enduring. The ocean and the stars of to- And yet we cannot rank this admirable child of fancy among poets of the first order. The subordinate excellences of a first-rate artist, those proper to the early days of When we speak then in future of origin- highest expectation, he seems to have; his ality, we intend only representative, artistic deficiencies are profound. The most aporiginality; true to the time, the persons, proved writers are those who have given and the place which it represents; giving the power of a transcendent representative the very spirit and impress of the age and genius to the embodiment of moral themes. the race, even to the minutest traces of The glory and the punishment of pride; manners and of speech. To be original, Satan and his fall; the pride of Coriolanus; therefore, it is necessary to live the life, not the rise and ruin of a rebellion in Macbeth; of a recluse, given up to meditation, nor of fastidious jealousy in Othello; the fond and a scholar buried in books, but to unite with foolish tyranny of Lear; these are what we a certain degree of scholarship and specula- intend by "moral themes." In Keats, a tive thought a large experience of men, and young writer, fancy and imagination took a knowledge of things and their uses. In this the lead, and Character, the great object of age, to be original, it is necessary to be sci-art, fails of its due representation. Had he entific; to be otherwise is to fall behind the time. It is necessary also to be political, to understand both democracy and monarchy. lived longer, his full-fed and powerful fancy might perhaps have become the servant and instrument of a more elevated purpose. The victim of a too sensitive and fanciful passion, of which at last he died, he was equally the slave of an exacting muse-a muse not "married to," but only mistress of "immortal verse." The strongest characteristic of the poet whose works are before us seems to have been his power of imitation. His admirers will not be offended by the assertion, after what has been said in regard to the impor- In Shakspeare's day, when as yet classical tance of the talent of imitation, the left hand criticism was unknown, or at least unused, of genins, of which originality is the right. as we use it, an exuberant and humorous Keats is perhaps the most delicate and suc- fancy might indulge to excess, as in the cessful imitator of modern times. His ap-"Venus and Adonis." The rough and tenpropriative talent has impressed his critics; but they describe him also as a sensuous painter because of his rich and soft coloring. But is not this quality one of those which distinguish the artist from the scenepainter? Keats writes for the eye and for the ear: he satisfies the senses indeed; his metres are full, solid, and harmonious; but he was not a sensualist. "Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the all-cheering sun." der, the bitter and the sweet, might be poured out together, and let go. The stylus was seldom reversed. There was not then that "lascivious grace in which all ill well shows;" there were no Byrons nor Moores; the Muse had not yet gone to school to false propriety; but there was a freedom, a rude liberty, and an eager appreciation of all excellence. By the fanciful exuberance of Shakspeare's earlier style, Keats was attracted and over come. "One of the three books I have with me is Shakspeare's poems," he writes. "I never found so many beauties in the sonnets; they seem to be full of fine things, said unintentionally-in the intensity of working out conceits. Is this to be borne? Hark ye: 'When lofty trees I see barren of leaves, Which erst from heat did canopy the head, And summer's green all girded up in sheaves, Borne on the bier with white and bristly head.' He has left nothing to say about nothing or any thing. ‘And as the snail, whose tender horns being hit, It is easy to discover that which attracted Keats in the early style of Shakspeare. Of beauty it has not a trace; the picturing is even uncouth and repulsive. It is the enormous force, the rude strength and power of the imagery, the depth of light and shadow, that charm the critical as well as the ingenuous reader. Keats's observations on the above lines, written in his twenty-second year, in a letter to a friend, are followed by some lines of his own composition, which imitate the manner he so much admires, and show plainly enough under what master he studied. The early poems of Shakspeare are often alluded to and quoted by the critics; but it has not yet been distinctly noticed that they have exerted a more powerful influence than any others upon the lyrical poets of the last century. Coleridge, Keats, Charles Lamb, Tennyson, Hood, and many others, are deeply in their debt. The sonnets of Shakspeare, imperfect as they are, have given the ideal of the English meditative sonnet, as distinguished from the Italian. The sonnet of Shakspeare is our own; the model of a peculiar style, congenial to a proud and melancholy race. More than all other verse it expresses that profound love passion, which has no gallantry in its nature, but is as serious as life itself. That it is as essential to the beauty of a work of art, more especially a poetical one, to move the passion of love, as it is to its sublimity to excite that of terror, might be shown by a vast array of instances. Let any VOL. VIII. NO. IV. NEW SERIES. passage of peculiar beauty be read over with an appreciative care, from any poet celebrated for the beauty of his sentiments. The expression of love will be found the great cause of the pleasure it confers. It may be the love of country, of home, of kindred, or of friends; or it may be the passion which can exist only between the sexes: whatever be the form, the soul is love. There are those who insist that forms and sounds have a beauty of their own, independent of expression. These argue that the features of the Grecian sculpture owe their excellence to a sensuous beauty devoid of passion. We, on the other hand, affirm with Lord Byron, that passion is the soul of poetry, and add that there is nothing beautiful in art or nature, except as it is a language or a natural symbol of love. Of human beauty, the peculiar attribute is to move love in the beholder; and if, in nature, there is any other species of beauty, it charms by resembling or at least by calling to mind those human traits of sweetness, grace, and harmony, which are proper to the gentle passion, and given to it by the Creator as its language and expression. How then is it, argue the sensuous critics, that a face in marble, to be beautiful, must be calm? A face, we answer, may indeed be calm, and at the same time malignant and hideous. Calmness is not then the essence of beauty. Madonnas and Christs are always calm, but they are full of passionate love. Nature has certain forms which represent, or they would not move, the tender passions. The artist discovers and depicts these forms. But there is more in this speculation than we shall succeed in expressing. The passions lie under the governance of certain moral powers: honor, pride, the love of praise, modesty, and others; powers either pure or mixed in their character. These wield the sceptre of the heart. The honorable man, it is said, regulates his passions, and keeps them in check, letting them out freely upon the right occasion, and observing all the rights and equalities of the heart. But honor is not the only power which regulates the conduct of the passions. Modesty and pride have also their full exercise. If the artist has attained a knowledge of those forms of face or language which express the passions,-as love controlled and dignified by modesty, in the gentler sex,— 22 he has reached the summit of his art, and is a master of the Beautiful. As it is the peculiar function of the moral powers (of which high art, whether in poetry or in design, is the representer and delineator) to subdue and calm the passions, without lessening them, or diverting them from their objects, the calmness of a marble, or the classic repose of a poem, is to be attributed to the presence of those powers, and not to a want of passion, nor to that feeble intellectualism which is unacquainted with any thing but manner and sentiment. As there is no grandeur nor dignity but that which reposes on subdued but obedient and ready passions, so there is no artistic beauty which does not owe its power to a concealed or latent power of love. It is necessary, in speaking of artistic pleasure, to exclude that kind which addresses only the sensual temperament, and which is gross and general, as good in one as another, and distinct from the individual. The beauty of which we now speak is the beauty of a Reason, an Individual, admirable in particular, and distinguished from all others. In these, as in perfect living men, the sensuous, the passionate, and the moral are so blent as to be undistinguishable. When we speak of the sublimity and beauty of a heroic character, we intend its superiority in possessing and subduing of terror and love; inspiring at once awe and affection. The filial passion of a child is perhaps the most perfect instance in nature of love at once excited and subdued. The child at once loves and fears the parent, and these passions are controlled by the moral sentiment, and refined into veneration and sublime confidence. The just and kind parent is a sublime and at the same time an honored and beloved object to the child. Toward the idea of the Supreme Being, personified as a Parent, love ascends mingled with an awful fear. In the secret recesses of the soul, the subdued spirits of all the passions mingle in prayer. If we have come near to the expression (in this feeble and almost hopeless effort) of what is meant by the Sublime and the Beautiful in art, as the representer and expresser of the moods of the soul, it seems proper to speak briefly of the Fanciful, the Humorous, and the Satiric, in order not to seem forgetful of their existence, or their value. That what passes under the name of "fanciful," in art, either in grotesques, or in the fictions of fairy land, should have any value in a moral point of view, may to some hasty critics seem even ridiculous to say; and yet it is impossible to seize and enjoy the spirit of fairy, or of grotesque, without first being capable of what is serious. It is the sport of the superior nature, letting loose the passions, and observing their play. An Undine, a Gnome,-what are these but intellect and passion, freed from the conscious governing spirit? But is it possible for any but the conscious spirit itself to image such creatures, or enjoy the imagery? Cupid, the love fairy of the ancients, is the unreasoning, uncontrolled passion of love; but what a force of genius is required to delineate the freaks and gambols of this immortal elf! Boccaccio and Ovid stand unabashed in the presence of Shakspeare and of Milton. Byron and Burns, who have most faithfully delineated the passions which early tormented and sported with them, won for themselves a popularity which grave and philosophic versifiers sigh for in vain. That character, in other words, that the moral power, is directly the cause of Humor, and gives its entire value to the humorous, will be readily admitted, as it has been constantly asserted. It is frequently observed that native humor indicates a good heart. The true humorist sports with the vanity or conceit of another, without wounding his feelings or exciting his anger. While it makes the folly apparent, it spares the man. It has no malignity. Humor, though not as rare an endowment as poetic genius, attracts almost equal admiration and respect. It shows in those who possess it several great qualities,-moral insight and sympathy, pride of character, and self-possession. In Satire and the satiric, the moral is unquestionably the ruling power. It is only by tearing off the veil of hypocrisy, fashion, and false greatness, aud showing wickedness in form of weakness, that satire attains its end. It was the purpose of our remarks to show, not that passion is the object of art, but passion under control; or rather, the presence of their controlling powers, under the several names of Pride, Honor, Modesty, &c., seen in the immediate kingdom of the heart. The passions will be expressed, and with their full intensity; but this expression will be valued as it shows their mastering principles. of the whole. When a beautiful statue is first presented to the eye, it produces a faint sensation of delight; but when, after many views, every minute elegance of feature and form has made its due impression, the separate beauties enter together into the mind, until they produce one feeling. And so in the critical appreciation of a poem, we are at first delighted with the melody of the verse, and then with the picturesqueness and passion of the language; last of all, with the moral passion, to coin a new phrase, of the entire work. When these have been separately appreciated, the pleasure which we afterwards receive from the whole is of a kind incomparably superior in worth and duration to a first, hasty delight. It seems strange, and almost ridiculous, standing to know this, but that is another to a critic of the present day, to ask at all, kind of "pleasure." The understanding is whether the moral enters into a work of art, "pleased" when it is instructed; the imagiin any shape; so grossly have fiction and nation when images of the beautiful and design degenerated from their ancient dig- sublime are created in it. All that can be nity. Time was, and that too but a century said, therefore, in answer to the question, ago, when a poem containing nothing but a "What is poetry?" is perhaps to separate dream, related in a musical jingle of words, the various causes of pleasure, the rhythm, would have been passed over with neglect, the harmony, the imagery, the contrasts, the as unworthy a second perusal. Although sublimity, the beauty. By dwelling sepathe fashion of condemning Pope and slight-rately upon each of these, we attain at length ing Addison has been lately a prevailing one, to a more full and satisfactory appreciation it has insured the immortality of those authors, as it has of the Greek and Roman classics, that they wrote for moral ends, and regarded their art as the handmaid of morals. But though high art demands a moral theme and purpose, to attain its immortality, the mere poetic passion makes no such demand, and even resents a purpose. The instruction of art is given to the heart, not to the head; but as the heart is of greater dignity than the head, the artist is superior in dignity to the artisan. Art is not understood, it is only felt; and consequently, to those who have no feeling, the artist is an empty impostor. One cannot reply to the question so often asked, "What is poetry?" The feeling alone can make a suitable reply. The idea must be in us, or the image, when presented, will not remind us of any thing real. The critic must therefore suppose that readers already know "what poetry is," at least as well, or better, than he does himself. He must suppose that a beautiful poem will produce effects of beauty in their imaginations, attended with a certain glow and enthusiasm which are proper to it, and belong to it alone. He takes it for granted that sublimity appears sublime; that pathos moves their feelings; that sentiment touches what is sentimental; that grace meets a graceful appreciation; that the laughable moves laughter, and the keen and witty are their own recommendations. Readers are before critics. Nature seems to have made some persons without poetic sympathy, or in whom it is exercised at such remote intervals, or so faintly, as to add nothing to their pleasures. Others, on the contrary, find poetry in every thing; they cannot listen to a fall of water, or the rustling of leaves, or the distant hum of cities, or any sound that has softness, monotony or sweetness, without a rise of the poetic sensation. When we speak of the poetic sensation, we do not mean that poetry is itself a sensation, nor the faculty of it merely a feeling; but as every idea and passion has its own sensation, so has poetry. It creates a pleasure in the sense which is distinguishable from every other pleasure. We distinguish the pleasure of music from the pleasure of poetry, although they are similar and closely allied; but we find readers, and even composers of verse, in whom the delight in music is faint. An excellent poet may be hardly able to distinguish a tune. That characteristic of poetry which has been set foremost by the critics, as the most admirable, and conveying the highest degree of pleasure, we commonly call grandeur, sublimity. It seems to be a rousing up of limity, by observing that in one the element of terror is present, while in the other we find only monotony and expansion. Poetry which describes what is merely large and extended, may have nothing of the sublime, because it moves no terror. Fine-sounding verses, without passion, are not sublime, though they convey pictures of the universe. Lord Byron was wont to insist that poetry was passion: he meant, perhaps, that there was no poetry without passion; and we are sure of being right when we say that there is no poetic sublimity without the passion of terror, as there is no poetic beauty without that of love. the soul, attended with intense emotions akin to fear. It carries a mixture of fear and of pride. It gives a momentary dignity to the interior nature, and brings it into fellowship with the vast and mysterious. It seems to be of nearer kin to, and in closer alliance with, the immortal and rational emotions of the soul, than any other movement of intelligence. Much as there is of terror in the sublime, the delight of it is akin to that of heroism. In passages of the most ancient poetry, quoted for their sublimity, there is an expression of the divinity and dignity of the interior nature, an elevation of the soul toward the creative Source, conferring a sublime pleasure. The most terrible subjects and images are chosen and touched with freedom by the poets of the Sublime. Nature is set at defiance; destiny alone is awful. The creative Power is appealed to in a vein of companionship. The spirit of man acknowledges nothing that can daunt or suppress it. It descends into hell, unappalled among eternal tires; it ascends into heaven, gazing with clear eyes upon the glory of God. It pervades the abysses of the universe, and carries passion and pride into the movements of the spheres. It personifies the sun and the stars. The sun speaks, and there is a music for his motion. The powers of earth and nature converse with it as with their master. It images to itself the first beginnings even in the mind of Deity, and looks forward and onward toward the end, fancying to itself the intonations of the Creator on the seat of judgment. Into all things this soaring ardor carries tremulous emotions of fear; not the crouching terror of the flesh, but a fear acknowledged only while it is conquered. The poet need not therefore explain his choice of such images. It is the glory of his art, that over extreme and depressing fear he is able to induce a something which quells it; and the pleasure of this is like the pleasure of controlling a powerful and dangerous steed. The superior nature grasps the reins of its own terror, and moves resolute and charmed through the terrors of death and hell. So much then for the pleasure of the Sublime; it is the pleasure of superior natures, and akin to pride. As a proof, let us observe that poets of the Sublime have been remarkable for pride. Mere pomp and vastness of expression is distinguished from sub But how does it happen that two persons equally susceptible to poetry will be differently affected by the same verse; one having the passion of sublimity, the other no passion at all? Before attempting to answer, we may observe, first, that we never hear of a discovery of sublimity without beauty by one person, and of beauty without sublimity, in the same verse, by another. If the imagery is sublime, its effect, if felt, will be sublime; if it is beautiful only, and carries no sensation of terror, it will never awaken a sublime emotion. But as the faculty of sublime is not always active in the reader, it will not always produce its effect; and if his heart be unsusceptible and dry, he will perceive nothing of beauty, even though beauty be expressed. Among all the controversies of critics, we have never yet seen one which made a question whether sublimity alone, or beauty alone, should be attributed to the same poem or verse. The two qualities may exist together, and the same verse be sublime and beautiful at once, having in it the power both of love and of fear; but the passions and their languages are distinct, and ought not to be confounded together. Those phenomena in nature which discover immense and uncontrolled powers awaken the simple passion terror in minds not gifted with sublimity; but to the sublime imagination, whatever has an incalculable weight and stability, the interminable, that which moves with an irresistible force,—whatever, in short, either hints or fully displays the existence of powers compared with which the physical force of man himself is trifling and ineffectual, raises images of sublimity. There is sublimity in the echo of a cannon, reverberating among mountains; in the mo tion of a steam car, or of a great ship mov |