own land, every one must feel who can compare the pure egotism of Catullus with the nobler sympathies of Coleridge :

:

"And now, beloved Stowey! I behold

Thy church-tower, and, methinks, the four huge elms,
Clustering, which mark the mansion of my friend;
And close behind them, hidden from my view,
Is my own lowly cottage, where my babe,

And my babe's mother dwell in peace!-with light
And quicken'd footsteps thitherward I tread."

Fears in Solitude.

Variety of Style.

Diction in poetry, though employed expressly for the purpose of setting off the writer's thoughts in the most advantageous light, according to their character and the nature of the subject-but so as always to please, directly or indirectly, instantaneously or on reflection-diction, we observe, is capable of every variety of style, from the simplest to the most adorned; from the most sprightly and conversational to the most sublime and severe. It is the practice of vulgar versifiers, and also of many well-bred ones -nay, even of learned clerks, for academical poetry is peculiarly obnoxious to this censure-to labour their diction into stiff and stately, or vapid and affected unintelligibility, by means of inverted syntax, erudite terms, and all the pedantry of circumlocution; presuming, that it must of course approach so much the nearer to verse as it is further removed from prose. The very contrary is the fact; the best verse most nearly resembles the best prose in the plainness of the words employed, the natural construction of the sentences, and the easy intelligence of the whole, where nothing is wanting, nothing superfluous, nothing out of place, out of season, or out of proportion; in short, where nothing is singular for the sake of singularity, or out of the ordinary course, except for extraordinary purposes. Hobbes

of Malmsbury, in the preface to his Version of Homer, has a beautiful thought and comparison on this subject::-"The order of words, when placed as they ought to be, carries a light before it, whereby a man may foresee the length of his period; as a torch in the night showeth a man the stops and unevenness of his way."

The theories of Mr. Wordsworth and the late Dr. Darwin deserve consideration here.

Mr. Wordsworth's Theory of Poetic Diction.

Among living authors, not one has shown greater command of diction than Mr. Wordsworth; suiting his style to his subjects with consummate address, though sometimes with unhappy effect, from the difficulty, not to say the impossibility, of making general readers partakers, by direct sympathy, with his peculiar experiences and imaginings, that is, see with his eyes, hear with his ears, feel with his heart, and think with his mind,-possess them wholly with his own spirit, or for the time being absorb each of them into himself.

In an age of poetical innovations, Mr. Wordsworth has undoubtedly been one of the boldest and most successful adventurers. In the preface to his "Lyrical Ballads,"-casting away at once, and entirely, all the splendid artifices of style, invented in the earliest ages of the fathers of poetry, and perpetuated among all classes of their successors, he avowed that his principal object was, to choose incidents and situations from common life, and to relate and describe them throughout, as far as possible, in a selection of language really used by men; and at the same time to throw upon them a certain colouring of imagination, whereby ordinary things should be presented to the mind in an unusual way; and further, and above all, to make these incidents and situations interesting, by tracing in them truly,

though not ostentatiously, the primary laws of our nature, chiefly as far as regards the manner in which we associate ideas in a state of excitement."

Now, however the poet's ingenuity in the advancement and vindication of his theory of phraseology may deserve commendation, and however just the theory may be, so far as his system would restrict the multitude of epithets and expletives which often render verse too heavy for endurance,-we may reasonably protest against the unqualified rejection of those graces of diction (suitable to the elevation of enthusiastic thoughts equally above ordinary discourse and ordinary capacities), which essentially distinguish poetry from prose, and have been sanctioned by the successful usage of bards in every age and nation, civilized or barbarous, on which the light of song hath risen with its quickening, ennobling, and ameliorating influences. In dramatic works, assuredly, the writer, through all his characters, should speak the truth of living nature; the language of the strong passions should be stern, abrupt, sententious, and sublime; that of the gentler affections, ardent, flowing, figurative, and beautifully redundant; while, in both instances, every colour of expression, every form of thought which appeals to the imagination only, and touches not the heart, nor adds to the positive interest of the piece, should be rigorously proscribed. But in narrative, descriptive, and ethic poetry, I know no law of nature, and I will acknowledge none of art, that forbids Genius to speak his mother tongue,—a language (a dialect rather, of every distinct language) which, in sound and structure, as well as in character and sentiment, exalts itself far above any models of common speech; and yet, in simplicity, freedom, and intelligibility, according to the subject, equals the poorest and least ornamented prose.

Mr. Wordsworth allows a poet to be a person" of more than usual organic sensibility;" and declares,

that "he must have thought long, to produce poems to which any value can be attached." With these admissions, we may fearlessly assert, that a poetone who is really such-is no ordinary man; nor are his compositions the prompt and spontaneous expressions of his own every-day feelings. No; they are the most hidden ideas of his soul, discovered in his happiest moments, and apparelled in his selectest language. Will such a being, then, array the most pure, sublime, and perfect conceptions of his superior mind, in its highest fervour, only with "the real language of men in a state of vivid excitement?" Compare the lofty narratives of Milton, the luxuriant descriptions of Thomson, the solemn musings of Young; nay, even the soliloquies, and not unfrequently the dialogues, of Shakspeare, in which characters and passions are portrayed with unparalleled force and feeling-compare these with "the real language of men in a state of vivid excitement," on the very same subjects, or in precisely the same situations, however animated, interested, or stimulated they may be. The fact is, that poetical sensibility will, on all occasions-except in the bold, brief, instinctive expression of the highest degree of agony or rapture-suggest language more lively, affecting, and fervent, yet not a whit less natural, than passion itself can inspire in minds less tremblingly alive to every touch of pain or pleasure. Hence the delight communicated by poetry is, in general, more intensely transporting than any that could be derived from the unassisted contemplation of the objects themselves, which are presented to us by the magic of the author's art. Of that art his language is the master-secret; and by this charm he transfuses into frigid imaginations his warmer feelings, and into dull minds his brighter views, on subjects and of things which might otherwise only indifferently affect them in nature and reality.

Mr. Wordsworth himself, though not a popular

writer-nor one who ever can be, in the popular sense of the phrase, till the boasted march of intellect has made much more way than it is likely to do for half a century to come;-Mr. Wordsworth himself has established a reputation of the proudest rank upon the surest basis-the admiration of the most intellectual class of readers, who can distinguish what is exquisite from what is puerile, what is grand from what is obscure, and what is imaginative from what is merely fanciful, in his own multifarious productions. But how has he accomplished this? Certainly not by limiting his practice within his theory. He possesses as much as any man living the power of awakening unknown and ineffable emotions in the bosoms of his fellow-creatures; and he has exercised this power much oftener than that smaller craft of fashioning "Lyrical Ballads" and Tales, of which mean men are the actors, and their peculiarities the themes of verse, in phraseology such as they might be supposed to employ, if, instead of being taught to speak in rude prose from their infancy, they had

-"lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came."

His "Cumberland Beggar," "Tintern Abbey," and "Lines on the Naming of Places," unpromising as the subjects might appear at first sight, with many other of his profound and curious speculations, have taught us new sympathies, the existence of which in human nature had scarcely been intimated by any poet before him. In these his most successful efforts he has attired, in diction of the most transcendent beauty, thoughts the most recondite, and imaginations the most subtle. Thus :

"I have learn'd

To look on Nature, not as in the hour

Of thoughtless youth; but hearing, oftentimes,
The still, sad music of humanity;

Not harsh and grating, though of ample power
L