tain to all and every known branch of science. Next, there was taught to every individual of Scottish birth, in our remotest glens, much important truth and knowledge by the perusal of the Bible. That book teaches that this world was formed by a Being of boundless intelligence and power that he adorned and enriched it with vegetation of almost boundless variety, and placed on it a multiplicity of animals of different kinds-that he bestowed the world, thus furnished, upon a single human family, a man and his wife, and their descendants in all generations-that thus we are all kindred of the same blood or racethat, unhappily, by eating a poisonous poisonous fruit contrary to a divine warning and prohibition, our first ancestors inflicted disease and death upon their descendants, and, what is worse, a selfish, sensual, and polluted corporeal constitution, unfit for the habitation of a pure mind-that, with boundless generosity, a high or the highest celestial intelligence interfered, assumed our nature, and, by suffering as a man all that man can suffer, acquired the privilege of defeating the effect of death by means of a resurrection that in the mean-while he requires us to act towards each other with the same spirit of beneficence with which he acted, to cultivate the virtues that purify and elevate the human character, and he threatens due punishment to those that do otherwise that he prohibits all idolatry or worship of saints or superstitious observances, and all reliance on any interest or influence but his own, and the instructions he has given, for the safety and exaltation of men in a future state of existence. The result has been, that when a Scotsman has met his countryman in a foreign land, he believed he had met an intelligent, religious, and trustworthy man, to whom he was bound, and in safety, to give countenance and aid. This, at least, was the principle on which Scotsmen long acted. An infidel Scotsman was accounted a monster in the moral world, no more to be looked for than a monstrous birth in animal nature. Other men said of Scottish Protestants as of the first Christians, "See, how they love one another!" and, obtaining trust from their countrymen, they were trusted by others, and thereby, with the aid of industry and pru

dence, they prospered; and thus the safeguards ards of Protestantism against Popery proved a source of prosperity to Scotland, and a profitable patrimony to Scotsmen. But our forefathers did not rely upon the precautions already mentioned exclusively. They added political sanctions to Protestantism, apparently of the weightiest description.

When the happy event occurred of the arrival of William, Prince of Orange, and afterwards in making a treaty of political union with England, care was taken utterly to exclude Popery and Papists from the possession of political power.

In the claim of right (Scots Acts of Parliament, 1689, c. 13), by which the Estates of the kingdom of Scotland declared the crown forfeited by King James, and made an offer of it to William and Mary, the nephew and eldest daughter of the deposed monarch, one of the chief, or rather the chief, ground on which the Estates proceeded, was the attempt to which James had been incited by the Popish priests to assume absolute power, in order to establish their ascendency. The claim of right contains the memorable declaration, "That by the law of this kingdom, no Papist can be king or queen of this realm, or bear any office whatever therein."

By this declaration, the Estates proceed to claim, as matter of right, that certain acts complained of, including expressly the attempt to support Popery, committed by King James, shall be held illegal, and on these conditions the Estates offer the crown to William and Mary.

Thereafter, in 1707, when a treaty was made incorporating the kingdoms of England and Scotland, the second article of the treaty declared, " That all Papists, and persons marrying Papists, shall be excluded from, and for ever incapable to inherit, possess, or enjoy the imperial crown of Great Britain, and the dominions thereunto belonging, or any part thereof; and in every such case, the crown and government shall from time to time descend to, and be enjoyed by such person, being a Protestant, as should have inherited and enjoyed the same, in case such Papists, or persons marrying Papists, were naturally dead." By the same treaty, a Scottish statute intituled, "Act for securing of the Pro

testant religion and Presbyterian Church Government," was in the treaty of union "expressly declared to be a fundamental and essential condition of the said treaty of union in all time coming."

The Scottish Act here referred to (1706, sec. 6), confirms a former Act, "Ratifying the Confession of Faith, and settling Presbyterian Church government, with the haill other Acts of Parliament relating thereto, in prosecution of the declaration of the Estates of the kingdom, containing the Claim of Rights." The same statute ordains, concerning teachers or office-bearers in any university, college, or school, "That, before or at their admission, they do and shall acknowledge and profess, and shall subscribe to the foresaid Confession of Faith as the confession of their faith."

In consequence of these stipulations, and of the concurrence of the English nation in the deeply-rooted conviction, that it is impossible to conduct with success the affairs of a Protestant people if political power is to be granted to adherents of Popery, not only were the doors of Parliament shut against Papists, but the royal line of succession to the crown was altered. It was settled, on failure of the issue of Queen Anne, on the family of Hanover, as being Protestants descended in the female line from James VI. (I. of England), to the exclusion of Popish descendants of the same prince, and the descendants of his son, Charles I., because the latter, although nearer heirs, were all Papists.

Man could do no more; and well may we talk with pride of the enlight. ened sagacity of our ancestors. Look back through the records of past ages, and every memorial of departed timethe ponderous magnificence of ancient Egypt the beautiful statuary and splendid eloquence of Greece - the military toil of the Roman legions, by which they were enabled to grind down the nations and their own people into servitude, -all are mere monuments of superb and strenuous

selfishness and folly, compared with that wisdom from above, which looks over this earth as a nursery-ground employed in rearing immortals to their distant home in eternity, and regards all the business, the interests, the arts, and the toils or inventions and improvements in this life, as a mere training of themselves and their descendants to a high destiny hereafter. So our Protestant forefathers thought, and on such principles they acted. The result was, that Superintending Beneficence granted a visible reward in the face of the nations. The British nation, and certainly Scotland, in proportion to its extent, was enabled to rear what is most valuable in the universe-a multitude of virtuous and enlightened minds, men active, bold, and persevering, and humane. Above a hundred years of still augmenting prosperity, riches, aggrandisement, and terrestrial glory succeeded, and terminated in so exalting Protestant Britain, that although in territory and population not the fourth of the nations of Europe, yet it rose to such a height of ascendency, that in the tremendous contest which ended in 1815, the other European monarchs generally submitted to receive the pay of Britain, and scarcely retained their thrones except by its support and patronage. The navy of Britain ruled every island and every shore of the ocean-one hundred millions of people were her subjectsher agriculture and every science and subordinate art were improved-her warriors were skilful and brave; and while other lands had been wasted by contending and hostile armies, no enemy had encamped within her European territory.

But while the tree flourished thus fair, and spread abroad its branches, a canker-worm had found access to its

root to that root, its Protestant character, to which it owed its health and beauty, of the transcendant value of which so many in our days have appeared unconscious.

Author of "Political
Fragments, 1830."

NO. CCLXXXVI. VOL. XLVI.

N

Ir poetry has been justly described as an intellectual luxury, it ought to be added-following out the analogy implied in the expression that it is a luxury very intimately connected with intellectual industry, and with moral as well as mental advancement. The excitement of mind which a great poet affords, is no bad introduction, and no bad accompaniment, to habits of reflection. That contemplation he induces in us of whatever is beautiful and magnificent, of whatever is tender, passionate, and elating, in this wide spectacle of nature and of man, intrinsically delightful as it is, cannot end in itself, but must needs conduct to lofty subjects, and stimulate to intense and gravest efforts of meditation. The better order of poetry not only requires a thoughtfulness in the reader, as a prior condition of its enjoyment, but incites him also, by the hue it casts on all things, to still further thinking: it ascends with him from height to height, teaching him at each point gained upon the landscape, to see with the heart also as well as with the eye to see the prospect before him not only in that truth of form and outline which the dry light of reason reveals, but also in that charm and allurement of colour which it is the office of imagination and the passions to supply.

We purpose to discourse, for a brief space, not very learnedly or profoundly, but yet not altogether idly or unprofitably, on the nature and scope of poetic literature, and on the part which may be assigned to it in the great work of mental cultivation. And first, in what does poetry consist? That it is distinguished not only by the peculiarity of verse or metre, but also by a peculiarity in the cast of thought, in the very substance of the composition, is universally acknowledged. As we certainly cannot, in the utmost generosity of our criticism, allow that verse is always the vehicle of poetry, so, on the other hand, we must frequently confess that there is much of poetry in compositions where no traces are to be found of rhyme or metre. Some of our earlier writers, it is manifest, used the form of verse quite indiscri

minately, and applied it to matter that we do not recognise as at all poetical; while in these later times we more frequently observe a style of thought highly poetic brought down into the prosaic form. What, then, beside the accession of verse distinguishes poetry from prose? We answer, that poetry has pleasure, excitement, passion, for a distinct, acknowledged, ultimate end; and that, from this peculiarity in its aim, arises whatever is characteristic in its thought or expression. In the poem objects are portrayed, reflections are put forth, for their very beauty and tenderness, for the elevation or even the shock and tumult of mind which they occasion; for we all know that our nature delights in being roused-delights in excitementthough the feeling kindled be not exactly of that class called pleasurable. Other writers, indeed, share this object with the poet, but with them it is subordinate, or is a means to some further end; with him it is an end in itself-it may be his sole end it is always an avowed and admitted purpose. He who, for instance, narrates the incidents of a war to deliver a faithful account of it to posterity, is the historian; he who speculates on the causes and remote consequences of the war to frame his science of politics, is the philosopher; he who appeals to the success of that war to stimulate his fellow-citizens to similar enterprises, is the orator; if any one should depict the battle for the sake of the battle itself for the wonder and the passion of the scene he is the poet. The historian seeks preeminently for truth of statement; the philosopher generalizes on the operation of causes; the orator, practical in his object, aims at impelling men along a given line of action or of conduct; the poet deals with his materials for the very animation and delight which the contemplation of them affords. It is not impossible that one and the same person may, to a certain extent, combine the aims and qualities of all these writers, and be at once historian and philosopher, orator and poet; and indeed it rarely happens that any literary composition has, strictly speaking, but one end in view, and illustrates but one mode of thought. The work and the intellectual workman, are to be classed accord. ing to what is predominant in the composition. Even the poet is not compelled to write all poetry, and to have no other end in view but what is distinctive of his art. He may seek to instruct as well as to please_he may record facts as well as invent fictions he may urge precept with the moralist, or assist in the exposition of schemes of philosophy; but still, whatever his subject, whatever the class of readers he addresses, his first and prominent design the end by which he is to fulfil all other ends-is to delight, to move, to animate, and occupy the heart. Unless successful here, it matters not by what name he calls his composition, or in what form he casts it, he is no poet; but this accomplished, the addition of didactic matter, or didactic purpose, will work no forfeiture of his title.

It will not be inferred, because the poet has this object of excitement in view, that therefore his verse, when completed, will answer no purpose but that of temporary excitement. The poet is often the highest of all teachers, and leaves behind the most enduring instruction. How can he deal with great topics agitate strong passions -provoke to deep reflection and not be a great teacher? But then, so far as he is a poet, his tuition lies in this, that he places before us events or topies of surpassing interest, of power to rouse the mind, to subdue it or enkindle. He teaches as the painter and the sculptor teach, when they present to us scenes and forms breathing a thousand reflections into the beholder. He teaches us as nature and the world teach. Milton, in his great epic, proposes " to justify the ways of God to man." What graver design? - what purpose more profound? But this purpose is not peculiar to him; he shares it with every divine who either writes or preaches. He is a poet because he performs his lofty task by disclosing to us the very regions of Heaven and Paradise, Chaos and Tartarus by peopling these regions with beings fitted to the climes in which they are seen to move-by making us thrilling spectators of the eventful history transacted in these regions, and by those beings, so wonderfully portrayed, imagined, created by his

genius. When he would teach in any other mode than this-when he would advance his great argument by direct appeals to reason when a desire to convince the understanding becomes predominant in the composition-even Milton, greatest master of his art as he undoubtedly is, loses for a while the character of poet, and lies exposed to the censure of speaking in the manner of a "school divine.

This, then, is the main distinction of poetry, that its own end is answered in its very beauty, or the vivid interest of some kind which it excites. This is the characteristic of every species-whether it be the lyric, which gives us the very rapture of the hour; or the didactic, wherein a subject not peculiarly exciting, and therefore not peculiarly fitted for the poet, is made to engage us by the apt examples, and felicitous expressions, and collateral topics, with which he illustrates and adorns it; or whether it be the dramatic, in which the artist conceals himself from view, and pushes before us, in complete lineaments, and vivid with speech and action, the various characters of mankind; or whether, finally, the epic, wherein, as from the very chair of poetry, the man endowed with all the learning of his age, and with heart expanded to his theme, rescues some great event with all its burning passions from the lapse of time, and tells it out to the world and to all posterity.

This

This peculiarity in the end of poetry will be found to lie at the basis of all which distinguishes it as a mode of writing. It is immediately connected with its form of composition; the pleasure-giving writer adds to his language the studied melody of verseadds the measured cadence of metre, or the recurrence of rhyme. leads him to the construction of that refined poetic diction, whose character it is, that it presents no debasing or disagreeable association of ideas; and in the selection of language, it induces him to avoid scientific, technical, or merely erudite expressions, and cling in preference to that vernacular dialect which carries with it more pathos, as it is more closely allied to the wants and passions of men. It is this, too, which accounts for his more abundant use, than any other writer, of a figurative style, of imagery, and allusion. All men employ metaphors and simi

les, but the prose writer more frequently to illustrate a meaning, while the allusions of the poet are more frequently employed to deepen an impression. His object is to increase the sentiment, whatever it may be love, or terror, or admiration-which is due to the subject of his verse, by mingling with it a sentiment of the like nature derived from some other source. Thus, to take the simplest of all examples, a rose and the young damsel who gathers it are two very different objects; the one cannot aid us in understanding the other; but both originate the feeling of beauty in an eminent degree, and therefore the poet, from time immemorial, has mingled them together in his strain. He contrives that they should reflect their beauty on each other. Even impressions that are but remotely analogous are made to assimilate, as when the stability of the inanimate rock is introduced to the mind in connexion with the moral constancy of some redoubtable hero. To this play of imagination there is no limit. Objects the most distant and various, animate and inanimate, spiritual and material, of nature, art, or history, are all brought together to serve the occasions of the poet. They are assembled by a word-they contribute to the desired effect-they are dispersed in an instant. They are presented in just one aspect, and that often only for a moment, the very propriety of their introduction frequently depending on this evanescent manner of their appearance. The poet's eye, in that glance of his from earth to heaven, catches at the remotest objects, seizing them in that one attitude in which they harmonize. We must follow it with something of the same quickness, for if we look long and slowly at the images presented to us, an incongruous or absurd effect may sometimes be produced; as we may have had occasion to observe, when some bungling or malicious critic has first spoiled the poet's allusion, by bringing it out in grosser characters than it would bear, and then held up to ridicule his own damaged and distorted copy.

This peculiarity in the end of poetry not only justifies the musical form of its composition, and thus, its imaginative style of writing, but accounts, also, for an especial license given to it in the very thought or sentiment

which it invests with music and imagery. We often hear it remarked of a certain strain of thought, that it is fit for poetry, but out of place elsewhere. Now, how is this? Do those who use this language intend to insult the poet with a privilege to be irrational? Hardly so. But the poet is an artist who, working in language as other artists work in stone or metal, has it for his professed object to embody in his verse the various forms of human thought. If, therefore, a sentiment is natural, pleasing, and commonly felt if it takes a recognised place among the moods, or even the caprices of humanity-it is a fair topic for poetry, though its reasonableness may not admit of very severe examination. We oblige the poet, in the sen. timents he utters, to adhere to reality rather than to reason. He is bound to describe us accurately; we do not make him responsible for the rationality of all our sentiments. What if, in the ardour of his imagination, he forgets, or seems to forget, some very sober and undoubted truth, the oblivion will be pardoned him if it be the natural result of his imaginative mood. In such cases it is the poet's knowledge not to know. Science, for example, teaches us to regard all the events of the material world as linked together in an unfailing series of cause and effect-the most vagrant and subtle of the elements are reduced, we know, beneath the control of a severe and immutable legislation - the very wind may no longer blow as it lists-and the clouds themselves, that used to be the very playthings of chance, are fashioned and freighted as the law directs, and are piloted to their destination along a destined course. All nature is bound down on her ceaseless and inevitable wheel. But what if the poet will take a quite different view of the moving but inanimate scene ? What if he grows indignant at the bondage, at the perpetual toil and servitude, imposed upon all nature? What if he will loose her, and have her free, and will assign to the elements a spontaneous movement, like that of man? What if the summercloud pauses at her own leisure on the mountain-top, or the "river wanders at her own sweet will?"-the sentiment, though it would be quite astounding and ridiculous from the man of science, falls with grace from the