mighty poets seem, like the Egyptian priests of old, to have made use of two species of symbols, and to have instituted two modes of worshipping the Divinity, of whom they were the ministers. They not only indulged in those bursts of poetic spirit, that address and subdue the universal heart of man, but they also scattered here and there the traces of an exclusive and remote spirit. They held not only the general clue to the heart, but likewise a thousand others more individual and delicate, which they could pursue without losing sight of the grand one; they wielded not only the thunder that strikes and convulses the whole earth, but also the subtle and electric flashes, that scan or illumine a particular spot. Their minds were, like Dante's Hell, depth within depth, abyss within abyss, of the profundity of which even themselves were unconscious. Hence, in the knowledge of them there are degrees, and those who strive to know them, penetrate, each to the depth that his capacity allows; and all, at their unequal heights, shout to one another through the abyss in which they are lost, and marvel, and grow cholerous, that his fellow sees not as he does himself. In France there is nothing of all this-Blaise enjoys and catches all the beauties of Racine, fully as much as the spectacled critic in the orchestra; and if men have different opinions of the author's merits, it takes rise in the prosody; never in the thought. Our great poets, as we have said, extend along our two divisions of literature: the shilling gallery weeps over Hamlet and Othello,

“But unto us they have a spell beyond," aye-even beyond the tear of sympathy, and the agony of a too intense interest. We associate ourselves with the poet-we enter into the mechanism of the spirit that produced so glorious a scene-we imagine anew the thing, and are not content to perceive, but create it afresh. We enjoy the shades, the niceties, the purposes, the crannies of the human heart, into which the master-spirit pierced, the thousand beauties that must have dropt unconsciously from his genius::-while the tragedians act Hamlet, we act Shakspeare, and, identified with the bard, we produce, as it were, a second

birth of his stupendous offspring. But no such spiritual alchemy could take place, while listening to the amphibrachic verses of French poetry,which march like a horse that had lost one leg, and strove to canter on the other three :-How identify ourselves with poets who cut out their verse. with a pair of scissars, and whose reign over thought is limited to the polishing of rhymes, and the arrangement of cæsuras fellows of no physiognomies, no characteristics, no distinguishing features, save that one files his lines twice as carefully as the other?

The colour and stamp of a national literature will always be found to depend on the balance between the active and passive powers of intellectbetween genius and taste. And as possession, we know, is half the law, the first of these which leaps up and assumes the pre-eminence, will be apt more or less to preserve the ascendancy during the whole course of the literature. Civilization demands taste, and creates the vague feeling, which is the foundation of that faculty, even before there exists an object that can employ it. If this civilization be the first in the world, or, what is the same, appear to itself the first, as was the case with ancient Greece, the craving of taste of that passive faculty of apprehending and enjoying beauty, having no precedent, no model, no substratum to exist by, calls upon the active power of genius to give it food, and to bestow upon it the matter and form of life. In this case genius and taste spring up together, like twinsisters, and soar hand in hand to perworld perfection is the greatest phefection. This phenomenon, for in our nomenon, could never have taken place, but in the peculiarly formed state of society that arose among the early Grecians. It was first of all necessitated to be original in its judgments and ideas; it was limited and compact, and the cry of applause or condemnation, even when directed to the most trivial effusions, was that of a whole people; it was roused by all the excitative passions of human nature; but above all, its civilization was so rapid, owing to these circumstances, that neither power of the intellect had time to start beyond the other.

In all the subsequent formations of

society, the vague craving of taste, which we think universally the primum mobile of literary undertaking, was not constrained to call upon its own or its country's exertion-it had wherewithal to gratify itself: the Roman satiated this rising sentiment in the productions of Greece, the modern Italian in those of Rome. Hence, the infant taste, which is, as it were, the first lever to be used in raising a nation's literature from the dust, instead of being made to rest on a national fulerum, lost all its powers when found ed on a foreign basis. Thus put into action, it might raise up a literature, but never a national one, a literature, which, created upon an imitative and ideal basis, can have no influence or empire but upon those who are initiated into it,-who have gone through a probation of study, and have metamorphosed themselves into those anomalous monsters, that filled the ranks of defunct criticism; whose souls were in the pages of Aristotle, and whose language was the cant, without the ingenuity of the schools. These became the body, to which literary productions were to be addressed-these few hundred pedants became the populace, the tiers etat of literature, and the rights of the people, in taste as in politics, became usurped by an impertinent aristocracy.

We have thus far supposed, that, in the view of European society, taste was self-created and mature-ready to call forth the active power, ere the ancient writers were offered to its avidity. This is not at all correct, nor is the contrary so that the ancient writers first awoke dormant taste. The rays of classic literature struggled but with partial success to break through the clouds of ignorance that enveloped the middle ages-we were going to say, that ancient literature had been sifted for the use of the learned of Europe; if so, it was the bran that was handed to them, and the flour that had been laid up. The Greek was not at all known, and the Latin but little-One of the most curious considerations in these matters is offered by the acquaintance of the middle ages with the events of the siege of Troy, so modified through a thousand compilations and translations, that the original story of Homer becomes utterly invisible. The fathers of Italian poetry were car

ly versed in the beauties of the rude Provençal Muse, and the greatest misfortune that ever befel modern literature, is that they were not permitted to perfect that exquisite and original vein of poesy; and this they would have done, we have no doubt, but for the confounded classical knowledge that was flung upon Italy, and which all the world seems to thank for the revival of letters-for our part, we curse it, as the inhumation of European originality in works of genius for ever. And if we in future make use of this term, or of its synonyme, nationality, it must be in a comparative sense ;-to be original is henceforth denied to nations as to individuals; the veil has been removed from the past, and it hangs palpably over the present and the future, inevitably overshadowing the genius of mankind.

Whilst modern societies were yet young, while they were yet alive to the traditions and prejudices of their ancestors, and ere the classical taste had spread so far as to destroy all native attempts at literary exertion, there yet remained hopes of escape from thraldom, in the chance that a being of genius would start up amongst the ranks of society, and erect by his powers the national body of feeling into an independent empire of taste, classic of itself. The three nations with which we are best acquainted, afford examples of the different degrees of success attendant on this struggle. France was sterile in poetic genius; her civilization demanded taste, and having no productions of her own to erect it on, she was compelled to borrow it completely and altogether. Hence, to the eyes of remote ages France leaves a blank in the literary map of Europe. Posterity will go to the fountainhead of every thing, and her voluminous riches will necessitate her confining herself to the fountain-head alone:

she will read Sophocles, and having done so, will not commit the tautology of reading Racine. In Italy, the event of the strife is doubtful; it was a drawn battle; the classics and romantics are still in active opposition, and although the chief compartment of literature, the dramatic, with her presents as yet but a void, the future genius of the country possesses a vista in her romantic taste, through which she may look to possess an independent

theatre. From political causes this is not likely, but there are hopes the French have none. In England, the spirit of independence has overcome in every point, religion, politics, literature: the latter is completely founded on a modern at least, if not altogether on a national basis, and the little of ancient sentiment that exists compounded with it, is not more than what has naturally become current throughout all ranks of society. Hence, to enter into the penetralia of our poetry, to render the taste for it exquisite, it is necessary to read but itself-it is not over Pantheons or classical dictionaries that we must prepare ourselves to enjoy it but in cultivating our own English mind, simply English in this, that to a superior degree it is reflec tive, deep-thoughted, and moral. To recapitulate our system, taste, or the passive faculty of the mind, has been in France always predominant over genius or the active faculty. The latter has been but a consequence of the former, and has been dragged after it, like a cock-boat in the wake of a vessel of war. In Italy, they have been balanced pretty nearly. But, in England, genius has always led the way; and taste, confined to its proper limits, is but an adjunct of it-a polypus adhering to its mass, and assimilating itself to the varying colour of that on which and by which it exists.

The discovery of the art of printing, which is considered to have extended the sphere of literature, has had really the opposite effect, at least with respect to works of imagination. These, as long as they were oral, were necessarily national; the jongleurs and menestrels, although they might reckon a few lords and princes among their ranks, were in general from the lowest order of the people; their chant was addressed not to the nobles alone, but to chiefs and vassals united, to the mingled assemblage of the feudal hall. There could be nothing exclusive in taste-one single feeling animated all

ranks of society-the rudeness of vulgar life was to be found in the habits of knights and dames, while the chivalrous feelings of high birth were communicated to the followers and vassals. When manuscripts became numerous, the learned began to separate themselves from the nation, and even poets, affecting to avoid vulgarity, began "to powder their talk with over-sea language." But when the art of printing came into use, literature completely separated itself from vulgar feeling-which, after all, is the only national one; and thenceforward, tales and epics struggled to erect themselves on a fantastic basis neither foreign nor domestic. The scenes were laid in a fancied region, of which the customs, the terms, the atmosphere, suited the preconceived ideas of no living person. The poet reckoned on a limited class of polite and idle readers, who were willing to step beyond their natural and habitual feelings for the sake of enjoying novel imaginations. The mass of a nation will not take this trouble, even if they be called upon to do so; they cannot dispense with the atmosphere of nationality that involves their tasteand 'tis well that they cannot; if they could, then would be an end of nations. Thus the produce of imagination, as soon as it comes to exist otherwise than orally, contracts itself from its former expansion over the whole people, and tends to centralize itself in a kind of literary aristocracy. To this thereis one great check-one grand and noble link, to unite and reclaim literature to its original sense of national feeling-this link is the Drama. The Drama is a poetry which, in its legitimate scope, must be addressed to all ranks of society-must wear the common garb, and speak the common language of all. It is the forum, where all ranks meet, and are but equals; where the base of mankind unlearn their ferocity, and divest themselves of their callousness; and where,

VOL. XI.

likewise, the noble and gentle must dispense with artificial feelings, and know, that whatever be the shell, the kernel is at best but a man.

A literature, in order to be any thing at least any thing more than a shadow or an imitation-must be national and to be national, it must establish as its basis, that part of itself which embraces and spreads its roots amongst the entire mass of the people. Of old, this part was its oral verse, and at present, we may repeat, this part is still its oral verse-its drama. It would be superfluous here to inquire, whether the poets of the present day are proceeding right or wrong, or to censure them for building a superstructure, while they neglect the foundation. Let them proceed, each to fulfil that to which he was called; it is a fruitless endeavour to turn the stream of Helicon, nor would it be to much advantage to divert from their employment the adorners of an edifice, or the workers in stucco, and compel them to apply their finican hands and utensils to the laborious task of rearing a foundation. All we would hint to those worthy bards, who have been so successful in the walks of narrative and monologue, is to beware entering upon the Drama with the confined and individual character which they have developed, and certainly perfected in their other undertakings. The Drama does not deserve to be put off with a jaded muse, or a second-hand style, worn out in the service of tale and song. One of ye, my worthies, has tried and failed he is as talented almost as any among ye; 'twere well not to imitate his fall-a dramatist may rise when ye are no more; and 'tis far more honourable to be reproached with neglect as to the stage, than to be convicted of a failure. Besides, success even is a dishonour in the present state of our theatres:-do not the plays fabricated in Cockaigne live-ay, live three whole nights ere they expire? and shall you, ye heroes of the Muse, but walk by their sides, and live and die the ephemeral space allotted to such caterpillars?

A dramatic genius, take our word for it, must be a dramatic genius, and nothing else. Melpomene is enough for any one gentleman, and he who will coquet with half-a-dozen muses, may make up his account to be jilted by all. Byron will never write a tragedy, though he sent ten dialogisms to the Albemarle-street Press in a twelvemonth" hot and hot," as he said himself on a memorable occasion. Scott will never write a tragedy, for all Mr Jeffrey's exhortations; the worthy poet has been for these many years fairly up to his neck in prose, and Heaven keep him there. Besides, we know what abortions are produced by these god-fathering sort of commendations. Sheridan told Miss Edgeworth to write comedies-that it was just the path that would suit her— and she produced, wonderful to relate, as stupid a volume as ever issued from the back settlements of PaternosterRow. There is but one literary counsellor in the world worth attending to, superior to all the Reviewers and Magazinists, from John o' Groat's to the Land's End-id est, in vulgar phraseology, the Maggot. When he bites, obey him, and when he does not, why, e'en let the world go its own way, in God's name.

We have defined the Drama, in its original scope, as oral verse. The more it retires from answering this definition, the more does it cease to be dramatic; and what is a drama that is not dramatic? Ask Lord Byron and his non-descript talks. A poet that writes to be read may become unmindful of his readers-he is independent of them in a manner-he disunites them both in time and place as to the act of passing judgment upon him. Even of the few that read, there are but fewer still whose taste and prejudices he is bound to consult. Since he addresses himself to individuals, solitary individuals, it is but individual originality he need aim at; originality on the broad basis of general or national feeling would be too weighty a task. To write for the stage, if that stage be what it should be, free and popular, is a more serious undertaking; it will not be sufficient in this case to deal out an affected vocabulary to a narrow class, or to cater to the prepared appetites of a few delicatenerved gentlemen. The production will be represented before a section of

the country, before the vulgar as well as the refined, neither of which classes will sanction what is out of the line of their comprehensions, whether it be above or below them. The poet cannot plead that he is of this school or of that school; his Lakeism or his Satanism will not save the piece from being damned, if it be stupid; and all those pretty affectations that mark the petitmaître versification of the day, and that go off very well over a tea-table, pass for nothing in the huge ear of a theatrical assemblage. It is nonsense to say, that a writer should consult but his own taste; it must be influenced, be it ever so unconsciously, by floating opinion, and the more secluded he lives, the more will he be influenced by the little he does hear. The more general the opinion that modifies and directs a poet's taste, the more original will he be:-there never has been tale or epic since the world began, so original as our early dramas, which were composed imperatively for success and bread, and, consequently, kept ever in view the taste of the auditory. But people at present fancy that the only entrance to originality is through the narrow duct of their own egotistical spirit, and that to wing their way through the free and open space of general sentiment, would be but to follow a beaten path. It is just as if a carpenter or a blacksmith were to attempt perfecting himself in his trade by chiselling or hammering his own nose instead of the wood or iron, which are his natural materials. The human mind certainly contains a world of poesy; but it is not any individual mind, far less a Cockney, or even a Byronic one, that can be said to contain this. It is an arrogant trick of both these last-mentioned schools and their scholars, for each to set himself up as a type, as a representation of the human race a poetical Anacharsis Clootz. Those fellows have their eyes for ever turned inwards upon themselves with an egotistical squint-they assume their own pineal gland to be the world, and the two-legged images that float therein to be mankind.

There can be no stronger sign of the decay of literature, than to see its spirit thus ensconced within itself, and our poets creeping about, lonely and separate, like so many snails, with their habitations, food, family,

and feelings, all packed upon their proper shoulders. We hate all thiswe abhor selfishness-we lament to see men for ever fishing in their own little selves, and angling, as it were, for gudgeons in a pool. We had rather see the line flung abroad into the ocean, and hawling up the monsters of the deep. We like a bold, open game, such as a whole nation can play at, but anatomy or dissecting rooms give us qualms-we are tenderhearted, so is John Bull, and we earnestly entreat the poets of the day to keep their stomachs to themselves for the future, and not to be so confoundedly kind and communicative, as to disgust us every now and then with a view of their very entrails. It is butchery, not poetry.

You perceive, my public, the difference between sense and nonsense. As long as we utter our own sublime philosophy and abstract criticism, and as long as we speak of the worthy elders of literature, the purest stream of prose flows from our pen. But the moment, the cursed moment, in which we first make mention of Cockaigne or cotemporaries, we lose all command of ourselves, we wax angry, foam at the mouth, grow hysterical-in short, pour forth a deal of nonsense, at times, indeed, almost as disjointed as tabletalk. But where were we?

Dramatic authors are, as we have observed, necessarily subservient to general feeling; they may change or influence it, but this must be by degrees. A series of dramatic writers, were they kept up, would be the literary history of a country-" they shew the body of the time its form and pressure"-and an age that is without them has in reality no literature properly its own. It is by this dependence on popular taste that the Drama has existed and flourished, and if at present we have no Drama, the reason is simply, that we endeavour to elevate it on exclusive taste-on that of our numerous schools. We do not mention the pieces that strive to live by scenic effect, clap-traps and appeals to the galleries alone-they are too wretched; but they deserve to be as successful as those which are addressed to the three front rows of the pit, such as Mirandola, &c.; these we might call pit-plays. A man may write a poem to please three hundred friends, but a tragedy cannot be