multiplied beyond calculation, folly still maintains her ground. She flourishes her sword of lath with as much effect as ever, and seems in no imminent danger of being compelled to resign it. It is true she talks learnedly enough of poems and chemistry, novels and geology, and is possessed of a thousand scholarly accomplishments besides. But she is vain and light headed as she ever was, and all her fine accomplishments only serve to make her the more ridiculous. It happens to her as it did to the poor fool, whose grimaces were only rendered the more observable by the gaudy rags with which he had decorated his dress. But though it is, unfortunately, too true, that "wit and wisdom are born with a man," and that books never can complete the work which nature, through frolic or design, has left unfinished, it must be confessed that this universal diffusion of literature is attended with the happiest consequences. Milton, somewhere in his prose writings, proposes, that, since, from the constitution of their nature, mankind must be indulged in occasional recreations, theatres, as was the case in ancient Greece, should be erected at the public expense, where might be represented actions of such dignity and pathos, as would tend to refine the minds of the people, to meliorate their manners, and fill their souls with generous and noble sentiments. This is, undoubtedly, a poetical idea, but the design proposed is a thousand times better answered by a taste for reading being so generally diffused, that every quiet little sitting-room becomes, as it were, a scene, on which successively appear the gay and glorious creatures of Shakspeare's fancy, the lofty creations of Milton's own imagination, Spencer's elfin knights with all their train of allegorical attendants, and in their turn, too, the humbler, but not less instructive or entertaining personages who figure in the page of the historian and the novelist. The meanest occupation is dignified, when the intervals of leisure which it allows are devoted to letters, and if the higher ranks of society wish to maintain their relative standing, they must make a corresponding advance in intellectual refinement. Undoubtedly, all the inferior members of the literary republic are infinitely benefited by the enlargement of its boundaries; but a doubt may arise, whether the writers have equal cause with the readers for self-congratulation. It is not utterly impossible, that the present flourishing state of literature is partly illusive. As the flood widens, it becomes more shallow; and there is some reason to fear that a universal taste for letters may have for its companion a universal mediocrity of genius. Individuals are, to a considerable degree, the masters of their own fortunes, but states, communities, and masses of men, seem to be almost completely under the control of circumstances, giving back the image of those external accidents which affect them, as faithfully as a sheet of water reflects the alternate brightness and blackness of the sky. He who contemplates the progress of letters from rudeness to refinement, from natural strength and beauty to artificial force and elegance, will often feel the truth of this remark. He will not be able to resist the conviction, that the harshness and rusticity of the authors of one age, and the affectation and fopperies which characterize those of another, are not to be ascribed exclusively to the talents and taste of the individual writers. And while he is careful not to overlook, in his zeal for a system, those inequalities of ability, which daily experience convinces us are so obvious and so frequent, he will see reason to believe, that the peculiar character of every school of literature, may be, to a great degree, accounted for, by carefully studying the circumstances under which it was formed. If we examine the history of letters under the influence of these impressions, we shall discover three eras which principally merit the attention of the philosophical inquirer. The first is that which is rendered famous by the introduction of literature into a nation, or, if not by first introducing it, at least, by first drawing it forth from academic shades and cloistered retreats, and bringing it home, as it were, to "the bosoms and business" of mankind. Nothing pleases like novelty. Literature, when it first comes into fashion, its fine gloss not yet worn by the hands, or its bright colors stained by the breath of the multitude, is a badge of no vulgar honor. It is the glorious distinction of a chosen few, who look upon it with a high wrought enthusiasm as the sign which marks its possessors extraordinary, and plainly shows 'They are not in the rolls of common men.' Princes and nobles and the great ones of the earth strive for the honors of authorship, and men of genius and learning receive attentions which no subsequent age sees repeated. Ennius was the inseparable companion of the elder Africanus; all the crowned heads of Europe contended for the honor of entertaining Erasmus ; and Spencer could boast the friendship of such men as Sidney, Raleigh and Leicester. Such patronage is not to be undervalued. Yet it is but one among many concurring circumstances which exert the happiest influence over the writers of this age. The poets, in particular, enjoy high and peculiar advantages; "The world is all before them-where to choose-' The wild traditions, the strange superstitions, the half historical and half fabulous remembrances of a rude and illiterate people, the very choicest materials for poetry, are yet flourishing in unpruned luxuriance. And these early poets may well be compared to the first discoverers of some rich, but hitherto unknown region. Subsequent adventurers may, perhaps, penetrate farther into the interior, and may give a more intelligible account of the soil, the climate, the productions, the natural beauties and artificial elegances of the new country, but none return so richly laden with substantial spoils, as the first authors of the discovery. We accordingly find, that, in every language, the early authors who maintain their reputation, are, with very few exceptions, poets. Not because prose composition is unknown or undervalued, but because those circumstances, which peculiarly favor the fiery spirit of poetry, ill agree with the cool element' of prose. For good prose requires such a cultivated taste, such a disciplined and discriminating judgment, a mind so entirely swayed by reason, and so little under the influence of imagination, as it would be in vain to seek for in those early and easily believing times. This is the first act of the great literary drama. But the play goes on, and in process of time learning ceases to be so peculiar a distinction. All the upper classes are educated; and though the country 'squire, in those happy regions which are blessed with this curious specimen of humanity, is too much engaged in fox hunting to be much a scholar; though the farmer minds his plough, and the mechanic his forge, undisturbed by poetic or philosophic visions, there is gradually formed a large and well disciplined body of readers and writers, who begin to have a very perceptible influence on the public mind. Sciolists and pretenders to learning no doubt abound; but a great proportion of those who take an interest in literature, being persons of considerable leisure and some education, are actually capable of thinking as well as of reading. If the preceding period was peculiarly favorable to poetry, this is the era of good prose. Repeated composition has refined and harmonized the language; and the authors of this age, discarding the unending and untunable sentences of their predecessors, write with terseness, simplicity, elegance, and force. The rapturous, but deceptive excitement of preceding times, subsides into a temper, calm and scrutinizing. The easy faith that believed all things, is succeeded by a skepticism that inquires and doubts. Here is a new vein of originality opened. The old systems of religion, philosophy, and politics are to be scrupulously examined, and the pillars and arches which are found inadequate to support the superincumbent edifice, are to be demolished and rebuilt. Both readers and writers enter with zeal and spirit into the investigation of these new and interesting questions, and the authors of this, as well as of the preceding age, enjoy the choice privilege of gathering in the first harvest of a virgin soil. But the ever-whirling wheel of time' keeps on its dizzy revolutions, and at length, in these latter days, we are called upon to stand up, and show what spirit we are of. Alas!-and is there any one among us so self-confident, that he can cast his eye over the spacious realms and golden empires which our fathers have subdued, and not sympathize with the young Alexander-not drop a tear lest there should be no kingdoms left for us to conquer? Horace boasts that he was the first who transfused the spirit of Grecian lyric poetry into the Latin tongue.* Lucretius consoles himself for the difficulty of his subject, by the reflection that he is treading untrodden paths, drawing from untouched fountains, and gathering poetic flowers where none ever gathered them before.† Milton, in the beginning of Paradise Lost proposes to sing 'Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme.' These poets had a just conception of literary merit. It is originality and originality alone, that confers any valuable and lasting reputation. And have we not some reason to fear that we are born in an age too late,' to aspire to this pre-eminent excellence? Has not the boldest literary adventurer of the times, room for suspicion that he can hope for nothing better than to be the Longinus or Boethius of a declining literature, the ardent admirer or the elegant copyist of an excellence which he feels he never can emulate? Poetry and philosophy have been rifled of their sweets. The fairy land of imagination, the rich domains of reason have been ravaged and ransacked. It seems as if there were no solid ground left; as if those among us who aspire to add new provinces to the empire of letters, must plunge into that 'Dark Illimitable ocean, without bound, Without dimension; where length, breadth and height, And time and space are lost; where eldest Night And Chaos, ancestors of nature, hold Eternal anarchy ;' and if, as the poet assures us, the arch fiend himself stood on the edge of this wild abyss, pondering his voyage; can any one of mere mortal mould be expected rashly to undertake the adventure? * Princeps Æolium carmen ad Italos Horat. Carmen. lib. iii. ode xxx. † Nec me animi fallit quam sint obscura; sed acri Lucret. De Rerum Natura, lib. i. v, 921-927. The universal diffusion of literature in our times has already been noticed. Nothing so much shows the natural equality of mankind, as the circumstance, that no accomplishment long remains the peculiar distinction of a few. The sweet lady muses' who once dwelt in palaces and had princes for their play fellows, are now the inmates of every cottage. That they carry civility, refinement, and the best of moral influences with them has been most willingly conceded; but it may well be questioned whether this multiplicity of readers does not exert a baneful influence on the writers of the age. Gonzalo's imaginary commonwealth has never yet been realized; least of all, that part of which admits 'No occupation-all men idle, all And women too;' and while the old rule holds, that all who would live must work, it is unreasonable to expect any great maturity of judgment, or correctness of taste in that large portion of the reading world whose souls are in their warehouses and workshops, and who regard books only as a source of occasional amusement. But no man, and above all, no author, is so free from vanity, as to be insensible to popular applause. All desire to be praised and admired, even by those whom they despise; and when an epic, manufactured in six weeks, and a Lady of the Lake' in half that time, shall gain for the poet the praise of ten thousand tongues, how can we expect, that, sacrificing present notoriety to future glory, he will devote years to a single work, write and rewrite, erase and blot, till the gross and heavy substance which clogged and obscured his first conceptions, is purged away; till meaning breathes in every sentence, and fire sparkles in every line-laboring on in poverty and sickness; living above the world while he is in it; scorning pleasure, contemning wealth, a stranger to gaiety, scarcely tasting of domestic endearments or social delights,* and this, too, with the prospect before him, that when he presents his countrymen with the fruits of his toil, they will 'Like the base Judean, throw a pearl away Richer than all their tribe,' reject and spurn the giver-who has the heroic spirit to undergo all this, even though Fame herself should stoop from heaven, and whisper in his ear a promise of immortality? Byron, in his famous satire, accuses Sir Walter Scott of writing more for love of money than zeal for letters. The charge has some appearance of truth. But it is somewhat surprising, that one who affected singularity so much as did Lord Byron, should follow the example of all commonplace advisers since the world began-tell * Obterendæ sunt omnes voluptates; relinquenda studia delectationis; ludus, jocus, convivium sermo est pene familiarium deserendus. Cicero, Oratio pro M. Coelio. chap. 19. |