No. XXVII.] THE SALE-ROOM. SATURDAY, JULY 5, 1817. A Periodical Paper, published weekly at No. 4, Hanover-Street, Edinburgh. Ir is so long since we have ourselves appeared before our readers in the shape of a regular Essay, that were it not for the short prefatory remarks with which we have occasionally introduced the letters of our correspondents, we fear that our very existence might almost be doubted of or forgotten. Therefore, as we have received another communication from one of the dale Club, which is intended to su persede the remainder of the letter, of which the greater part appeared in our last, and we are thus absolved from our engagement to publish the continuation of the remarks on Lord Byron as they stood at first, we have determined to fill this Number with some desultory observations of our own, which the communications we have lately received have suggested. We quite agree with our correspondent in his approbation of the passage quoted from the life of Cowley," Whatever he disliked in others he only corrected by the silent reproof of a better practice." In truth, we believe that to complete the character of a perfect critic, (such as every good poet might wish to obtain for his judge,) it would be highly desirable that the said critic should himself have the power of meeting every author on his own ground, and of excelling in every species of composition. It is most certain that there are different kinds of writing, which are severally preferred by different readers; but a truly candid and enlightened censor should be capable of appreciating with an unbiassed mind the pretensions of all. This may seem a mere truism; but we do not know that its efficacy has been ever suffici ently felt and exemplified. As long as an author moves always on the same ground himself, he will run a great risk of being almost blind to the merit of those who are inclined to proceed in a different course. It is very rarely that a painter, whose whole attention is devoted to portraits, is an ade quate judge of a fine landscape. We have an instance in Lope de Vega of one poet who tried at least all the different forms of composition-epic, dramatic, pastoral, lyric, didactic, epistolary, &c. &c. Unlucki. ly, however, the intrinsic value of his productions, though very considerable, yet never rises beyond a certain standard. His name remains distinguished in the literary history of his country; and yet there are very few passages in his works which breathe the genuine spirit of poetical im mortality. We are aware that our correspondent has 2 D very properly observed, that poets are always few in number; but we rather hesi tate in adding, that they "must be judged of by the multitude;" for, with respect to poetry, it is not often that the multitude are capable of judging at all. An anecdote was told the other day by one of our own circle. He happened to enquire of a friend (perhaps not generally considered altogether devoid of intellect) whether he had read a certain work just published, and what was his opinion of it.The reply was, "I have read the poem; but before deciding on its merits, let us wait for the Edinburgh Review." It is extremely probable that most readers require to be informed what they are and what they are not to admire. We believe that few lyrical compositions have lately been more approved of (especially when sung to the harp) than the fine stanzas of Lord Byron, addressed to the mountain "Dark Loch-na-gar." But, if we are not much mistaken, this poem formed one of the leading articles in a voJume, published by this noble author in the year 1807, the whole contents of which were then held forth as deserving only of the most absolute contempt. We happen to remember some of the expressions directed towards him on that occasion-such as "The poesy of this young lord belongs to the class which neither gods nor men are said to permit. We do not recollect to bave seen a quantity of verse with so few deviations from that exact standard. His effusions are spread over a dead flat, and can no more get above or below the level, than if they were so much stagnant water.” And in another place it was declared, that there were but two motives for reviewing his work, first, "when a nobleman appears as an author his merit should be handsome ly acknowledged;" secondly, "the desire to counsel him, that he do forthwith abandon poetry," &c. &c. Since the same literary oracles, however, have themselves learned a little more of the subject,* and have, by their subsequent praise, indirectly allowed that Lord Byron, had he followed their advice of "forthwith abandoning poetry," would have been in the wrong, the stanzas above alluded to, which were then despised, have been revived, and even highly applauded. In short, we will venture to repeat, that it seems extremely desirable that a censor of poetry, whose judgment is to be final, should himself be a poet; and, moreover, that he should not be addicted exclusively to following any one model, but should be capable of equalling a variety of authors, not on principles of intentional imitation, but from the various and original resources of his own mind. It may be feared, that such a person will never be found. Still it would be rash to affirm, that a character so gifted cannot possibly exist. Having delivered these opinions, it may perhaps be said, that we should, if consistent with our own doctrines, abstain from offering any further remarks on the subject brought under consideration by our correspondent. It by no means follows, however, that even the most erroneous and narrow-minded views can have any very mischievous consequences, unless when censure happens to be personally applied in such manner, and with so much severity, as to irritate or depress the mind and wise criticism, to which we have referred, was not * We have good reason for believing that the candid the production of that distinguished individual to whom it has been generally ascribed. of a young and rising author. The more that is written on any subject, the more information, of course, must be afforded. An author's pen improves by exercise; and even the most perverted opinions only place the truth more clearly before enlightened observers, and afford an opportunity for the learned and judicious to come forward in its defence. It is probable, however, that, in the course of this Number, we can hardly do more than merely enter on the subject. We shall not have scope enough allowed to us for wandering very far into any path of error. * Before commencing the remarks which we have chiefly in view, we are inclined, by the way, to direct the attention of our readers, for a short time, to certain articles of criticism which lately appeared in a contemporary journal; we mean the reviews of "Lalla Rookh" and "Manfred," in the Edinburgh Monthly Magazine, No. III. Magazine, No. III. It is impossible to read these articles, without entertaining a belief that they are the production of a poet;-a poet also, if we mistake not, of the highest order. This may seem a rash conclusion, as we have no means whatever of knowing who is the real author of these essays; but that, although short, and obviously written with the greatest degree of haste, and a careless freedom, yet that they do possess in themselves the fervour and imaginative power of genuine poetry, we think there can be no doubt. And the same candour and disposition to be pleased, which induced this critic to write in praise of Moore and Lord Byron, would, in all probability, render him equally fair, when opportunity offers, with respect to Scott or Southey, or any other poet. It is, no doubt, far better, and more indicative of true génius, for a rising author to be pleased than discontented with his contemporaries and precursors. It seems to be a fault in some indi. viduals of the ****dale Club, that they have rather too much of a propensity to find fault; and by this means they will, in all probability, not promote, but retard their own improvement. Good poetry requires learning and study, as well as original genius. But where a young aspirant is too much disposed to cherish a contempt of others, he will probably not study, or even read their productions. On the contrary, the author of these essays has obvi ously devoted the powers of his mind freely, and without any preconceived bias to the works which he reviews, and the spirit: of enjoyment with which he reads, imparts itself to his own composition. We must confess, however, that in his commendations he has gone rather too far; and one of our circle declares, that, in some passages, he could not possibly have been serious, but was only practising a hoar on the ignorant. Be this as it may, we should be glad to see more criticisms in a similar style. In the same Magazine are some other essays especially deserving of attention. But this is a digression, which the desultory character of the "Sale-Room" must account for. We cannot help suspecting, that our correspondent is inclined to give himself more trouble than there is any necessity for, to point out the propriety of a reformation in Lord Byron's mind, and the paths by which it is possible to obtain tranquillity. We have not altogether adopted the same opinion with one of our town friends, who believes that this noble author, and some others who have appeared most "melancholy and gentleman-like" on paper, tuary. It requires, therefore, some new resources, either originating in himself, or an immediate gift of supernatural power, to reanimate his oppressed spirit; and as soon as he finds himself in a state of solitude and freedom, at the same time not exhausted in his corporeal system, but vigorous both in body and mind, he is naturally led to seek enjoyment from interior feelings and independent emotions. The most genuine poet probably dines in a cottage, on such rustic fare as a rural life can afford. He wanders forth in the evening, amid the wildness of Alpine scenery; he is there in absolute loneliness. In imagination, he might seem alone in the universe. He there perhaps my rest himself on the grass, but it is not repose, at least it is assuredly not . have all the while been very different in reality, and have laughed in their sleeves at the long visages which they produced in their admiring and sympathizing friends; which, by the bye, reminds one of the remark," I remember when I was in France, young men would be as sad as night, for very wantonness." We have, on the contrary, good reason to believe, that there have been events in Lord Byron's early life sufficiently productive of acute and painful emotions. He partakes in this respect with Gray, Beattie, Chatterton, Burns, &c. &c.; but we need not tax our memory for names. This is an attribute which has been shared more or less by almost every person, who has been eminently distinguished for poetical genius. But still the conclusions which our correspond-indolence and apathy he wishes for; he is ent appears to have drawn, are, to the best of our judgment, decidedly erroneous. For a poet, at those hours which are devoted to composition, is not in search of tranquillity, (at least in one prevailing acceptation of the word,) but of excitement. He has retired from the ordinary business and society of the world, which are not congenial to his nature; he has retired in to a sphere of solitude and freedom; he has renounced the pleasures which arise from external causes. But it is not repose he wishes for, but internal sensations produced by the independent operations of the self-rewarding mind. As it was long ago observed in the Edinburgh Review, the desire of sensation is one prevailing attribute of all human beings. But the poet is very soon wearied of sensual indulgences, and indeed will soon be satiated with all the pleasure that mere external circumstances can administer. Childe Harold, as all our readers will remember, was a sated volup possessed by the desire of sensation : but the sensations congenial to the poet are deep, serious, independent, and interior. With respect to the poet who lives in town, his essential characteristics are the same. Lord Byron in Albany was precisely the same in habits (at least in his poetical hours). as Lord Byron in the wildest forest, or most secluded vale of Switzerland. In short, it is not tranquillity, but plea sureable excitement, of which the poet is. in search. We are quite aware, that it is possible we have diff red less in reality than in words from our correspondent. He may perhaps have (though not always) yet for the most part adopted ideas not unlike our own, although differently expressed. Still we have thought it our duty to place the subject in a clear light, because we do not think that our friend from the ****dale Society has read with sufficient attention two stanzas at the beginning of Childe Harold, Canto Third. "He, who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him; nor below Can love, or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife, Cut to his heart again with the keen knife Of silent, sharp endurance; he can tell Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife With airy images, and shapes which dwell Still unimpaired, though old, in the soul's haunted cell. 'Tis to create, and in creating live A being more intense, that we endow Mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy birth, And feeling still with thee in my crush'd feelings dearth." This, like many more even of the best passages from the same author, is most imperfectly expressed. Lord Byron has been somewhere said to have a great command of language, and versification. We think he is most especially deficient in both. He is frequently labouring under ideas which he cannot unfold, and which expire for want of a corresponding power of utterance. Yet still we think these two stanzas, though liable to censure on this account, are by no means unintelligible. They contain the declaration of an individual, who has forci bly broken through all the ordinary bonds of life, in order to get into a state of solitude and freedom. Whatever have been the agitations of his earlier years, they are now past; and, moreover, he is resolved to be no longer acted on by others, but to become himself a free agent. A being who submits to the ordinary business of this world,—a politician, a prince,-a leader of armies, is comparatively a slave; - all the potentates of the earth are slaves;-the poet alone, in his poetical hours, is free. It was a remark or exclamation of Burns, that there were but two animals whom he could envy; " a horse in his wild state traversing the forests of Arabia, or an oyster on some of the desart shores of Europe." But in the freedom of his own spirit, had not his life been lost under the constant influence of uncongenial society, he might have resembled the creature which he admired. The higher the rank which we hold in the world, the more abject is our subjection. A king (al though despotic,) yet as long as he pre serves his power and situation, is a slave more miserable perhaps than the meanest of his train. The votary of the world depends for his enjoyment on external cir cumstances. The pleasures and employ ments of the poet are interior. Assuredly we cannot be supposed to mean that the ordinary requisites for supporting life, such as food, raiment, shelter, &c. can be dispen sed with, but his dependance for pleasure is not on these alone. In hours devoted to literary composition, his mind exercises pe culiar, creative, and independent powers, which are usually unknown to his fellow mortals. As an illustration of these re marks, we may be permitted to quote the following beautiful verses which are now before us, as inserted in the first volume of Mr Mitford's excellent edition of the works of Gray. SONNET. "A lonely man he was, from whom these lays |