that Boileau opposed Tasso, asserting that the age in which he lived, had too strong a propensity to fall into the errors of that author.

2

Still by ceding something to an adversary, shall we not more easily bring public opinion back to good models? May it now be allowed that imagination and the arts were indulged to too great an extent in the reign of Louis XIV? Was not the art of painting nature, as it is now termed, almost unknown at that time? Why should it not be admitted that the style of the present day has really assumed a more perfect form, that the liberty of discussing any subject has brought a greater number of truths into circulation, that the sciences have imparted more firmness to the human mind, and more precision to human ideas? I know that there is danger in allowing all this, and that if one point be yielded, it is difficult to know where to stop; but still is it not possible that a man, by proceeding cautiously between the two lines, and always leaning rather towards the ancient than the modern one, may unite the two schools, and create from them the genius of a new era? Be this as it may, every effort to produce so great a revolution will be abortive if we remain irreligious. Imagination and sentiment are essentially combined with religion. A species of literature, from which the charms of tenderness are banished, can never be otherwise than dry, cold, and merely possessed of mediocrity.*

* The reader will have found in the foregoing dissertation a considerable portion of genuine critical acumen, mingled with no small share of the national partialities and prejudices, which M. de Chateaubriand so freely ascribes to others. When Voltaire's earlier observations are against Shakspeare it is declared that, while young, his criticisms were" replete with justice, taste, and impartiality," but when he is not sufficiently abusive, his later attacks are preferred. Shakspeare is placed, by M. de Chateaubriand, below such crude authors as Garnier and Hardy. He is

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III-BEATTIÉ.

THE genius of Scotland has, during the present age, sustained with honour the literature, which Pope, Addison, Steele, Rowe, &e. had elevated to a high degree of perfection. England can boast of no historians superior. to Hume and Robertson, and of no poets more richly gifted than Thomson and Beattie. The latter, who never, left his native desert, was a minister and a professor of Philosophy, resident at a small town in the north of Scotland. He is distinguished as a poet by a character entirely novel, and when he touched his lyre, he in some degree brought back the tones of the ancient bards. His principal, and as it were only work, is a small poem entitled the Minstrel, or the Progress of Genius. Beattie wished to pourtray the effects of the Muse on a young mountain shepherd, and to retrace the inspirations which he himself had doubtless felt. The original idea of the

allowed to have "regained the dramatic art after it had been lost in the lapse of ages," but this is only for the purpose of describ ing Moliere as having brought it to perfection. Racine is declared to be more natural than Shakspeare, and it is deemed literary treason that the latter should have been elevated to the side of Corneille. I venture, however, to doubt whether a competent judge, of any nation, can peruse the scenes, from which M. de Chateaubriand himself has made extracts to show their comparative skill, without giving a decisive preference to our countryman. In spite of "the monstrosities" of this “barbarian" as M. de C. calls him, or this drunken savage, if he prefers Voltaire's expression to his own, may the day soon arrive when Britain can boast of possessing another dramatic genius equal to Shakspeare!

P

EDITOR.

Minstrel is charming, and most of the descriptions are very agreeable. The poem is written in metrical stanzas, like the old Scotch ballads,* a circumstance which adds to its singularity. It is true that the author, like all foreigners, is sometimes too diffuse, and sometimes defici ent in taste. Dr. Beattie likes to enlarge on common maxims of morality, without possessing the art of giving them a new appearance. In general, men of brilliant imagination and tender feelings are not sufficiently profound in their thoughts, or forcible in their reasoning. Ardent passions or great genius are necessary towards the con ception of great ideas. There is a certain calmness of heart and gentleness of nature, which seem to exceed the sublime.

A work like the Minstrel can hardly be analyzed; but I will extract a few stanzas from the first book of this pleasing production. I would rather employ myself in displaying the beauties of an author than in nicely investi.. gating his faults. I would rather extol a writer than de base him in the reader's eyes. Moreover, instruction is better conveyed by admiration than censure; for the one reveals the presence of genius, while the other confines itself to a discovery of blemishes which all eyes could have perceived. It is in the beautiful arrangements of Heaven that the Divinity is perceived, and, not. by a few irregularities of nature.

The stanza of Beattie's Minstrel is an avowed copy of the one used in the Fairy Queen. "I have endeavoured," says the au thor," to imitate Spenser in the measure of his verse, and in the harmony, simplicity and variety of his composition. This measure pleases my ear, and seems, from its Gothic structure and original, to bear some relation to the subject and spirit of the poem."

EDITOR.

:

"Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb

The steep, where Fame's proud temple shines afar;
Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime

Has felt the influence of malignant star,
And wag'd with Fortune an eternal war;
Check'd by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown,
And Poverty's unconquerable bar;

In life's low vale remote has pin'd alone,
Then dropt into the graye, unpitied and unknown?

And yet the langour of inglorious days

Not equally oppressive is to all:

Him, who ne'er listen'd to the voice of praise,

The silence of neglect can ne'er appal.

There are, who, deaf to mad Ambition's call,

Would shrink to hear the obstreperous trump of Fame :
Supremely blest, if to their portion fall

Health, competence, and peace. Nor higher aim
Had he, whose simple tale these artless lines proclaim.

This sapient age disclaims all classic lore;

Else I should here, in cunning phrase display

How forth THE MINSTREL fared in days of yore,
Right glad of heart, though homely in array;
His waving locks and beard all hoary grey :
And from his bended shoulder decent hung
His harp, the sole companion of his way,
Which to the whistling wind responsive rung;
And ever as he went some merry lay he sung.

Fret not thyself, thou glittering child of Pride,
That a poor Villager inspires my strain;
With thee let Pageantry and Power abide :
The gentle muses haunt the sylvan reign;
Where through wild groves at eve the lonely swain
Enraptur'd roams, to gaze on nature's charms.
They hate the sensual, and scorn the vain;
The parasite their influence never warms,

Nor him whose sordid soul the love of gold alarms.

Though richest hues the peacock's plumes adorn,
Yet horror screams from his discordant throat.
Rise sons of harmony and hail the morn,
While warbling larks on russet pinions float:
Or seek at noon the woodland scene remote,
Where the grey linnets carol from the hill.
O let them ne'er with artificial note,

To please a tyrant strain their little bill,

But sing what Heaven inspires, and wander where they will!

Liberal, not lavish, is kind Nature's hand;
Nor was perfection made for man below.

Yet all her schemes with nicest art are plann'd,
Good counteracting ill, and gladness woe.
With gold and gems if Chilian mountains glow;
If bleak and barren Scotia's hills arise;
There plague and poison, lust and rapine grow:
Here peaceful are the vales, and pure the skies,
And freedom fires the soul, and sparkles in the eyes."

To this extract I will add a few more stanzas towards

the end of the first book:

"Oft when the winter storm had ceas'd to rave,
He roam'd the snowy waste at even, to view
The cloud stupendous, from th' Atlantic wave
High-tow'ring, sail along the horizon blue:
Where, nidst the changeful scenery, ever new,
Fancy a thousand wond'rous forms descries,
More wildly great than ever pencil drew,
Rocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant size,
And glitt'ring cliffs on cliffs, and fiery ramparts rise.

Thence musing onward to the sounding shore,
The lone enthusiast oft would take his way.

List'ning, with pleasing dread, to the deep roar
Of the wide-welt'ring waves. In black array
When sulphurous clouds roll'd on the autumnal day,
Even then he hasten'd from the haunt of man,

Along the trembling wilderness to stray,
What time the lightning's fierce career began,

And o'er heaven's rending arch the rattling thunder ran.