eye, 
 
 As doubtful yet to stand or fly? 
 
 Oh! thine the guilty hand I ween — 
 
 He stood — and 'twixt him and the sheen. 
 
 Of that high lamp— a something spread 
 
 Its sable pall — he sought the dead — 
 
 But death had vanish'd from his sight; 
 
46 
 
 THE MANIAO^S CONFESSION. 
 
 Again in all her cherub grace, 
 
 Of gracile form and moonlight face — 
 
 Young Lora wakes to love again: 
 
 And Osma kneels beside his bride. 
 
 To press a lip of purple pride — 
 
 And strain a bosom to his heart, 
 
 A breast — his own scarce knew it loved, 
 
 Till now — more passionately dear, 
 
 Than aught of human birth — this night. 
 
 Hath prov'd her to her wayward Love. 
 
 And there beneath that large clear star. 
 He bows him to the form whose light 
 Was all that earth still held for him. 
 And scarce refrains from laughing wild. 
 To think that vagrant had beguil'd, 
 So long — the eyes in vigil dim, 
 That only wak'd and watch'd for him. 
 Through long and dreary lapse of time, 
 For one who looks far lovelier, 
 
THE maniac's confession. 47 
 
 To his distemper'd vision now, 
 Than when she blush'd to earliest vow. 
 He sought to rouse her from that trance. 
 He sought once more to win a glance 
 From that large eye that rolled in love^ 
 And in his melancholy joy — 
 A plaintive song for her he wove, 
 Unmix'd with aught of light alloy, 
 A deep — pure stream as musical. 
 And sadly sweet — as Even-fall, 
 And Silence woo from airy dell: 
 It breath'd of love a witching spell. 
 And touch'd on memory of days. 
 When he had blush'd to sing her praise, 
 And she had lov'd to list the lays 
 His spirit woke in Nature's glow, 
 When Nature smil'd — ere human wo 
 Had dash'd his little all of joy below 
 He ceas'd^and turn'd his 'wilder'd eye- 
 Why doth he start? — Oh! God — of pain, 
 
48 THE maniac's confession. 
 
 An agonizing smile did seem, 
 
 To mantle that embodied dream — 
 
 A light of suffering — that shone 
 
 O'er ev'ry feature — vein and bone 
 
 Alike were stamp'd with its impress, 
 
 Yet she was still all gentleness — 
 
 'Twould seem unto the sight as though. 
 
 The sudden sternness of the blow, 
 
 That pierc'd into her very heart. 
 
 And shatter'd nerves with one rude crash, 
 
 And blasted with an iron dash 
 
 The functions of that feeble frame. 
 
 So momently they ceas'd their part 
 
 To ply — that like a rapid stream, 
 
 Damm'd from its course by sudden wrath. 
 
 Leaving awhile a bared bed — 
 
 All was compression — wound in steel. 
 
 The bounding elasticity 
 
 Of powers — that had ceas'd to feel. 
 
 Had now subsided — without aim. 
 
THZ maniac's confession. 49 
 
 So sudden wrapt in fiery chain, 
 
 That darted round her heart and brain, 
 
 Suspended o'er their wither'd path — 
 
 Held back as by a single hair — 
 
 Few moments from their strong career, 
 
 Their bondage now they burst at last. 
 
 Recoiling with a forceful blast— 
 
 The plastic springs of life did seem, 
 
 Altliough vitality be dead — 
 
 Thus sudden to resume again. 
 
 Their full dimensions and their place. 
 
 And this it was that o'er that face, 
 Stamp'd so indelibly the trace 
 Of her poor spirit's inward pain. 
 
 * * * * * * X 
 
 The blow that smote so true a heart, 
 "Was dealt by hand her own had press'd. 
 By one whom she had lov'd too well: 
 And thus she died upon a smile, 
 That seem'd to say — we cannot part — 
 
50 THE MANIAO'g CONFESSION. 
 
 That seem'd to woo him — but to spare! 
 
 And the stern steel that stabb'd that breast — 
 
 Stabb'd through her smile and speechless praj'r- 
 
 That holy light of love the while. 
 
 That lit the murmuring lip to tell, 
 
 'Tis sweet to die — when passion deals 
 
 The fervid blow — the spirit feels 
 
 That heavenly gush of martyr'd faith. 
 
 That triumpiis o'er the strife of death: 
 
 And thus so soft, so calm, and fair. 
 
 With all the while a blessed tear. 
 
 That stole from 'neath the closed lid. 
 
 And spoke of joy dash'd by dread. 
 
 Ere yet her spirit's light had fled — 
 
 So placid thus at first did seem 
 
 The sleep that o'er her senses shed. 
 
 That Maniac murd'rer would not deem. 
 
 The shaded orb for ever hid; 
 
 He would not deem that snowy hand 
 
 Lay lifeless there upon the strand — 
 
THE maniac's confession. 51 
 
 The lip his own had press'd in love. 
 
 He stealing sought to thrill again. 
 
 By softest kiss — ^but sought in vain — 
 
 'Twas fixt in death — yet still he strove 
 
 To win from slumber its caress. 
 
 Of so much luscious loveliness — 
 
 But when that flood of agony, 
 
 Came rushing o'er each feature there — 
 
 When something strange and doubtful caught- 
 
 A moment his unsettled thought — 
 
 When ev'ry sense seeni'd still'd for ever — 
 
 And not a breath appear'd to sever 
 
 The ringlets of her clust'ring hair— 
 
 And not a pulse that beat reply. 
 
 To sense of touch, or sound, or sight — 
 
 He sudden rose — as though the light 
 
 Of that high Moon scarce shone aright 
 
 Upon the face that he survey 'd: 
 
 Awhile he strode around the dead. 
 
52 THE maniac's confession. 
 
 Then sudden paused, and smote his brow. 
 As if a veiling cloud hung low 
 Around it there— to dupe his sense — 
 And now as though rememberance— 
 All sudden broke upon his brain— 
 With one loud shriek impell'd by pain. 
 He fell to earth — * ***** 
 
 From her blue home the Moon is keeping 
 Vigil o'er those Spirits sleeping 
 Within her soft — voluptuous ray — 
 Will they awake, with waking day? 
 For Day within her dewy vest. 
 Is laughing in the Orient- 
 Few mourns and one — was doubly blest— 
 In all she lov'd — a parent — friend — 
 Though grief with joy would ever blend. 
 And pleasure scarce begun — would end- 
 Though life with pain from birth began. 
 And only darken'd as it ran — 
 
THE maniac's confession. 53 
 
 Though she was sway'd by sorrowing mood, 
 Engender'd in her solitude, 
 With wildest cast imbuins; thought — 
 Until she shrank from that it wrought — 
 Though friends grew cold, and life prov'd vain, 
 Yet firmly stood the brunt of pain — 
 Which only varied its dark chain 
 With fresher pang to gall again — 
 Though — more than all — her heart was wed 
 To one — alas! — whose heart seem'd dead- — 
 Who would at times perplex her view. 
 As seem'd his soul to her's untrue. 
 While nearer to that soul she grew — 
 Though these — in all their power combin'd. 
 They could not change that faithful mind — 
 And she did oft essay to curb. 
 The thoughts that would his peace disturb — 
 As all unworthy him — whose fate 
 'Neath influence seem'd of darkest hate. 
 F 2 
 
54 THE maniac's confession. 
 
 Impell'd along his dreary path. 
 By heaven's hand of mystic wrath. 
 She sought to sooth each troubled hour. 
 When would his brow in darkness lower. 
 Nor sought in vain — she had the power. 
 Albeit but seldom — to assuage. 
 The fever of delirium's rage- 
 It was the aim of her pure life 
 To lull his bosom's stormy strife; 
 She reck'd not the world beside. 
 Its fleeting change of time and tide — 
 It was a solitary pride. 
 That link'd her to that Maniac's side — 
 Nor heeded voice that oft would chide. 
 Her Spirit's fond fidelity; 
 She clung to him through weal and wo, 
 With him tln-ough life she hop'd to share, 
 Its varied scenes of joy and care. 
 And when their course had run below. 
 To join him in Eternity. 
 
THE maniac's confession. 55 
 
 Oh God! it was her latest hope, 
 That she with madness still might cope — 
 Her ev'ry word and action proved 
 How more than well her bosom loved — 
 And what requital met that love? 
 What deed is there his heart to prove? 
 Let that pale form alone attest— 
 With closed eye — and bleeding breast. 
 
 And He — who lay beside her there — 
 The other Spirit of the night — 
 What cause had he for his despair. 
 That wrought around such fearful sight? 
 The God who lit his soul may tell. 
 Why it was fram'd thus terrible — 
 And he was frenzied — wherefore so — 
 It rests not with the world to show — 
 But he was frenzied — and insanity — 
 Must plead its cause in after time — 
 With Heaven's judge impartially — 
 Who doth award to good or crime — 
 
56 THE maniac's confession. 
 
 The measure of its just decree — 
 Of late at least unstain'd bj ought. 
 Of savage or of murd'rous thought — 
 He moved — a man for whom^who met— 
 Felt deepest pity and regret. 
 And he— 'tis said — at times would seem, 
 Himself to feel the darkness of that dream. 
 From whose strong spell— no power could re- 
 deem. 
 But still though wild-^with guiltless soul. 
 He journej'd tow'rds life's final goal — 
 And promis'd yet to close in peace. 
 His tortur'd days of deep disease — 
 As meek as martyr's breast, his course 
 He held — unclouded by remorse. 
 And whilome too — he seem'd to love. 
 The friends from whom of late — to rove — 
 Each stronger passion — sternly strove — 
 Oh! God — 'twas fearful sight to see. 
 How surely his adversity 
 
THE maniac's confession. 57 
 
 Around him wound its cankering way— 
 But still amid the clouds that flung 
 Their darkness o'er his morning ray- 
 To one his mem'ry fondly clung— 
 And on his weak and wand'ring tongue, 
 Her name in mildest accents hung. 
 That passion's power o'er him threw. 
 The freshness of its morning dew; 
 Though wilder'd in his thought was he. 
 To him— She was all melody— 
 And though weak friends would shun him now, 
 Y et she was faithful to her vow— 
 And though the world forsook beside, 
 Unmov'd was Lora's love or pride- 
 Then wherefore— God of Heaven— say, 
 Did Osma's hand his Lora slay? 
 Was there around him no dark foe, 
 On whom he might have dealt that blow? 
 Could not on villain heads his steel, 
 Delayed doom been made to deal? — 
 
58 THE maniac's confession. 
 
 The champion of thy just law. 
 
 Why smote he not tlie perjur'd heart? 
 
 Or from the murd'rer's bosom draw 
 
 The stream that ne'er had stain'd his dart? 
 
 Oh! wherefore did he not obey 
 
 The dictates of this purer sway? 
 
 Why — God inexorable-^why 
 
 Impell'd to deed of such a die. 
 
 As hush'd in death — his Lora's latest sigh? 
 
 But they may join their hands in Heaven, 
 
 For surely he must be forgiven — 
 
 Not he the cause — though his the deed. 
 
 That made that guileless bosom bleed — 
 
 And even now she is at rest — 
 
 While anguish waits another breast — 
 
 Her eye is closed^in darkest night — 
 
 He only wakes — to curse the light — 
 
 The blow that smote her heart — is o'er — 
 
 His — still must rankle at the core — 
 
THE maniac's confession. 59 
 
 Though sleeping upon earth so cold — 
 She's freed from storms of this world's hold- 
 While he who spurns the dust below. 
 Is humbler than that clay -cold form — 
 Companion of as cold a worm. 
 Though never earthly breeze may blow 
 It& freshness o'er her cheek again. 
 There is no hectic there of pain; 
 No burning brow or bursting vein. 
 O'er which in life the breeze may pass, 
 'Twill ne'er be cold as hers, I ween. 
 Who sleeps 'neath yonder waving grass- 
 His soul is yet unstain'd by sin — 
 For he is not — that he hath been; 
 And when he bared his steel to strike. 
 He deem'd that God approv'd the deed — 
 For she was bound to him — alike 
 By ties of passion and of blood — 
 And when the world had chaf 'd a mood 
 
60 THE maniac's confession 
 
 From nature proud and desolate- 
 By them but little understood — 
 His spirit languished to be freed. 
 And rose indignant 'neath the weight— 
 Of wrongs and sorrows — that impressed — 
 Their burthen on his troubled breast — 
 Till he became a thing all worn. 
 And drooping in the haunts of men — 
 What marvel that his nature then. 
 Was changed — that as he once had been— 
 He could no longer stand the scath, 
 Of idiot drivellers? — his faith 
 In life — was broken — and his mind — 
 Tinged from its birth by darkest hue— 
 To melancholy thoughts resign'd — 
 Became in its deep workings blind; 
 Till all distinctions overthrown, 
 Within itself of right and wrong, 
 A chaos of dark doubts had grown, 
 
THE maniac's confession. 61 
 
 The temple of his once clear soul. 
 He deem'd unto this life belong. 
 Opinions fram'd by falsest rule, 
 Design'd to gull the gaping fool — 
 Or worldlings — upon whom alone, 
 Such slavish fetters of control 
 Were made to press — and well he deem'd — 
 The world no bettei- than it seemed— 
 That much was glitter — all disguise— 
 From whose corruption — shrank the wise. 
 Thus far — his thought mistook not truth — 
 And they who know the most — must own-^ 
 That there is nought, which lost — or won— 
 But leaves the heart the more undone. 
 The wretched strife the many wage. 
 For brief renown on glory's page — 
 The various passions that engage 
 The drudging herd from age to age; 
 Prove even less than nought in sooth — 
 And all that moves the spirit here — 
 
 G 
 
62 THE MANIA.c'^ CONFESSION. 
 
 That wakes its smile — or draws its teai> — 
 
 Must end at last in the despair — 
 
 Which mourns, that life hath nought to give, 
 
 Requital of the task — to live. 
 
 What mai'vel then— that mind like his. 
 
 Became in its o'erboiling, fraught 
 
 With those wild feelings — that have wrought 
 
 The wreck of all that promis'd bliss? 
 
 To Osma's heart was Lora bound 
 
 By ties — that daily deeper wound 
 
 Their spells of intense sorcery — 
 
 And when he saw that Treachery 
 
 Would tear that bosom from his own — 
 
 He smote her — and without a groan 
 
 She perish'd — died — as all should die — 
 
 Without a murmur — or a sigh — 
 
 Without a word — save that which said — 
 
 For his — her Spirit freely bled. 
 
 Such was the end of one, whose faith — 
 
 The world may smile at — but which hath — 
 
THE maniac's confession. 63 
 
 Within itself more loveliness, 
 
 Tlian brazed hearts may dare confess. 
 
 ^ ^ -^ ^ -^ v^ -^^ 
 
 For Him, who sleeps beside her there — 
 He yet must wake to his despair — 
 And heavier chains, and darker fears 
 May mantle round his coming years; 
 For words are waxing wild abroad — 
 And he must meet that they accord — 
 A darker dungeon — and a death — 
 That mocks the gasp of his last breath; 
 God nerve his soul with might of power 
 To bear the struggle of that hour — 
 When — like a felon — to the wheel 
 His brain must yet delirious reel — 
 And the brute multitude around. 
 Upon that fiery death-bed bound-— 
 Will smile to see his writhing limb— 
 And mark his eye in phrenzy swim— 
 And hear his heart — with sudden crack — 
 Yield to the torture of the rack — 
 
64 THE maniac's CeNFESSION. 
 
 Oh! would to God — ere come' that day 
 
 His soul might long have pass'd away» 
 
 * * * « * * * 
 
 Light breaks upon tlie world again — 
 Young Day is on the eastern Main, 
 And back upon the West displays 
 The radiance of her blushing lays — 
 'Twixt Man and Nature, there appears. 
 No sympathy of human fears? — 
 The one all smiles, the other tears— 
 And well may tears of sorrow flow — 
 Full many a heart is stricken low — 
 By Osma's darkest deed of death. 
 Within that city, where but few 
 And transient mourns — ^young Lora grew 
 The loveliest blossom to the view — 
 And now a wither'd leaf — by breath 
 Of angry tempest blighted — strewn 
 In wintery waste — alas! too soon. 
 
THE maniac's confession. 65 
 
 And — ^Lo! in saddest guise they come — 
 A melancholy band of mourners by — 
 In sable weeds of sorrow drest — 
 They bear her to her dusty home — 
 That marble couch of sabath rest. 
 Where anguish ne'er disturbs the guest— 
 And there is one — amid that train — 
 With folded arms — and unmov'd mien— 
 And steady eye— and look serene — 
 As though she scarcely mark'd the scene— 
 Her heart was buried in its pain— 
 And voiceless in its utter wo. 
 Few moments — and a mother prest 
 An only Daughter to her breast — 
 And now that mother childless stands — 
 With eye resign'd and clasped hands — 
 To take a last farewell — of all 
 That still to life — her years could bind — 
 But who art thou, with frantic call, 
 And light'ning speed upon the wind, 
 G 2 
 
66 THE maniac's confession^ 
 
 In terror comes? — He burst the crowd- 
 Impetuous — like thunder cloud — 
 He forced his way — the ranks opposing — 
 To save — o'er whom the grave was closing — 
 In midnight — and in wrath he came — 
 His visage stream'd like comet-flame — 
 He hurl'd his iron hand on high— 
 And swore with Her to live or die — 
 Whom God into his soul had given. 
 To lead him by her love to heaven — 
 But when he caught the eye of one — 
 The mother he had thus undone — • 
 "Who silent stood, with look of wild, 
 But heart-struck anguish, on her child— 
 Whom he had made so humble there — 
 He sudden knelt-^as if in prayer — 
 Himself as humble— humbler now — 
 Beneath that mourner's feet full low — 
 He bowed him to the wreck lie wrought — 
 And seem'd as if from her — he sought. 
 
THE maniac's confession. 6T 
 
 That she would spurn the felon head, 
 That plan'd the blow, which struck the dead- 
 But when he found she strove to raise. 
 With feeble hand — his prostrate form — 
 He rose — and fixed with her his gaze, 
 Upon tliat partner of the worm. 
 Descending gently to the tomb — 
 And when at last — its pondrous gloom 
 Closed slowly o'er the form they lov'd — 
 In infant helplessness she moved— 
 And bore his tott'ring steps away- 
 Supported by the aid of those, 
 Who yet might prove his bitt'rest foes— 
 And doom him to the vilest death — 
 That ever closed a felon's breath. 
 * * * * * * * 
 
 A painful — intellectual Being, 
 
 Invisible— or — if e'er seen — 
 
 To Fancy's wizard eye alone — 
 
 Those mad'ning forms of love are known — 
 
68 THE maniac's confession. 
 
 Creatures of the heart — ^that never die- 
 Immortal as the agony. 
 Around the soul their presence flings. 
 As if 'twould burst its frenzied strings — 
 And then — alas! we weep — that they. 
 Like earthly forms should pass away — 
 Illusive dreams, inhuman sent— 
 To torture this frail tenement — 
 And when the first — convulsive burst— 
 Of crush'd affections doth subside. 
 They come like spectre-forms accurst — 
 The images of things that died — 
 
 As bodies' elasticity 
 
 All durable impressions spurn— 
 
 And softest surfaces alone 
 
 Retain through time the pressure strong- 
 
 Thus in the heart's affinity — 
 
 To plaintive Spirits aye belong, 
 
 Capacity for deepest wound — 
 
THE maniac's confession. 69 
 
 That through an age of life must burn — 
 For nothing human can atone. 
 The loss of all that ever bound 
 Each feeling — in the heated round— 
 Of the precious world's festivity- 
 Like those bright iles volcanic, that emerge 
 From ocean's stormy depths, to gild the surge- 
 Awhile that bloom, exulting in their light — 
 Then sudden sink into eternal night — 
 Like these — will fade the hopes of life — 
 To leave us barrenness and strife — 
 A bleak and sterile track behind— 
 O'er which the melancholy mind 
 Plods heavily and dull — 
 And then they marvel who behold. 
 The Spirit to o'erflowing — full 
 Of better waters — and grown old, 
 Ere yet its spring day glow be past — ■ 
 A blighted leaf by early blast, 
 
7© THE maniac's confession. 
 
 Condemu'd to winter in the gloom 
 Of woes — that shudder at the tomb — 
 But scarce may hope for peace — ^before 
 Its tranquilising mound close o'er 
 The sufferer's head — the grief that's born. 
 From loss of all — that o'er the morn 
 Of chequer'd life, sheds warmth and light- 
 That lends to youth, its strong delight — 
 That pictures happiness to come — 
 And wispers to the heart, that some— 
 Amid the crowd, the shock, and hum 
 Of the precious world — are yet endu'd. 
 With feeling for our solitude — 
 That we, though desolate, are not. 
 By every bosom all foi'got — 
 That still there be some two— or one— 
 Whose souls may beat in unison— 
 In kindred sympathy and love— 
 The grief that wakes from loss of this. 
 
T»E maniac's confession. 71 
 
 Gates iittle into what abyss 
 
 It after falls — and as we strove. 
 
 We yet may strive, 'gainst ills that wait. 
 
 To darken o'er our mortal state; 
 
 Oh! God — 'tis cheerless still to be, 
 
 Companionless in misery — 
 
 Within a busy, bitter world, 
 
 By none belov'd — with none to love. 
 
 But live as from another hurl'd. 
 
 Whose fearful destiny was wove 
 
 By mystic fate in darkest loom. 
 
 And shrouded in eternal gloom. 
 
 » * * * * * * 
 
 And Love — that makes or mars us here- 
 Suspended 'twixt a smile and tear — 
 Love tempts the heart to leave it lone— 
 Oh! better far be with the dead. 
 Than travail through a dreary life, 
 When all its brightest charms are fled— 
 
.72 THE MANIAO's CONFESSION. 
 
 To dream of joy, when joy is gone — 
 
 Till wreck'd at last by inward strife. 
 
 We struggle with convulsive throes. 
 
 That jar us to the latest close 
 
 Of years — that seem to feed on woes. 
 
 Yes — Love will fix the fated heart — 
 
 And to its feverish'd hope impart 
 
 A momentary joy— 
 
 And then like ev'ry earthly thing. 
 
 Away it flies on swiftest wing — 
 
 To leave a dark alloy 
 
 Of feelings — that ne'er trust again. 
 
 The smile that only woos to pain. 
 
 Oh God! to live, and look around. 
 
 View Beauty — Youth — and Pleasure meet. 
 
 To chase the hours with glowing feet — 
 
 And on a wheel of torture bound — 
 
 Self-exil'd to a dark profound. 
 
 Of agonizing thoughts — that eat. 
 
THE MANIAC S CONFESSION. 73 
 
 Into the very core — though fair, 
 And fresh all outward form may seem — 
 For spaces 'twixt this life and death are there. 
 Philosophy ne'er dreamt of — nor can dreanu 
 
 "Within a Dungeon's cell remote. 
 Sat Osma — fetter'd and alone — 
 There was a full — unnatural pulse. 
 Whose beatings almost echo'd through. 
 That ample vault — the icy dew, 
 Rung from the woes that did convulse. 
 His wasted frame— bespoke the tone. 
 Of his broken mind— he did not smote. 
 His brow — nor i*end his sable hair. 
 That hung in ringlets of despair. 
 Around his front of marble hue — 
 He did not rave in accents wild, 
 Lamentings fitfully that swell, 
 From tortures of an inward hell— 
 n 
 
74 THE maniac's confession. 
 
 He did not call on her he slew — 
 No — nor the mother of that child, 
 Whom late his troubled memory knew — 
 And still who rose upon his view. 
 With clasped hand and — streaming eye. 
 In all that utter agony— 
 That bow'd her hoary head to earth, 
 Upon that night — when in the dearth, 
 Of crush'd affections — she survey'd 
 The ruin'd trust — he had betray'd — 
 He did not crave a curse to blast — 
 One effort — and but one at last. 
 In hideous convulsion made- 
 He bow'd his head — and would have pray'd- 
 But scarce his fault'ring tongue essay'd. 
 To name its God — when sudden dread, 
 Quick mantled o'er his quiv'ring frame— 
 And then as if a bolt had sped, 
 And faithful to its murd'rous aim — 
 
THE MANIAC S CONFESSION. iO 
 
 Had pierc'd his brain — he nerveless fell, 
 With half suppress'd — convulsed groan, 
 Upon his dungeon's echoing stone, 
 Wfiich did resound that wild farewell. 
 To earthly peace, and heavenly hope- 
 Some blasted moments there he lay — 
 And when his tortur'd senses woke, - 
 He feebly struggled to arise — 
 But something doubtful caught his eyes. 
 And held him there in stern surprise — 
 A sudden hectic flush'd his cheek, 
 'Twas struggling passions farewell streak- 
 A moment came— a moment past — 
 His face resum'd its livid cast — 
 " My hours are few at best — I feel — 
 And scarcely worth a felon's wheel— 
 I think I was not born to die, 
 A death that dooms to infamy— 
 But — take my life — 'tis fleeting fast, 
 I reck not — so I rest at last — 
 
76 THE maniac's confession. 
 
 But quickly villain—- or I smite, 
 The form thou deem'st is thine by right—- 
 Quickly take it" — as he said — 
 He bar'd from 'neath his garb a blade 
 Of glitt'ring steel — and would have smote— 
 But ere his impious hand he rais'd. 
 He felt a grasp his own disarm. 
 And sprung to wrestle with his lot- 
 But curs'd in vain the palsied nerve. 
 His will — whose functions fail'd to serve — 
 And shrunk from weakness — while he gaz'd. 
 With eye that glar'd as 'neath a charm, 
 Fix'd in stern scrutiny upon. 
 The form that knealt beside him there — 
 "Forbear — Oh! God — my Son — my Son, 
 Nor drive this old brain to despair"— 
 What voice was that? — alas! a voice. 
 He lov'd in boyhood — and whose tone. 
 Was ever wont to bid rejoice. 
 The bosom that it hail'd in lone. 
 
THE MANIAC'S CONFESSION. 
 
 And fearful sounds of anguish now — 
 And oft his hands in infancy. 
 Had play'd with ringlets of that brow. 
 When it was full of life's young glow — 
 And in those pithless arms of age, 
 His sorrows he did oft assuage — 
 And on that trembling bosom there. 
 He oft had lisp'd his infant prayer— 
 That voice and brow, that arm and breast, 
 A Spirit worthy once caress'd — 
 That Spirit changed — why are they here? 
 " Father — my days have pass'd below. 
 Not 'midst earth's sunshine, and its storm- 
 But one dark-rolling wave of wo. 
 Which thus hath wreck'd mine early form- 
 God — that in mercy visits all. 
 Denied his holy light to me — 
 And they who least were prone to fall, 
 Seem'd children of liis charity— 
 H 2 
 
7S THE maniac's CONFESSIONr 
 
 It may be— some ancestral crime. 
 Hath stain'd mine earthly heritage — 
 And yet — for deeds that were not mine, 
 'Twas hard to sufter orphanage! 
 For oh! I have surviv'd the hope. 
 That pictur'd promis'd happiness — 
 And now, I can no longer cope 
 With my lost state of wretchedness. 
 
 * * * * * ,ic * 
 
 Dost see yon solitary grave. 
 Where the luxuriant wild flow'rs wave. 
 As if to mock the mouldering dead? 
 There — on the cold, bare ground, this head. 
 On many a night, I've bow'd in prayer — 
 Not to my God — ^but her whose ear. 
 In life, while all have spurn'd beside, 
 Was never clos'd in steeled pride. 
 Death had not so much chang'd that heart 
 Which once, in living loveliness. 
 Was wont to bear each sterner part 
 That waits us in life's wilderness — 
 
THE maniac's confession. 79 
 
 But she will plead for one whose fate. 
 Denies that he himself should pray: 
 She is not so much chang'd of late — 
 Her Spirit still survives her clay. 
 
 She died for me, who lov'd her best. 
 Amid a world that woo'd and blest — 
 She died for me — who cannot die- 
 Immortal made, by agony — 
 I lov'd her best, though subject then 
 To an appalling malady — 
 And — though unlike to other men, 
 I won her angel sympathy — 
 Her sympathy? — I won her soull 
 'Twas bound to me by ev'ry tie. 
 That links its parts unto a whole. 
 
 In body's strange consistency. 
 
 ******* 
 
 I lov'd her best, who love her now. 
 Though cold in earth she sleeps below. 
 
80 THE maniac's confession. 
 
 In life, they fram'd a hideous tale, 
 Which, like to autumn's withering gale— 
 Nipp'd the fair blossoms of her spring: 
 They told her that Insanity — 
 Around mine ancestry did fling 
 The chain of its fatality — 
 That dark, electric chain of wo, 
 Which wound around my cradled sleep, 
 Causing this blood's delirious flow. 
 The drops that Sudden freeze — and creep 
 In dull and heavy motion — round 
 The ruins of a blasted heart — 
 And then — to sudden phrenzy wound, 
 A boiling ocean, reel, and start! 
 They told her — but 'twas treachery — 
 That I was wild at times — and so 
 They 'guil'd her young simplicity. 
 In hope her love she would forego — 
 But she was of unearthly mould, 
 
THS maniac's concession. 81 
 
 More like the virgin race of old. 
 
 Than modern dames — would gear and gold. 
 
 Make lavish of the plighting hand — 
 
 Regardless of that golden band — • 
 
 Aifection's wreath, of vernal hue, 
 
 Steep'd in the heart's elysian dew — 
 
 Without whose holy influence— life 
 
 Is but a desert scene of strife — 
 
 Of warring words and jarring fears, 
 
 That blot our latest scene with tears. 
 
 I may not weep — and cannot pray. 
 
 For Heaven in wrath would turn away— • 
 
 But there is one will sue for me. 
 
 If virtue dwells with charity — 
 
 I do not ask that thou should'st kneel, 
 
 And supplicate for sinners' weal— 
 
 I only crave thee to forgive. 
 
 The deed by which I cease to live — 
 
 For God— who frames in mystery — 
 
 Had stampt we with fatality — 
 
82 THE maniac's confession. 
 
 And hurl'd me 'neath this loathsome sun. 
 
 To act and suffer as I've done— 
 
 But then this world, to which belong. 
 
 The treacheries that chafe to wrong, 
 
 This world, hath stung me deep and long — 
 
 And will not pardon crimes that rose. 
 
 From pressure of its keenest woes— 
 
 Oh! God! — if I dare name thy name! 
 
 In mercy deal with one, whose aim 
 
 In stainless youth had been to be, 
 
 "Worthy of thine Eternity. 
 
 Thou mad'st my soul, and thou can'st tell. 
 
 Why it was tempted to rebel — 
 
 The world that frown'd upon my life, 
 
 Oh! thou who fram'st it — know'st its strife- 
 
 Thou knowest it is darkly prone. 
 
 To probe us to the very bone; 
 
 Its pastime — is calamity. 
 
 Its meditation — treachery— 
 
 That world — had work'd upon my blood. 
 
THE maniac's confession. 83 
 
 Till suffering became my food— 
 The little that there was of good. 
 It murder'd in its very birth— 
 And smil'd upon my feelings dearth — 
 Yes — Father — thou, who didst know me then. 
 Didst know me one — outcast of men- 
 False prov'd my kindred — friends and all— 
 I stood alone — alone I fall — 
 One heart there was — but only one — 
 That beat with mine in unison — 
 But that is nothing — now I go, 
 Releas'd at last from human wo— 
 Nay — weep not — no — 'tis now too late- 
 Tears cannot stay the hand of fate — 
 Once — ay once — my vitals freeze— 
 Thy hand — no more" — He is at ease— 
 His Spirit hath for ever fled— 
 And Osma sleeps on Lora's bed. 
 
J\/*ote to page 13. 
 
 Night fled with him — and rose the Day — 
 
 Milton in one of bis booiis of Paradise Lost, has the following line — 
 
 He fled, 
 And with him — fled the shades of night — 
 
 The meaning of this line has been foolishly mistaken by a late cri- 
 tic, whose anxiety to say something in the way of censure, has betrayed 
 him into downright nonsense— it «as absurb, he says, in Milton to sup- 
 pose that personal presence could have any influence upon, or connec- 
 tion with, a natural effect — it was not a thing of course, that " with him 
 fled the shades o( night" — now could any apprehension have been more 
 monstrously literal or false than this? Milton never meant what the 
 critic sagely conceives the line to imply — " he fled, and with him fled 
 the shades of night" — that is, he fled just at the approach of day, and 
 as he fled, fled too the shades of night; not as a thing of course that he 
 carried night with him — but that he fled just at the moment when night 
 herselj was flying; and this is the author's meaning in the line quo- 
 ted from the text — Night fled with him, and rose the Day — this correc- 
 tion of the critic, is about as luminous as might have been expected; 
 not less remarkable than the question put by one of the Fraternity, rela- 
 tive to a passage in Romeo and Juliet, 
 
 Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night, 
 Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear. 
 
 Did Shakspeare mean to say, asked this clear-headed Commenta- 
 tor, that Juliet was black? — " Oh! learned Judge!" 
 
TO LOUISA. 
 
 I. 
 
 Oh! thou — whom not the world beside. 
 With all its change of time and tide — 
 
 Could change or turn from me. 
 Yes — ^thou art lovely — and I feel. 
 Albeit 'gainst life my breast I'll steel — 
 
 That I could bend to thee. 
 
 II. 
 
 For thou art all unlike the crowd 
 Of womankind — the vain — ^the proud. 
 
 Who flutter through life's fleeting day. 
 The cold— the sordid — and the dull. 
 Though they may still be beautiful— 
 
 Compose the circle of the gay. 
 
88 TO LOUISA. 
 
 III. 
 
 Oh! I have tuin'd from these — in lone 
 
 And sorrowing thought — to think that none* 
 
 Amid that frail, and fevered scene. 
 Were creatures moulded to my mind: 
 The fond — the faithful — and the kind — 
 
 Are seldom found in life I ween. 
 
 IV. 
 
 My soul became subdued to pain, 
 I strove to sooth the bursting vein — 
 
 And banish human hope. 
 Nor ever after tempt the draught. 
 Whose venom I too soon had qualF'd* 
 
 With passion who can cope? 
 
 V. 
 
 I felt my heart was busy still. 
 
 In framing schemes of good or ill — 
 
TO iOUISA. 39 
 
 My thought confounded these, 
 I did mistake its better aim. 
 And play'd — alas! too proud a game — 
 
 But failure did its ardour freeze. 
 
 VI. 
 
 For disappointment hath the power 
 To darken each succeeding hour— 
 
 And tame the feelings down; 
 However they may after rise. 
 They never tempt again the skies — 
 
 Their morning vigour flown. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But still my star of birth was young. 
 
 The lisp of love just caught my tongue — 
 
 Its power I essay'd to sing; 
 
 But stern derision chill'd the strain. 
 
 That never may awake again — 
 
 Neglect weighs down the Spirit's wing. 
 i2 
 
90 TO LOUISA. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And — thou art cold — Oh! world— 1 ween. 
 Thy Scorpion sting is deep and keen — 
 
 But, thou art nought to me: 
 I — less than nought — to love of thine. 
 My soul must learn to bear — and not repine— 
 Must smile at human treachery. 
 
 IX. 
 
 And I renounce thy sway, Oh! world! 
 Like Spirit from another hurl'd — 
 
 From thy affection and contempt: 
 Thou- — who to me did'st nothing bring. 
 Save a most barren being's sting — 
 
 My aim shall be— to live exempt. 
 
 X. 
 
 Here then — once more — thou sleepless star. 
 That memory worships from afar — 
 
TO LOUISA. 91 
 
 Once more I turn to thee. 
 For wert thou vanish'd from my sight. 
 What beam would break my troubled night? 
 
 Oh! linger still with me. 
 
 XI. 
 
 And I will love thy heavenly ray. 
 
 So fond— so pure— so still its sway- 
 It is religion to adore, 
 
 Soft as yon beams that sweetly sleep, 
 
 On trembling bosom of the deep — 
 
 So soft — so sweet — thy moonlight power. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Thy plaintive eye — and dewy tress. 
 To me — have more than loveliness — 
 
 Dear emblems of thy soul. 
 They do reflect that inward light. 
 That warms the heart — but shuns the sight— 
 
 A ray of Him who form'd the whole. 
 
92 TO LOUISA. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 If thoughts could breathe — and words could burn, 
 From these — thine eye might happier turn — 
 
 For oh!— they breathe and burn of thee. 
 And yet — thou art a thing so fair. 
 As scarce to need my dubious prayer— 
 
 An outcast of Eternity. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 But if indeed there be a purer clime. 
 
 Where hearts may rest, that knew no rest in time. 
 
 That world may smile on me, 
 My wanderings may be forgiven. 
 For surely I have worship'd Heaven— 
 
 In loving my Louisa — thee. 
 
 XV. 
 
 And I will love through weal and wo. 
 Nor dread Misfortune's sterner blow — 
 
TO LOVISA. 9S 
 
 With thee — 'twere bliss to share distress. 
 For ev'ry wound that Sorrow might impart. 
 Would serve to bring thee nearer to my heart, 
 
 And holier frame its tenderness. 
 
 Philadelphia, March 20, 1821. 
 
AN ENIGMA. 
 
 What field is that whose plain is ever green. 
 Exhibiting the bloom which still hath been 
 The same, though ages have their cloudy wings 
 Wav'd o'er its surface — where the music rings 
 Whose sound hath been eternal as the spheres— 
 Whose azure brow knows not the stamp of years. 
 Which set their withering seal on all beside— 
 Which spurns dominion, and where human pride 
 Hath left no trace of its consuming wrath. 
 Though it hath stalk'd in blood o'er every path 
 Of its most secret and illimitable range — 
 Whose motion, though unceasing, subject to no change- 
 Which, though subservient to man's varying will. 
 Hath yet the power to overwhelm him stillj 
 
AN ENIGMA. 
 
 And oft hath risen in its pride of might, 
 Quenching earth's glories in a starless night — 
 The only victor reckless of the strife. 
 Yet with dominion o'er creation's life — 
 The only tyrant not abusing power — 
 The only eye that wakes at every hour — 
 Whose reign hath been coeval with old Time, 
 Nor seeks extension, though through every clime 
 Its tributary vassals hold their sway — 
 Now black as night, now sunny as the day — 
 Though daily, hourly, traversed o'er by men, 
 Its secrets still lie hid from mortal ken — 
 Its presence owns at once the Indian shore; 
 Thence sweeping, circles frozen Labrador — 
 Its name familiar to the peasant's tongue — 
 Its glories too by bard and prophet sung. 
 And yet the secret of its birth unknown — 
 Observ'd by all, yet understood by none — 
 Though neighbouring nations circle it around. 
 It rears its head in solitude profound — 
 
AN ENIGMA. 97" 
 
 It stands alike a marvel and a gaze, 
 
 And they who dread it most, most yield it praise-^ 
 
 E'en I, who now its mysteries rehearse. 
 
 Know nought in sooth beyond this simple verse, 
 
 Which is itself a mystery — and so. 
 
 The task I leave to wiser heads to show 
 
 What this may be — first stumble on the name — 
 
 For, by my troth, they are not both the same — 
 
 And then the thing itself if ye'U expound. 
 
 The world shall laud ye as indeed profound. 
 
THE TEMPLE OF JUPITER, 
 
 AT OLYMPIA. 
 
 Behold the Dome, which Greece in happier hour. 
 Proud of the magic of her matchless skill. 
 An ofF'ring worthy of the Thund'rer's might. 
 Erected to her God — in that blest day. 
 When Arts and Arms alike were in their prime. 
 And Glory's Sun unmenac'd with eclipse 
 From envious shadows of a far-off world — 
 High in its fretted vault, supremely shone. 
 Ethereal Fane! — proud rival of the skies! 
 Unequall'd monument of human pow'r! 
 In solitary grandeur, peering 'bove 
 The pigmy efforts of succeeding time— 
 Oh! who can dream of thee — of what thou wert. 
 
100 THE TEMPLE OF JUPITER, 
 
 E'er time's dark wing had mantled on thy light — 
 Nor worship mem'ry of that god-like race. 
 Whom dark-revolving ages, in their lapse. 
 Have swept to the abyss, but cannot shi'oud 
 From mortal ken, the glories of their line. 
 The heritage of feeling, who can mar? 
 Deep in the vault, in imag'd conflict, view 
 The human Centaur and fierce Lapith glarej 
 While Herculean labours frown full front. 
 The massy Portal gain'd— in softest guise. 
 See — cherub Peace her civic garlands weave. 
 To grace the brow of beauty-breathing Art. 
 Lo! in the centre of the Temple— look! 
 Behold the God of Phidias' mighty mind! 
 Sublime conception! on his vaulted throne 
 A burning mass of breathing harmony. 
 That rears its starry summit into heav'u— 
 Rob'd in the terror of his awful state. 
 And cloth'd in thunder, Jove Olympian tow'rs — 
 The God! the God! majestic and alon^. 
 
AT OLYMPIA. 101 
 
 Supremely mighty, bares his blasting hand, 
 Dark with the destinies of Gods and men; 
 That iron arm, that sweeping, rocks the vast 
 Of the eternal concave, and from high 
 Hurls the live lightning — on his glitt'ring brow 
 The peaceful olive — Victory on the right 
 Sits plum'd with Horror, and a Diadem 
 Of dazzling glory nods upon the left. 
 See— how he smiles to view the Theban babe. 
 In torture writhe beneath the Sphynx's gripe — 
 With fiery fangs into his vitals wound. 
 And gorg'd with blood-drops of his blasted heart. 
 A.nd orphan'd Niobe, with streaming eye. 
 And supplicating hand, in vain implores. 
 From the unbending marble of his brow. 
 The pitying mercy that would deign to save 
 From vengeful Fate, the scions of a race 
 That flourish'd once, and once was beautiful. 
 Beside his throne, in full proportions, view 
 The immortal Heroes of Olympic fame! 
 K 2 
 
102 THE TEMPLE OP JUPITEK, 
 
 The keen-ey'd coursers of the Elian plain, 
 In all the lusty vigour of the race- 
 Speed in each nerve, and fire in every vein. 
 But who is He — with laurel -wreathed brow, 
 All radient in youth, conspicuous there? 
 With eye of light, and cheek of roseate hue? 
 How firm his step! and how with manly grace 
 He rears his marble front to heaven! — lovely 
 The pride with which, he spurning vaults from earth,. 
 To tread th' impalpable of his spirit's home! 
 Beneath that glorious form, who near the God 
 Had ta'en his seat, look down! — what fairy dream 
 Dawns to the eye — of bridal fruit, by Loves 
 And Graces guarded! with their girdled zones — ■ 
 In all the pride of maiden purity — 
 With tinsel -slipper'd feet, and braided hair? 
 They look like Heralds of Eternity — 
 Pure as Hesperian odours that they breathe, 
 And newly 'lighted from Elysian fields. 
 But Sorrow's soft, and melancholy tinge, 
 
AT OLYMPIA. 10^ 
 
 Doth sweetly shadow o'er the lines of light. 
 
 That blending, form an Iris of the cheek. 
 
 Where precious tears, like dew-drops of the rose, 
 
 Reflect the rich effulgence of its hues: 
 
 For full in view, the agony of nerves 
 
 And mighty muscles, wringing bloody sweat. 
 
 Is seen sustaining, pillar'd on the base 
 
 Of Atlantean shoulders, starry worlds. 
 
 That to their centre reel.— How drop by drop 
 
 That tortur'd spirit faulters life away! 
 
 While Gods malignant triumph in his fate. 
 
 And there— Oh! sight of painful loveliness! 
 
 The fair-hair'd daughter of a wond'rous race. 
 
 The bleeding Penthesilea reclines — 
 
 Pillow'd in arms that slew, but Zof'rf her still; 
 
 lUion's stern hero vanquished, yields to grief. 
 
 Whose potent power, Gods themselves confess. 
 
OBSERVATIONS 
 
 AMERICAN LITERATURE. 
 
 Before entering more fully upon the subject of 
 American Literature, we would offer a few remarks in 
 relation to an opinion of a great modern critic, aflFecting 
 literature in general; more particularly as the question 
 whether a people without some poetical antiquity, can 
 ever possess a national literature, very materially con- 
 cerns our own country. When Schlegel says, that a 
 nation must possess some past period to which it can 
 look back, and which may aftbrd materials to its wri- 
 ters, in order that its Literature assume a tone and 
 shape, which may identify it with the manners and 
 sentiments of the people among whom it is found to 
 flourish, we conceive him to have no other meaning than 
 this, that in the literary as the natural world, there 
 
106 
 
 OBSERVATIONS ON 
 
 must be a period of infancy, youth, and full maturity. 
 In order that man attain to that age, Avhen he is said 
 to have reached his achme, it is necessary that he should 
 have passed through the several gradations of his phy- 
 sical being, that his mental and natural powers should 
 slowly, and with every possible advantage unfold them- 
 selves, to the attainment of a rational degree of perfec- 
 tion. If he betray symptoms of precocious development, 
 the promises of a full and well proportioned growth, are 
 never so flattering, as when the process of formation has 
 been gradual — there is an affinity more or less in all 
 this, to whatever is of regulated expansion, and this rea- 
 soning may be applied to Literature, which has been de- 
 fined to be " the voice of human intellect." In order that 
 its organs be time, clear and well attuned, they must be 
 allowed to exercise themselves cautiously and delicate- 
 ly at first, and not strained beyond their natural pitch, 
 with the wish of having them yield a full and settled 
 tone, when their notes should betray the trembling vi- 
 bration of a lisp. Thus then Literature cannot be ex- 
 pected to spring fully formed and perfect into life, like 
 Pallas from the brain of Jove. It must first bud, then 
 blossom, and then bear. This period of its budding is 
 the very point of time to which it is enabled to look back 
 in its autumn, as man, when his days have fallen into 
 
AMERICAN LITERATURE. l07 
 
 the "yellow leaf," stands in relation to the time of his 
 youth. 
 
 This period of literature is the precise one of fabu- 
 lous existence; as the scenes and occurrences of our in- 
 fancy pass in the mid day or decline of life, like sha- 
 dows to the mind, in the act of reminiscence, so, the first 
 dawn of Literature is all mist and twilight, when recall- 
 ed through the full blaze of a meridian effulgence. Ages 
 had passed away before Greece or Europe found them- 
 selves placed in that relation of distance, from one pe- 
 riod to another, which affords sufficient materials and 
 scope to the imagination; and it is in the works of fancy 
 alone, that we find that tone of nature pervading which 
 identifies a literature, with the individual nation among 
 whom it is found to flourish. Science is too abstract in 
 its principles to become indigenous to any soil; it is an 
 universal exotic. Newton belongs to the world at large, 
 while Shakspeare, perhaps, is claimed by England alone; 
 that is, he is still English, although the subjects of his 
 muse be as unconfined by time or place as those of the 
 philosopher. 
 
 It is to be regretted that America, should stand al- 
 most in the same literary point of view with regard to 
 Europe, that Rome did to Greece, and Europe to both 
 Greece and Rome. We have been gathering up the 
 gleanings of the fuller harvest of European science and 
 
108 OBSERVATIONS OK 
 
 literature, as the Greeks in borrowing the letters, im- 
 ported the learning of Phenician and Egyptian nations; 
 but notwithstanding Greece may have borrowed much of 
 her science and literary wealth, from nations older and 
 riclier than herself, she was yet exclusively indebted to 
 her own resources, for every thing that she possessed, 
 and displayed in the field of imagination. "That state 
 in which human nature shoots wild and free, although 
 unfit for other improvements, certainly encourages the 
 highest exertion of fancy and of passion." Upon just 
 such a condition of life did Homer cast his retrospective 
 glance, rich in all the materials most fitted for the Epic 
 Muse. Indeed, such is the state in which the flowers of 
 the imagination bloom with most luxuriance, and in which 
 its golden fruitage is gathered. It must have an Hesperian 
 garden, though it may dispense with its Dragons. Critics 
 usually bruise the apples and mar the foliage where they 
 touch them at all. America, we repeat, stands almost 
 in the same relation to Europe that Rome did to Greece, 
 which is unfortunate. We borrow from our transatlan- 
 tic brethren much in the same way, and almost to the 
 same amount with the Romans in their intercourse with 
 Greece; the consequence to Rome was, that the best 
 writers of fiction only transcribed from the pages of 
 those who had preceded them. Criticism too came in 
 at a time when she should not have been received, and 
 
AMERICAN LITERATURE. 109 
 
 her only effect was, to hasten the corruption of that, 
 which would have worked its own way to ruin, less ra- 
 pidly perha])S, but with equal certainty, unless some 
 giant original, had sprung forth to arrest the mining 
 principle in its progress. 
 
 To assert at the same time, however, as many have 
 done, that because we are at present deficient in litera- 
 ture, in consequence of not possessing as yet, materials 
 drawn from its most legitimate sources — past periods — 
 which constitute the store-house, whence the imagination 
 furnishes itself with the richest decorations — to say, that 
 by reason of our present wants, we must necessarily 
 continue poor — to argue from temporary weakness, per- 
 manent imbecility, is to pronounce, that because the in- 
 fant evinces no symptoms of puberty, he never will be- 
 come an adult. No, our literature will "gi-ow with our 
 growth, and strengthen with our strength:" all that we 
 have to guard against is, the injurious efforts of criticism, 
 which like those vicious restraints and devices employ- 
 ed in childhood, to stamp an appearance of physical 
 beauty and proportion, only tend to arrest and destroy 
 the natural progress of things, and to superinduce the 
 effects of old age and decrepitude, in the most youthful 
 subjects. "Legend must go before History, and Poetry 
 must precede Criticism:" " In pi'oportion," says ano- 
 ther writer, " as criticism has become systematic, and 
 
 L 
 
llf) OBSERVATIONS OS 
 
 critics numerous, the powers of composition have in all 
 ages and countries gradually declined" — This is true, 
 and we have to lament that such is the state of thino-s 
 among us. The great men of the sixteentli century, 
 would never have been what they were, had they stood 
 in fear of any tribunal of Critics. However, as it is, if 
 these writers would only become coadjidors \n the cavise 
 of literature and science, with those who supply original 
 matter, we might yet promise ourselves a rich harvest 
 of literary glory; but the great misfortune is, that the 
 critics are usually writers for effect, and rather than not 
 display their own wit and acquirements, they do it at 
 the expense of those whom they should uphold; they 
 are moreover quite too full of false rule and system, and 
 it is in allusion to this vile propensity of dullness, to 
 tramel the eftbrts of genius, with its own leaden impo- 
 sitions, that tlie guardians of the literary wheel, are for 
 ever more deprecating their functions. Fools should be 
 "pulled from Wisdom's seat, who watch alone to cuff down 
 new fledged merits, tliat would rise to nobler heights, 
 making the grove harmonious.*' 
 
 We must necessarily, however, look abroad — into 
 the cherished records of ages, that have rolled, not 
 over the desert of the new, but the pliant soil, and varie- 
 gated landscapes of the old world — where the footsteps 
 of man, have been traced from the first rude impressions 
 
AMERICAN LITERATUHE. Ill 
 
 of his great Pi-ogenitor, through the successive stages of 
 every humanising art, every science that enlightens, and 
 every moral that adorns — down to the present distant 
 period, from the first commencement of the march of 
 Time — when the Sun of intellectual illumination, posting 
 to the meridian of its career, is hailed in gratulation by 
 the sage, and worshipped by the savage — it is to the gar- 
 dens of science and of art, if we would gather golden 
 fruitage, and not to the unpruned wilderness, that the 
 mind must direct its vision — the poet may indeed, find 
 his cradled slumbers in the forest, but his manhood must 
 commune with men, for human character and passion 
 form his theme, and although, as before remarked, some 
 of the greatest poets have appeared, at the most unen- 
 lightened periods of their several ages, others again, of 
 equal merit, have flourished in times, when learning 
 may be said to have become gigantic in her dimensions; 
 Milton was the gi-eatest polemic of his day, before 
 whom Salmatius, one of the most learned men France 
 ever has produced, retired in silent submission; and 
 Shakspeare's mind, was necessarily benefitted by the 
 wisdom introduced, by the great Fathers of the Refor- 
 mation. Some modern Theorists maintain, however, that 
 the general diffusion of literature, tends to weaken, or 
 at least to repress — the original powers of the poet's mind 
 —this eft'ect however, we cannot but think, is produced 
 
112 OBSERVATIONS ON 
 
 only upon minds not of the first order — Homer would 
 most inevitably have been the same great poet, had he 
 flourished at the most enlightened period of the age of 
 Augustus or of Pericles; and as to the vain assumption, 
 that the finest materials of the poetical system have been 
 expended — and that, according to Dr. Young, the most 
 original images have already been employed, by those 
 who first explored the great field of nature — it may be 
 observed, that genius is necessarily original, and it would 
 be as absurd to suppose, that because in the pages of 
 Homer, Milton, and Shakspeare, we find collected all 
 the embellishments of which their poetry was suscepti- 
 ble, that nature has been thereby rendered threadbare 
 and unprofitable, as to maintain, that the Helen of Zeux- 
 is, monopolises all the beauty of the female world. With 
 regai'd to our Columbian Parnassus, we have not as yet 
 many gems and flowers to boast of, it stands cold and 
 uncultivated in the bosom of the wilderness; Solitude 
 and Silence are the guardian spirits of its sylvan home; 
 the genii of the Cataract, and Prairie, repose their starry 
 limbs upon its summit, worshipping the wonders of their 
 unbounded reign; that it is vast in its resources, and 
 fertile in its depths, we cannot but indulge in the proud 
 belief, its golden treasures are unexplored however, but 
 that they will one day be brought to light, is the pros- 
 pect flatteringly held forth, by the language of a few. 
 
AMERICAN LITERATURE. 113 
 
 whose voices have been faintly heard to murmur in the 
 forest, cherishing the infant melody of days that are 
 gone^ in the pleasing hope of awakening yet, " a louder 
 and a bolder strain;" — there is one name at least, of 
 which America should be proud, but to the memory of 
 Clifton, which should have been encircled with the ver- 
 dure of the Amaranth, his country lias proved ingrate — 
 the powers of his genius, were as various, as tliey were 
 brilliant and refined, strong, vivid, and not unfrequently 
 sublime; dust has long since become the tomb of his 
 mortality, but oblivion should never have been allowed 
 to mantle around the creations of his mind; the times in 
 which he lived, were inauspicious to the full develop- 
 ment of his talents; the star of his muse was shrouded, 
 and almost overwlielmedinthe clouds that surrounded our 
 political horizon — and the voice of his prophetic spirit, was 
 lost amid the thunders of the tempest, that shook the pil- 
 lars of our republic almost to their base — the glories of 
 his mind, however, were too intrinsic not to survive the 
 temporary eclipse under which they laboured; and now, 
 that " danger's troubled night," is past — they shine out 
 upon usinallthcirpeculiar lustre — his Ode to Fancy, is re- 
 plete with the most beautiful natural imagery — it unites 
 the sweet simplicity of Goldsmith, with the classical pu- 
 rity and energy of Collins in his happiest hour, when 
 " reposing by Elysian water-falls" — and his Occasional 
 l2 
 
114 OBSSRVATIONS ON 
 
 Satire, evinces a felicitous vein of satirical humour, that 
 would have graced the caustic pages of Pope or Gifford — 
 it presents also in one passage an ingenious parody upon 
 Parnel's beautiful tale of the Hermit — indeed the lit- 
 tle volume comprising his Poems, that we have in our 
 possession, bears ample testimony to the high poetical 
 temperament of its author. England would have de- 
 lighted in a Muse, that found in America, nothing but 
 "ashes and a tomb" — for, although the Phcenixofthe 
 mind, will ever spring triumphant from the ashes of the 
 body, yet, unless wooed to the bowers of literature and 
 of song, it will become an unknown and solitary bird — it 
 has been unfortunately thus v/ith Clifton — political 
 troubles, and the virulence of party rage, engrossed the 
 attention of the times, and it was only perhaps in the 
 occasional pauses of the storm, that the listening ear 
 caught the vibrations of his Lyre — doomed to neglect, 
 and the obscurity that attends it — his labours, while 
 living, were unrequited, and his name — when dead — 
 consigned to forgetfulness — well may his Spirit be heard 
 to declare of Fame, what Shakspeare says of Honour, 
 
 the mere word 's a slave — 
 
 Debauch'd on ev'ry stone — on ev'ry grave, 
 A lying trophy — and as oft is dumb, 
 Where dust and damn'd oblivion are the tomb — ■ 
 Of'' famed" bones indeed. 
 
AMERICAN LITERATCRE. 115 
 
 So little is the society of the Muses courted in our 
 country, that many a page familiar to, and cherished by, 
 the taste of Transatlantic readers, is appropriated in the 
 soil where first it expanded, to the vilest uses of the 
 vilest hands — The Romances of Brown, are as little 
 known among us— as though they had been never writ- 
 ten, or read as the productions of a foreign author — while 
 the ponderous epics of Barlow, and Trumbull, obtruding 
 themselves into notice, merely from the novelty of their 
 huge proportions, are vaunted forth as specimens of 
 classical immortality — and glimmered through by idiots, 
 who mistake the light of the type, for the illuminations 
 of genius; not but that there are in the Columbiad, many 
 smooth, and even beautiful verses, but taken as a whole, 
 it is the most grotesque performance, with the excep- 
 tion of one or two modern specimens of the epic style — 
 that ever emanated in a serious shape from the pen. It 
 is humbling to see, how a writer, once possessed of that 
 " damning fame that Dunciads give" — without at the 
 same time being altogether blotted from the chronicles 
 of authorship— flaunting in gaudy, but flimsy, and tat- 
 tered vestments, will attract a host of buzzing insects, 
 that dwell around him, merely because, from the impos- 
 thumation of the materials of which he is composed, 
 they are enabled to gorge his congenial putrefaction- 
 while the firm transparency of genius they avoid, or 
 
116 OBSERVATIONS ON 
 
 light only on the surface, to soil its beauty — murmuring 
 at the impenetrability, that defies the mining tendency 
 of their efforts. 
 
 We are lamentably deficient in this country, in the 
 cultivation of a poetical taste, and our worthy Critics, so 
 far from exerting the powers that usually seem implied 
 in the office of literary censors, in forming, and cherish- 
 ingone — for reasons best known among themselves — evi- 
 dently concur, with most laudable unanimity, either in 
 condemning, for what they sagely conceive to be their 
 heresies of thought, and style, the few, who may occa- 
 sionally present themselves as candidates for the hon- 
 ours of the Parnassian Laurel, bidding them " go 
 hence and be no more seen" — or else, wliere perhaps 
 they accidentally stumble upon some little indication of 
 poetical phrenzy, preserve a religious silence, not cor- 
 responding indeed in time, with that which was known 
 in heaven, for the space of two minutes — ^but, placing 
 their hands upon their hearts, their lips become sealed, 
 as by the influence of a spell, of no less potency than 
 that, which is represented in the Eastern Tale, as closing 
 upon the powers of the victims of Eblis— -now really, if 
 we may presume to point out, what we humbly conceive 
 to be the obligations, necessarily imposed, by the station, 
 which these sublime Wortliies maintain, in our little re- 
 public of letters, we would in the fiist place, remark. 
 
AMERICAN LITERATURE. 117 
 
 that the pages over which they preside, should be so 
 conducted, as to enable us, to regard and consult them, 
 as the literary chronicles of the times — presenting its 
 mental "form and pressure" to the age; they should 
 watch with a steady, and minute attention, the slow, and 
 almost imperceptible progression, of Improvement on the 
 " Car of Time" — reporting to the solicitude of those, 
 whose feelings are enlisted in the great cause of Litera- 
 ture, the successful achievements that may have attend- 
 ed the march of Intellect; and in the next place, not 
 pursuing the spirit of the Napoleon Policy, publicly an- 
 nouncing some disastrous defeat, for the purpose of 
 enhancing the value of victory — they should regard 
 " more in sorrow than in anger," those literary abor- 
 tions, that are not unfrequently the result of contingen- 
 cy, rather than of any inherent malformation of the 
 mental system — 
 
 " The tear that is wip'd with a little address, 
 May be follow'd perhaps by a smile." 
 
 And as in attempting to weed out the errors, and 
 literary vices of an author, we sometimes eradicate his 
 beauties, so, in the practical illustrations, of the efficacy 
 of their penal code, in punishing, and restraining crimes, 
 that would tend to clog the literary wheel — the Critics, 
 not unfrequently defeat the legitimate purposes, they 
 
118 OBSERVATIONS ON 
 
 should aim at achieving — and either render the more 
 worthy candidates for the distinction of their ftivours, 
 callous to the influence of those powers, that are abused 
 bj the most wanton application, orelse, repress those en- 
 ergies, that disdain the fostering hand, which has been 
 rendered contemptible, in having been so often employ- 
 ed in the infant task, of "breaking butterflies upon the 
 wheeP'^it has been truly said, that "the knowledge of 
 our disease, is half the cure," and if these literary Hy- 
 dras — not such in point of power, but of hideousness, 
 and the inveteracy of their existence, which nothing less 
 than the cauterising brand of a Hercules can destroy — 
 like wise physicians, would only report to tlie patient 
 the nature of his complaint, without proceeding at once, 
 to the most violent use, of the most violent applicants — 
 how many a frame of beautiful proportions, might be 
 shielded from the mining ravages of a secret power, 
 whose progress might be arrested, simply by the " pa- 
 tient's administering to himself;" instead of this, how- 
 ever, these deformed monsters of the Hesperian garden, 
 their gorgonean appetites not gorged, by the daily carca- 
 ses of the dull they devour, are for ever more snarling 
 at those, who are alike proof against their terrors, and 
 their charms, the latter, ever being held forth in cases, 
 where they dread the lash, and are compelled to fawn: 
 the fact is however, literary Ortliodoxy may thunder its 
 
AMERICAN LITERATURE. 119 
 
 anathemas till dooms-daj, against the fanatic intoler- 
 ance, of this self-constituted tribunal of Inquisitorial 
 Criticism, the mania is not endemial to any soil, and is 
 therefore hopeless and without cure — for these writers, 
 are legitimate disciples, of the Warburtonian school of 
 human philosophy, having clearly inherited, and strong- 
 ly imbibed, the notions of their great master, as to the 
 sources of moral obligation; and it would be altogether 
 vain, for any one to attempt to preach them, into a re- 
 nunciation, of tlie narrow and selfish system of their 
 creed: we may tell them, that the most enlightened, and 
 indeed the only true idea of this feeling of obligation, 
 rests upon a perception of utility, at least, if not upon a 
 moral sense, triumphantly they reply, that their con- 
 duct, can alone be swayed, by influence of some presid- 
 ing superior will to their own, which not existing, they 
 have no disposition to have their moral, which involves 
 their free agency, destroyed, or at least shackled, by in- 
 terposition of any other motives to action, than such as 
 are self suggested; the canons also, of their critical dis- 
 cipline, subject to the imperfection that attaches itself, 
 in a greater or lesser degree, to all human laws and in- 
 stitutions, as the wisdom of legislators may abound, or 
 be deficient — are found to deal alone, in the infliction of 
 punishments, and never in the distribution of rewards, 
 consequently, tlie Poets, when they indulge in visions of 
 
120 OBSERVATIONS ON 
 
 heaven, are not the idle dreamers, they have been gene- 
 rally esteemed to be — for, these legislative critics them- 
 selves, from the sage conviction, that there must neces- 
 sarily exist some state of reward, for the virtues of the 
 good, and the merits of the wise — and this state, not be- 
 ing found upon earth, are led of course, to point out an 
 hereafter, where the disconsolate Bard, may meet with 
 -that atonement for his wrongs, and sufferings, which 
 was denied him, in this vale of tears; but a very natural 
 and momentous question, here presents itself — how will 
 things go with the critics — what will be their fate, who 
 have been the framers of those laws, that are designed to 
 apply alone to offences — clearly, the reverse of that of 
 the poets, for having rewarded themselves here, for the 
 arduous duties of their station, in punishing the latter, 
 their day and place of account is of course to come, not 
 being supposed, to be altogether free from crime them- 
 selves, tliough professedly its punishers — alas — what a 
 prospect! the Poets surely, upon reflection have, no rea- 
 son to complain, and it is seriously to be hoped, in jus- 
 tice, that they will never henceforth be heard, to mur- 
 mur against the critics. We had occasion to remark, 
 a few leaves back, that the demands made, by the taste 
 of the reading community of our country, for the pages 
 of the Poet, were but " few, and far between;" the dis- 
 advantages, consequent upon this almost total and ge- 
 
AMERICAN LITERATLRE. 
 
 in' 
 
 neral disrelish for works of imagination, that necessari- 
 ly accrue to their authors, are at once ob^•ioua and un- 
 fortunate — the more genuine and beautiful flox^ers of 
 the Parnassian grove, are either unsought for, though 
 known to exist, or if accidentally discovered, neglected, 
 as fantastic exotics, merely because tlie eye of the ob- 
 server has been confined in its range, over the beauties 
 of intellectual nature, and accustomed to the growth 
 only of certain noxious weeds — whose qualities when in 
 that state of decomposition, which is the necessary con- 
 sequence of an impure mixture — become poisonous to 
 the soil in which at one time, they flourislied in perni- 
 cious vegetation. Clifton has but too truly said, allud- 
 ing to the literary, and not the natural inclemency and 
 barrenness of our country, that it was a land, "\\Iiere 
 genius sickened and where fancy died'* — this remark 
 even after a lapse of twenty years, will still admit of 
 the most serious application to America — we are almost 
 tempted to think, that " there is something more than 
 natural in this, if philosophy could find it out." West, 
 Allston, and Leslie, had they continued to breath be- 
 neath the suffocating mists of our cloudy atmosphere, 
 would have drooped and perished like the plantains of 
 the desert — the tannen from their nature flourish best 
 upon the loftiest eminence, and genius will grow the 
 same, ever requiring a " kindred fire to keep its bright- 
 
 M 
 
122 odskrvations on 
 
 uess bright;" indeed it is humbling to observe the al- 
 most daily instances that present themselves of the to- 
 tal absence in the people of America, of that noblest 
 perhaps of all feelings, the pride that arises from the 
 consciousness of intellectual superiority; politically as a 
 nation, we are naturally jealous of our civil rights — but 
 this is a principle inherent in the nature of the veriest 
 losel of creation — nay, it betrays itself as conspicuously 
 in the elements of brute matter, as in the bosom of the 
 sage; the feeling of personal liberty is not confined to 
 man alone, it extends and illustrates its influence through 
 every grade of animated being — the Indian or the Afri- 
 can, whose ideas do not extend beyond the rivers and 
 mountains of his home, yet exults in the buoyancy of un- 
 shackled freedom — lulled to his slumbers by the breezes 
 of the forest, he blesses the stars that light him to re- 
 pose, and hails the sun that dawns upon his life, as de- 
 sio-ned alone to warm, invigorate, and clierish him; the 
 empire of Literature, is like the empire of Woman, one 
 of softness and of sorcery; but in America, the cohl ab- 
 stractions of the statesman, and the mercenary specula- 
 tions of the artizan, embrace tlie extension of our men- 
 tal vision, and bind the horizon of its aspirations. It is 
 folly to preach about national infancy — tiie world itself 
 was in its infancy, in one sense — when the star of Poesy, 
 encircling the morning freshness of the brow of Chau- 
 
AMERICAN LITKRATURE. 128 
 
 ^er, led him forth in the blushes of a young Aurora, to 
 shed his day upon the slumbering energies of creation, 
 steeped in the oblivious night of ages. 
 
 But as a people, we are not, and never were, in a 
 state of infancy — our birth has been coeval, and our na- 
 tional progress the same, with that of tlie governments 
 of the old world, from whic'h we differ, only in the new- 
 ness and freedom of our political constitution — in every 
 other respect, we are almost one and the same people — 
 and the present dearth of literary talent, which per- 
 vades our country, and for wliich at least we are con- 
 spicuous — is altogether the consequence of our mercan- 
 tile and agricultural pursuits, at least of tlie absorbing 
 devotion with which these are followed and encourac;- 
 ed; it has been said, that where the national spirit tends 
 to the advancement of any one particular art, a spring 
 and impetus is tliereby given to every other — but the 
 present state of America, would seem to deny the trutli 
 of this assertion; if indeed, it be not considered as a sin- 
 gular exception to a general rule — and in fact, it baffles 
 all tlieory and contradicts all experience — for while tlie 
 mercantile and agricultual arts, and even tlie more vi- 
 cious refinements of polished life, are encouraged and 
 carried to their topmost height — the interests of Litera- 
 ture are allowed to languisli and decline. Poetry and 
 Painting are almost entirely neglected. Utility is no 
 
124 OBSERVATIONS ON 
 
 longer the hand-maitl to genius — and we may prose to 
 all eternity about our national infancy, as the cause of 
 our literary deficiency, no such cause exists; but the fact 
 is, as long as the lands of the agriculturist continue to 
 be the only soil cultivated, and the speculations of the 
 mercliant, the only efforts of mind deemed worthy of 
 attention, so long must we remain in our present state 
 of literary nonage. We do not pretend to say, that com- 
 merce and agriculture should be neglected, or unde- 
 serving of strong national support, and that the fine 
 arts should be alone attended to — but there is such a 
 thing as carryingthese former pursuits too far — amongthe 
 ancients the least commercial, were the most enlighten.' 
 ed nations. Rome had no commerce, but she extended 
 her arts and arms, to almost every corner of the world. 
 Carthage had but little, if any. Literature, but her com- 
 mercial strides were colossian, and she perished of her 
 own enormous weight. She neglected the cultivation of 
 letters, and devoted herself exclusively to traffic; and 
 traffic destroyed her. In America, there exist no proper 
 stimuli to literary exertion — indeed, under what strict- 
 ly republican form of government has Literature ever 
 flourished? or rather, have not her interests been usual- 
 ly better understood, and more attentively regarded by 
 an enlightened Aristocracy — tempered even by a mo- 
 derate spirit of liberty and justice — ^than by any other 
 
AMERICAN LITERATURE. 125 
 
 form of the political constitution? Athens, which under 
 Pericles, was no longer a democracy, became the litera- 
 ry emporium of the worldj while under the more simple 
 administration of her other consuls, her intellectual soil 
 was comparatively barren. Rome beneath the plain 
 garb of republicanism — though like Greece she never en- 
 joyed much practical liberty, as a late able historian re- 
 marks, with all the theoretical freedom of her govern- 
 ment — exhibited features of very little attraction: the out- 
 lines of her countenance may have been bold and strik- 
 ing, but wanting in expression, at least in that expres- 
 sion which is communicated by mind; it betrayed fiery 
 elements, but the grace of intellect was reserved for the 
 age of her Ceesars — under the second and three last of 
 whom, she produced some of her greatest minds: the 
 Commentaries on the Gallic wars, written by the first of 
 these, clearly prove that the spirits of Literature and 
 Tyranny, are not incompatible with each other. Mo- 
 dern Italy, under ecclesiastical jui-isdiction, gave birth 
 to Dante, and Ariosto, Tasso and Alfieri; and the crowns 
 of France and England are studded with the stars of in- 
 tellect. It is said that the interests of Liberty and Li- 
 terature, have been ever found to be synonymous, and 
 that as they flourish — so — they decline, together: and yet 
 they were far from being united in the person of Rome's 
 first emperor; and Brutus and Quintilian lived apart — at 
 M 2 
 
12b OBSERVATIONS ON' 
 
 different periods — it was not necessary to their coun- 
 try's welfare, that they should have been coadjutors 
 in her cause — the former rose against the very power 
 that fostered the latter; which would seem to demon- 
 strate that the mind of the one, declined beneath the in- 
 fluence of that atmosphere — which proved favourable to 
 the growth and expansion of that of the other; that Li- 
 terature may exist where Liberty does not, and vice 
 versa — the clamours made by the people of Rome, dur- 
 ing her consular or government, succeeded in introducing 
 a spirit of greater Liberty — if indeed, the privilege of 
 the mass to do as they please, and to confound freedom 
 with faction, intrigue, and violence — be made to consti- 
 tute the blessing of enlightened Liberty — but with this 
 equalization of rights among the Patrician and Plebeian 
 ranks, during the democratic administration at Rome, 
 was brought about a more vigorous organization of the 
 military system — and of that alone, Literature was far 
 from deriving any benefit from the change: as a proof of 
 this, v/hen, after the conquest of Syracuse, Marcellus 
 attempted to introduce the Fine Arts into Italy — he was 
 violently opposed by Cato the Censor, the stanch ad- 
 vocate of liberty and republicanism— this inexorable 
 democrat, whom Virgil very properly makes one of the 
 judges of Hell — was very apprehensive that Grecian Li- 
 terature would destroy Roman Liberty! — It would seem 
 
AMERICAN LITKRATURE. 12/ 
 
 then that the interests of the two causes are not exact- 
 ly of an identity, which is to be lamented; but such are 
 the conditions of life, our blessings are but " few, and 
 far between." Man is seldom allowed to enjoy much 
 happiness unmixed with pain; a good effect not unfre- 
 quently proceeds from a bad cause, and the contrary is 
 as often the case — vice has some attractive graces, as 
 virtue is sometimes cold and repulsive. The flowers of 
 Literature frequently bloom with most luxuriance be- 
 neath the foot of the tyrant, because the soil upon which 
 he treads, destined to give birth to other, and more vi- 
 gorous vegetation, is necessarily /^rii^^/ and the lordly 
 oak is proud of the flattery of the rose and the vine — he 
 shelters them, not exactly for themselves perhaps, but 
 because they tend to grace and beautify his reign: the ef- 
 fect, however, is the same, whatever be the design— 
 and thus it is, that the interests of Literature are gene- 
 rally better attended to, under an aristocratical or mo- 
 narchical form of government, than under any other- 
 there is a brilliancy and summer glow infused in the at- 
 mosphere that surrounds a court, wliich warms and in- 
 vigorates every thing within its influence; and as in the 
 natural world, the same sun, that elicits the giowth of 
 the most noxious, gives life and luxuriance to the most 
 wholesome ])lants, so, the lustre that encircles a diadem, 
 while it seduces him who wears it, from warming and 
 
128 OBSERVATIONS ON 
 
 dazzling his brain, to trample frequently upon the per- 
 sonal, yet leads him at the same time, to foster and pro- 
 tect, the intellectual rights of man. Science and the 
 Sword, go hand in hand before him, and unite in completing 
 and perfecting his achievements; his object being, strict- 
 ly speaking, to triumjjh, and mere brute violence can 
 never signalise, but rather tends to cast a shade upon 
 his eflforts — what a contrast of character, between a 
 Csesar, a Frederick, and a Napoleon, and a Nero, a 
 Claudius, and a Caligula, or an Alaric. It is a saying of Po- 
 litical science, that the bare " trappings of a monarchy," 
 would be sufficient, thoroughly to adorn and equip a 
 republic — that the offals of the one, would be adequate 
 to the entire support of the other; and this is true, and 
 it is for this reason, that Science and the Arts, are 
 prone to take shelter beneath the patronage of the great. 
 Men must be rewarded for the trouble of exertion, and 
 although the breath of Fame sustains their memory after 
 death, they cannot live upon it, like Gossamers, during 
 life. Locke has truly said, that "no one ever found 
 mines of gold and silver in Parnassus; it is a pleasant 
 air, but a barren soil." Certain forms of government, 
 are not less distinguished by their spirit of substantial 
 patronage, than by their ceremonial institutions, and 
 practices that tend to stimulate ambition, and excite 
 emulation — a purely republican government, from the 
 
AMERICAN LITERATURE. 129 
 
 very simplicity of its nature, seems to imply the total 
 absence of every thing of the kind — their utility how- 
 ever, is remarkably illustrated by Greek and Roman 
 History; the Ancilia of Mars, and the Vestal Fire, con- 
 stituted the palladium of their military and social life; 
 and their sacred institutions gave birth to all those he- 
 roic achievements, that signalised their existeaice; their 
 M3^t!iology, which, after all the conjecturesof the learned 
 as to its origin — may be traced, as it "lias been remarked, 
 to the natural passions of the human heart — was the great 
 source of every thing that was splendid in the Literature 
 and Arms of Greece. In America, the stoical scheme of 
 " supplying our wants by lopping off our desires," has long 
 since been introduced, and appears to be productive of 
 much happy complacency — the candidate for the Par- 
 nassian laurel, has to struggle with peculiar difficulties; 
 unaided and alone, if he succeeds in overcoming them, 
 it is very well — if he fails, it is equally well. We for- 
 get that although it is impossible to repress the flight of 
 the Eagle, yet may the majesty of his wing be lost, 
 when no eye is turned upon him. The unlettered 
 Indian, who rejoices in the freedom of his rights, with- 
 out understanding the rights of his freedom, yet, " smit 
 with the love," " delights in the melody of song:" the 
 peasant of the Scotish Highlands, the Venetian Gondo- 
 letteer, and the hunter of the Alps, inherit from their 
 
150 OBSERVATIOXS ON 
 
 sires and transmit to their offspring the inspirations of 
 the Lyre; the Tree of knowledge in our country, has ai-- 
 rived at that lamentable maturity that abounds in leaves, 
 but is barren of fruitage, because tlie soil in which it lias 
 taken root, has been neglected and exposed to the 
 storms of popular commotion, which however, tliey may 
 passharmless over the obscurity of the Osier, never fail to 
 rive the giant branches of tlie Oak. There is at the same 
 time, a littleness and frivolity disgustingly apparent 
 in the dispositions of the few, who affect to admire, and 
 cultivate a taste for the productions of art, which from 
 habitual indulgence, has become fatally confirmed — the 
 female part of our community, who never fail to make 
 the greatest possible display in words of their acquire- 
 ments, whatever they may be, or, however unimportant, 
 in cases where the slightest pretension to mind and 
 taste, may be with some appearance of consistency 
 maintained, and who, among their other manifold affec- 
 tations, invariably profess to admire most what they 
 least understand, are so devoted to modern Novel -read- 
 ing, indiscriminately gorging all the trash that daily 
 emenates from the labouring press, in the seductive 
 shape of a Love tale, or some other form equally sicken- 
 ing and grotesque, that it is altogether liopeless to ex- 
 pect from them any rational agency in the cause of 
 good learning, or any advancement given to the arts 
 from a steady patronage of its more serious and enlight- 
 
AMKRIOAN LITERATURE. 131 
 
 enetl departments: we have been led to notice this class 
 of readers, because in the literary societies of the old 
 countries, they are allowed to possess a degree of influ- 
 ence; which, when properly exercised, tends perhaps to 
 the happiest results — but rather tlian that these delicate 
 Sentimentalists, should employ their leisure hours in 
 unbracing the sinewy vigour of manly Literature, by 
 unremitting dalliance with the antic Dwarfs and little 
 arch Adonises of " the primrose path" of intellect, we 
 really would be disposed to \vitness the introduction of 
 even more than the eastern economy of domestic life 
 among our fair countrywomen, dooming them to the 
 dreariness of literary celibacy; or seriously advise them 
 resolutely to resume, and patiently to endure the sylvan 
 occupations of their great progenitress — not exactly to 
 become " hewers of wood," but certainly "drawers of 
 water, and tenders of the rose." That we possess even 
 at the present period of our history, sources within our- 
 selves, which are capable of supplying his materials to 
 the poet, no one perhaps will deny who looks back to 
 the Indian Antiquities of our country; lords of a bound- 
 less empire, they have flourished for ages in the free- 
 dom of the desert — tlieir origin as unknown and myste- 
 rious as the awful rites of their religion — standing upon 
 the first invasion of the white man, like guardian genii 
 of the new world, as wild and majestic as the moun- 
 
132 OBSERVATIONS ON 
 
 tains of their domain: tlie visions of the Utopian never 
 disclosed realms of more blissful creation, the barrier of 
 a mighty and trackless ocean, rearing its billowy front 
 between the gorgeous pillar of the East, and the ified 
 column of the West, towered like a Spirit that preserved 
 two starry worlds asunder; their mountains, rivers, and 
 lakes, corresponding in sublimity to the vastness of 
 the scene; the wild man of America, wandered like the 
 Judean of the wilderness, and wondered at his being: 
 and then, as if taught by the wisdom and the meekness 
 of Him, with whom in the solitude of nature he must 
 have held communion, upon the first advances of his 
 foe, retired within the grandeur of his soul, and dis- 
 dained to oppose the littleness of man; like him, he has 
 had his garments rent, his spirit scoffed at, and his frame 
 torn upon the rack of hostile inhumanity — he offered 
 them a covenant of peace, and they rejected it with 
 scorn; he asked for drink and they gave him wormwood; 
 like him he lives a solitary man, spurned at in life, 
 unhonoured in his fall, and forgotten in his grave— but 
 while we admire the picturesque life and heroic charac- 
 ter of the Indian, while we glow with enthusiasm at the 
 unequalled display of the many noble qualities, that 
 mark and dignify his nature; the unshrinking fortitude, 
 the generous magnanimity, and the steady fidelity of 
 his feelings, we cannot but regard these splendid quali- 
 
AMERICAN LITERATURE. 133 
 
 ties in the abstract, unconnected with any familiar in- 
 sight into the character, and unassociated with any 
 knowledge of the peculiarities and Jiabits of the mind 
 which, in their practical exei'tion, they seem to illustrate 
 and crown; we are scarcely, if at all conscious, of any of 
 that sympathy in the fortunes of the Indian, which is 
 found to bind man in fellowship with man — we vener- 
 ate the prowess of the Lion, and admire the ingenuity of 
 the Beaver, while we would not hesitate at the same 
 time, to destroy either the one or the other; because, 
 notwithstanding they are endowed with those very qua- 
 lities we so much respect in civilized man, yet no ra- 
 tional communion being found to exist between them and 
 ourselves, we cannot be supposed to be interested in 
 their fates — but on the contrary are accustomed to re- 
 srard them in fear and distrust; and it is this very feel- 
 ing, pervading all our speculations upon the subject of 
 Indian character, which necessarily places it in distant 
 perspective. 
 
 We may be familiar with their external forms of 
 life, without being able to analyse or refer them to any 
 acknowledged principles of our being; we may become 
 acquainted with their habits of action and of thought, 
 but are not allowed to penetrate beyond tlieir surface; 
 we may occasionally indeed have glimpses even of the 
 inward man, but the revealing is momentary and alto- 
 
 N 
 
134 OBSERVATIONS ON 
 
 gether equivocal — the vision closes in instant darkness, 
 and we become sensible of having gathered nothing but 
 the shadows of twilight; it is this impenetrable veil of 
 mystery, mantling the temple of an Indian mind, which 
 denies all access to the inner apartments of the fabric, 
 where his awful spirit brooding its dark vigils, sits 
 throned in its world of clouds, and wrapt in the solitude 
 of its dreary desolation — we admire the bold and strik- 
 ing outlines of the building, but know nothing of its in- 
 ternal construction — all avenues to access are barred 
 against us, a voice tells us to " behold," but no seal un- 
 closes, and we are not bid to " come and see." The 
 classical proportions of the Indian frame, the pictur- 
 esque beauties of his sylvan life, and many of the fea- 
 tures even of his eventful history — however tinged by 
 tlie purple hue of savage ferocity and crime, may be 
 displayed no doubt with striking effect upon the canvass 
 of the artist, in all the magic of his colourings, but can- 
 not charm or interest, however encircled by the glow- 
 ing inspiration of the Poets page; that is, if as we hum- 
 bly conceive, the legitimate object of all genuine poe- 
 try, be to rouse and convulse into an intense existence, 
 the slumbering elements and dormant sympathies of the 
 soul; and this effect can only be produced by subjecting 
 us to the influence of powers, that we acknowledge as 
 centred in beings constituted like ourselves, impelled to 
 
AMERICAN LITERATURE, 135 
 
 action by the same feelings and motives, that lead all 
 men alike to infamy or renown, as they may be greatly 
 or ignobly tempered. The character of the Indian, is 
 so completely the result of the peculiar habits of his life, 
 that we really cannot attribute to him any superior de- 
 gree of original excellence; his insensibility to pain, is 
 the consequence of a great compactness of physical or- 
 ganization, and the solemnity and even melancholy of 
 his disposition, the effect of his wild and desolate exist- 
 ence; necessity is the parent of all his virtues and en- 
 ergies of character; bravery and a love of distinction, is 
 not with him so much a sentiment, as a wild ambition 
 of superior savage ferocity. Pioperty among them, con- 
 fers no distinction, and the only means by which the 
 Indian can arrive at this — as there is an inherent pro- 
 pensity in most men to rule — is by displaying higher ele- 
 ments of fierceness and inhumanity; when we see 
 greatness of soul, exhibiting itself under temptations to 
 selfish aggrandizement, and surrounded by all the little 
 vices and miserable corruptions of society, we naturally 
 suppose a superior degree of mental elevation; but 
 when the display of those qualities necessary to an im- 
 portant trust — is made the condition upon which it is 
 to be conferred, we cannot wonder in such a case, at 
 their exhibition — true it is, as we have had occasion 
 to remark, that we must admire those energies of pow' 
 
l3b OBSERVATIONS ON 
 
 er, that are usually implied in the aspirations of a gi- 
 gantic ambition, or any other sentiment of the soul, 
 that is represented as boundless in its conceptions; but 
 unless the subject over whom this resistless agency be 
 supposed to preside, be portrayed as made up of the 
 same elements, influenced by the same contingencies, 
 and affected by the same vicissitudes of time that act 
 upon ourselves, we may indeed admit the cold emotions 
 of wonder and astonishment, but can never be melted 
 and subdued by those warm gushes of sympathetic feel- 
 ing, that are elicited by the successes or the reverses of 
 beings, in whose fortunes we become identified, from 
 having been made to feel, value, and understand the 
 tjualities that mark and electrify their natures: our fears, 
 wishes, and expectations, become necessarily roused 
 and enlisted in behalf of the destinies of Achilles or 
 Macbeth, while we shudder at the preternatural terrors 
 of Milton's hero; for although the progress of the three 
 be marked bv the blood and sufterings of our fellow 
 creatures, yet the consciousness of our own liability to 
 the frailties and misfortunes of the two former, irresista- 
 bly compels us to that communion with their spirits, which 
 infallibly leads us to take some interest in their lives 
 and fortunes, and to become in some degree aifected by 
 the events that assail them; while in consequence of the 
 immense distance that is placed between us and the lat- 
 
y^- 
 
 AMERICAN LITERATURE. 137 
 
 ter, from the opposition of contrary natures, we are cut 
 off from all opportunities or inducements for entering 
 into a participation of his feelings and fortunes — we must 
 ourselves be first subjected t^ the influence of those 
 feelings that we would value, before we can possibly be 
 supposed to form an estimate of them — it is this natural 
 principle of our natures, which leads us to sympathise 
 with those about us, as they may be affected by the 
 prosperities, or tlie adversities of life; we know that 
 they are creatures constituted like ourselves, whose 
 hearts weep at the same afflictions, and are lit up by the 
 same happiness, that may be incident to ourselves; that 
 philanthropy of sentiment, which bewails those general 
 ills that await human nature, is too philosophically mo- 
 ral, to be brought to bear upon the warm, and individu- 
 al creations of the Poet; and it is only of this vague 
 emotion, that we are sensible in glancing over those 
 pages of history, that teem with disgusting pictures of 
 human depravity, of the sufferings of nations, whose 
 ills liave been engendered in the bosom of their own 
 barbarity, and superstition; or, which spring from the 
 vices of luxurious, and consequently corrupted civiliza- 
 tion — while the mind expands and sublimates at the 
 glorious spectacle of a brave and hardy peo])le, strug- 
 gling against the oppressions of wanton tyranny, and 
 monopolising power — the ultimate destinies of the lat- 
 N 2 
 
138 OBSERVATIONS ON 
 
 ter constitute the proudest and the noblest theme of the 
 Poet's inspiration; but our Indian history, presents no 
 examples of this nature, at least not upon that broad 
 and dignified scale which would challenge the powers 
 of the pen — and while their military life, to which alone 
 we look for actions worthy of commemoration, and sub- 
 jects suited to the dignity and high vocation of the Muse, 
 is thus confessedly barren of events of any magnitude, 
 their civil existence we would naturally suppose, alto- 
 gether unworthy of the serious attention of the Poet— 
 a state of peace is one at best, of quiet inaction, pre- 
 senting no objects of interest to any mind , but that of the his- 
 torian or the philosopher; the civil concerns of any pow- 
 er in the management of its internal organization and 
 improvement, offer but little variety of matter, and that 
 adapted to the speculations only of the legislator — the 
 flowers of poesy, are never found to bloom beside the path 
 of the Magistrate or the Merchant, and droop and wither in 
 the pestilential atmosphere, and hot-houses of city stag- 
 nation; the genius of Commerce is too rugged in his as- 
 pect to attract the smiles, or elicit the favours of the 
 Muse; but if the domestic occupations even of a civili- 
 zed power, be found deficient in that dignity and inter- 
 est required of the poetical Theme, how plainly impos- 
 sible would it be, to v.ork upon the same mateiials 
 drawn from the internal sources of a race of barbaroxiR 
 
AMERICAN LITERATUUE. 139 
 
 Indians? We feel for the unhappy African, when torn 
 from his companions and native soil — ^but who would 
 think of converting his sad fortunes, his captivity and af- 
 ter bondage, under the iron scourge of his oppressors — 
 into the form of a poetical Tale? In attempting an In- 
 dian subject, the writer is necessarily subjected to dis- 
 advantages peculiar to his theme; he finds himself com- 
 pelled from the obscurity and oblivion, under which that 
 nation lie buried from the attention of the world — and 
 even from the knowledge of the greater part of people 
 of our own country — in order to elucidate his narrative, 
 and to preserve that appearance of keeping, as 'tis term- 
 ed, which is essentially requisite in all delineations of 
 character, he is obliged we say in consequence of this, 
 to enter into those minute details of domestic and indi- 
 vidual life, which are tedious at best, but absolutely 
 necessary, where the main action is not such as to im- 
 ply, or sufliciently hint at, the nature of those constituent 
 ingredients that form a perfect whole; this species of 
 formal episode, is at all times and in all poetry ratlier 
 dry and uninteresting, it produces the same unfortunate 
 effect, with those laboured elucidations of the text of an 
 author — not generally read or understood — which direct 
 the reader where to smile at a witticism, or enter into 
 the scope and spirit of a sarcasm; the effect which might 
 otherwise have been produced, is thus destroyed; but in 
 
140 OBSERVATIONS ON 
 
 no case, are these passages explanatory of peculiar ha- 
 bits and ideas, more unprofitably waded through, than 
 where they refer to the manners and civil employments 
 of a nation of Savages. In books of Travels, we may read 
 these accounts with some degree of interest, as furnishing 
 our minds with the personal history of a portion of our race; 
 but really to encircle the rude brow of a swarthy Indi- 
 an, with a garland from Parnassus, is indeed like cast- 
 ing pearl to swine. Upon the whole therefore, we can- 
 not but believe, that although the majesty of Man, reign- 
 ing in the nakedness of the desert, be a striking emblem 
 of the grandeur of Universal Nature, although the primi- 
 tive simplicity, and open ingenuousness of the Indian 
 Aborigines of America, afford flattering evidences of the 
 original purity of our present corrupted nature, and so 
 far at least, merit the grateful meditations of the wise 
 and good — although the melancholy remnant of their 
 once unspotted race, even at this distant period from 
 the happy days of their fathers, still preserve some of 
 the many noble traits, that stamped and individualized 
 them as a people — although the realms over which, like 
 Spirits they preside, be the grandest that ever witnessed 
 the presence, or echoed to the voice of man — ^yet even 
 all these dazzling assemblages of natural and moral 
 beauty and sublimity, are not alone, nor sufficiently 
 adapted to the construction of any bold and lasting edj- 
 
AMERICAN LITERATURE. 14t> 
 
 fice, that poesy would rear. Thus then if the only source 
 which has been recognized among us, as supplying ma- 
 terials for the Poet, be found deficient, upon examina- 
 tion, in the richer and more congenial elements, over 
 which the IVIuse delights to shed tlie warmth and bril- 
 liancy of her hues — where must the eye of Inspiration 
 turn for objects, that may gratify its vision? The answer 
 to this question involves the discussion of another point, 
 that perhaps merits some attention; we conceive it of 
 little moment, as before remarked, whether the theme 
 of the Poet be gathered from memory or imagination^ 
 that is, from facts relative to his own country, or wheth- 
 er his subject be fictitious; fictions is perhaps better 
 calculated to furnish him with materials than histo- 
 ry, or recorded events of any kind; and indeed the 
 Poet of the present day of our country, must neces- 
 sarily have recourse from our want of a poetical anti- 
 quity, either to the fables of his own imagination, or to 
 those that remain upon the records of times, that gave 
 birth to the many coloured events of the old world; in 
 either of these cases however, he must still look abroad 
 from his characters and scenes, which cannot be refer- 
 i-ed for centuries to come, to the moral and physical 
 constitution of America; after the lapse of that time, we 
 may set about the business of forming a national Litera- 
 ture; the reason is at once obvious, in order to the crea- 
 
149 OBSERVATIONS ON 
 
 tion of such a Literature, we must turn our attention to 
 those resources, that may be afforded by our history and 
 institutions; but these do not as yet present us with ma- 
 terials adapted to the purposes of poetry; because the 
 events connected with the former, are of so recent a 
 date, as to reject the embellishments of fancy — and the 
 latter are unassociated with any of the peculiarities and 
 remembrances of a past period, marked by striking or 
 important features; in the morning light of our present 
 existence, there are no fables which the invention of the 
 Poet might supply, that would be recognized as ever 
 having arisen among us — given birth to in the popular 
 system of our moral or political Creed; there is no mys- 
 tic curtain between the twilight visions of a past age, 
 and the dawn of the present, which the Poet may draw 
 aside, to commune Avith the spirits of another, and a by- 
 gone world; and it is evident, that only in the fables and 
 popular superstitions of a people, can we trace any of 
 the peculiarities of the national mind, tinged by the dis- 
 tinguishing colours of practices and events, that relate 
 and belong exclusively to itself; and it is only where the 
 imaginative works of a nation, are made to bear the 
 stamp of those characterising lineaments, which enable 
 us to recognize the original from which they have been 
 copied, that it comes gradually into the possession of a 
 national Literature; where there has not been a sufii- 
 
AMEUIOAV LITERATURE. 143 
 
 cient space elapsing between the period of a people's 
 birth, and any specified point of time succeeding, which 
 may have afforded room and materials, for the expansion 
 of some system of beliefs and practices, to which the 
 Poet may be allowed to refer, and to which he may make 
 what addilions he pleases, no nation can expect to accu- 
 mulate any large and important body of Literature; the 
 only method of supplying this present want, we had 
 been inclined to think — which is merely that natural de- 
 ficiency in youth, of the wisdom and experience of age, 
 incident to the moral world — would be to introduce 
 into works of foreign fiction, those images and illus- 
 trations, that might be gathered from the natural re- 
 sources of the Poet's country; but it is evident, that as 
 there are certain traits in the national character of some 
 countries, more bold, striking, and poetical than those of 
 others — and as the Poet is not at liberty, to transfer these 
 from a people to whom they apply, to any other — in or- 
 der to preserve a consistency and keeping in his general 
 design, there must be a correspondence of parts to the 
 whole, and the ornaments must be such as naturally grow 
 out of the subject; which would not be the case were he 
 to mingle contrarieties; and to represent the Arab repos- 
 ing on a Mountain, or an inhabitant of the Alps in an In- 
 dian Cabin of North America, would be to contradict 
 experience, and to violate the laws of all poetical li- 
 
144 OESEIIVATIONS ON 
 
 cence; thus then, although the American Bard, is at li- 
 berty to retrace the gradual progress of Time, and while 
 he may allow his reflection to examine those materials 
 and images of things and events, which his memory may 
 have treasured up and preserved, from the general 
 wreck of hours, and his fancy either to revive and re- 
 freshen the colourings, which in their birth they may 
 have exhibited, or to mould them to its purposes, and 
 adorn them with new beauties of its own — he is not yet 
 autliorized to fable wonders of the new, or grace records 
 of the old world, except they be exhibited in a corres- 
 ponding foreign drapery; he may not create a heaven of 
 Houries tripping over the green velvet sward, or beckon- 
 ing from the luxuriant bowers of a Western Prairie. The 
 wonders of South America, we think present a more 
 dazzling and encouraging prospect to the eye of the 
 American Poet, than any thing to be gathered from the 
 past or present history of his own hemisphere; its natu- 
 ral and civil resources both abound in golden treasure, 
 in which he may find his account to lie; the con- 
 quests of Cortes and Pizarro, and the wars of Montezu- 
 ma are no less fertile in the materials, than the vallies 
 and cataracts of the Cordileras are found, studded with 
 the embellishments of Poetry; the Indian Antiquities of 
 the South, too, are of a more o-oro-eous and fascinatins: 
 colouring, than those of their brethren of the North — for 
 
AMERICAN LITERATURE. 145 
 
 ages, that passed over an unchanging wilderness of 
 trees and streams in the northern, in the southern con- 
 tinent, embalmed and consecrated the memory of nations 
 that have passed away; traces of whose former existence 
 are to be met with in almost every region of that unknown 
 world — it is the twilight of this Antiquity, hovering over 
 the mouldering towers and cloudy palaces of a mysteri- 
 ous race, whose very name and language have been 
 swept into nothingness with themselves, that imparts a 
 venerable shade and a soul -thrilling gloom to every im- 
 age, associated with the visions in which fancy endea- 
 vours to hold communion, with the spirits of the depart- 
 ed; and it is in this faded light, that the muse of Poesy 
 delights to weave the tissue of her dreams — she delights 
 to wander through the vistas of a fairy land — and is 
 proud of displaying the glories of her starry lineaments, 
 in some congenial world of shadows and of fables — but 
 disdains to come in contact with the dull realties of 
 " the ignorant present time;" and refuses to shed the 
 grace and purity of her ethereal halos, around the gross 
 dwellings of corrupted humanity. But very little rever- 
 ence is paid now-a-days to tlie old age of Poesy; hav- 
 ing employed the vigours of her youth, in the cause 
 of human morals and philosophy, the narrations of her 
 fond remembrance, now that she is no longer subser- 
 vient to the wants of selfish man, are regarded as the 
 o 
 
14() OBSERVATIONS ON 
 
 i'renzy of a distempered mind-^consigned to the soli- 
 tude of her mournful retrospections, she is cast forth to 
 wander in the wilderness, like some pernicious spirit 
 Avith whom man fears to hold communion — in iier own 
 regions of primeval wildness and luxuriance, she drank 
 of the fountain of Divine Love — and all was moonlight 
 sorcery and beauty — but immerced in the bitter waters 
 of these evil times — her affections have become changed 
 and almost callous to the suggestions of her heavenly 
 nature — the only remaining traces of her once peerless 
 form, sui'vive in the cherishing ardour and devotion of a 
 Byron — the dark but gloi'ious inspirations of his soul, 
 seem to rouse and reanimate her being; and as Liberty 
 and Literature, wept over the aslies of Brutus and 
 Quintilian, and perished in their fates — the solitary Ge- 
 nius of song, will weave her last garland upon the monu- 
 ment of Byron. 
 
 After all however, that we have been saying upon 
 the subject of American Criticism, it is not perhaps so 
 difl&cult to account for its silence, in regard to our 
 Literature generally — more particularly, productions 
 eminating from the South: there is unfortunately a ci- 
 vil and literary line of demarkation, not less conspi- 
 cuous and established than the natural one, existing be- 
 tween North and South; our New England Brethren, 
 stand particularly opposed to ourselves in almost every 
 circumstance naturally calculated to ci'eate a division 
 
AMERICAN LITERATURE. 14' 
 
 of interests, between any two people; their Institutions— 
 their habits of feeling and reflection, in some degree the 
 result of the former, and their political interests and 
 sentiments, all tend to give a bias to their lives and cha- 
 racters, alike unfavourable to our existence, national as 
 well as literary; and this feeling of jealous individuali- 
 ty is not confined to a few, but pervades all classes 
 alike. Their representatives in our National Assembly, 
 are not content with simply pursuing the interests of 
 their Constituents, but evidently exert themselves in 
 strong opposition to our own: what their object can be, 
 we confess ourselves somewhat at a loss to imagine, as 
 they cannot be blind to the truth, that their interests are 
 identified with our own as a nation, and that the exist- 
 ence of each state, is synonimous with that of the Union. 
 The Republic of Letters, seems not less divided between 
 contending interests: rather than aid and encourage the 
 development of American talent, it is disgusting to per- 
 ceive the system adhered to by our northern literati; silence 
 in regard to our Literature generally, that of the Soutli 
 particularly, and loud and obstrusive clamours about 
 English genius: and v/hat makes this literary spirit of 
 Anti-Americanism still more contemptible, is, that it 
 exerts itself not in any original speculations, upon the 
 subject of European protluctions, but is satisfied with 
 the miserable task of retailing second'hand Criticism— » 
 
148 OBSERVATIOKS ON 
 
 there is one little gaudy production, which devotes its 
 pages with most laudable enthusiasm and inveteracy 
 exclusively to the service of British Literature: the Spi- 
 rit of English Magazines, openly declares its purport 
 in its very title page: all the trash which laborious dull- 
 ness is capable of collecting out of every Quarterly and 
 Monthly Journal, infesting severally the different parts 
 of England, is periodically thrust into this little gaudy 
 volume, whose surface is as conspicuous for its tinsel 
 glitter, as its substance, if substance it has any, is worth 
 less from its imposthumation, and treacherous from the 
 chaotic arrangement of its materials: this mania taste 
 for Foreign Literature, is so prevalent throughout our 
 northern Atlantic cities, that like other deadly diseases it 
 has last become contagious — and the effects of its influ- 
 ence — extended even to our Western woods, have become 
 apparent in a journal lately projected in that quarter of 
 our country. The Western Review, upon its very first ap- 
 pearance, clearly indicated symptoms of the same infection 
 — we naturally looked into this work, for some account of 
 the state of Literature in the West, but instead of any 
 such intelligence, we were sickened with the same misera- 
 ble echo, which had first resounded in the North — 
 caught from European Critics, and faithfully transmit- 
 ted to every part of America, where sufficient hollow- 
 ness was found to reverb its answerings. The Port Fo- 
 
AMERICAN LITERATURE. 149 
 
 Ho and Analectic Magazine,* are alike zealous coadju- 
 tors in the cause of English Poetry and Learning. In- 
 deed there is not one truly American Journal, to be rnet 
 
 * This Journal has lately undeigone a change of/orm, and name — 
 now the "Literary Gazette;" whether its substance will become purified 
 from the dross of ignorance and prejudice, is yet to be made manifest — 
 the Editors, however, still appear to be afraid of standing upon their oicn 
 footing; they propose it seems to adopt the plan, upon which the London 
 Literary Gazette is conducted — England, nothing but England! 
 
 Britaniam! Britanlaml primus conclamat Americanus. 
 
 Italeam! Italeam! primus conclamat Achates. Mti. III. 
 
 Behold Britannia in prospect lies, 
 Behold Britannia salutes our eyes — 
 At once a thousand tongues repeat the name, 
 And hail Britannia with loud acclaim. 
 
 Behold Jerusalem in prospect lies, 
 Behold Jerusalem salutes their eyes — 
 
 Jerusalem Delivered. 
 
 We cannot help noticing here the sad inconsistency of sentiment and 
 conduct, into which the Editor of the Mclional Gazette has been betray- 
 ed, by Lis affected contempt for all ^American Poetry — in his " Appeal," 
 Mr. Walsh presents himself a bold and zealous advocate, of his coun- 
 try's cause, literary and political; while in the pages of his Gazette, he 
 unfortunately contradicts his own sentiments and assertions, rendering 
 somewhat equivocal as to design — the sincerity, that imparted dignity 
 and impressiveness to his Appeal. The Editor is surely at variance 
 with himself, when in the latter work he labours in refutation of British 
 calumny, while in the former, he incautiously allows a reflection to es- 
 cape him, which is in itself a direct libel, upon the literary character of 
 the country he pretended to vindicate — we say a direct libel, because, 
 that reflection tends to undervalue what, in opposition to Mr. Walsh, lee 
 o Z 
 
150 OBSERVATIONS ON 
 
 with in the United States: the North American Review 
 itself, one of the most able works of its kind, is never- 
 theless extremely partial in its views of the literary 
 
 cannot but think deserving of the high estimation of every American at 
 least — namely, the Poesy of our country — when Mr. Walsh affirms, in 
 opinion we believe with certain other literary loorthies of the J^orth, that 
 America has not yet produced one Poet worthy of note, and indeed that all 
 American Poetry, was but a collection of barrenness and trash — had these 
 enlightened gentry forgotten, or were they ignorant of, the performances 
 of Clifton, Pierpoint, and Trumbull? but even admitting for a moment 
 the truth of Mr. Walsh's assertion, was it well from the lips of an .Ame- 
 rican.? one would have supposed that he would have been the last to 
 accuse his country of literary deficiency, at least to have done so in a 
 tone of contempt — and when something had been achieved in the field of 
 imagination, and promises of better success held forth, so far from un- 
 dervaluing past, and discouraging present exertion — an American, we 
 must think, would have been proitd of fostering the infant energies of 
 native mind. It evinced no little presumption in the learned Editor, to 
 give piMicity to an opinion, which, we take upon us to assert, runs 
 counter to the feelings and the sentiments, of the greater portion of the 
 people of America; if his persuasion be really what he declares it to be, 
 he surely woulJ better have remained si/ent upon the subject; but if on the 
 other hand, his object was to avoid the trouble he might have been sub- 
 jected to, in the frequency of communications under the poetical head — 
 nothing could have been more unworthy of a mind as enlightened as his 
 own, than such a miserable subterfuge; but really after refusing to pub- 
 lish Jlviierican Poetry, because there was none that merited publica- 
 tion, the Editor should at least have given us better foreign selections, 
 than those which he no doubt imagines, grace his pages — ^we do not 
 hesitate to declare, though we have not been very constant readers of 
 
AMERICAN LITERATITRE. 151 
 
 state, and progress of our country; under the superin- 
 tendence however, of its present Conductor, we may 
 
 his paper, that with one or two exceptions, they are even worse than any 
 thing of the liind, that has ever been given birth to on this side of the 
 Atlantic, we all our Beolian drizliness of brain — and bear but feeble 
 testimony to the literary taste of the Editor, not more creditable to his 
 judgment, than the piece of (luaker Poetry, which he was pleased in 
 the fulness of his wisdom and condescension, to distinguish by giving it 
 a place in his Gazette — this xvas tSmerican Poetry — but as it most truly 
 merited the severity of the decision passed American Poetry generally, 
 of course, the Editor published it; it really was ^' trash," and therefore 
 answered his purpose — an impudent Parody upon the style of one of the 
 greatest Poets of the age. Wordsworth may well be heard to repeat the 
 observation of Fox, who upon being questioned by some flippant Ame- 
 rican, relative to the merits of his celebrated Bill for the regulation of 
 the East Indian affairs, remaiked, that he had met often with English 
 impudence, and Scotish impudence, but that American impudence stood 
 on the head of all impudence. Parody is the mode usually adopted by 
 dullness, to revenge itself upon genius — it is indeed " melancholy to see 
 how the sublimest mysteries of the meditative soul, lie at the mercy of 
 surface-skimming ridicule and of self-rejoicing ignorance." In avowing 
 his sentiments relative to the utility of Criticism, and the conduct adopt- 
 ed by our American Journalists, it has been suggested to the author, 
 that he has been most unfortunate in the selection of his time and place, 
 what he thinks however, he will sternly say — unmoved by censure, and 
 almost indifferent to applause, he has but little to fear — he knows the 
 world too well either to court its smile, or tremble at its frown — and he 
 is prepared to lay but little stress upon the good or bad opinion, it may 
 disposed to entertain of him. 
 
152 OBSERVATIONS OS 
 
 perhaps look for better things — a scholar himself, he 
 should know how to value the interests of Literature; and if 
 he be a genuine American, his mind must be free from 
 those party prejudices and sectional distinctions, that 
 have disgi'aced the talents with which they have been at- 
 tended, and over which they were allowed to preside, on 
 the part of those who have preceded liim in his present 
 office. 
 
 In South Carolina, a still more lamentable state of 
 things has been brought about, by the same spirit for 
 foreign works of genius and criticism, that rages at the 
 north; for united to tjiis spirit, on tlie part of the few 
 who maintain any pretensions to superior qualifications 
 of mind, there is, at the same time, a general disrelish 
 for all serious literary pursuit, a languor and passive- 
 ness evinced upon all subjects connected with mind, 
 the result in part of ignorance, and of monopolising and 
 absorbing commercial and agricultural engagements — 
 that set all attempts at etherealising them into a more 
 intellectual existence, at defiance. It is a modern Beotia 
 seemingly, under the curse of Minerva; the Aristocracy 
 of the state, comprising much talent, are either too sub- 
 lime to exert it at all, or else, not being allowed to give 
 free vent to their passion for Great Britain and her lite- 
 rary men, resolutely observe a contemptuous silence; 
 not at liberty fully to indulge in raptures about every 
 
AMERICAN LITERATURE. 153 
 
 thing English, they would willingly decry every thiiig 
 American; and, at the same time that this devotion to 
 foreign works is found to flame so furiously in the breasts 
 of the Federal, the Republican part of the community, 
 the only real friends to American liberty and learning, 
 are not in possession of sufficiently powerful influence 
 to counteract its infernal tendency; they stand, indeed, 
 upon the lasting basis of moral dignity and intellectual 
 superiority, but still they stand alone, each in his indi- 
 vidual sphere; with all the principle, and much of the 
 power necessary to instigate them at an attempt at 
 asserting and maintaining that intellectual supremacy 
 which claims precedence to all other — the moral one of 
 man excepted — ^but they are still unfortunately too luke- 
 warm, and deficient in that noble enthusiasm, requisite 
 to the achievement of every thing great or good. We 
 cannot but notice here, the zealous eiforts lately made 
 by a worthy South Carolinian, to bully the Universities 
 of our country, by a pompous citation of grave autho- 
 rities, into the servile method of education pursued in 
 England. " Argument from authority," says a late wri- 
 ter, "is the weakest of all argument;" and this upright 
 Roman, whoever he be, by-the-bye, a noted Professor 
 once upon a time, of that noted seat of learning, the 
 Charleston University, with that never-tiring industry 
 and perseverance, so inseparably the attendants upon 
 
154 
 
 OBSERVATIONS ON 
 
 dulness, after floundering tlirough the dust and cobwebs 
 of antiquated folios and quartos, for the last half cen- 
 tury, comes forth at last in "mountain labour," and is de- 
 livered of — " a mouse:" all tiiat this " learned Theban" 
 has to advance upon the all-important subject of classical 
 education, is unfortunately borrowed from the pages of 
 those great worthies who have preceded him in the task, 
 in which he fancies himself to have been employed in ori- 
 ginal speculations; the merest echo of the theories of 
 others; plainly imagining himself the only scholar in 
 America; for he certainly would not have been at the 
 trouble, though no doubt "the pleasure he delights in phy- 
 sics pain," of collecting so many authorities to bear him 
 out, in the little he has himself to say, had he supposed 
 others to have been familiar with the same. Not content 
 however, with simply giving what he is pleased to call 
 his " Thoughts," to the public, in a general way, in the ful- 
 ness of his wisdom and his vanity — Solomon himself was 
 vain — he sits down and indites a most thundering epistle 
 to the Trustees of the South Carolina College, bidding 
 them in the very commencement, after nicely specifying 
 what he conceived to be the bare and literal duties of 
 their station — to " go hence, and be no more seen;" talks 
 rapturously of the learned instructions given by Thu- 
 cydides to h.is countrymen — " who would have thought 
 the old man had so much blood in him?"' — of the tei-riblg 
 
AMERICAN LITERATURE. 156 
 
 vollies that issued from the tongue of Demosthenes — and 
 of the golden numbers that swelled from Homer's harp — 
 raves about these as the unrivalled attractions of the 
 classic page; as inducements that should lead us to the 
 study of the Greek, firmly persuaded, no doubt, that he 
 was in the very depth of argument; now, really, if he 
 designed to instruct American ignorance in the method 
 of acquiring a knowledge of the classics, it was surely 
 a curious mode of going to work, to tell them that tliese 
 authors were charming and all that — a mere begging of 
 the question; the utility, and not the beauty of the 
 Greek and Latin, is the point that has been variously 
 discussed, from the days of Locke to those of the Pro- 
 fessor himself. No one doubts that Homer was a 2:reat 
 Poet, Tacitus a brilliant Historian, and Demosthenes an 
 eloquent orator; but it is doubted, nay denied, that 
 ticenty years of every man's life should be devoted to 
 the worship of those sages. The chief argument in fa- 
 vour of the cultivation of classical literature is, that an 
 acquaintance with the best models in every species of 
 composition, tends to the acquisition of a just literary 
 taste; and such models are to be found, it has been main- 
 tained, only among the ancients: another reason, it is 
 said, why the classics should be attentively studied, and 
 well understood, is derived from the circumstance of a 
 portion of our religion being handed down to us in the 
 
156 OBSERVATIONS ON 
 
 Greek; this latter argument must necessarily lose much 
 of its force as time progresses, and does not exist with 
 the same weight at present, that it did some centuries 
 ago, from obvious causes: it is contended also, that as 
 all modern languages are but dialects of the Greek and 
 Latin, these latter must of course be studied by every 
 people that would understand the construction of its own 
 peculiar speech: the last argument involves the first, as 
 a nice and discriminating taste can be acquired only by 
 liim who understands the peculiarities of idiom and ge- 
 nius, of the language in which he writes. In regard to 
 these languages, considered in themselves, as mere me- 
 chanical inventions, however harmonious and beautiful 
 they may be — melody of sound, and even those vivid con- 
 ceptions suggested by the peculiar genius of a language, 
 can never be considered as forming arguments for its 
 being studied. Thus then, notwithstanding much stress 
 continues to be placed upon the euphony of the Greek 
 and Latin languages, the only plausible pretext for the 
 study of them is, that an acquaintance with them, as the 
 foundations of modern speech, is requisite in some de- 
 gree to every man, in order that he may understand the 
 language he makes use of. But may we not ask upon 
 this ground, why the Anglo-Norman and Saxon tongues 
 are not made a part of modern education? The elements 
 of every language in Europe, at least of those that are 
 
AMERICAN LITERATURE. 15* 
 
 applied to the purposes of literature, have been derived 
 from these great mother tongues; and yet they are, in 
 the literal sense of the word, dead languages; for they 
 certainly do not exist at present in their original form, 
 although there continue some remaining traces, or ra- 
 ther corruptions, in certain parts of Scotland. The fact 
 is, that a great deal of argument has been needlessly 
 thrown away upon the subject of classical education; it 
 is not necessary for every man to be a scholar, no more 
 than a philosopher, chemist or poet — let every country 
 educate one or more scholars — but it would be as ab- 
 surd to train up every man in the leading-strings of Plato 
 and Aristotle, as to cradle the individuals of a whole 
 nation upon the summits of Parnassus. What would be- 
 come of the world were this the case? The vicious system, 
 so much complained of in England, of confining the atten- 
 tion almost from infancy up to manhood, in the study of 
 one of the most useless branches of education, this very 
 system is the one which the Professor would introduce into 
 America — we hope his Volume will be read in requital for 
 the laborious efforts of its author in compiling it; but if our 
 Universities give it more than one reading, it will be 
 because they thentselves lie under the same miserable 
 delusion, wrouglit by a blind respect for authority, and 
 the usages of a pernicious custom. We can only exclaim 
 with a late writer, "of how much good philosophy are 
 
158 OBSERVATIONS ON 
 
 we daily deprived, by the preposterous error of mistaking 
 a knowledge of Prosody for useful learning!" So buried 
 in the dust and rubbish of the musty tomes of old libra- 
 ries, was this accomplished Grecian when we had the 
 felicity of breathing the same atmosphere with himself, 
 that we really would not have marvelled at any moment 
 to have heard him frame a question of similar sagacity 
 with the one put by a French Antiquary, at Rome, to an 
 American traveller, whether " Quebec was not the capital 
 of the United States!!!" or when the world was filled 
 with amazement at the unrivalled achievements of Na- 
 poleon, to have heard this sublime Prosodist doubt whe- 
 ther he could conjugate a Greek verb. We had been 
 ffratified to learn that the Professor's letter had been un- 
 attended to by the Trustees of the South Carolina col- 
 lege, to whom it was addressed; but our dismay can be 
 better imagined than described, when on turning over 
 the papers of the day, we stumbled upon the following 
 " Reply," from that august body to the noble Grecian — 
 disguising as much of its gross flattery as possible, we 
 give it in substance as follows: — " Most Learned Sir, as 
 it is probable that you may soon ' go hence and be no 
 more seen,' we gladly avail ourselves of the earliest op- 
 portunity of acknowledging * the pure earthly pleasure 
 that we have extracted from the perusal of thine immor- 
 tal workj' Sir, what though ' Thucydides hath instructed. 
 
AMERICAN LITERATURE. 159 
 
 Demosthenes thundered, and Homer charmed?' the great- 
 est was behind — it has been reserved for thee, to instruct, 
 to thunder, and to charm, as none have heretofore in- 
 structed, thundered, or charmed; true, most illustrious 
 Heathen, that Busby* deigned not to doff his beaver to 
 his Imperial Majesty, Charles the second, but we sir, even 
 at this distance, are bending in all due reverence to the 
 great supremacy of thy genius. Sir, though the ' word of 
 life,' itself, be not exactly in thy page, yet is 'the wisdom 
 that instructeth' there. We alas, would have discovered, 
 when too late perhaps, that we had ' hewn out unto our- 
 selves systems, broken systems that could hold no truth,' 
 we have indeed been ' seeing through a glass darkly,' and 
 in the valley and shadow of ignorance have we groped, 
 even like • the wanderer from religion's light,' but prais- 
 ed be the Lord, the sun of Science hath at last shed 
 abroad its influence upon us, even as the sun of righte- 
 ousness descended upon him. The many luminous ideas 
 Sir, that adorn thy pages, would have been eagerly caught 
 at, and acknowledged by us, had we known them to have 
 emanated from the mind of the most obscure individual, 
 in the most obscure corner, of our obscure country; but 
 Sir, when • in fear and trembling,' it was revealed to us 
 who thou wast — when Sir, ' with looks amazed and eyes 
 
 * See the Professor's Letter. 
 
160 OBSERVATIONS ON 
 
 aghast,' we had the 'horrid joy' of learning that thou 
 didst once officiate at the head of those ' illustrious ob- 
 scures,' who formerly directed the government of that 
 most august seminary of learning, the ( 'harleston Uni- 
 versity— -01 Sir, no tongue can tell, the hideous raptures 
 that inflamed our breast; * Warburton crushed Boling- 
 broke' Sir, and ' Porson overwhelmed Travis' Sir, but 
 Sir, those were the effects of pigmies — and man in fight 
 opposed to man, the victory was nameless — nameless Sir, 
 when compared with that which thou hast achieved over 
 us; there Sir, one mind but yielded to the superior pow- 
 ers of another, but here Sir, a whole Institution lies pros- 
 trate in confusion, crushed and overwhelmed by the tre- 
 mendous efforts of thy Titan intellects; the stupendous 
 energies of thy mind Sir, have shaken to its centre the 
 intellectual foundation whereupon we stood. With such 
 lights to guide us Sir, be assured we will no longer fol- 
 low the feeble glimmerings of our own benighted brains; 
 conscious now Sir, that ' the blind' no longer ' lead the 
 blind,' we stand not in fear of ' falling into the ditch of 
 error.' Sir, we have nightly slept with thy page beneath 
 our pillow — worthy is it indeed of some Persian casket. 
 
 " Thy work immortal, is our chief delight, 
 All day we read it — dream of it all night." 
 
AMERICAN LITERATURE. 161 
 
 Sir, we cannot too highly respect the modesty, that 
 will not allow you to consider your important produc- 
 tion, as a " book of authority^'' — but permit us Sir, to tell 
 you, that it is repleat with authority, nothing hut autho- 
 rity; and Sir, it is in breathless expectation, that we 
 await the publication of your "larger volume" — Sir, hav- 
 ing dwelt upon the merits of thy head, allow us to say 
 something of the virtues of thy heart — Sir, we are at a 
 loss which to admire most — we have lately been present- 
 ed with thy likeness, in full lengthened Portraiture; and 
 if we may judge of the beauties of the moral, from the 
 visible evidences of the physical man, then indeed art 
 thou a " God divine!" — " a combination and a form in- 
 deedjn — Sir, believe us, the fame of Professor Drone, 
 has been familiar to our ears; may he continue to enjoy 
 those felicities of head and heart, which, we are happy 
 in believing sanctify his home; may the fascinating 
 smiles of Parisian beauty, continue to encircle his affec- 
 tions; and may the dust and cobwebs of folios and quar- 
 tos, continue to shed around him, that " bloom of an- 
 tique mouldiness," which we have been told, renders him 
 as envied as conspicious; may he still remain possessed 
 of those " heavenly influences," that inspiie his exer- 
 tions; may he succeed in bequeathing to an admiring 
 world, those imperishable monuments attesting his ge- 
 p 2 
 
162 OBSERVATIONS ON 
 
 nius — which, we are in ecstasy to learn, he is daily em- 
 ployed in industriously constructing upon the pages of 
 others — " enlightening what in them is dark, and puri- 
 fying what is impure." But most sagacious Sir, as every 
 virtue hath its foil, and every great man his enemy, so 
 too, art thou surrounded by those who would blast the 
 laurels of thy well earned glory, and lessen the splen- 
 dour of thy resplendant fame; but Sir, ought not we, to 
 regard the reports that have reached us, as " slanders of 
 the satirical rogue?" we, who groan under a debt of ob- 
 ligation, which we grieve to think, can never be repay- 
 ed by any services on our part, worthy of thee; it hath 
 been represented to us Sir, that thou art in the daily 
 practice of certain littlenesses, retailing scandal, as it is 
 said, thou retaileth wit and learning — that to make 
 " some quantity of barren spectators laugh;" thou dost 
 but too often outrage decency in most obscene gabbeling; 
 that thou enjoy est a peculiar felicity in heralding disas- 
 trous tidings; it hath been said moreover, that thou art 
 wofuUy bilious and splenetic — that thou art "full to 
 overflowing," of petty jealousies and most splenetic 
 spites — that thou canst " smile and smile, and be a vil- 
 lain;" notwithstanding, that in manners, thou art at one 
 moment, as "rugged as a Russian bear" — and at ano- 
 ther, as soothing and complacent as *' the sweet South 
 breathing o'er a bank of violets;" that where thou im- 
 
AMERICAN LITERATURE. 16S 
 
 bibest a prejudice — and thy nature, it is said, is full 
 fraught with prejudices, literary, national, and personal— 
 thou leavest " no stone unturned," in order, to " mame 
 and cripple," such luckless wight, as the fates may have 
 ordained to become obnoxious to thy most destructive 
 bile; tliat thou art moreover, as voracious as a canabal, 
 being never unmindful of the b — ly, which it is said, 
 hath at last become an enormous tomb of "fish, flesh 
 and fowl." "Angels and ministers of grace defend us!" 
 be thou a Spirit of health, or goblin damned? be thy in- 
 tents wicked or charitable? Let us not burst in igno- 
 rance; but say, why thy benighted intellects hearsed in 
 oblivion, have burst their cloudy curtains; why the home, 
 in which we knew thee quietly immured, hath opened 
 its dusty jaws to cast thy foul works up; say, why is 
 this, that thou, dread Sir, armed in complete vellum, 
 approachest thus the shadows of our Seminary, making 
 it hideous, and we, fools of learning — so terribly to shake 
 our purposes, with thoughts beyond the reach of our 
 souls? what should this mean?" with this quotation — 
 that seemed to burst from the Trustees, rung by the 
 enthusiasm of their feelings— -closed their reply to the 
 Professor; it is evident from the language of the Reply, 
 that its Author's when writing it, must have laboured 
 under a high degree of excitement — caused, no doubt, by 
 the wonder and admiration with which they were filled. 
 
164 OBSERVATIONS, &C. 
 
 at the unexampled display of learning and ingenuity 
 contained in the Professor's Epistle — he should feel a 
 little anxious, however, if he be a good man, and not 
 such as he was represented to the Trustees — for if his 
 little ten-paged Pamphlet, could excite such a. fever of 
 admiration, ivhat will be the effects of his •' larger vo- 
 lume!" the subject merits much reflection. 
 
OBSERVATIONS 
 
 UPON 
 
 POETRY AND THE DRAMA. 
 
 POETHY. 
 
 The great writer of the Novum Organum, includes 
 Poetry in his classification of the subjects of human 
 knowledge, and one of the most conspicuous projectors 
 of the French Encyclopedia, embraces under this arti- 
 cle the whole range and circle of the Fine Arts. The 
 ingenious Author of the Essay on Miracles, also, upon 
 this subject, holds the following language, " the genius 
 which enables the Poet to move you, by the sublimity 
 arid pathos of his verse, should exalt the person who 
 possesses it, above every character of the age in which he 
 lives." Thus we see that Bacon, D'Alembert, and Hume, 
 concur in attaching to Poetry a weight and importance, that 
 
166 OBSERVATIONS 
 
 clearly entitles it to one of the loftiest grades in the scale 
 of intellectual supremacy. Of anartthushighlj estimated, 
 and universally recognised, in all its abstract claims to en- 
 couragement and distinction, it may seem paradoxical to 
 say, that its principles are yet but little understood. We 
 believe that upon this subject, the ideas of mankind are as 
 much at variance as upon the Scripture doctrine of a 
 Trinity in Unity. It has been to no purpose that the 
 ingenious have laboured to illustrate the latter by ima- 
 ges drawn from the natural world; but then the terms of 
 this proposition not being clearly understood, it is not 
 surprising perhaps, that the understanding should b^ 
 cautious, and hesitate as to their real import; but Poetry 
 admits of no such abstract speculations, as have been 
 employed upon that doctrine. Men judge of it accord- 
 ing to the impression whicli it makes upon the imagina- 
 tion or the heart; but this very circumstance again is 
 perhaps productive of little advantage, to the interests 
 of the Muses; for it has been well observed, that " of all 
 those component parts that make up the excellence of a 
 Poet, a few only are subject to general rules, while far 
 more is left to be approved or disapproved of, according 
 as it may happen to suit the fancy or the feelings of the 
 individual." 
 
 This being the case, the productions of the Muse, 
 whatever may be their intrinsic merit, are subjected to 
 
UPON POETRY. 167 
 
 the variations, the peculiarities, and the capriciousness 
 of such a diversity of tastes, that the Poet often finds 
 himself vaciliating, like our Language, between two ex- 
 tremes or opposing systems; the more he approaches to 
 the one extreme, the greater the praise bestowed — while 
 according to his departure from the other, is proportioned 
 the blame which he receives. True it is, that this process 
 is sometimes reversed, in the case of those, who possess- 
 ing no natural taste or relish for Poetry, affect to judge 
 it, agreeably to certain rules and principles in composi- 
 tion, that no one ever heard of but themselves. " Who-- 
 ever is acquainted with the mode of proceeding of real 
 genius, will be extremely suspicious of all activity in 
 art, which originates in abstract theory." Thus, then, is 
 Poetry judged of in the main, according to the power 
 which it may possess of aftecting the imagination or the 
 heart, those two master chords of the human frame, 
 which, if they be skilfully touched by the inspiration of 
 the Poet, never fail of responding in every bosom, not 
 dead to the impulses of our nature, the subduing melody 
 of the soul that wakes their energies: but the misfortune, 
 as above remarked, of Poetry ever making its appeals to 
 these two sources of emotion, is, their liability to per- 
 vertion, either from a naturally bad taste in all that de- 
 pends for its success, upon a nice perception of beauty, 
 or else from peculiar and long established habits of 
 
168 OBSERVATIONS 
 
 mind. It is not in Poetry as in Painting, where the 
 great excellence is found to consist in an observance of 
 certain rules. Sir Joshua Reynolds himself has remark- 
 ed, that a taste for the beauties of the latter, is altogeth- 
 er acquired, which implies that before we can be quali- 
 fied to judge of its merits, we must be first acquainted 
 with those laws in conformity to which, the Painter is 
 known to found his claims to our admiration. — Painting 
 moreover, is purely an imitative art, employed in exhi- 
 biting exterior and visible forms, while Poetry, from 
 being altogether intellectual, is freed from any depen- 
 dance upon external appearances, making its appeal ra- 
 ther to the mind than to the senses. It has been said, 
 indeed, that even in Poetry — the assertion has not been 
 qualified as applying to certain compositions, a percep- 
 tion of whose merit must often depend, upon an ac- 
 quaintance with those rules of art, that direct how to 
 avoid error, rather than to supply original matter — for it 
 is in these departments of literary exertion, where per- 
 fection is found to consist, as Madame De Stael remarks, 
 rather in " the absence of defects, than in the existence 
 of great beauties" — it has been said that a relish and a 
 taste, for tha nicer and minuter excellences, even of poe- 
 try, is the resultof a long experience, and the fruit of study 
 and observation — but we cannot think this altogether cor- 
 
UPON POETRY. 169 
 
 rect — Poetry is the language of passion, and of a warm and 
 luxuriant imagination; its appeals are made to the uni- 
 versal and eternal sources of emotion in our being; as 
 sublimity has been nobly said by Longinus, to be " an 
 image reflected from the inward greatness of the soul," 
 — so, may it be said of Poetry, it is an image reflected 
 from the inward greatness and beauty of the soul — all 
 genuine Poetry therefore, must be felt rather than rea- 
 soned upon. True sublimity, which is one of its quali- 
 ties, is immediately acknowledged, from the great ima- 
 ges it presents to the mind — no one ever paused in the 
 midst of a powerful and impassioned description, to re- 
 flect and reason with himself, and ask whether he ought 
 or ought not to be moved. Montgomery must have felt 
 his soul subdued and overpowered, by the irresistible 
 eloquence and pathos of the Elegy in a Country Church 
 Yard, when, upon the heights of Quebec, just previous 
 to an anticipated engagement, surrounded by all the 
 " pomp and circumstance of war" — when '• glory like 
 the dazzling Eagle stood, perched on his banner" — he 
 was yet heard to say, in the midst of all this — that he 
 would happily have exchanged the renown that must 
 have attended his victory on the morrow, for the fame of 
 having produced that divine Poem — tlie fact of his hav- 
 ing expressed this sentiment — a soldier, whose life had 
 been blazed out in camps — who had been accustomed to 
 Q 
 
irO OBSERVATIONS 
 
 hear no other than the " stormy music" of the drum-— is 
 strong testimony in favour of the position that Poetry 
 speaks an universal language — alike intelligent to the 
 Courtier and the Peasant; though perhaps this universa- 
 lity of feeling and design, is found to diffuse itself more 
 in the Drama, than any other species of writing — yet it 
 ever attends all the truer and more permanent produc- 
 tions of the Muse — for this reason it is, that the impres- 
 sions made by Tragedy are of a more general and last- 
 ing influence, than those excited by the efforts of the 
 Comic Muse. 
 
 * Various definitions as to the nature of those sever- 
 al productions, to which we affix the term poetry, have. 
 
 * The definition of Poefiy contained in the text, coincides we think 
 exactly with the one given by Lord Bacon — that " it is an accommoda- 
 tion of the shows of things to the desires of the mind;" alluding strictly 
 and exclusively to fiction; but Mr. Campbell in his late Lectures upon 
 Poetry, thinks proper to extend the above definition, as applying to all 
 Poetry — asserting that fiction, in one acceptation, is by no means neces- 
 sary to Poetry — namely, when understood to mean a " feigning of 
 events and characters;" now to our humble apprehension there can be 
 no other meaning attached to the term, and if there be no other, then 
 Mr. CampbclPs opinion is altogether at variance with that of Lord Ba- 
 con. According to the latter, fiction is Poetry — mere fanciful associations, 
 says Mr. Campbell, do not constitute fiction, and these alone being 
 found to exist in the works alluded to in the text, of course they are 
 not fictions, consequently not Poems, and this is all wc contend for: we 
 
UPON POETRY. 171 
 
 been given by different theorists upon the subject; the 
 truest perhaps is that which declares it to be the " lan- 
 guage of the passions" — this we think no one will dis- 
 
 certaiuly admit that fanciful associations do not alone constitute Poetry, 
 but at the same time there are few fictions if any, in which these are not 
 to be found. Mr. Campbell thinks that Lord Bacon's definition, as ap- 
 plying alone to imaginary history, too limited and indeterminate, and 
 mentions the Ode, which Lord Bacon excludes, as properly coming 
 within the scope of the definition; but Sappho's Love Ode, which Mr. 
 Campbell says, gives you the '^realities of nature;" and yet " accom- 
 modates the shows of things to the desires of the mind," is still in some 
 measure of imaginary beauty — heightened to that degree which is con- 
 sistent with probability, and such is the beauty of all fiction — so that 
 Lord Bacon is correct, at least in applying his definition to imaginary 
 histoiy or fiction, under which head the Ode, certainly the higher Ode, 
 is we think included; thus then we are of opinion, that the beauties of 
 passion and imagination, heightened to that degree which is consistent 
 with probability, should pi-operly be considered as constituting Poetry ia 
 the strictest sense of the term — and beauties so heightened, amount to a 
 degree of fiction, but fiction limited by probability; but it may be asked 
 has probability been made the standard of invention in the Orlando or 
 the Tempest? to this we answer, that the mind makes allowance for the 
 ptculiar agency employed in those Poems, and this allowance once 
 made, there is a consistency of keeping throughout, that carries with it 
 a sufficient air of probability mingling with the fiction. When Lord Ba- 
 con says, that Poetry is fiction, he only says in other words (hat fiction 
 presents to the mind all those assemblages of images, and those delight- 
 ful associations that constitute the very essence of Poetry: these heio-ht- 
 ened at the same time, and the feelings they give rise to, sustained with 
 
17:2 OBSERVATIOKS 
 
 pute, when it is considered, how many opposite species 
 of writings, have been classed under this head; wherein 
 for the most part, the imagination alone has been em- 
 ployed — that is, where fanciful images by way of illus- 
 tration, have been introduced. The Telemachus of Fe- 
 nelon, the Romance of Cervantes and others, are usual- 
 ly termed Poems. The Sermons of Taylor, are said to 
 be replete with fine poetical imagery, the writings of 
 Addison, also are highly imaginative — and the metaphy- 
 sicians of the Elizabethan age, are said to have looked 
 upon man and nature, not merely through tlie " specta- 
 cles of books" — but with the " frenzy of a Poet's eye." 
 It has been said indeed, that every man of fine genius, 
 is naturally more or less a Poet, in as much as he is im- 
 bued with a feeling for the sublime and beautiful; but 
 this is surely a very false doctrine — to attach the name 
 of Poet to every writer of great powers, would be gross- 
 ly to misapply the term; no author of antiquity, and cer- 
 tainly none among the moderns, ever possessed a nicer 
 or a deeper sense of the beauties of Nature and of Art, 
 as evinced in his writings, than Longinus; liis Critique 
 
 a corresponding dignity and elevation by the passion of the Poet, and it 
 is in consequence of the absence of this fire and continued elevation, 
 in the works alluded to in the text, that they are denied any claims to 
 poetical inspiration — after all perhaps, Poetry is a mystery — like 
 Religion, rather to be/eit than reasoned upon. 
 
UPON POETRY. 173 
 
 upon the Homeric Poems, is full of lofty and fanciful il- 
 lustration; but no one at the same time we apprehend, 
 can be so far misguided in his notions upon the subject, 
 as to pronounce him a Poet, in the strictest acceptation 
 of the term. Addison, who though a man of genius, was 
 certainly no Poet, has nevertheless some images in 
 themselves, highly poetical and grand; but then how 
 cold and formal do they appear, when clothed in the 
 stately garb of his unimpassioned Muse! witness for in- 
 stance, his comparison in the Campaign of a general 
 marching to battle, to an angel — " riding the whirlwind 
 and directing the storm;" the image here, is in itself one 
 of great strength and sublimity, worthy of a mind of fine 
 powers, but how inadequately conveyed! the writer was 
 capable of conceiving, but not of expressing, such an idea. 
 In the hands of Homer or of Shakspeare — the reader 
 would have been made to feel, as well as perceive the 
 loftiness of the thought; the image, moreover, stands 
 alone — not preceded or followed by any others of a cor- 
 responding force and beauty — like a diamond in a crown 
 of thorns — it was a happy thought, elicited in a happy 
 moment — not the rich burst of inspiration, always swel- 
 ling at the soul, and darting upwards its " pyramids of 
 fire" — meteors of the minds, starry world — Longinus, 
 when he likens the Iliad to the midday, and tlie Odyssey 
 to the setting sun, the former to the ocean at its full, the 
 
174 OBSERVATIONS 
 
 latter at its ebb, presents you with images of greatness 
 unrivalled — notwithstanding which, Longinus was no 
 Poet. It* has been said, that the delight which Poetry 
 bestows, partakes strongly of pain, and that •• the com. 
 positions which attract us the most powerfully, are those 
 
 * A few days previous to these Observations being put to press, the 
 Author, anxious to learn what a writer of such merited celebrity had 
 to say upon this subject — turned to Mr. Campbell's first Lecture upon 
 Poetry, republished in the Literary Gazette; and was not a little 
 disappointed to find him, instead of offering some theory of his own — 
 contentinghimself with barely mentioning the strange position, which 
 has been maintained by some writers upon its debateable ground, but 
 which has been so completely overthrown by Knight in his Essays upon 
 Taste — namely, that an extreme degree of privation constituted a source 
 of sublimity: in answer to the question, how is it that the mind derives 
 pleasure from painful representations, it has been said that there is a 
 portion of sublime feeling connected with high excitement — no doubt, 
 but surely not with every species and degree of emotion, because were 
 this the case, fear and jealousy, thirst and hunger, would each become 
 a source of sui)limify; but no man about to be precipitated from a pre- 
 cipice, tortured upon the rack of horrible suspicion, or perishing of fa- 
 mine, was ever conscious of sublime emotion. Without being blinded by 
 partiality for self, we cannot but think therefore, that the explanation of 
 this moral phenomenon contained in the text, the most consonant to rea- 
 son and experience. Mr. Campbell was not acquainted however, as he 
 tells us himself, with Knight's Essays when writing his Lecture; and as 
 he appears to admire the Essayist, he will no doubt bring himself to 
 agree with him upon this point. However it may savour of presumption, 
 the Author must confess, that he felt a strong disposition to examine one 
 
UPON POETRY. 175 
 
 which produce in us, most of the efiects of actual suiFering 
 and wretchedness;" this may sound somewhat paradoxi- 
 cal, but has been thus accounted for: the gratification which 
 
 or two other of Mr. Campbell's arguments, which appeared to him very 
 inconclusive and indeed almost incorrect. Schlegel's specious doctrine 
 for instance, that in the literary as the natural world, there is a pe- 
 riod of bloom and maturity, after which follows decay — has been taken 
 up by Mr. Campbell: he merely echoes the opinion, however, without at- 
 tempting its support by any reasoning of his own — there is a remarkable 
 incident in the history of Spanish Poetry, of its sudden rise from almost 
 unexampled corruption, to the utmost perfection — occasioned by the ex- 
 ertions of a single genius, Calderon, who found it in that state of ex- 
 treme carelessness and vitiation, into which it had been plunged by the 
 false taste of his predecessor Lope de Vega: this fact would serve to cor- 
 rect the theories, upon which the doctrine of a regular progress and de- 
 cline in art is supported. The question, also, whether in the advance- 
 ment of the human mind from barbarism to refinement, Poetry be not 
 found to constitute an intermediate stage, is really examined by Mr. 
 Campbell, with a seriousness which would seem to imply, that the ob- 
 ject of the Poet was the same with that of the Philosopher — namely, 
 human improvement, and this alone; that while the latter is busy in 
 tracing the fact of the abberrations of the fixed stars, the former should 
 employ his pen in describing to us their exact aspect, were it possible to 
 ascertain it — that philosophy has some little influence upon Poetry, it is 
 true, but it can no more destroy or even weaken its powers, than those 
 of the mind itself; when it overthrows the latter, the former will no 
 doubt fall with it, but not till then — upon the whole, the second part of 
 Mr. Campbell's Lecture is characterised rather by felicity of diction, of 
 which he certainly is a master, than by newness or depth of thought. 
 
176 OBSERVATIONS 
 
 we derive from representations of life and character, 
 as surrounded bj circumstances, and assailed by events 
 the most afflicting, results not from any sense of plea- 
 sure which we experience from such representations in 
 themselves, but is accounted for in the circumstance of 
 those representations, awakening feelings and reflec- 
 tions more powerful and overwhelming, than any other 
 that can possibly affect us: the stronger the impression 
 made, the more permanent it becomes — and it has been 
 truly said, that there is always a call for such appeals 
 to our sympathies: it is these chiefly that sustain exist- 
 ence, and render us sensibly alive to it — there is a na- 
 tural propensity in our natures, to awaken and indulge 
 in strong sensation; there is perhaps an appetite for in- 
 tense feeling, more general than persons are willing to 
 allow; if we except cases where the heart has become 
 " brazed by custom," there is a feeling of false shame, 
 which many labour under when they have found them- 
 selves weeping without any apparent cause; their teai'S 
 they term a weakness, and end perliaps in vaunting their 
 inaccessibility to any softer visitings of nature; while 
 unmeaning mirth, which is often but anotiier name for 
 insensibility, becomes the presiding genius of their lives; 
 but the wise, it has been said, have a far deeper sense, 
 and "so near grows life to death,'' they know and feel 
 full well that man has greater reason for his tears than 
 
UPON POETRY. 177 
 
 his smiles. But putting aside these general reflections, 
 it will be found, upon analyzing the sources of all emo- 
 tion, that there is a character in suffering, if we may be 
 allowed the expression, which absorbs the mental ener- 
 gies to an intensity that rewards itself; that is, in 
 such representations of suffering, as while they do not 
 oppress us with a deadening reality, afford a wholesome 
 and a soothing melancholy exercise to the powers ot 
 our moral being — " all suffering doth destroy, or is de- 
 stroyed, even by the sufferer;" downright agony like 
 darkness, is negative; there is nothing sufficiently defi- 
 jiite in it, to afford the mind that repose which carries 
 with it a temporary calm; while those exhibitions and 
 the sensations arising from them, of pain, that are tem- 
 pered by certain alleviating circumstances, are highly 
 favourable to that noble moral enthusiasm, which marks 
 and elevates our being; they resemble that dubious twi- 
 light, which is one of the most powerful sources of the 
 sublime; who that ever studied the two faces in that di- 
 vinp prndiiction of Romney, representing Shakspeare 
 nursed by Tragedy and Comedy, bui has felt and owned 
 the depth and fullness, the truth and energy of expres- 
 sion portrayed in the countenance of the Tragic Muse, 
 which told that her devotions were not of this world, 
 and that her aspiration were fixed upon the immensity 
 and sublimity of Heaven? Poetry then is made up of 
 
176 OBSERVATIONS 
 
 we derive from representations of life and character, 
 as surrounded by circumstances, and assailed by events 
 the most afflicting, results not from any sense of plea- 
 sure which we experience from such representations in 
 themselves, but is accounted for in the circumstance of 
 those representations, awakening feelings and reflec- 
 tions more powerful and overwhelming, than any other 
 that can possibly aifect us: the stronger the impression 
 made, the more permanent it becomes — and it has been 
 truly said, that there is always a call for such appeals 
 to our sympathies: it is these chiefly that sustain exist- 
 ence, and render us sensibly alive to it — there is a na- 
 tural propensity in our natures, to awaken and indulge 
 in strong sensation; there is perhaps an appetite for in- 
 tense feeling, more general than persons are willing to 
 allow; if we except cases where the heart has become 
 " brazed by custom," there is a feeling of false shame, 
 which many labour under when they have found them- 
 selves weeping without any apparent cause; their tears 
 they term a weakness, and end perhaps in vaunting their 
 inaccessibility to any softer visitings of nature; while 
 unmeaning mirth, which is often but another name for 
 insensibility, becomes the presiding genius of their lives; 
 but the wise, it has been said, have a far deeper sense, 
 and "so near grows life to death,*' they know and feel 
 full well that man has greater reason for his tears than 
 
UPON POETRT. 177 
 
 liis smiles. But putting aside these general reflections, 
 it will be found, upon analyzing the sources of all emo- 
 tion, that there is a character in suffering, if we may be 
 allowed the expression, which absorbs the mental ener- 
 gies, to an intensity that rewards itself; that is, in 
 such representations of suffering, as while they do not 
 oppress us with a deadening reality, afford a wholesome 
 and a soothing melancholy exercise to the powers ot 
 our moral being — " all suffering doth destroy, or is de- 
 stroyed, even by the sufferer;" downright agony like 
 darkness, is negative; there is nothing sufficiently defi- 
 jiite in it, to afford the mind that repose which carries 
 with it a temporary calm; while those exhibitions and 
 the sensations arising from them, of pain, that are tem- 
 pered by certain alleviating circumstances, are highly 
 favourable to that noble moral enthusiasm, which marks 
 and elevates our being; they resemble that dubious twi- 
 light, which is one of the most powerful sources of the 
 sublime; who that ever studied the two faces in that di- 
 vinp production of Romney, representing Shakspeare 
 nursed by Tragedy and Comedy, but has felt and owned 
 the depth and fullness, the truth and energy of expres- 
 sion portrayed in the countenance of the Tragic Muse, 
 which told that her devotions were not of this world, 
 and tliat lier aspiration were fixed upon the immensity 
 and sublimity of Heaven? Poetry then is made up of 
 
180 OBSERVATIONS 
 
 upon the subject of Poetry, and implies a doubt of the 
 correctness of the position, that the works which delight 
 us the most, are the fullest of painful representations, it 
 will not be going altogether out of our way, perhaps, to 
 examine. " Shall we never have done with begging the 
 question against enjoyment, and denying or doubting 
 the possibility of the only end of virtue itself, with a 
 dreary wilfulness that prevents our obtaining it?" This 
 is asked, in all the self-complacency and inveterate spi- 
 rit, of an exclusive system of morals and of mind. The 
 systems of the few, are ever selfish and confined. Those 
 ideas alone attain to an universal assent, which are 
 founded upon the broad and immutable basis of a genu- 
 ine and enlightened philosophy; and upon a clear and 
 deep insight into the elementary principles of our na- 
 ture. The Moralist should speculate upon human cha- 
 racter as the Poet describes it, in the abstract; that is, 
 removed and freed in some measure, from those vi'e and 
 artificial forms, and those restrictive maxims of numan 
 policy, which tend to force upon man an appearance of 
 character, as shallow and sophistical as themselves; 
 and which united to the moulding events of time, 
 throw a shade upon the virtues, and a damp upon the 
 sympathies of the noblest nature, imbuing the heart 
 with bitter waters, and imparting to the mind a spirit of 
 cheerless prospective, by which perhaps, it is lead to 
 make a somewhat false estimate of life. 
 
UPON POETRY. 181 
 
 To the above pompous question, it may be said, in 
 reply, that no man is unhappy through choice, and al- 
 though the end of virtue be to make us happy, yet it 
 does not follow, that they who are unhappy, should be 
 without virtue. This, however, seems clearly to be the 
 doctrine of Mr. Hunt. He is evidently under the influ- 
 ence of two systems — his poetical and moral creeds; all 
 human systems are founded upon peculiar and indivi- 
 dual ideas, and the accidents of time; we. should be 
 cautious, therefore, how we lend our assent to such; for 
 however mild and enlightened they may sometimes be 
 in themselves, they are yet liable to great abuse, from 
 the monopolizing vanity of those who take upon them to 
 pronounce all in error, who happen to oppose their pre- 
 judices. No man, unless he be a madman or a natural, 
 could be found with hardihood enough to deny — that 
 there was virtue in the world, because he himself 
 was without it; nor doth the man, who is unhappy, 
 doubt that there may be much enjoyment in life, thoufh 
 he himself has been denied it. The greatest Poet since 
 the days of Milton, and one of the greatest that have 
 ever appeared in any age or nation, whose wrongs have 
 been as conspicuous and as mighty as his genius, after 
 suffering all that human malice could inflict, tells you, 
 notwithstanding, that he believes "two, or one, to be almost 
 what they seem, that goodness is no name, and happiness 
 
 R 
 
182 OBSERVATIONS 
 
 no dream." Yet Mr. Hunt seems to think, that one of the 
 strongest arguments in support of his doctrine, that eve- 
 ry man might be happy who set about being so, is de- 
 rived from the circumstance, tliat tliey who appear to 
 be otherwise, never fail to assert that there is no such 
 thing as pleasure to be found, and are miserable, not 
 only in consequence of believing that misery was des- 
 tined for them, but because they vv'ilfully persist in the 
 conclusion of there being no happiness upon earth. Now 
 few things can be more lamentable than arguments like 
 these, or more clearly evince that where it wislies to es- 
 tablish a favourite doctrine, or oppose one it does not 
 like, the mind scruples not to employ reasonings, at 
 which, if the result of ignorance, idiocy itself would 
 blush: and if of deliberate purpose, we shudder to dis- 
 cover in the very preachers about morals and good or- 
 der, neither morality nor common justice. 
 
 When the great Father of ancient philosopliy de- 
 clared, (we cannot agree with those who imagine, that 
 he meant by this confession, to throw an air of ridicule 
 upon the vain speculations of the Sophists, but rather 
 that his real object was to convey a moral lesson, in re- 
 minding us of the short-sightedness and imperfection 
 of all human knowledge,) when Socrates avered, that all 
 we know is, that nothing can be known, lie did not design 
 thereby to say, tliat because we do not know every thing. 
 
UPON POETRY. loo 
 
 we know nothing; his words were intended merely as 
 a comment, upon tlie fleeting instability of all subluna- 
 ry things, and the finite powers of the human intellect. 
 As well then might Mr. Hunt carp at this doctrine, and 
 say that Socrates' philosophy was of a billions and mor- 
 bid nature, as pronounce those " blasphemers of nature's 
 goodness," wlio, when they mean to express the mixed 
 character of human enjoyment, arising from the feeling, 
 that " the ways of God are" not always "justified to 
 man," allow themselves, perhaps, too great a latitude of 
 sweeping expression, and tell you tliat there is little, if 
 any thing, worth living for; their " blasphemy" amounts 
 to this. " All our knowledge," says Stillingfleet, the 
 learned author of the Origines Sacrte, " consists mere- 
 ly in the gathering up of some scattered fragments, of 
 what was once an entire fabric;" well, the Poet upon 
 the subject of human happiness, says no more than this, 
 that all our enjoyment in this probationary state, con- 
 sists in the melancholy task of gathering together, and 
 cherishing as well as we can, those scattered and almost 
 withered blossoms of hope and promise, whose gei^ms 
 had once a deep and ample flourish, before sin had en- 
 tered the garden. Thus according to Mr. Hunt's no- 
 tions, these two great men, both conspicuous for their 
 piety, were likewise "involuntary blasphemers of na- 
 ture's goodness." But again, the mind when under the 
 
184 OBSERVATIONS 
 
 influence of any strong emotion, veiy naturally expres- 
 ses itself in language corresponding to its feelings; thus 
 when Hamlet declares the world to be " an unweeded 
 garden, that grows to seed," his passion is evidently 
 roused to the last degree; and he gives vent to it very 
 naturally in such a reflection; notwithstanding which, 
 all that he means to say is, that the world is generally 
 depraved. Thus we think Mr. Hunt's arguments fall 
 to the ground through their own weakness. He is per- 
 haps a very moral man, like many others of his profes- 
 sion, and therefore may not like such bitter overflowings 
 of the Spirit; he should remember, however, tliat very 
 good men will sometimes swear. The fact is, Mr. Hunt's 
 notions as to the nature and the end of Poetiy, are of a 
 piece with those he has already broached upon the sub- 
 ject of versification, equally false and puerile; unfitted 
 for any lofty flights in the former, he strenuously re- 
 commends mere simplicity and familiarity in its crea- 
 tions; equally incapable of imparting the least strength 
 or dignity to the latter, he is for ever more canting about 
 the bad taste of the French school; its cold and artificial 
 refinements; and in affecting to admire and imitate the 
 chaster beauties of the old Rnglish style, he falls into 
 the opposite extreme of the most disgusting freedom and 
 vulgarity; and has unfortunately adopted all the errors, 
 without perceiving or possessing any of the merits of 
 
"UPON POETRY. 185 
 
 the writers of the Elizabethan age. Mr. Hunt is more- 
 over an epicurean in morals, and he tells you himself 
 that his " Poetical tendencies very luckily fall in with 
 his moral theories;" his Poetry accordingly is of a 
 cheerful and lively cast: but in the exclusiveness of a 
 mind very far from possessing first rate powers, and 
 certainly not imbued with a spirit of true Poetry, he is 
 for condemning every thing in morals and in mind, that 
 will not bear, according to the false standard of excel- 
 lence in both, which he has arrogantly proposed to him- 
 self. The fact is, we no longer recognise as immutable, 
 the peculiar notions upon which have been founded, 
 those absurd maxims in morals and in literature, which 
 have resolved themselves into what it has been fashion- 
 able among Pedants, to term standards in those several 
 departments of human pursuit. 
 
 Voltaire, speaking of the little attention paid by 
 the moderns to the unities of the Drama, remarks, that 
 it is as essential in constructing a good Play, that the 
 writer should observe these frigid regulations, as that 
 the architect in building should understand, in order to 
 apply the rules of his art; now, surely few things can 
 be more absurd than such an illustration; you might as 
 well deprive the builder of his tools, as of the means, 
 which consist in the knowledge, of using them. vShaks- 
 peare needed no mechanical guides, and employed none 
 R 2 
 
186 OBSERVATIONS 
 
 in the construction of his Dramas: yet was he fertile in 
 the means whereby they were formed. The one is pure- 
 ly intellectual, the other a matter of precept and of 
 practice. But Voltaire, like Leigh Hunt, was overawed 
 by the authority of what are called standard works; 
 from whose decision upon these points they would fain 
 persuade you, there is no appeal. 
 
 To return to the moral philosophy, we cannot say 
 philosophical morals of Leigh Hunt, we would examine 
 a little further, as they lie in our way, his opinions af- 
 fecting that species of poetry, which seems to be the re- 
 sult rather of a certain constitutional temperament, than 
 of any defect in mental or moral organization, as he 
 seems to think. We do this the more willingly, as it 
 may afford us an opportunity of evincing the falacy of 
 those sentiments that tend to reflect upon the mind, and 
 consequently the theological tenets (for these are re- 
 garded now a-days as of close affinity,) of some of the 
 greatest geniuses, that have adorned the literary annals 
 of any age or country. Mr. Hunt is the poet of social and 
 of rural life; and although he affects to condemn the bad 
 taste of the Continental School, he is himself as deeply 
 tinctured witli its prejudices, and fettered by its cold 
 and formal perceptions, as though he had been brought 
 a professed disciple of its principles. He sits down 
 to write moreover, evidently under the influence of a 
 
UPON POETRY. 187 
 
 self- suggested and most idolized system, the end of 
 which is, to introduce, or as he says, revive a relish for 
 the more simple beauties of Poetry; rural life and occu- 
 pations, dancing and music, the more lively and fanci- 
 ful portions of Greek fable, and the happier and bright- 
 er creeds of Christian faith; these tending to diffuse a 
 spirit of cheerfulness, charity, justice and good fellow- 
 ship among men, which is clearly desirable, and which 
 he thinks it has been the aim of every great Poet to ef- 
 fect. Of course among these Mr. Hunt numbers himself. 
 Thus he sets out, and has the vanity to tell you so with- 
 al, with the view not of writing Poetry, but of framing 
 rules and maxims of morality; and the verses comprised 
 in his volumes, are intended as specimens or illustra- 
 tions of what he advances upon this doctrinal point. 
 
 Now all this may seem very specious, but as knaves 
 and hypocrites cant most of that they never practice, 
 this is a mere show and pretence of writing; a gaudy 
 drapery to hide deformity; a mere bustle to prevent his 
 imbecility from being suspected. But his design ends 
 not here, of recommending in Poetry a certain tone of 
 feeling and of thought, like all inferior minds wedded to 
 system, adopting prejudices to hide weaknesses, per- 
 ceiving no beauty in any thing that does not tally with 
 his own individual notions of the great or beautiful, he 
 is at open war with those who either in their writings or 
 
188 OBSERVATIONS, &C. 
 
 their lives, give proof of upholding different sentiments 
 and theories from his own. The Sophist and the Epi- 
 curean, however formally at variance, are now a-days, 
 we are inclined to think, very much allied, and perfect- 
 ly concur in their notions as to the nature and the sources 
 of nioral virtue. Mr. Hunt has as much, perhaps more 
 of the enthusiast in his composition, than any of those 
 ^^'riters whom he presumes to arraign, for what he sage- 
 ly conceives to be their errors of head and heart; and 
 when he preaches about the " involuntary blasphemers 
 of nature's goodness,*' if he designs any allusion to the 
 Cloistered Votarist, who bends before his crucifix or 
 rosary, in hope of appeasing or averting the wrath he 
 deprecates, or the glorious martyr who perishes in de- 
 fence of his faith, he himself, we must tliink, is the 
 " blasphemer" he denounces: if on the other hand, he 
 meant to convey any censure or reflection upon the 
 writings of those great men, who because they look 
 somewhat deeper into things have a more sorrowful 
 sense than his own, he is like the dog barking at the 
 moon, because he cannot reach it. 
 
OBSERVATIONS 
 
 POETRY AND THE DRAMA. 
 
 THE DRAMA. 
 
 There are three questions connected with the Drama, 
 which we propose briefly to examine; — first, whether it 
 be essential to the construction of a good play, that its 
 ground work be historical; — second, whether Tragedy, 
 or the more serious Drama will admit of the introduction 
 of descriptions of external nature; — and last, whether 
 some degree of obscurity be not only admissable, but 
 ■whether it doth not tend to heighten those impressions 
 which it is the business of the Poet to create: — with re- 
 gard to the first of these questions, which has been vari- 
 ously agitated, it is, perhaps, suflicient to observe that 
 some of the most interesting and powerfully written 
 Dramas in any language, are built upon subjects purely 
 fictitious; — the Robbers of Schiller, the Orphan of Ot- 
 way, and the Douglass of Home, and many it is said 
 
190 OBSERVATIONS 
 
 even of Voltaire's Tragedies, are all formed upon suck 
 basis as the imagination supplies. It is moreover the 
 opinion of Dr. Blair, the correctness of whose judgment 
 in these matters is not to be impugned, that it is of very 
 little moment whether the Dramatist draw his materials 
 from the pages of tlie Historian, or from sources supplied 
 bj his own invention; but without appealing to the au- 
 thority of judges, whose opinion alone, perhaps, would 
 be sufficient to settle all dispute — or referring to exam- 
 ples that might bear us out upon the point — we will ex- 
 amine the question for ourselves. It will appear, we 
 think, to every unbiassed mind, upon a moment's reflec- 
 tion, that inasmuch as we go to a theatre rather for the 
 purpose of moral than of intellectual gratification, ra- 
 ther with the view of witnessing great physical exertion 
 on the part of those who present themselves in any try- 
 ing and interesting scene, and of having our sympathies 
 elicited by such scene, it is of little import whether that 
 exertion be displayed in portraying the sufferings of a 
 real or imaginary personage, provided the exertion itself 
 be powerful; or whether the scene in which it exhibit 
 itself be one of historical fidelity or fictitious semblance, 
 if that scene be strongly conceived and ably delineated; 
 the display of great power in any shape, or of any de- 
 scription, tends to expand and elevate the mind, and 
 thus becomes a source of the sublime, in feeling and in 
 
UPON THE DRAMA. 191 
 
 thought, ^vhich is ever attended with the highest grati- 
 fication of which our intellectual being is susceptible: 
 let the writer be gifted with strong mental energies — 
 let the tragic performer, who may be said to embody 
 tliose eneigies, be possessed of such qualifications of 
 mind and body as will enable him to sustain and display 
 ihem with a corresponding vigour, and we will answer 
 for the impression which such power is calculated to 
 produce, be it employed upon what theme, or in what 
 manner soever. We are told that some of the greatest 
 Venetian painters are known to have displayed the pow- 
 ers of their genius in the most unattractive, and indeed 
 almost disgusting representations, in which there was 
 little to be found of what is termed imitation or colour- 
 ing of nature, nothing to attract the senses: but then say 
 judges upon the subject, there is such an exhibition of 
 skill and fidelity of execution, as to impress tlie mind 
 with the most overwhelming conceptions of undefined 
 power, and thus to raise and stimulate the imagination 
 with images of the sublime; and as the ideas derived 
 from such exhibitions of skill and power, are associated 
 with and transferred to, the subjects themselves in which 
 this skill and power are made manifest, these subjects 
 become to be invested with all that energy and interest 
 which render them so precious in the judgment and 
 gratifying to the taste, of those capable of discerning 
 
192 OBSERVATIONS 
 
 and relishing true excellence: thus then, let the subjects 
 of the Tragic Muse be ever so unpromising in them- 
 selves — whether they be founded upon fact, or upon such 
 notions of probability as may impart to them an air at 
 least of verisimilitude, it is matter of little or no con- 
 cern, provided the Poet be possessed of strong and ori- 
 ginal genius; in which case, he cannot fail in attaining 
 the end he proposes to himself — which is, by irresistible 
 eloquence, and powerful appeals to the passions, to melt 
 us at one moment into tears, and at another, to expand 
 and elevate the mind, by awakening sentiments of the 
 noblest enthusiasm, and of generous admiration: where 
 this is brought about, the exertions of the Poet have 
 been rewarded, inasmuch as they have proved success- 
 ful, for success is the hope that inspires his pen: there 
 is another point of view in which we will consider this 
 question, of equal consequence with the former, if in- 
 deed it merit at all that degree of importance that has 
 been attached to it; — those who are in favour of the sys- 
 tem of affording to all Tragedy an historical basis, tell 
 you very pompously, that where the Poet makes choice 
 of a proper subject, that is, one in its nature Dramatic, 
 the very circumstance of its being collected from au- 
 thentic records, imparts to it a weight and dignity of 
 character highly adapted to the purposes of the writer, 
 calculated to assist and elevate his developments of 
 
UPON THE DRAMA. 193 
 
 character and design, and affording him an opportunity 
 of throwing around his creations a fictitious but brilliant 
 and imposing appearance, of all that is grand and solemn 
 in science, pomp and parade — it requires very little sa- 
 gacity to detect the real meaning and object of those 
 who hold forth this kind of language, their arguments 
 may appear plausible at first, but upon a moment's re- 
 flection, you discover in them a design and tendency to 
 uphold and establish certain rules and maxims, which it 
 requires very little force of reasoning to controvert — 
 which we cannot but think have been long since ex- 
 ploded in the Drama; and which indeed could never 
 have applied with much weight, inasmuch as we do not 
 conceive them to be founded in nature — "there is no 
 monopoly of poetry," says Schlegel, " for certain ages 
 and nations, and consequently, that despotism in taste 
 by which it is attempted to make those rules universal, 
 which were at first perhaps arbitrarily established, is a 
 pretence which ought not to be allowed;" and to what 
 do these rules refer? to the absurd practice of confining 
 the range and scope of the Poet's imagination, within 
 certain given limits of time and place — those hyper- 
 critics in taste, who are for ever more insisting upon t!ie 
 propriety, and inculcating the necessity of making his- 
 tory the basis of Tragedy, know well enough, that in 
 that case the Poet is under an obligation to adhere to 
 
194 OBSERVATIONS 
 
 the unities of the Drama, and to fetter the flights of his 
 muse with these leaden canons of the schools, is the 
 object, in the attainment of which they labour; but as 
 the zealous bigot in religion, in order to promote the 
 views, and disseminate the doctrines of an exclusive 
 faith — cants most about the terrors of another world, as 
 threatening and impending pver those who reject his 
 peculiar notions and principles — so, these denouncing 
 critics, with the view of establishing a system of their 
 own, and of forcing upon the writer an observance of 
 their narrow laws, assume a tone of high dictation, and 
 tell you, unless your subject be historical, the displea- 
 sure and the frown of those most qualified to judge, will 
 most assuredly prove the reward of your labours — the 
 fact is, there can be but one opinion upon the subject of 
 these unities; those of time and place may be almost 
 altogether dispensed with, while that of action perhaps 
 it may be well to observe: indeed few writers ever feel 
 disposed to violate the unity of their design, where their 
 object is, as it ever should be, to make a deep and lasting 
 impression; though even with regard to this unity, you 
 may discriminate between the individuality and identity 
 of the leading and forming idea, and the various actions 
 and incidents that it may give rise to — the agent must 
 be one, but its operations may be manifold. In the Gre- 
 cian theatre, we are told the unities of time and place, 
 
UPON THE DRAMA. 195 
 
 and necessaiily of action, were a matter of absolute ne- 
 cessity; the very constitution of their Drama rendered 
 an attention to tlieni necessary, being a continued repre- 
 sentation, without pause, the time and place of an ac- 
 tion therefore could not possibly have been varied — the 
 rules that regulated the formation of their Drama, can- 
 not then be made to apply to our own. Why is it, that 
 in the modern Drama, the Prologue is made subservient 
 to the author's plan of expressing his fears and anxieties, 
 and of addressing the audience in " propria personte," 
 before whom he is sensible he stands on trial — we ask 
 why is the Prologue made to answer a purpose of this 
 kind among us, when on the Grecian stage, it was ex- 
 pressly intended to unfold the preliminary circumstances 
 leading to the grand event of any piece? have we fol- 
 lowed the Greeks in this particular? No; why then are 
 we to be fettered by any rules or practices relating to 
 composition of any kind, which they were compelled to 
 observe, because they usually originated either in neces- 
 sity, or the peculiarity of the national taste. A most 
 lamentable instance is recorded of the incongruities re- 
 sulting from a strict adherence to these rules upon the 
 Grecian stage, in the Electra of Sophocles, v/hich is re- 
 garded as one of the best and most correct pieces of 
 which the Greeks could boast — a conspiracy is actually 
 carried on before the very door of the person against 
 
196 OBSERVATIONS 
 
 whom it is set on foot — such an absurdity would not be 
 tolerated at the present day — it was as gross a violation 
 of probability, nay, even grosser than any thing of the 
 same kind that Shakspeare himself ever was guilty of, 
 with all his disregard of these common laws of the 
 Drama; but it has been said, that a strict observance of 
 these rules was not a practice peculiar to the Greeks, 
 but one founded in nature; were this altogether the case, 
 should we not reject tliose pieces in which this natural 
 taw was neglected? Whereas, on the contrary, some of 
 the most masterly productions of Dramatic genius are 
 found deficient in an attention to these regulations — that 
 is, productions the most powerfully interesting and pas- 
 sionate; and it is in such pieces that we are less, if at 
 all, sensible of these improbabilities of change of time 
 and place — and these are the pieces that properly belong 
 to the stage; so that as to the effect being lessened in 
 consequence of perceiving the deception, which results 
 from too gross violation of those rules that tend to keep 
 it alive — they are mistaken who uphold the other opi- 
 nion, because, we say, that in pieces full of interest and 
 passion, and such alone are Dramatic, we are never al- 
 lowed a "breathing time," for these niceties of cold 
 criticism, inasmuch therefore as this is true, those ar- 
 guments in favour of the unities, built upon the suppo- 
 sition that their violation is immediately detected, and 
 
UPON THE DRAMA. 197 
 
 consequently that the spsll is broken in the delusion 
 being lost, must necessarily fall through — for we are 
 never permitted to feel this violation in such tragedies 
 as Othello, Macbeth, or even Hamlet; and as long as we 
 are insensible to it, so long it does not exist. We cer- 
 tainly think it well that all sucli Dramatic authors as 
 Addison, should pay a strict regard to these impositions, 
 for the regularity they introduce, is the sole merit they 
 can lay claim to — and where we have not the beauties 
 of tlie mind, we expect to find at least the formalities of 
 the judgment. We had imagined that Dr. Johnson's 
 reasonings upon this point, had forever silenced the 
 clamors of the advocates of observances of the ancient 
 theatre, but it seems that the weak cavilings of Voltaire, 
 are regarded as having destroyed the manly arguments 
 of the great Lexicographer. With regard to the French 
 writers who lay themselves under the direction of these 
 rules, we well know that among them it is a system of 
 rigid imitation, together with their own imbicility, thus 
 then we think it appears, that Tragedy built upon an 
 historical basis, is necessarily subject to the control of 
 these unities; and that they should maintain their au- 
 thority, is the object held in view by those who would 
 have the Drama so constructed — in order say they, tliat 
 it should arrive at a classical purity and correctness— 
 this word classical however, is grossly misapplied, when 
 s 2 
 
198 OBSERVATIONS 
 
 made to denote or express mere imiformity and sys- 
 tematic arrangement in any composition; the term ori- 
 ginated among the Greeks, from the circumstance of the 
 people having been divided into tribes or classes — those 
 constituting the first class, were called classici, hence 
 all works of the highest merit, were said to be classical^ 
 the word was never meant to express mere regularity 
 in composition, but had a far more liberal and extended 
 application — but modern dulness has perverted the ori- 
 ginal meaning to suit its own purposes — extreme regu- 
 larity, the " sublime of fools," is now regarded as con- 
 stituting the chief, if not the sole merit of any work, 
 and is allowed to appropriate exclusively to itself, the 
 distinction implied in this word of high sound, which 
 has been held up like a " death's-head," to awe and in- 
 timidate, what it has been common among literary " moon- 
 calfs," to term the arrogance and impetuosity of genius. 
 With* regard to the second question relating to the 
 Drama— whether Tragedy will admit of the introduc- 
 
 * We are pleased to find our opinion upon this subject in coinci- 
 dence with that of Sir Walter Scott, who, in some late rennarks upon 
 Novel writing and the Drama, in which he distinguishes the former de- 
 partment from the latter, has the following v"ords, " Description and 
 Narration, which form the very essence of the JVove/, must be very spa- 
 ringly introduced into Dramatic composition, and scarce ever have a 
 good effect upon the stage." We must be allowed to differ with the 
 
UPON THE DRAMA. 199 
 
 tion of descriptions of external nature, it may be re- 
 marked, that like the choral songs of the Grecians, they 
 may be very^ne, but cold and unnatural; and as it has 
 
 ivriter however, when he tells us that the Novelist, in attempting the 
 Drama, fails not so much from a want of Dramatic talent, as from a 
 deficiency of skill in inventing and conducting the common mechanism 
 of the stage — not so much from a want of power, as of certain habits 
 of mitid — these two provinces of literature are more widely opposed 
 however, than it is generally supposed, and require, each, peculiar pow- 
 ers of mind; that is, powers balanced in peculiar relationship — imagin- 
 ation is required of the Geometer as well as of the Poet, and yet its pro- 
 cess in the mind of the former, is very different from what it is in that 
 of the latter; the faculties of imaginative perception, abstraction, com- 
 bination and association, belong alike to the Poet and the Painter; and 
 yet the process of each of these powers in the mind of the one, is con- 
 trary to what it is in that of the other; and this amounts almost to dis- 
 tinct powers themselves — the Dramatist may certainly become a good 
 Novelist, as in the instance of Maturin; while the professed Novelist 
 has seldom perhaps succeeded in the Drama — the failures of Fielding 
 and others, bear testimony to the fact; this may perhaps be thus ac- 
 counted for, the former is supposed (o possess all the powers of the 
 Poet; and the Romance, or higher Novel lies in the region of poetry; 
 whereas, to the latter, many of these powers are denied, or at least not 
 given in equal ratio, and differently tempered a priori — the Dramatic 
 writer in essaying the Novel, has only to call in all the various powers 
 of his mind; but the Novelist, in attempting the Drama, finds it neces- 
 sary to exert energies to which his mind has been a stranger — he has 
 been habituated to indulge in theory and amplification, he finds it re- 
 quisite to analyse and compress; he has been accustomed to wander in 
 
200 OBSERVATIONS 
 
 been suggested, that had the dialogue been first intro- 
 duced upon the Greek theatre, the chorus probably would 
 never have been invented; in like manner we think, that 
 
 the region of imagination, he is called down from his high flights to ad- 
 just the differences and lead the disordered powers of the heart; it is not 
 the sensible medium through which the Dramatist conveys his concep- 
 tions, that interferes with the mental habits of the Novelist, for he could 
 easily render himself familiar with this, but the faculties of his mind 
 are required to exert themselves with a higher degree of vigour, more 
 intense, and more difficult to be commanded by him than restrained by 
 the Dramatist; he has not the absorbing fire of the latter — his nice and 
 intuitive insight into human character perhaps, his elastic springs of 
 feeling and of thought, that elevate or depress the sympathies as they 
 may be plaintively or passionately touched, that " fine frenzy" that is 
 caught from within, lighting up the temple where inspiration sits, and 
 which, bursting in its fulness, imparts to the surrounding atmosphere of 
 feeling, its electrifying influence. It is not a little singular to obsex-vc 
 the disagreement between two able writers, relative to the operations of 
 an art, with which it is to be supposed they are familiarly acquainted, 
 having often employed their pens in its service. Mr. Campbell is of 
 opinion, that the Poet seldom or never copies from living nature, but 
 presents you with exemplars of ideal existence — Sir Walter Scott, on 
 the contrary, remarks that the Poet is furnished with his materials ra- 
 ther by the study of actual life, than by the selecting powers of the 
 imagination — when Mr. Campbell says, however, that some living per- 
 sonage has usually perhaps been made " tbe rallying point to the innu- 
 merable orii^inal traits of the fancy;" he makes a very just remark, and 
 one which we thmk must settle all differences of opinion upon this sub- 
 ject. 
 
UPON THE DRAMA. 201 
 
 had human character and fassion, been first employed 
 in place of those cold and studied beauties, those ab- 
 stract speculations, and pompous descriptions of exter- 
 nal objects, which alone found countenance and credit 
 upon the ancient stage — the latter would never have been 
 allowed to usurp the legitimate claims of the former, 
 to an exclusive reign and dominion. We will pursue an 
 examination of the question a little further, by stating 
 what we conceive to be the great distinction that obtains 
 between E2iic and Dramatic writing, in order to evince, 
 that these descriptions of natural scenery, more properly 
 belong to the former than to the latter, and this differ- 
 ence is found to consist in the circumstance that in the 
 former the Poet speaks alone; whereas, in the latter, he 
 disappears altogether, which is in the highest degree 
 favourable to such descriptions. They therefore more 
 naturally occur in Epic than in Dramatic Poetry, that 
 is, in Tragedy; for in the lighter or more unimpassion- 
 ed pieces of the stage, such for instance as many of 
 Shakspeare's Historical plays, in which there is little 
 passion, taking that word in its strictest sense, and con- 
 sequently little to rivet the attention — where there are 
 few appeals to the affections, the work must address it- 
 self more or less to the imagination, according to the 
 nature of the plot and connection of the story: in works 
 of this mixed character, and in the Epic, where the 
 Poet more frequently exhibits himself as one of the per- 
 
202 OBSERVATIONS 
 
 sons of the Drama — where he individually describes 
 things and persons, we may consistently look for episodes, 
 abstract moralizing philosophical reflections, and rural 
 descriptions; for without these, the Poet would be at a 
 stand, as he seldom if ever brings t\\Q j^^^^^^^^^ i^^^o play — 
 conflicting and mingling in their stormy elements, to 
 lighten and to thunder before the nakedness and tender 
 susceptibility of our roused and enlisted sympathies, he 
 must have recourse to his imagination, which, if it be 
 stored with rich imagery, and classic recollections anil 
 allusions, cannot fail of dappling with its " gorgeous 
 palaces, and cloud-capt towers;" but these splendid de- 
 corations of the fancy, seldom affect the heart — when 
 introduced therefore into Tragedy, where terror, love, 
 and pity are the soft and thrilling chords to be touched — 
 where human character and passion are represented as 
 struggling witli the chains of despotism, the suggestions 
 of ambition or revenge, the toils of treachery, the ener- 
 gies of disordered power, or the violation and the wreck 
 of friendship and of love, if the creatures of the ima- 
 gination be allowed to figure in pieces of this cast, its 
 glories will appear like " stars, set on a frosty night," 
 distinct, but distant — clear, but cold — in the Drama, men 
 and manners may be said to represent and delineate 
 themselves; no fictitious adornments should be allowed 
 to arrest and captivate the fancy, at the expense of na- 
 
UPON THE DRAMA. 203 
 
 lure, and in open contradiction to experience; one deep, 
 warm, and consistent vein of feeling and of action sliould 
 pervade the whole — the great difficulty attending this 
 mode of composition, is found to lie in the art of sus- 
 taining, and the keeping, as 'tis termed, of character; 
 the necessity of thus continually preserving in mind the 
 peculiar traits and distinguishing characteristics with 
 which the writer sets out, in supposing each of his cha- 
 racters to be endowed either by nature or by habit, from 
 which their actions receive a tincture, and by which they 
 themselves are recognised and estimated; the restric- 
 tions imposed upon the flights of the imagination, by this 
 obligation of fulfilling the promises with which the au- 
 thor commences his work, and of strictly bearing in view 
 the legitimate end of the Dran\a — this very maxim would 
 seem to involve in its direction, a caution against all ab- 
 stract speculation, frigid strains of declamatory senti- 
 ment, and moralising discourses upon external nature, 
 and in the exclusion of such representations, is found to 
 consist the principal distinction, found to obtain between 
 Epic and Dramatic writing, as before remarked, between 
 those works in which things are represented and narra- 
 ted by the Poet, and those in which they may be said to 
 act and speak for themselves-— the Epic Poet suits his 
 actions to his characters, and his characters to his ac- 
 tions; he varies his scenes as may best aid his eiibrts; in 
 
£04 OBSERVATIONS 
 
 the Epic a battle is described — in the Drama it is coni- 
 monly brought before the eye— in the former the Poet is 
 employed in full, and often pompous descriptions of cha- 
 racter, in the latter it is made to develop itself; in the 
 one, every thing is brought to conform to general ideasj 
 in the other, to the known and establislied principles of 
 our nature. Homer represents man as he might be sup- 
 posed, Shakspeare as he is found to exist; though all 
 poetic ideas be general, yet there is, perhaps, no mode 
 of the poetical system more free from abstract repre- 
 sentations of all kind, than the Dramatic; it is the opi- 
 nion of the great Philosopher of the Grove, that Poetry 
 is more captivating and philosophical than History — for 
 this very reason, that the ideas of the one are general, 
 while those of the other are individual and confined — 
 Poetry presenting you with exemplars of general nature. 
 History v/ith copies or transcripts from individual life; 
 the scenes and characters portrayed by the latter, ne- 
 cessarily pass away with the times in which they flour- 
 ished; while those of the former, are as eternal as the 
 source from which they spring. The Poet no doubt, may 
 sometimes copy from individual experience, but proba- 
 bility being the standard of poetical invention, the per- 
 sons and situations with which he makes us acquainted 
 have become so much heightened and embellished, that 
 we can seldom if ever trace an identity or even a re- 
 
UPON THE DRAMA. 205 
 
 semblance between the beings of his mind and our senses; 
 while at the same time, we readily assent to the ration- 
 ality of supposing that some of his existences may once 
 have had a " local habitation and a name:" for we na- 
 turally say, whatever may possibly, has probably ex- 
 isted; except indeed in cases where human character 
 and external nature are represented as exhibiting a de- 
 gree of perfection, to which we know from experience, 
 that nothing sublunary can attain. Admiration is usually 
 the feeling that attends our perusal of the pages of the 
 Epic Poet, while our strongest and warmest affections 
 are touched and called into play, by the deep and pa- 
 thetic strains of the Tragic Muse: the gratification de- 
 rived from the former, resolves itself into an abstract 
 sentiment of the head; while the fervid gush of feeling 
 wrung by the latter, springs directly from the heart- 
 terror, love, and pity, are the links, which once touched 
 by the kindling fire of the Poet, communicate to each 
 succeeding link of that electric chain wherewith we are 
 bound, the shock of their intense vibration, pervading 
 and lighting up the soul with an absoi-bing and resistless 
 sorcery. The heart, it has been well observed, judges 
 more nicely than the imagination; to make impressions 
 on the one therefore, requires more truth and power, than 
 merely to hold forth to the other the splendid pageants 
 of fictitious semblance. The Epic Poet deals almost ex- 
 
 T 
 
£06 OBSERVATIONS 
 
 clusively in fable — the Dramatic, comes nearer to our 
 sympathies, and strikes home by representations which 
 we feel to be founded more or less upon an experience 
 derived from observations collected upon life-^life, such 
 as we sometimes see it, and believe it generally to be 
 found — immense scope is thus afforded to the imagina- 
 tion of the former; he may indulge himself in the most 
 detailed and luxurious descriptions of man and nature; 
 while the latter, for reasons just assigned, has a far more 
 arduous task devolving upon him — the fancy is caught 
 and charmed by the brilliant creations of the one, its 
 grottos, waterfalls, and gardens, while the heart must 
 first feel, before it admit the claims of the other, to "un- 
 lock its source of sympathetic tears:" the denouments 
 of the Epic plot, commonly turn upon the intervention 
 of an agency, long since exploded in the Drama — the 
 poetic license, while freely accorded to tlie former, is 
 never now extended to the latter; this circumstance also 
 creates a point of difference between the two species of 
 writing, and evinces, we think, the greater difficulty con- 
 nected with subjects of the Dramatic than the Epic Muse. 
 We now come to the third and last question, which is 
 not perhaps confined to the Drama alone, but applies to 
 Poetry in general; whether some degree of obscurity be 
 not only admissible in all the more serious creations of 
 the Muse, but whether it dotii not tend to heighten those 
 
UPON THE DRAMA. 207 
 
 impressions which it is the business of the Poet to 
 create — and here we cannot but agree with a late able 
 writer upon the subject, that all obscurity is censurable 
 which goes beyond that expansion and elevation of an 
 image, which enables the imagination to conceive it dis- 
 tinctly, though not determiuately: in this notion we find 
 ourselves at variance with Dr. Blair, who seems to think 
 that obscurity necessarily implies indistinctness, which, 
 with all our deference for the opinions of that great 
 critic, we certainly regard as extremely incorrect; in the 
 very examples cited by the Doctor, we have a distinct 
 but by no means a determinate idea of the object de- 
 scribed: " I heard the voice of a great multitude, as the 
 sound of many waters, and of mighty thunderings, say- 
 ing Allelujah;" here the image immediately presented 
 to the mind is sufficiently clear, while at the same time 
 we cannot be said to have a determinate idea of the ob- 
 ject itself, with which it is connected — of the Deity we 
 are told, " he makes darkness his pavilion:" Milton de- 
 scribing the faded lustre of Satan, likens his appeai'ance 
 to the sun seen through "the misty air," or from behind 
 the moon in " dim eclipse." The image which the Poet 
 presents us with of Death, is as indeterminate as his 
 language — " what seemed his head, the likeness of a 
 kingly crown had on;" in all these examples of sublime 
 description conveying corresponding ideas, by elevating 
 
208 OBSERVATIONS 
 
 the imagination with images, that it may enlarge and 
 expand at pleasure — from their not being too minutely 
 pressed upon the mind — in all these examples we say, 
 there is much obscurity thrown around the objects de- 
 scribed, though nothing of indistinctness — just leaving 
 to the fancy sufficient scope for indulging its propen- 
 sity, of amplifying its views and conceptions of objects 
 in themselves grand and impressive, and this is all of 
 obscurity it requires. Milton's Ode to the Nativity is 
 full of wild, and sometimes obscure imagery—. 
 
 " The lonely mountains o'er, 
 And the resounding shore, 
 
 A voice of wail is heard, and loud lament." 
 
 The image of the different deities forsaking their several 
 temples upon the approach of our Saviour, in loud and 
 dismal lamentations, is in the highest degree sublime, wild 
 and impressive; had the Poet entered into a minute and 
 circumstantial detail, he would have rendered the idea 
 tame and familiar, and consequently lessened, if not de- 
 stroyed its mysterious solemnity. Thus then when we 
 speak of obscurity in writing, nothing more is meant, than 
 that the Poet should so shadow forth an image, as to allow 
 full play to the imagination, and room for that expansion 
 and elevation of its conceptions, in embracing ihe object 
 described, which constitute the source of their sublimity; 
 
UPON THE DRAMA. 209 
 
 we will extend these remarks a little further, by availing 
 ourselves of the opportunity here presented of noticing 
 some of the many strictures that have been more pompous- 
 ly than judiciously passed upon Burke's Enquiry into the 
 Sources of the Sublime; however incorrect that great man 
 may have been in much of his reasoning and many of his 
 conclusions upon this subject, he certainly was not as 
 much in the dark as he has been represented to have 
 been: wlien for instance, he says, that darkness is one 
 source of the sublime — he surely never meant to extend 
 the remark as applying to all privations; his idea was, 
 that every great image is necessarily attended with some 
 degree of obscurity, which is correct, and darkness as 
 connected with certain objects and associated with cer- 
 tain impressions, is certainly sublime: lie never meant to 
 assert that the mere absence of light, was in itself and 
 alone a source of sublimity, which is simply a negation, 
 and that therefore all and every degree of it, became a 
 cause of the sublime — and that every image acquired 
 sublimity in proportion as it was rendered obscure, or 
 deprived of that distinctness, without which it is as im- 
 possible that the mind should conceive and embrace it, 
 as that it should have an idea of the mere quality of 
 darkness itself. Light is as much a privation as its con- 
 trary, and too much of the one becomes indistinct, as 
 too much of the other becomes obscure: and it may be 
 
210 OBSERVATIONS 
 
 said with equal truth, that an image set in too much light, 
 is as imperfect as one deprived of all distinctness — "light 
 ineffable" is obscurity, and such is the effulgent mystery 
 which we are taught to believe mantles around the habi- 
 tation of the Deity; in reply to those who affect to ridi- 
 cule this notion of darkness being a source of sublimity 
 by sagely remarking that upon the same principle, non- 
 sense, which is privation of sense, must be equally a 
 cause of the sublime — it may be said that there is such 
 a thing as rendering an idea totally indefinite, by labour- 
 ing to express it too clearly; it becomes lost, like the wit 
 of Aristophanes, by being too pointed and refined; and 
 yet, inasmuch as they ridicule the notion of darkness 
 being sublime, they would seem to support the position 
 that its contrary alone can become so, which would be 
 equally false; so that these caviling critics are as mis- 
 taken in what their refutation of Burke's opinion would 
 seem to imply, as he himself may have been in much 
 that he has advanced upon the subject in dispute. The 
 fact is, Burke meant no more when he declared priva- 
 tion to constitute sublimity, than that there was a cer- 
 tain degree of it which was sublime, even when unac- 
 companied by any object tliat might tend to heighten its 
 effect; as for instance, that dubious twilight which lingers 
 after sun-set, like the faded cheek of Love weeping at 
 the shrine of Memory, for the days that are gone: this 
 
UPON THE DRAMA. 211 
 
 light, which is sublime when deepened to a certain de- 
 gree, becomes lost when surrounded by the shadows of 
 collected night, sweeping into total obscurity, and there- 
 fore into nothingness, the peculiar feelings it before ex- 
 cited; thus then, we think it doth appear, that all objects 
 clothed with that degree of obscurity which, while it 
 enables the mind to form a sufficiently distinct idea of 
 them to be interested in its operations, yet places them 
 at such a distance as to invite its contemplation, are ren- 
 dered in themselves sublime, and consequently that all 
 images drawn from such objects, must necessarily pos- 
 sess a corresponding sublimity: and this is the true mean- 
 ing of the word obscurity, in all its applications, whether 
 made to refer to delineations of human character, or to 
 images taken from the natural world. Upon this princi- 
 ple therefore, it were an easy task to defend from the 
 charge of indistinctness and partial representation, some 
 of the most splendid productions that genius has ever 
 bequeathed to the sympathies of an ungrateful world — 
 we say defend, inasmuch as that world, ignorant of the 
 real sources whence the immortal mind of the Poet is 
 ever found collecting its materials, never having wor- 
 shipped at that shrine upon whose sacred purity, the pro- 
 phetic spirit delights to mantle its choicest incense — 
 never having drank at that fount, whence inspiration 
 gathers in its holiest draught — in short, essentially de&- 
 
212 OBSERVATIONS 
 
 cient in all those qualities and peixeptions, upon the 
 free exercise of which, must depend a thorough insight 
 into the mysteries, and a relish for the beauties of ima- 
 gination and of passion — the mass of mankind are ever 
 found prone to volunteer tlieir strictures upon the Poet, 
 and to arraign him at tlie tribunal of their own narrow 
 conceptions and unenlightened humanity, in all the ex- 
 clusive inveteracy of ig'uorance, and in all tlie despotism 
 of a partial and bigoted prepossession. It is a just re- 
 mark of the great Autlior of the Intellectual System, 
 that men are very apt to measure the extent of all pow- 
 er by that of tlieir own — in allusion to those precious 
 philosophers, if they deserve the name, who ever repose 
 upon the " pillow of doiibt,^^ in cases Avhcre their limited 
 understandings, cannot be brought to such conclusions 
 as they require — in the same way with regard to mind, 
 one man is ever disposed to judge of anothcrs capacity, 
 by reference to his oivn, which he never fails of making 
 the standard of all excellence — -by that happy facility, 
 for which we think folly alone conspicuous, of accommo- 
 dating every thing to its own shortsightedness, by dis- 
 missing as false and incorrect, all that it cannot com- 
 prehend — and like the queen in Hamlet, are ever prone 
 to " lay the flattering unction to their souls," that not 
 their ignorance, but the writers deficiency is to blame. 
 It is objected to the writings of lord Byron, that there 
 
UPON THE DRAMA. 213 
 
 is too much obscurity in many of the thoughts, and not 
 a sufficient development of characters and scenes, to im- 
 part that degree of interest which might otherwise be 
 felt; Byron's genius which indeed " feels with the ar- 
 dour, and debates with the eloquence of heaven" — pos- 
 sessed of the power with whose energies, as exhibited 
 in his works alone we sympathise, was too great not to 
 feel that in all the more serious fictions of the Muse, the 
 strongest and sublimest impressions arise from that con- 
 sciousness, which the mind possesses of the existence of 
 immence and undefined power — whether mental or phy- 
 sical, in any shape or in any mode; it is this feeling 
 which stamps its own gigantic and often melancholy 
 impress upon all his creations — and it is with this we 
 sympathise; it is in the energies of the various powers 
 of the human soul, that we are interested, where the 
 Poet is possessed of that genius which enables him to 
 exhibit them at their height, and fullest exertion; and 
 where we, from a corresponding elevation of mind, are 
 capable of tracing their operations, and rendered sus- 
 ceptible of those feelings, which know how to value their 
 intrinsic sublimity. Byron's powerful representations of 
 the intensity and devotedness of passion, the wild and 
 absorbing asperations after abstract glory and ideal hap- 
 piness, which the enthusiasm of genius ever leads to, 
 the struggles of disordered power, the depression and 
 
214 OBSERVATIONS 
 
 recklessness consequent upon the disappointments of 
 life, the goading horrors of a polluted conscience, the 
 Adndictiveness of hate, and the fiendish suggestions of 
 revenge, all these various powers, so fearfully ^m) faith- 
 fully sustained — carry with them the evidences of the 
 most overivhelming energy; and it is this energy whose 
 potency we are forced to acknowledge, even when exhi- 
 bited under the most terrific aspect. His characters may 
 be said to be personified energies, and not pictures, 
 such as we are presented with in all lighter representa- 
 tions of life — with their full drapery, their lights and 
 shades and various accompaniments. In Byron it is one 
 intense and collected feeling — all might and compres- 
 sion: the mind is not allowed a moments pause in the 
 ardent impetuosity and ii-resistible fascination, with 
 which it is propeled, by which its very existence be- 
 comes riveted in all that it is presented with, which im- 
 presses upon the heart the traces of its own supremacy, 
 and which encircles the memory with the Amaranth of 
 its divine remembrances: the images of all the stern' 
 er passions, and deeper and lovelier affections of the 
 soul, which he never fails to create, and which acquire 
 a more decided severity, and imbibe a wilder and more 
 luxurious magic from the many coloured world of his 
 conceptions — these rays of immortality, come gliding in 
 their own soft and solemn influences upon the heart, 
 breathing around the freshness of their star-light dews 
 
UPON THE DRAMA. 215 
 
 and warming and brightening its source, long after their 
 sun of glory has withdrawn its immediate effulgence: 
 and it is in return for the luxury of these divine visita- 
 tions, that we associate with the Muse of Byron, all that 
 is grand and elevated in enthusiasm, pure and eloquent 
 in passion, generous in ambition, and sublime in those 
 aspirations after glory, that " repose upon the pinnacles 
 of earth, and mingle with the lightenings of Heaven." 
 With regard to another objection that there is too much 
 monotonij in his representations of character, we would 
 remark that the abstract conceptions of man and na- 
 ture, which are embodied in his works, are as true and 
 eternal as the fundamental principles of our Religion — 
 and we might as well complain of the dull uniformity, 
 of the conclusions infei-red from these premises, as cen- 
 sure those delineations of human life, which are founded 
 in the immutable constitution of our being: so much is 
 he the Poet of suffering humanity, that his representa- 
 tions are never wanting in the deepest and most pain- 
 ful interest; admitted that many of his characters, are 
 but new modifications of the same elements, what then? 
 Is not Tragedy conversant with but one set of passions? 
 Condemn the repeated use of these, and what is left the 
 Drama? Would you substitute in the place of Terror, 
 Love, and Pity — Smiles, Wit, and Mirth? Are we tir- 
 ed of the Sun, because lie is for ever with us? Some- 
 times indeed in darkness as well as light, but still the 
 
216 OBSERVATIONS 
 
 same eternal Sun. The reply to these questions we must 
 think, will go to acquit Byron of tlie charge preferred 
 against him; he may make Love, Ambition, Revenge, 
 each the theme of two or more efforts of his Muse — but 
 in doing so, his object is, to evince the different effects 
 produced upon opposite natures, by the action of the same 
 agent — and such is the power of his genius, that his se- 
 veral characters, however represented as swayed and 
 marked each by similar passions, are yet stamped with 
 their own peculiar individuality, and identified with 
 themselves alone: he brings his collected energies to bear 
 upon one point, the effect produced is necessarily over- 
 whelming: vast power concentrated and absorbed with- 
 in itself, in order to a more vigorous display, presents 
 to the mind an image of real greatness: the impression 
 left with us upon closing the pages of Byron, of the 
 might and majesty of the affections, is one so deep and 
 fascinating as for ever to remain fresh upon the heart; 
 rich and potent, never waxing weak or out of date, but 
 rather continually upon the increase: and what more do 
 we ask or can we require of the Poet, tiian that his 
 exertion should by be such, as by awakening, to keep 
 alive those energies and affections of the soul, that are 
 ever prone to lull themselves into inaction? And has 
 not the Muse of Byron, been singularly and signally 
 triumphant in this acliievement? But thus it is, " let 
 Hercules do what he may." 
 
UPON THE DRAMA. 217 
 
 In the number of those who have objected to the 
 works of Lord Byron, Professor Drone, we think, stands 
 conspicuous. This illustrious Greek, no less celebrated 
 for the moral excellencies of his character, than for the 
 clear and original perceptions of his mind, has, with 
 motives which cannot be too highly appreciated, set his 
 face against the writings of this corrupted nobleman; 
 and had it not been for the very just sentence passed by 
 him upon that most wretched effusion of madness and 
 impiety, which, assuming the name, has done violence 
 to the memory of one of the most virtuous of the Italian 
 princes of the sixteenth century, Manfredi the Second — 
 perhaps an instance of the vilest union of immorality 
 and nonsense, that ever appeared in the shape of a book, 
 being not only countenanced, but allowed, by a something 
 little short of the most deplorable halucination of mind, 
 to captivate the senses of a whole world, at the most en- 
 lightened period of its history — we say, had it not been 
 for the laudable exertions of Professor Drone, in repro- 
 bating the dark tendencies of this work, the encourage- 
 ment which would otherwise have most infallibly attend- 
 ed it, must have afforded an instance of mental and 
 moral perversion, which could not have failed to reflect 
 eternal discredit, if not disgrace, upon the age in which 
 we live. We confess, that with all the partiality we have 
 hitherto evinced even for the errors of his Lordship's 
 genius, our admiration of his talents has been consider- 
 
218 OBSERVATIONS 
 
 ably lessened, by virtue of the lucid and incontroverti- 
 ble arguments of this upright Roman, which have suc- 
 ceeded, we believe, in pointing out to the blind infatua- 
 tion of the times, but too favourable to every thing which 
 carries with it an appearance of novelty and revolution- 
 ary innovation — ^the absurd pretences to poetical inspi- 
 ration, which the abovementloned volume would hold 
 forth, and the still more Avretched attempts at introdu- 
 cing and establishing a hideous and brutalising philoso- 
 phy, which, like an oppressive night-mare, would only 
 tend to torture our moral frame of being. We had been 
 disposed, in charity to the failings of a man whose ge- 
 nius we had been accustomed to regard as at once sub- 
 lime and original, to pass over and forget the many 
 terrible confessions of moral pollution that disfigure his 
 pages, closing upon them like a dark curse, whose seal, 
 no other than the unhallowed hand of the Infidel could 
 dare disturb — and to make some allowances for the 
 strange wanderings and miserable perversion of a mind, 
 sickened and embittered, from having been doomed to 
 drink but too deeply of •* the ingredients of the poison- 
 ed chalice," prepared for him by fate, and drugged with 
 deadlier venom by the treachery of those incarnate 
 fiends, who, making a pandemonium of his home, rioted 
 in hideous mockery over the melancholy victim of their 
 hellish arts — yes, we had been inclined from feelings of 
 humanity, to regard his Lordship as " a man more sinned 
 
UPON THE DRAMA. :219 
 
 against than sinning;" but alas! the fairy fabric of our 
 poetic visions, based upon the Iris of Eljsian dreams, 
 has fallen and crumbled into fragments, blasted by the 
 stroke of the enchanters wand — Professor Drone, " full 
 of the magic of exploded science," stalks in triumph 
 over the wrecks and spoils of this vanquished pretender 
 to an exclusive dominion in the realms of necromantic 
 fancy, and adorned with the trophies of his victory, looks 
 contemptuously down upon the defeated efforts of this 
 specious usurper, who was gradually ascending to the 
 throne of that empire, over whose interests and honour, 
 the Professor presides in guardian watchfulness. This 
 great man has proved himself in many instances, strong- 
 ly attached and highly serviceable, to the cause both of 
 Literature and Morals; and the very splendid success 
 which has attended his exertions in overthrowing the 
 pillar of that reputation, in which the dark and design- 
 ing spirit of Byron delighted to exult, is perhaps the 
 least of his many glorious efforts; it is his occupation 
 and his pride, " to teach the young idea how to grow;" 
 and the surprising new lights which his original genius 
 has lately diffused around the science of education, has 
 been such, as to shed around his name the halo of an 
 imperishable glory; and when the world shall speak of 
 the merits of Professor Drone, they will long have for- 
 gotten the memories of such retenders to Science as 
 Bacon, Locke and Beattie. 
 
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