thrown aside as worthless; just as if all that is good or beautiful in creation were to be grasped by a few feeble mortals, and not rather to remain the study of the beings placed in the midst of it, to the end of time. Surely all is the well-ordered and consistent design of One Being, who, as He has given infinite breadth and variety to the mind, so has He spread before it a scene as wide and changing; and to set up rules discordant with this plan is bad philosophy, (we might almost say, false religion,) and paltry taste, narrowing our observation, and weakening the constantly renewing vigour of the intellectual powers.

Mr. Allston's verse is easy, and reads as if it were produced with unusual facility; and his language, too, is good. Yet we think that both would have been richer, had he made the old master-poets more his study in early life. But while the poets of the present times have done well in freeing themselves of much that was introduced at the Restoration, we hardly look for the return of that affluent, poetic diction, that rich and varied tone and deep harmony, which, with its individual varieties, marked the works of Spenser, Shakspeare, and Milton.

As we are of the number of those who saw most of these poems in manuscript, we may be allowed to express our regret at the alterations made in the publishing. So far as we recollect, though few, they are for the worse. The "gushing fount of day," in the description of the cave in the "Seasons," certainly is not an improvement upon "sunny thread." And in that beautiful image,

"Yon bird that trims his purple [sunny] wings,

As on the bending bow he swings,"

purple is but a poor substitute for the original epi

thet. Again, in "The Paint-King," the change to "Ovidian art" is coldly classical and out of keeping amidst the warm, natural English character of the volume. And so of the rest. We were sorry at not finding in "Eccentricity" one or two passages, which we thought amongst its most beautiful when we read the manuscript. But this between ourselves and the author, who must not be offended at our laying down his book, and taking up his loose papers, but put our overstepping the province of reviewers to the interest which we take, not only in his book, but in him also, deepened by the reflection that he is now a stranger in a foreign land. We will venture the conjecture, that the alterations were made at the suggestion of some fond friend, of good intentions, perhaps, but not of so good judgement.

Now that we have gone through with our notice of the few faults of this volume, we would advise our readers to make themselves acquainted with it. They will find it worthy their pride, in the general poverty of literature in our country. It remains for us to thank our author for what he has done for our good name, and to hope from him still more. May he find the strangers by whom he is surrounded as fair, and void of prejudices, as is his own mind, and may his solitary labours be cheered by that fame which he so well deserves.

EDGEWORTHS' READINGS ON POETRY.*

THE character of different periods of society varies almost as much as the seasons, and perhaps to similar uses. It has its times of darkness and storms, when the violent passions are abroad, and the milder affections are beaten down and lie broken and perishing. But the seeds of good feelings do not decay, nor do the fast and strong roots of principle turn to rottenness. The gloom passes off, and the attachments of the heart shoot up in young and healthful hopefulness, and the sterner virtues, that had stood out in the stir and violence, alone and naked, are once more seen clothed in honour. In time, all changes again; the tender die, and the honours of the strong fade and fall off, and all is left bare, and calm, and cold. Men undergo such changes in passing through the different stages of society, that the last of the same nation become the opposite of the first. Where they were once daring and hardy, we now find them cautious and enervated; and where were those who sprang up in the warmth of the feelings, and grew vigorous in the strife and shake of the

*From the North American Review for 1818.

Readings on Poetry. By RICHARD LOVELL EDGEWORTH and MARIA EDGEWORTH. Boston: Wells & Lilly. 1816.

passions, there we now see men slow to be moved, and quick to calculate, reasoners in their love, and prudent in their hate.

These alterations are not only seen abroad in the world, but run also into the pursuits of our minds. Besides holding an influence over our daily conduct, our studies and retired reflections are guided by them; and these, again, send us forth among men, tempered and cast anew.

Thus mutually operating, in an age of simple and natural manners, there was an absence of artificiality in most of its literature. You seemed to be looking into the very minds of its authors, and even in their conceits there was an air of good-nature and honest playfulness, which put you at ease, and begat a kind of companionable acquaintance. You never stood upon ceremony; nor was an author's book a court-dress for his thoughts and feelings. So nigh did he come to plain truth in descriptions of outward things, that, instead of feeling you were looking at nature through another's eyes, you forgot you were not with him amidst the scenes he was describing, felt on your you hand the coolness of the dark-green, polished leaves as you caught at them bending to the "breathing wind," and heard

"Soft rumbling brookes, that gentle slumber drew."

With a change in literature went along a change of manners; and with the natural, and vigorous, and chivalrous, and marvellous in books, was laid by a marked and free conduct in life. Then came profession for sincerity, the heartlessness of wit for the feeling of genius, and an ingenious and curious finishing of forced thoughts, and an artificial ornamenting of dim images,

for strong and simple reflections, and figures as distinct as those of nature, and attired in her beauties. Men at last grew tired of this excess of artifice, for every thing they saw or touched was tarnished with its paltry daubings till the senses ached at it; its mannered trickery became stale and common, and its faded tawdriness was, in the end, thrown into a corner, a fashionless cast-off.

To this has succeeded a time of dull tranquillity, a solemn parade of reason, holding boastful dominion. over passions too feeble for rebellion, and laying restrictions upon the wanderings of earth-bound and sluggish imaginations. Instinctive actions are holden dangerous; we are made mere reasoning machines, unmoved by natural impulses; and instead of quickening the growth of the fancy and imagination along with that of the understanding, these are cut off as profitless shoots which would overtop and dwarf the judgement. In our new-gotten zeal for the useful, we overlook our mixed condition; not considering that every sinless quality of the heart, and every faculty of the mind, is bestowed on us for good, that the romantic may give a warmth and action to feelings dulled in the tame business of the world, and that reachings after qualities higher than our common natures may shed a pure exaltation of spirit over us, which will brighten and make glad the humblest actions and relations of our lives. We are freshened and restored by the marvellous; and looking on finely touched beauties opens us to innocent cheerfulness and a tenderness of heart, which keep kindred movement with all about us. This gives an exhilarating variety to society, which makes us better pleased with each other, and happier in ourselves. Life, it is true, is crowded with homely