with this consideration, and he, for sometime, thought that it might indicate the greater irritability of women and chil dren;"-(the following words are here omitted by the authors-" BUT THIS SUPPOSITION HE DID NOT LONG ENTERTAIN,") "because irritation" (in the text " IRRITABILITY,")" is a common quality of every organ." After these specimens of splendid poetic talent, brilliant wit, elegant composition, correct representation, and scrupulous honesty of quotation, we leave every reader to form his own opinion of the ability and Edinburgh, printed by James Ballantyne and Co. For John Ballantyne, Hanover-Street. No. XXI.] THE SALE-ROOM. SATURDAY, MAY 24, 1817. A Periodical Paper, published weekly at No. 4, Hanover-Street, Edinburgh. We had set out, not only with a resolu- | may not be unacceptable to your readers. tion to avoid politics, (to which we have invariably adhered) but also with an inten tion rather to shun the thorny paths of criticism. In the following letter, however, no remarks are to be found by which the feelings of any one individual (even of the genus irritabile) could be much affected. And, in truth, we believe, that even the most severe animadversions in periodical journals never materially injured the fame of a production in itself truly estimable. In the present instance, however, no risk has been run; and we therefore submit this communication to our readers without farther comment. To the CONDUCTOR of the SALE-ROOM. SIR, I have been emboldened by the appearance of several articles of poetical criticism in your melange, to hope that a few desultory remarks on modern English poetry I must own that I very much prefer, as a subject, the plays of Massinger to the fragments of Epicharmus; and the productions of contemporary writers to both. I speak only of the subjects of the papers to which I allude. I well know, that, with respect to the ability displayed in these communications, especially in the criticisms on Massinger, it is far greater than the most experienced author could easily evince. As to myself, had I no resources but my own ideas to depend on, I should not presume to attempt a letter such as I have now begun; but it so happens that I have a friend, who, from a certain propensity to minute observation, joined to a degree of natural sensibility, almost morbid in its excess (and thereby frequently destroying itself,) has acquired the habit of severely censuring the works of his contemporaries; a practice which he certainly has not renounced with respect to his own compositions, which, however long and laboured, are almost invariably thrown into the fire by their author; so that unless from his confidential communications in conver-selves, but as they appear to the eye of an im passioned observer; and his mind is thereby filled almost with new creations arising out of ordinary materials, and with infinite associations of pleasurable and important ideas, whereby the hearts and heads of his readers, or auditors, are instructed and amelio sation, his ideas never emanate beyond the sphere of his own working intellect; for his prose always shares the same fate with his verse. It is a singular fact, that my friend has, in the course of his life, written letters enough to fill many volumes, but invariably, after the sheet was finished, the pro-rated. Such attributes (which he believes duction was put between the bars of the grate in winter, or torn into shreds in sum. mer, instead of being sent to the post office. These brief notices (for I write in haste,) are probably sufficient to shew the character of my friend. He is fastidious to excess; and delights in framing visionary models of perfection, which neither he himself, nor perhaps any one on earth can ever realize. indispensible to the poet,) become highly estimable as to their consequences when they are employed in elucidating any of the primary passions and impressions to whic human nature is liable; especially pleasures, derived from the scenery and influences of a country life ;-all the varieties of passion generally preferred by dramatic writers ;— even moral sentiments, which, in a poetical mind, are often converted into passion; but above all, they are interesting when exerted in illustrating impressions derived from religious faith, which have been so admira ed by Wordsworth, with feelings and ideas arising from the scenery of nature. This he justly considers the noblest and greatest purpose of poetry, and extols Wordsworth above all other writers for affording the original, and perhaps the only example of this kind of composition. Genuine poetry he believes to be at present completely misunderstood. No one in his opinion, (except Wordsworth,) seems to know what are its proper attributes and cha.bly and beautifully blended and strengthen. racteristics. A true poet, he says, must always be distinguished by deeper thoughts and deeper feelings than those of ordinary men. And it is not enough that he has the power of inventing and bringing together materials; it is not enough that character, incidents, and situations are conceived, and the most intricate and singular plots contrived and developed; but the impressions thence arising must be concentrated in an unusual degree; and the nobler faculty of imagination, which "modifies, confers, ab stracts, and associates," which, as it were, alters the nature of every subject which it touches, (and which is the natural offspring of intense thought and intense emotion), must be awoke and manifest its peculiar effects. For it is a characteristic of the true poet to look on things not as they are in them But, as I before observed, he insists that the genuine poetical character is, in general, almost quite unknown, or completely misunderstood. There are some critics, he asserts, who believe that a long mysterious tale, even though there should not be one deep thought or emotion from beginning to end, and consequently no example of genuine imagination, (that is of "creative, modifying, conferring, abstractive, and associating" power) if told in smooth verse, is a genuine and perfect poem. Whereas, in reality, if it were turned from the form of rhyme into that of prose, it would perhaps not evince nearly such respectable pretensions to the distinguished appellation of poetry as the novels of Mrs Radcliffe or Charlotte Smith, although merely because the productions of these writers are not in metre, no one has ever thought of looking on them as poetesses. A tale of mystery when once read through, and the veil withdrawn from its wonders, is never recurred to but with lassitude or indifference, whereas the productions of the genuine poet are so peculiar and impressive, that after an hundred readings, they are still interesting. This is, by the way, a favourite method of my friend's to try the value of a metrical production. He turns it from verse into prose, and insists, that what is really good in rhyme, will be found essentially good without that ornament; and, for the same reason, he laughs at those who talk fluently of the "curiosa felicitas" which is untranslatable, and thinks that those passages of Homer and Virgil which appear good for nothing when turned into English prose, are, in truth, of very little value in the au thor's own language. Other people he observes (and this class is very numerous) are unable to distinguish between the value of productions which proceed from deep thought and deep feeling, and of those which are the offspring of ingenious contrivance, and that perversion of talent which gives rise to far-fetched and unintelligible concetti. Such are the admirers of Donne, and the worst parts of Cowley, including all the rest of the authors whom Dr Johnson has called "metaphysi cal." Nearly a-kin to the laboured productions of this file of worthies, is the Gondi | bert of Sir W. Davenant, although there probably may be found evidences of wit and fancy at least, if not of imagination. Others, he observes, believe, that good, sensible, moral remarks, or sentiments, and even all sorts of whimsicalities and flippan-cy, although never evincing any thoughts or impressions deeper than those which are, or may be, every day experienced by lively people in the course of common conversation, if turned into verse, constitute excellent good poetry. Hence the productions of Pope, and all his imitators, are still, by many people, held in high estimation; and such readers ask, "if this is not poetry, where is it to be found?" He seems most of all to be partial to Wordsworth and Coleridge. For Scott, however, he cherishes a high respect, and seems to have a peculiar, pleasure in asserting, that in all his productions (though the multitude look only to his inimitable powers as an inventive novellist) there are emanations of a glorious poetical spirit ; inspirations of the most unquestionable origin, which will preserve the works in which they appear as long as the language is known on the earth. I have often heard him commend the admi rable fidelity and affecting beauty of the following description: "Autumn departs; from Gala's fields no more Come rural sounds our kindred banks to cheer; Blent with the stream and gale that wafts it o'er, No more of distant reaper's mirth we hear. The last blythe shout hath died upon our ear, And harvest-home hath hush'd the clanging wain; On the waste-hill no forms of life appear, Save when, sad laggard of the autumnal train, Some age-struck wanderer gleans few ears of scatter l grain. Deem'st thou these sadden'd scenes have pleasure still, Lovest thou through Autumn's fading realms to stray, |