of Geography, Histories of England, and Collections of Voyages, with a permission to read the first number, and return it if not approved, and a promissory note, generously engaging that all numbers, exceeding a certain amount, shall be given gratis. But if any deceit can be excused, perhaps it is such an one as this, which feeds the hungry, clothes the naked, and communicates much entertaining and useful knowledge among the poor.

There are those who call far less honest arts than these, innocent frauds; but it is well remarked by a very sound moralist, that no frauds are innocent; because they destroy the confidence of society, on which our happiness and convenience in every part of our intercourse with each other, greatly depend. I will venture to add, that he who will cheat without remorse in one thing, will cheat in another whenever he can do it with equal secrecy and impunity. Though tricks in trade, or the deceitful mysteries of a profession may enable a man to raise a capital house of business, to be in a great way, or to become a good man, as the phrases are in the city, yet they can never be compatible with common honesty, nor render him more truly respectable, than the humble adventurer who actually invades your purse by rifling your pocket.

NO. CXXIX. ON THE

PREVAILING TASTE IN

POETRY.

SWEET poesy! thou loveliest object of intellectual pursuit. But I am running into raptures, when I intended a cool dissertation. It is, indeed,

difficult not to be transported beyond the limits of criticism, in contemplating the beauties which the magic hand of the poet raises around, with all the creative power of a real enchantment. From the cares of gain, the toils of ambition, the noise, the hurry, the vexation of a disordered world, we rise on the wings of poesy to ethereal regions, where all is sublime and tranquil; or are wafted to visionary scenes, in which are displayed all the delicious sweets of a paradise and an elysium. Away, ye sordid objects; ye pollutions and incumbrances of the pure spirit! Man is not tied down to you. Providence, in compassion to wretched mortals, has given them a power of forsaking this low orb, and soaring a while, all mind, all spirit, all ecstasy, in the car of the swan, on the wings of the eagle.

Reason alone, with all her pretensions, is seldom sufficient to sooth our cares, and compose our passions; but melody and fancy united with her, are capable of pouring balm into the wounded heart. In all nations, and in all ranks of the people, some species of poetry has been cultivated; and a taste for it was undoubtedly implanted in our nature, that the sore evils of reality might be alleviated by the sweets of fiction. When Pandora's box was opened on mankind, and misery diffused on every side, fancy as well as hope kindly lingered for our consolation.

While we are tracing the love of song from the favoured isles of the Southern Ocean to the regions of Iceland, we are naturally tempted to dwell, with particular attention, on the poetical taste of our own country and our own times.

I think it is not difficult to perceive, that the ad

mirers of English poetry are divided into two parties. The objects of their love are, perhaps, of equal beauty, though they greatly differ in their air, their dress, the turn of their features, and their complexion. On one side, are the lovers and imitators of Spenser and Milton; and on the other, those of Dryden, Boileau, and Pope.

Now it happens, unfortunately, that those who are in love with one of these forms are, sometimes, so blind to the charms of the other, as to dispute their existence. The author of the Essay on Pope, who is himself a very agreeable poet, and of what I call the old school of English poetry, seems to deny the justice of Mr. Pope's claim to the title of a true poet, and to appropriate to him the subordinate character of a satirical versifier. On the other hand, the authors of the Traveller, and of the Lives of the English Poets, hesitate not to strip the laurels from the brow of the lyric Gay.

Goldsmith, in his life of Parnell, has invidiously compared the Night Piece on Death to Gray's Elegy; and, in a manner which betrays a little jea lousy of a living poet's fame, given the preference to Parnell. There is also a severe censure thrown on the clergy, in a collection which Goldsmith published under the title of the beauties of English Poetry. I remember to have heard Goldsmith converse, when I was very young, on several subjects of literature, and make some oblique and severe reflections on the fashionable poetry. I became a con vert to his opinion, because I revered his authority. I took up the odes of Gray with unfavourable prepossessions, and in writing my remarks on them,

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joined in the censure. great delight, and on comparing their style, and even their obscurity, with many of the finest pieces of lyric composition in all antiquity, I find a very great resemblance. I am not ashamed to retract my former opinion, and to pay the tribute of applause To those elegant friends, Gray and Mason. At the same time, while it is as easy to discern that they differ greatly from the school of Dryden, and Pope, it is no derogation from their merit to assert, that they are the genuine disciples of Spenser and Mil, ton. Such also are the very elegant and learned brothers, one of whom presides, with so much ho nour, over the school at Winchester, and the other, has written an elegant and elaborate history, of that English poetry in which himself excels, and which has at last crowned him with the laurel.

I have since read them with

Goldsmith's Traveller is certainly a beautiful po em, and so are Dr. Johnson's Imitations of Juve, nal; but they, and a thousand others of the same species, are of a different stamp from the English antique. They are excellent productions in one kind, but not less so are those of Gray and Mason in another. Let both schools flourish and receive their due applause, nor let those who have only acquired a taste for one, treat the other with contempt. Spenser and Milton drew not from a Gothic model, but from the polished Italians, who, though they had lost some of the purity and simplicity of ancient Rome, yet retained much of her elegance. I cannot, help thinking that his poetical ideas are confined, who has not observed with delight, the sweet lines, the sweet language, the sweet fancy of Spenser; and

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who has not been also charmed with the smaller. pieces of Milton. All tastes, however various, allow Shakespeare's claim to poetry; but it cannot be denied, that some of his best descriptions, and especially those delicious morsels which occur in the form of songs or sonnete, partake much more of the ancient than of the modern school, either English or French; for we may call it English, if we attribute its origin to Pope, and French, if to Boileau.

There seems to be an unreasonable prejudice entertained against blank verse, by those who wish to dictate on the subjects of criticism. It is sufficient, in the idea of many, to condemn a poem, that it is written in blank verse. Though one may prefer rhyme upon the whole; yet, as blank verse is susceptible of great variety of music, and of every ornament of diction, it is surely absurd to involve it in any general censure. It may, however, be attributed to this idle prepossession, that Mr. Mason's English Garden seems to be neglected. There is, indeed, a general prejudice against all works which appear to come from that school, and the very severe criticisms of the late biographical preface to the works of Gray will, perhaps, contribute to explode a most delightful style of pure poetry; of poetry, conversant solely in the regions of fancy, and clothed in a luminous and musical diction appropriated to itself, and most remote from all that is prosaic. Very high commendations are due to Mr. Anstey, to the author of a poetical epistle to Sir William Chambers, to Mr. Hayley, and to several others who are well known to fame for their successful labours in the school of Pope; but, at least, an equal share of praise ought