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former image, and added to the whole or a part of another, being sufficient for the creation of one, that shall appear to the world entirely original or new. That power should be expended, is no less an absurdity in thought; because that being the vital principle by which thoughts are generated, man can only cease to think when he ceases to feel, and only cease to feel when he ceases to exist. And that taste should have lost its influence over the human mind, is equally at variance with common sense; because with increased facility in collecting and comparing evidence for the establishment of true excellence, taste must unavoidably become more definite in its nature, and more determinate in its operations. Beyond this, we may ask, is there any thing in the customs, occupations, or mode of education peculiar to the present day, which hinders the exercise of imagination? We should rather say, that its sphere of action is widened to an incalculable extent. Is there any thing that weakens the mind, or destroys its native power? No. The habits of the present race of men are distinguished by indefatigable industry, and general application, and regulated by those laws of strict and unremitting discipline, which are universally acknowledged to strengthen the understanding, and invigorate the mental faculties. Is there any thing to warp the public taste, and establish a false standard of merit? Never, since the world began, were mankind more penetrating, and at the same time more extensive in their observations, more universally free from the shackles of tyranny and superstition, as well as from all uniformly prevailing prejudice, than now. It is clear then, that the deficiency in our poetical enjoyments arises from a want of the due proportion of clear and deep impressions. We have not stored up the necessary materials for imagination, power, and taste to work with, and therefore the machinery of the mind, so far as relates to poetry, remains inactive. We possess not the key to

its secret harmonies, and therefore the language of poetry is unintelligible to our ears.

The silence of our ablest poets, and the want of any leading or distinguished poem to fill up the present vacuum in our literature, sufficiently prove the fact to which we allude. The last popular work of this kind that issued from our press, was "The Course of Time;" but its popularity rather resembled an instantaneous flash, than a steady and lasting light. It forced its way in the flush of the moment to every respectable library in the kingdom-was read with wonder-closed with satisfaction-and, what is very remarkable, affords no quotations. Since this time we have had none to awaken a general interest. We see many noticed by the reviewers -kindly and encouragingly noticed, and we doubt not their title to such approbation; but we do not deny ourselves one ordinary indulgence that we may buy them, or when they are bought, look upon them as a solid mass of substantial happiness set apart for our private and insatiable enjoyment. We do not reverence the authors of our felicity, as if they were beings of a gifted order, endowed with a superhuman capacity of penetrating into the souls of men. do not listen when they tell us of our own secret passions, as if we heard the music of an inspired minstrel, nor when they sing of the revolutions of time, as if a potent and oracular voice dealt out the destiny of mankind. Either we have grown indifferent, and heedless, and almost deaf to the language of poetry, or the spirit of the art has ceased to operate in producing those harmonious numbers that were wont to charm the world.

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Yet when the facilities for acquiring knowledge are multiplying every day, when it has become almost as difficult to remain unlearned, as to learn, when the infant mind is trained up to the continual application of its faculties in all the different branches of art and science, when the memory is stored with a fund of

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information which at one time would have been deemed incredible, when not only the ordinary and beaten track of learning is thrown open to the multitude, but flowery and meandering paths are devised to entice, and woo, and charm into the bowers of academic lore, is it possible there can be any defect or disadvantage in the general system upon which youth is trained?

If it be the ultimate aim of mankind to ascertain of what materials the world is made, and out of these materials to construct new facilities for bodily enjoyment, that we may eat more luxuriously, move more rapidly, repose more softly, clothe more sumptuously, and in short, live more exempt from mental, as well as bodily exertion, I should answer, that the present system of education, and the general tone of thought and conversation, was the best that could possibly be devised. But in looking at the means, we are too apt to disregard the end. In devoting our endeavours to the attainment of knowledge, to forget the attainment of wisdom; and take credit to ourselves for having spent an active life, when it has been wholly unproductive of any increase in the means of happiness, except what mere activity affords.

We know that nature is no less capable of producing poetical ideas, than it was when gifted men were inspired by the cool shade, the glowing sunWe have atshine, or the radiance of the moon.

tempted to prove, that the same beauty, and the same connexion with refined and elevated thought may still be found in the external world, and that the soul of man is still animated by the same passions and affections, as when genius kindled the fire of poetry, and, lighting up the charms and the wonders of creation, stimulated the enthusiasm of him who deems himself "creation's heir." It follows then as a necessary consequence, that the connexion between man and nature, is not the same; that he holds no longer the spiritual converse with all things sweet and lovely,

solemn and sublime, in the external world, that was wont to fill his soul with admiration and love, and to instruct his heart in the feeling of the presence of an invisible intelligence, connected with his own being by the indissoluble bond of sympathy, real or imaginary. Man now studies nature as a map, rather than a picture—with reference to locality, rather than beauty. He sees the whole, but he studies only the separate parts, and to his systematic mind, the vegetable, animal, and mineral kingdoms, are distinct subjects of consideration, scarcely to be thought of in the same day. He looks around him with microscopic eye, and if his attention fixes upon the rich and varied foliage of the ancient forest, it is to single out particular specimens of trees and plants, and to class them according to Linnæus; while from the musical inhabitants of these woods, he selects his victims, and applies the same minute examination to the organs from whence the sweetest melody of nature flows. The idle butterfly, fluttering above his woodland path, or resting upon the unsullied petals of the delicate wild rose, has neither charm nor beauty in his eye, unless he counts the spots upon its wing. The mountain rises in the distance, and he hastens to examine the strata of which it is composed. The vapours roll beneath him, and he ponders upon the means of their production. The stars are shining above in all the majesty of cloudless night, and he counts the number, and calculates the distance of the worlds of light.

All these we freely grant are right and fitting occupations for a rational and intellectual being; but when pursuits of this kind, instead of the end to which they lead, are made the sole business of man's life, the natural consequence must be, to render him familiar indeed with nature, but familiar on such terms that he is in danger of forfeiting his reverence for the creator, and losing sight of the connexion between the material and the moral world.

We are not so blindly wedded to the vagaries of imagination as to speak of this thirst for definite knowledge, as an evil. Far from it. But when the unenlightened, or the imbecile mind becomes infected with this fever of acquisition; when the juvenile philosopher is merely talking about what he ought to feel; when the puny artist no sooner beholds tree, than he thinks it necessary to sketch it; when the student of nature tears in pieces every bird and insect that falls within his grasp; when books without number are eagerly inquired for, looked into, laid aside, and never understood; when the finished and fullyeducated young lady displays her knowledge of the phraseology of foreign languages, and her ignorance of the spirit of her own; when the youthful metaphysician discourses eloquently upon the nature and laws of mind and matter, and hears with total vacuity of understanding that there is a moral law; we cannot help feeling that something is wanting of the ultimate end of education, and that the mind may be stored with knowledge, and yet be too ignorant of the right means of applying that knowledge to render its possessor wise.

The man of comprehensive mind, capable of appreciating all things according to their real value, will cultivate this knowledge of material things for the sake of the truths which it establishes, and the consequences to which it leads; and will no more content himself with this examination of external nature, than the sculptor will rest satisfied with having discovered the block of marble, out of which his figure is to be formed.

If the question might be asked without implying an ignorant and stupid want of reverence for knowledge in general, we should propose for the consideration of those who regret the absence of poetry from the world of letters, whether the defect so obvious in the literature of the present day, may not arise, in the first place from the competition, and the consequent

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