This Day is Published, BLACK WOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE, No. LIII.-VOL. IX. FOR AUGUST, 1821. CONTENTS. I. Horæ Germanicæ, No. XII. The Pilgrimage, a Drama, by the Baron la Motte Fouquè.-II. Ode on the Olden Time-Notes.-III. Morsels of Melody-No. I. The Invitation-No. II. The Separation -No. III. The Dreary Moor-No. IV. The Evening Lake-No. V. The Marble Heart-No. VI. The Evening Star.-IV. Lamb's Translation of Catullus.-V. The Florida Pirate.-VI. On the Probable Influence of Moral and Religious Instruction on the Character and Situation of Seamen. No. II-VII. Inch Keith Beacon.VIII. The Invocation, IX. The Landscape.-X. The Wanderer of Connaught. -XI. Elegy on a Country Maiden.-XII. The Sons of Mooslim. -XIII. Sir Thomas Browne's Letters to a Friend.-XIV. The Plague of Darkness, a Dramatic Scene from the Exodus.-XV. The Last Plague-Notes.-XVI. On Psalm-Singing in our Churches, with some Observations upon the proposed " Additional Psalmody.” -XVII. The Forgers.-XVIII. Works preparing for Publication. -XIX. Monthly List of New Publications.-XX. Monthly Register-Commercial Report-Appointments, Promotions, &c.—Births, Marriages, and Deaths. EDINBURGH: WILLIAM BLACKWOOD, NO. 17, PRINCE'S STREET, FDINBURGH; AND T. CADELL AND W. DAVIES, STRAND, LONDON. His tale in brief (though brevity The needy wretch had strongly begg'd This to the man in office seem'd A favour inadmissible. 'Twas casting on the house a slur, And on him too, the officer, Who govern'd it so well. The applicant of whom he spake, There was a sparkling in his eyes, Upright he stood, and unabashed, Though age so gently press'd him, he It was the rougher foe to him, Thus maim'd, yet he, you still would say, Of freedom breathed from the wild wood, With open front he stood a picture This thread-bare frock, uncouthly patch'd, A forest livery had been; And then in colour 'twas as green "Twas his to watch the antler'd herd, Which peering pass'd in mute alarm, But as he got into an oak, A branch decay'd beneath him broke, And thence he lost his arm. "Well, Arthur," said the Magistrate, "What in thy favour can'st aver? There must, forsooth, be weighty cause To reckon thee, 'gainst parish laws, An out-door pensioner ?" An' please your honour," quoth old Arthur, "I know nought of their rules about it; "Born in the woods, up from a boy "Three years are gone since this befel;" "The ranger gave a bounty, when "Using my wits in works, of which I traversed heath, and moor, and wood, "Revisiting my childish haunts, I roam'd for wild fruits up and down- "And when the riper autumn came, "I cropp'd the whorts upon the moors, "And when it nigh'd to Christmas-tide, "Such were my shifts, poor helps they were Spake the Overseer :- "His worship will Glow'd on the veteran's cheek like fire: you. "I've lived among the ranging deer, "Your house to me would be a prison; For I've in open forest spent My threescore years, without controul ;— "It cannot be," quoth the Overseer. "Be't what it will, it suits not me,— Now, whether he, ere this, has swerved For I was struck at witnessing I loved the heart with which he spake, PROSPECTIVE LETTER CONCERNING POETRY. MR CHRISTOPHER NORTH, MEANING to address to you some remarks, I shall say for the present that I am a young poet wishing to distinguish, by new literary exploits, the reign of George the Fourth. You must remember that all the celebrated bards of the present time have come out under George the Third; but I must turn over a new leaf; and my present perplexity arises from the difficulty of ascertaining what department will be the best for genius to exert itself in. Looking round, I find the external atmosphere filled with scattered phenomena, betokening past commotions. But many clouds of delusion are driving away, and retreating far behind us. The atmosphere seems no longer the same as when it was weighed down and rendered heavy by the powerful bad angel Napoleon. Lest, however, you should think there may be more words than meaning in these metaphors, I shall proceed to speak of my doubts, Mr Christopher, opening them to you in a confidential manner. But, in the first place, I throw aside all useless and narrow-minded fears of the materials of poetry being exhausted, for every new generation being placed in different circumstances, is made to feel what requires to be differently expressed. Poetry may be said to be exhausted historically, and also in the natural or descriptive departments. The books of Homer, Lucretius, and so forth, remain from age to age, and do not require to be succeeded by other productions; but the kind of poetry which each generation is fitted to produce successively, consists of the expression of problems of feeling which occur to itself, according as external circumstances, or the progress of reflection, throw the mind into new positions. We must look towards that kind which is inquisitive and philosophical, and more intent upon exemplifying the general truths of feeling than upon causing a blind sympathy. It is most likely that no good dramatic pieces will be written unless upon a new plan. When minds of strong feeling become reflective and deliberative, their disposition will not accord with those dramas which require an unreflecting surrender of personal sympathy to moving events. And any thing very profound or true would, at present, be read with more satisfaction in a poem or a novel, than seen represented upon the stage. For, when we commune with the heart, it is best done in private, and in a state of perfect liberty from the multitude. The stage is the fit place for buffoonery, for music, for all the arts of grimace, and the display of personal situation. But it will scarcely, at present, be found the place for what is most serious and true in poetry. Some poets have lately been heard complimenting each other in dramatic talent, and pressing and imploring each other to write tragedies; but if this had been the time, and if nature had prompted them, they probably would have done so before now. Most to be desired are the productions of bold, inventive, and inquisitive genius, untrammelled by subjection to any particular form or extrinsic purpose. For enlarging the mind, there can even be nothing better than the exercises of mere fancy; for in works of fancy, the laws of combination cannot be drawn from clumsy experience, or from an adherence to the probability of events. Therefore, in making them, there is no guide but intellect, taste, and the strong feeling of what is agreeable in the transi tions of thought and conception. In the same manner that in a piece of instrumental music, which neither expresses the situation or passion of any person, there is no guide but a knowledge of the relations of the different keys, and abstract taste in choosing the means of modulating through them. Fearing, however, that these general remarks may sound vague and unsatisfactory, I shall proceed to something more particular. I have said already that I am a young poet, yet I am still doubtful whether to write in verse or prose. In the English language, there is not much gained as to harmony, or the delight of the ear, by writing verse. It is a mistake to suppose that the final purpose of rhyme is the correspondence of sounds, for the real use of the recurrence of rhyme is to mark the place which terminates a certain number of syllables. Thus rhyme, occurring at the end of each eight or ten, strikes the ear, and makes the regularity of the intermediate quantities perceptible. But as some lines are read faster and others slower, it is evident that such verse is regular only in the number of syllables, and does not attain to a musical regularity of quantity, in which every line would occupy precisely the same time. This lessens my esteem for verse. Nevertheless, in many sorts of composition, it is still worth while to write in verse, for the pleasure it gives, as well as for the form's sake. The Italian stanza is coming into fashion, but has this fault, that, for the number of rhymes, it requires so much straining and misplacing of words as to be injurious to correctness. This sextuple rudder of thought does best for those who, in sailing, trust more to the wind than to the compass. If I were to write a tragedy for private perusal, and not for the stage, I think it would be best to take a certain kind of verse which resembles the French Alexandrine, namely, the rhyming couplet of twelve syllables. This is a fine sounding measure, full of declamatory pomp and emphasis, and well fitted for conveying the groans of a labouring bosom. Monotony is no fault in verse, if the meaning be good and full; for the very monotony of verse implies its regularity of measure-one of the greatest perfections. I am tired of the blank verse of ten syllables in trage dies; and poets, by adopting a new measure, should get quit of the old spiritless thoughts connected with this. Having thus expressed the difficulty which a poetical mind finds in chusing between verse and prose, I shall next speak of the choice of themes for poetry. Here the worst error lies in subjection to the opinion of the public, and a wish to light upon some subject that will be sure of immediately arresting its attention. Whoever seeks to enlarge the boundaries of poetry must proceed upon more dignified principles, and turn disinterestedly towards those subjects his mind most strongly draws him to inquire into. That which is built immediately upon the temporary state of popular opinion produces its strongest effect at the first moment it is brought into contact with the public, but diminishes in power ever after, till it comes to appear empty and unmeaning. Such has been the fate of Lallah Rookh, for instance, and will be of all poems that follow after public opinion, which never yet was capable of having one clear or fixed idea, or of recollecting what it was doing six weeks before Laborious, heavy, busy, bold, and blind, It rules, in native anarchy, the mind. If the world had obstinacy or perseverance in any thing, it would be an unruly force; but happily it partakes of" semper varia et mutabilis" of the female nature, and its tendencies have the same steadiness as the tumbling of a wave, or the succession of thoughts in a sick man's dream. It is not, therefore, made to be obeyed by those who seek for certainty or real good in any department of intellectual cultivation. Next to be spoken of is the mode of treating a subject. On this subject I feel not many doubts, being convinced that all large and formal plans are as a snare to the poet, and bring him into saying feeble, false, or unseasonable things, which do not come either from his own genius or from the subject. The best plan is that which results immediately from the nature of the theme, and terminates with it. gance of form, and pure and perfect arrangement, give but small delight in poetry, compared with what they give in music and painting. Poetry must be more versant in the interests of the human affections. Ele Of all the poets who write at present, the freest in expressing his thoughts in any way they occur to him, is Lord Byron. The freest inventor of fictions is Sir Walter Scott; but they are expressive only of human character, and not of opinion, which has little connection with the active energy of the olden time. Words. worth's genius does not tend much towards the delights of fiction. Being more fit for meditative self-examination, his thoughts are always called in from inventive flights by an anxious wish to separate truth from falsehood. But his mode of writing is sometimes not entirely freed from something like a puritanical grudge, making him wish still to retain " a stern self-respect," and to take too much pleasure in his own modes of action. One would think it would only be necessary for him to look at those vulgar religionists, who are just, chiefly, for the sake of being proud, and who, although they obey the law, are destitute of all feeling of the beauty of abstract relations; so that they would wish almost to stop at the virtue of mere faith, which is |