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MDCCCXIX.

Q. F. F. Q. S.

I.

They said that all the ice about the Pole

Had cracked, and been dispersed in the Atlantic, And that old Winter never more would roll Benledi's top in his capote gigantic;

And that December, with her parasol,

Would flirt about like July, quite romantic; And Yule-blocks never up the chimney roar, And het-pint be an idle name of yore.

II.

And late did Summer linger in our skies,
And long Benledi kept his dark cap on;
And spinsters were beginning to surmise

That all occasion for their muffs was gone;
And the blue, buzzing, bloated plague of flies
To a portentous corpulence were blown;
And Francis Moore, physician,' scratched his sconce,
To coin some novel nonsense for the nonce.

III.

But it would seem the gift of prophesying
Hath in good earnest been for ever lost;
While all are on the Quarterly relying

Full surely --comes a frost-a killing frost, And leaves are falling fast, and flies a-dying,

And Misses wearing gauzes to their cost. And Captain Ross comes back with shattered rig, -And Mr Leslie looks exceeding big.

IV.

Ye marine worthies! much do we admire

Your worth, beyond all praise of worthiness! Your weather is as warm as ye desire,

Your Arctic venison is a savoury mess: And ye have grog enough your blood to fire, And hammocks swinging grandly en altesse,Prodigious is the peril of your births;

Snug marine martyrs! we admire your worths! V.

Aye and so ever may the hoary king

Preserve his congelated throne in peace-
Aye and so ever may fair Scotland bring
Her old ancestral hecatomb of geese-
So ever may the wassail bowl upfling

Its mists of gladness-so may never cease
The mirth that mustered in the elder day
Around the crackling hearth of Hogmanae!

VI.

Enough of noons hath Summer for reclining
Beneath the shadow of the green elm-tree,
While the bright sunbeams, all around us shining,
Touch not that dark deep nook of reverie.
There's been enough of unsubstantial dining,
There's been enough of cold lime Punch for me.
All hail once more the Baron broad and brown!
All hail the ruby flood that floats him down!

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On the Habits of Thought, inculcated by WORDSWORTH.

As in this country the investigations of metaphysicians have been directed chiefly towards the laws of intellect and association, and as we have nothing which deserves the name of philosophy founded upon an examination of what human nature internally says of itself, or upon enquiries into the dependance of one feeling upon another; in short, as we have neither any Platonism, nor even any philosophy of the passions, we must turn to the poets, if we wish to hear what our literature says upon these subjects; for, by our speculative men, they have been left in utter silence, darkness, and uncertainty. If the practical turn of mind, which has always been characteristic of our nation, has led to these neglects, there is nothing more to be said; for the works of intellectual men should be moulded according to the character of those who are to read them: and nothing can obtain much influence over life, if it finds not a broad foundation in the popular mind. Nevertheless, if philosophers profess to examine what human nature is, in the abstract, the peculiarities of their auditors will not serve as an excuse for slurring over particular branches of the subject, as if they had no existence.

Two things may be chiefly observed in Mr Wordsworth's poetry; namely, first, an attempt to awaken in the minds of his countrymen, certain lumieres which they do not generally possess, and certain convictions of moral laws existing VOL. IV.

silently in the universe, and actually modifying events, in opposition to more palpable causes, in a manner similar to what is said to be taught by the philosophy of the Hindoos; and, secondly, a thorough knowledge of all the beauties of the human affections, and of their mutual harmonies and dependancies. In both of these things, he has scarcely had any precursors, either among the poets or philosophers of his country. Some traces of the convictions above alluded to, may be found in Spenser, and some fainter traces in Milton; whose turn of genius was decisively ascertained by the circumstance of his greater success in handling a subject, taken from the historical parts of the Old Testament, than one from the Christian Gospel. As for those who came after Milton, scarcely any thing above the level of actual existence appears in their writings; and, upon the whole, it would seem that the kind of sublimity with which the English have always been chiefly delighted, consists merely in an exhibition of the strength of the human energies, which, in our most esteemed poems and plays, are frequently not even elevated by selfdevotion; witness Coriolanus, Richard the Third, Satan in Paradise Lost, the Giaours and Corsairs, &c. of modern days. In these pieces, elements of human nature, which are by no means of the highest kind, are represented boiling and foaming with great noise, and their turbidity is falsely taken for the

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highest kind of nobleness and magnificence.

Mr Wordsworth has not followed out the national spirit in this, but has turned off into a totally different sphere of reflection, from whence no kind of strength appears great, because all strength is limited, and cannot appear sublime, if contrasted with strength a single degree above it. His contemplative Platonism searches for some image of perfection to admire, and perceives that the beauty of no limited being can consist in strength, but in its conformity to the moral harmony of the universe. Hence he can see no greatness in the movements of the mind, if they tend to no higher object than self-aggrandisement, which has ever its bounds that make it appear little; and, therefore, those objects, which appear to him endowed with poetical beauty, are often such as appear homely to the eyes of others who measure them by a different standard. The small admiration he entertains for the undisciplined energies of human nature leads him to a somewhat contemptuous estimation of active life, even when conduct is submitted to the restraints of morality. He thinks little has been done for the mind, unless those internal movements, also, which are without result in action, have been tuned into beauty and regularity, and a complete balance and subordination established among the feelings by dint of long continued meditation. On this subject his ideas cannot fail to recal to remembrance those Indian doctrines, which taught that the first step towards the perception of high moral truth, was the establishment of a certain stillness and equability within the mind. But Mr Wordsworth should have proposed these Braminical notions elsewhere; for they are totally at variance with the stirring and tumultuous spirit of England. No philosophy or religion, purely contemplative, has ever taken a strong hold of the English mind; and no set of English devotees, however much they professed to be dead to the world, have been able to keep their hands out of temporal affairs. They have always found something that called for their interference, and have exchanged the pleasures of abstract contemplation, for the zeal of partizanship. Mr Wordsworth seems averse to active life, chiefly, because he is afraid of losing sight of impressions which

are only to be arrived at in the stillness of contemplation; and because he sees a risk, that the lower and coarser feelings being stirred into activity, amidst the bustle, may lose their subordination, and rise up so as to obscure the bright ideal image of human nature, which he would wish to retain always before him. Notions like these, however, must always appear ridiculous to the majority in England, where life is estimated as it produces external good or mischief. But, although Mr Wordsworth's ideas have not met with a very flattering reception, he seems no way blind to the manly integrity and substantial excellences of character that adorn his country, and which have so deep a root there, that, as Madame de Stael observes, they have never ceased to flourish even, under the influence of speculative opinions, which would have withered them up elsewhere. Indeed, the moral speculations of England have been very much a separate pastime of the understanding, which began and ended there, without ever drawing a single reflection from the depths of human nature. A remarkable trait in the history of our philosophy is, that Christianity has been as it were transposed by Paley into a more familiar key, and adapted throughout to the theory of utility; so that David Hume himself might almost play an accompaniment to it. And Paley has obtained a great deal of credit, for the performance of this good office to his countrymen.

One of the causes which have prevented Mr Wordsworth's writings from becoming popular, is, that he does not confine himself, like most other poets, to the task of representing poetical objects, or of moving our sympathies, but, also, proposes and maintains a system of philosophical opinions. In most of his poems, and in the Excursion especially, he scarcely makes poetry for its own sake, but chiefly as a vehicle for his doctrines, and the spirit of these doctrines is, unfortunately for his success, at variance with the philosophy at present most fashionable in this country. Although possessed of the requisite genius, he does not seem to care for composing poems, adapted to the exclusive purpose of taking hold of the feelings of the people; and, among the philosophers, he is rejected, because he holds a different language from them. Besides, the habits of

On the Lake School of Poetry. No II.

1818.] thought, in which he chiefly delights, are not calculated to produce that strength and vividness of diction, which must ever constitute one of the chief attractions of poetry. Imagination seems insufficient of itself to produce diction always nervous and poetical, without the aid of human pasIt is sion and worldly observation. from these that the greatest poignancy As for the of words must spring. saltness of sagacity and wit, Mr Wordsworth looks down upon it as a profane thing, and is well entitled to do If he were to descend into so low a region as that of jesting, he would probably succeed no better than old David Deans did, when he attempted a joke at his daughter's marriage dinner. But, as Mr Wordsworth never jests, so his writings, perhaps, have some claim to be exempted from the pleasantries of others; which, indeed, can scarcely be directed with much success or effect against a person who faces ridicule so systematically, and who has always counted upon it beforehand.

SO.

259

as conveying more exalted meaning,
whether the poetical merit of the ve-
hicle be equal or not. The sublimity
drawn from terror, collision, tumult,
or discord, of any kind, has always the
disadvantage of being transient ; and,
therefore, cannot be considered as equal
to those openings into immutable
brightness and harmony, which are
sometimes to be met with in Words-
worth. One beauty cannot fail to
strike the reader of his poetry; and
that is, the perfect homogeneousness of
its spirit. A systematic correspond-
ence pervades the whole, so that the
perusal of one piece frequently leads
the reader's own mind into a tract of
thought, which is afterwards found to
be developed by the poet himself, in
some other performance. The defects
of his poetry originate in the same
system of thought which produces its
beauties. They are not the result of
casual whims, or imperfections of taste.
Certain great convictions of sentiment
have so completely pervaded his mind,
as to produce a degree of consistency
in all its emanations, that we vainly
look for in works founded upon obser-
vation. It is remarkable that even the
external characteristics of his poetry
are similar to what we are told an an-
alogous turn of internal thought an-
ciently produced among the Hindoos.

Mr Wordsworth has been thought to have more affinity to Milton than any other poet. If this is the case, the affinity is rather in manner than in substance. Milton has no idealism, not even in the Paradise Regained, where there was most scope for it." From the descriptive poems of the His poetry is, for the most part, quite literal; and the objects he describes have all a certain definiteness and individuality, which separates them from the infinite. He has often endeavoured to present images, where every thing should have been lost in sentiment. It is generally agreed, that among the most successful parts of Paradise Lost, are those which represent the character of the fallen angel; and yet these sublime and tragical soliloquies are founded chiefly on personal feeling; which, although it may be made a source of consummate pathos and dramatic beauty, is certainly not the region of the human mind, from whence the highest possible impressions are to be drawn. Terrible acts of divine power, and, on the other hand, force of will, and obdurate pride in the rebel spirits, are the highest moral elements exhibited; but, if we look to what composes some of the finest passages in Wordsworth, we shall be inclined (theoretically at least) to prefer them to the best of Milton,

Indians," says Schlegel, in his lectures on the history of literature, "we must seek to gather what influence those opinions had on human life and all its relations and feelings; what sort of poetry, and what sort of feeling of the lovely and beautiful, were produced among the Indians by the adoption of ideas to us so foreign and unaccountable. The first things which strike us in the Indian poetry are, that tender feeling of solitude, and the all-animated world of plants, which is so engagingly represented in the dramatic poetry of the Sokuntola; and those charming pictures of female truth and constancy, as well as of the beauty and loveliness of infantine nature, which are still more conspicuous in the older epic version of the same Indian legend. Neither can we observe, without wonder and admiration, that depth of moral feeling with which the poet styles conscience the solitary seer in the heart, from whose eye nothing is hid,' and which leads him to represent sin as something so

incapable of concealment, that every transgression is not only known to conscience, and all the gods, but felt with a sympathetic shudder by those

elements themselves which we call inanimate, by the sun, the moon, the fire, the air, the heaven, the earth, the flood, and the deep, as a crying outrage against nature, and a derangement of the universe.'

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Whoever wishes to understand Mr Wordsworth's philosophical opinions, will find them developed in their most perfect form, in the Excursion; but those who wish to judge merely how far he possesses the powers commonly called poetical, will do best to read his Lyrical Ballads, and smaller Poems, where pathos, imagination, and knowledge of human nature, are often presented by themselves, without any obtrusive or argumentative reference to a system. At the same time, the reverential awe, and the far extended sympathy with which he looks upon the whole system of existing things, and the silent moral connexions which he supposes to exist among them, are visible throughout all his writings. He tunes his mind to nature almost with a feeling of religious obligation; and where others behold only beautiful colours, making their appearance according to optical laws, or feel pleasant physical sensations resulting from a pure atmosphere, or from the odoriferous exhalations of herbage, or enjoy the pleasure of measuring an extended spect, as an amusement for the eye, this poet (whether justly or not) thinks he traces something more in the spectacle than the mere reflection of his own feelings, painted upon external objects, by means of the association of ideas; or, at least, seems to consider what we then behold as the instantaneous creation of the mind.

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I well remember that those very plumes,
Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on
that wall,

By mist and silent rain-drops silver'd o'er,
As once I passed, did to my heart convey
So still an image of tranquillity,
So calm and still, and looked so beautiful,
Amid the uneasy thoughts that filled my
mind,

That what we feel of sorrow and despair,
From ruin and from change, and all the grief
The passing shews of being leave behind,
Appeared an idle dream, that could not live
Where meditation was.

Notions like those of Mr Words worth are evidently suited only to a life purely contemplative; but that universality of spirit, which becomes true philosophy, should forbid, in persons of different habits, any blind or sudden condemnation of them. No individual can say what are all the internal suggestions of the human faculties, unless he has varied his mode of existence sufficiently to afford fit opportunities for their developement.— The facts of consciousness are admit

ted to be as much facts as those of the senses; but, at the same time, we cannot get individuals to agree what they are, and, while things remain in this state of uncertainty, the first duty is certainly that of liberality of mind.

Wordsworth's habit of dwelling as upon man, has given his poetry an air much upon the rest of the universe as of greater joyfulness and sunshine, than it could have possessed if human life had been his more constant theme. He turns with ever new delight to objects which exhibit none of the harshness and discrepancy of the human world.

"The blackbird on the summer trees,

The lark upon the hill,

Let loose their carols when they please,
Are quiet when they will.

* One who had died of a broken heart.

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