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But, heterogeneous as the English is in its vocabulary, it is, with one important exception, Gothic in its structure. An incredibly large proportion of our stock of familiar colloquial words is of Saxon origin. The life of our tongue yet lies in the Saxon part. The Latin is dead matter, a foreign element scarcely more akin to the organic frame-work of the language, than the glass eye and the wooden leg of the veteran soldier are to the osseous, muscular, and nervous tissues, whose place they have usurped, and it is a striking proof of the imperishable vitality of the Saxon stock, that it has borne up and incorporated, if not assimilated, the mass of alien words, that monkish superstition, Gallo-Norman oppression, scholastic pedantry, and the caprice of fashion, have engrafted upon it. That we have gained in copiousness and variety of speech, by the abundant mixture of foreign vocables, is not to be denied, but we have purchased our stock of Latin words, at the expense of nearly the whole Gothic power of improvement from our own resources by means of derivation and composition. This is the exception to which we above alluded, ann it may well be doubted, whether any advantages arising from the increase of our vocabulary, by borrowing from the Latin, have not been too dearly pur

chased.

Again, then, we inquire, what are the languages which prefer the strongest claims to the attention of the student of English etymology and grammar? The Greek, in addition to the reasons which we have already mentioned, will richly repay the labor of its acquirement, by its direct share in the formation of a numerous class of English words, but still more by its demonstrable, though not obvious affinity to the primitive sources of our ancient Anglo-saxon tongue. The Latin, vague, poor, and unphilosophical as it is, is nevertheless indispensable, because it has furnished a very large

proportion of our written vocabulary, either directly, or through the Romance languages. From Spanish and Italian not much illustration is to be obtained, but French is highly important, both because we have borrowed a large number of words directly from it, and because, in its earlier forms, as exemplified in Froissart and other old writers, it had much influence on the structure of our modern English. But it is to the cognate languages of Scandinavia, Germany, and the low countries, and more particularly to the Anglo-Saxon and the sister dialect, the Old Northern or Icelandic, that we must look for the most important lights, which analogy can shed upon the structure, composition, and history of our native tongue. Among the living Teutonic dialects, the Flattdeutsch or Low German, among the Scandinavian, the Danish, offer the most striking affinities to the English, and are therefore of great value, as sources of illustration, both in etymology and syntax. But a knowledge of the earlier forms and more fundamental analogies of our tongue must be sought in the Anglo-Saxon and Icelandic. The poverty of Anglo-Saxon literature and its inacessibility (the low state of philological learning in England having hitherto prevented the general publication and thorough elucidation of its extant remains), make it much less available for the purposes of the English student than the Icelandic, which, though very closely allied to the Anglo-Saxon, is a far more copious, refined, and cultivated speech, and moreover, possesses an extensive literature, enriched, particularly in the historical department, by some of the finest compositions, which adorn the literature of modern Europe. With the view of recommending the study of this noble tongue, we propose to give some account of its structure, and a historical sketch of the origin, progress, and decline of its literature, but these we must reserve for another article.

in English, are much more frequently forms of inflexion and ending, such as ation, ition, ity, ily, ness, like the Greek ouevoç to which we have alluded, and others, and, therefore, being less multiform, are more easily remembered than the ever changing variety of initial syllables.

SINGLE-SPEECH POETS.

A REMARK of Horace Walpole, (that most acute judge of the niceties of literature), is set down in the Walpoliana, on this very topic, and which, indeed, had suggested the following illustrations of his criticism. He speaks of writers, who, like certain plants, flower but oncewhose poetic genius bloomed early, for a single time, and never again put forth a bud. These writers, in poetry, resemble single-speech Hamilton in oratory, (the concidence furnishes the excuse of the caption), and ever remain a source of literary curiosity—a problem not to be readily solved on ordinary premises. It is one of the most curious of all literary curiosities, and yet we do not remember that D'Israeli has devoted a paper to the subject, nor even made any reference to it an omission quite unaccountable in him, as it falls naturally within his province.

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A beautiful Anthology might be collected from the writings of poets, who have exhausted themselves, as it were, in a single effort; caught but a single glance of the divinity; but once felt the god.' In a supplement to this exquisite bouquet, richer than that of Ellis or Longfellow, though they come very near to the ideal we speak of, might be included the few fine short poems, of those who have written long works of mediocre or perhaps even doubtful standing. A few delicate morceaux of Southey will be preserved by an affectionate race of readers, whose benevolence even cannot prevent the utter oblivion of his unwieldy epical attempts. Even Gay, who wrote well always, has been immortalized by his Ballads and Fables, rather than by his Trivia.

Another class, still, beside the writers of one or more choice short poems, and the writers of long and dull insipid productions, is that of the great writers who have written much, and of whose works, even when equally fine, the shortest are the best known, merely because they are brief. Thus, Dryden's Alexander's Feast is know to many, from being met with in all the ordinary selections and elegant extracts, while his no less admirable romantic tales from Boccaccio and Chaucer, his delightful Fables, Epistles to Oldham, and Congreve, and Kneller, (on which Pope could only refine), Secular

Masque, and his vigorous political satires, are comparatively unknown. Thousands have read, or sung, or heard sung, Young Lochinvar, for the hundreds who have read Marmion. And Moore is the poet of the parlor, for the Melodies he has written, while his Lalla Rookh is read as a critical duty, and by way of task.

According to a classification like the above, these certain verse-makers would rank very high among the minor Poets, whose standing is low among the master Bards.

As to the philosophy of the matter, we confess it inexplicable. Why one who has once succeeded, should not do equally well again, many causes may be assigned; yet, not one of them carry sufficient weight to settle the question determinately. The various reasons are sufficiently plausible, yet may be easily set aside on further reflection. Sheer indolence! cries one; timidity, exclaims another; want of leisure, reasons a third; rather, want of power, adds a fourth; perhaps, all together, liberally concludes a fifth.

Some persons seem to regard these writers-as some old dogmatist called Goldsmith-inspired idiots, who have, by chance, hit upon a new thought or view, which they want skill and training to follow up as delicious harmonies may float into the mind of one, who is ignorant of the science of sweet sounds.

In truth, the fact is as wonderful as that would be (of which we are ignorant, if it has ever happened), of a painter who had finished but one good picture in the course of his life-who had caught for a single time, the cordial and kindly aspect of Nature-who, once only, had gained power to interpret the soul, speaking in the face. Who ever heard, or read of, or saw, the single celebrated production of a sculptor, or musical composer, or architect, who had anything of a desirable reputation? We do not speak of the clever things done by ingenious amateurs, but of single Works (not Plays as Ben Jonson used to distinguish), executed by professional artists.

Yet as matters of literary and personal history, that was really the case, of the authors of the Burial of Sir John Moore, and the Ode to the Cuckoo. Wolfe wrote

two or three other fine things in verse and prose, yet nothing comparable to this masterpiece. Logan is known only by the ode we refer to. The Braes of Yarrow enshrine the memory of Hamilton of Bangour, and have led greater bards to the scene, to offer up their tributes, still inferior to the first. Why, is this all we have of these delicate poets? With such fancy, such feeling, a taste so refined, a versification so graceful, how happens it we hear no more strains from these nightingales of a night? Not wholly so besotted, as to be careless of fame; rather, so far from that, as, in the case of Wolfe, to be sensitively alive to generous praise and to noble action; and, as to Logan, we believe he, too, was a clergyman, a retired scholar, and man of pure taste. Both were, (if we recollect aright,) invalids, constitutionally feeble, and hence incapable of long flights of fancy or close study. They had leisure-poetic impulses could not have been wanting, for subjects and occasions never wholly fail the Muse: the admiration of friends, we may conclude, was theirs. A single obstacle, only remains, and that furnishes probably the occasion or reason of their silence a fastidious taste, like Campbell's, who was said to be frightened by the shadow of his fame, that could not be satisfied with anything short of perfection, which it failed to realize. Genuine modesty, and a sensitive temperament, were leading traits (we presume, of course), of the writers. These held their hand and restrained the otherwise willing pen. The same reasons will not seem to excuse the short poems of Raleigh and Wotton, who feared no critical tribunals; whose minds were braced by manly action, who united all characters and talents and accomplishments, who with learning and (at some period) leisure and fancy and power, have left a very few and very brief copies of verse, worthy of being printed in letters of gold. They were not men, like their later brother bards, to entertain a feeling of despair at ever again equalling the fine things they had accomplished early in life. In them, therefore, it is but fair to suppose, that the poetic bore a slight proportion to the political and scholastic and businesscharacters, which rendered them famous. The minds of men change; their aims vary at different epochs. They entertain different views of life, of action, of ambition. Many youthful tastes (the accompaniment of animal spirits, rather

than the fruit of settled inclination) vanish as men grow older. How many young poets have settled down into middle aged prose men; how many airy romancers become converted into matter of fact critics. Religion, in some instances, teaches (falsely, we conceive,) the sin of all but devotional strains: unquestionably, when pure and noble, the highest kind of verse, but not the only allowable form. In this case, too, where piety is perverted, the praises of men appear so worthless and unsatisfactory, that the bard relinquishes the exercise of his divine gift (in a wrong spirit) before men, that he may offer up his praises, pure and unalloyed, with angels and the blessed, to the Almighty Giver of the glorious faculty itself, (among innumerable blessings.)

Various pursuits, too, warp the imagination from poetical flights and confine the studies that arise from fancy and taste to a narrow circle, if not consign them over to" dumb forgetfulness a prey." Three great lawyers have been made out of tolerable poets, who might have ranked among the first of the third rank, the Dii Minores of our idolatry-Blackstone, Sir Wm. Jones, and Lord Thurlow; judg ships and bishoprics oblige the holders and occupants of these stations to hide, sometimes, a rare and peculiar talent. Yet some bishops have been wits, as Earle and Corbet: though too frequently the office stultifies the head, while it hardens the heart. We have heard of many capital story-tellers and mimics converted into dignified judges, and, indeed, "as grave as a judge," generally means as stupid.

Without any farther attempt at unravelling the causes of this literary phenomenon, we will at once bring together the following notices of writers of the kind we have undertaken to describe, without pretending (from the nature of the case an almost impossible thing) to produce all who deserve mention. On the contrary, we can promise to quote only a few, as we write from memory and without the means of extending our list.

To commence with two court poets of the age of Charles II., when "the mob of gentlemen who write with ease" first appeared. Denham, the fashionable poet of his day, now ranks as such in the select collections, mainly on the strength of his Cooper's Hill. Dorset, one of the most delightful and accomplished characters of that court of wits and gallants, is

best known in poetical history by his ballad, said to have been written at sea during the first Dutch war, 1665, the night before the engagement. He has penned a couple of delightful songs or so, but his poetical claims rest chiefly on the ballad. Pomfret's "Choice" stands quite alone; the single popular poem of its author, an agreeable, pleasant piece of versification, presenting the ideal of a quiet, comfortable, retired literary life. Swift's version of Horace's lines is more Horatian, but less English. Cowley and Norris, who both translated the philosophic picture of Seneca,* of a similar strain, are more philosophic and high toned, but do not approach so closely the more equal current of daily life. Leigh Hunt has praised Pomfret, and somewhere, we think, directly imitated " Choice," adding to the verse a grace of his own. Dr. Johnson passed upon him no more than a just eulogium. To the masculine moralist and the agreeable essayist we bow, in deference to their united judgment. John Phillips is famous for his celebrated burlesque of Milton, (the "Splendid Shilling"), but we can recollect no other poem of his of any thing like equal merit. Parnell's Hermit is his chef d'œuvre. Many who know him as a poet, know nothing of his verses to his wife, and one or two other short pieces, almost equally fine. Blair's "Grave" (the resting place of Mortality) has made him immortal. Green's "Spleen," and Dyer's "Grongar Hill;" poems excellent in their different styles of manly satire and picturesque description, are, we believe, the only works of these authors that have escaped oblivion. As writers of single poems, we may, by a forced construction," compel to come in " certain of the old Dramatists, and though they do not properly rank under this head, we may be glad to eke out our list by such delights of the Muses as the noble Dirge in Webster's terrible tragedy, Shirley's fine stanzas, and scattered songs, "fancies," and good-nights, that occur in the rare old comedies and tragedies: from Gammer Gurton's Needle, that can boast the first and one of the best drinking songs in the language, down to, and half through, the age of Elizabeth, the age of Marlow and his contemporaries, just previous to the golden era of the Shaksperian drama. Many of the minor poets, whether gay or religious, of the seventeenth century, have left sparkling gems,

Ex. Thyeste, Act II. Chorus.

such as the delicate flowers that blossom in the poetic gardens of Carew, Herrick, King, Vaughan, Lovelace, &c. We had written thus far, when we met with Longfellow's Waif, a delicate and tasteful anthology. But we think it might be vastly improved by such an editor as the writer of the article on Henry Vaughan,* who out of that poet has made extracts, finer than the poem Mr. Longfellow has selected, and has written about this poet and his contemporaries in a charming manner, that would have added much to the attraction of the little volume. The Waif" should have included a galaxy of rare old poems: the later writers are sufficiently well known.

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Certain of the noble old prose writers, to be ranked, by the production of one fine poem-if by no other claim-by title of courtesy, among poets, ought not to be omitted, as Bunyan, in the pithy, sententious lines prefixed to his " Pilgrim;" Burton's fine versified abstract of his rare "Anatomy;" and Walton's " Angler's Wish." These are "rarely delicate," as Walton says of Marlow and Raleigh's delicious verses, " better than the strong lines now in vogue in this critical age."

In one department of verse, that of Hymns and the versified Psalms of David, some writers are classic from having produced one or two admirable pieces of the kind in this class come Addison, Pope, Young, Ken, Cowper, Heber, Wotton, Watts.

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Many writers, of very considerable pretensions, have succeeded in one long poem, but are not generally known by any second production of equal value. Of this class the best instances are Young, in his "Night Thoughts"-hard reading, except in detached passages; Akenside's "Pleasures of Imagination," (with all his pomp of philosophic speculation and elaborate fancy, very heavy, for these very reasons.) All the Pleasures, by the way, of Memory and Hope, beside, in these long general poems, are far from pleasant reading; Churchill, whose local and temporary satires are forgotten and give place to his "Rosciad," a monument of his sense, acuteness, and happy satire a gallery of theatrical portraits hit off with the justness and vivacity of Pope, and forming a capital supplement to Colley Cibber's collection; Allan Ramsay's" Gentle Shepherd," that Arcadian pastoral; Garth, in his "Dispensary," an author in whom the

† Arcturus, Vol. I.

man and humorist was more than a match for the poet; Somerville, "Chase," pretty fair verse for a sporting country gentleman; and Armstrong's" Art of Preserving Health," a sensible essay that might as well have been written in prose. The same criticism may be applied to Garth and Somerville.

Among general readers the Hudibras of Butler is eagerly perused by all who delight in the version of sense, wit, and learning, all devoted to the cause and end of wholesome satire; yet the other sharp satires of the same writer are, virtually, unknown. And the Seasons of Thompson, by no means his best poem, is universally read, while very few ever think of glancing at the delightful "Castle of Indolence," of which he was both creator and master.

Then again, certain fine poems are continually quoted, not as the sole efforts, but as the masterpieces of their authors, quite to the exclusion of any other works of theirs; the selection, for instance, of such fine poems as the Ode to the Passions, and the Elegy in a Country Churchyard, in works on elocution, with which every schoolboy is familiar, has thrown the other equally fine pieces by the same authors, comparatively into the shade. Shenstone's Schoolmistress comes within the same category; but after all the fame of the poet depends on it alone. The ballad of Jemmy Dawson is not superior to many that have been consigned to obscurity; while the Pastoral Ballad, with a certain vein of tenderness, does not rank much above Hammond's strain, (once called the English Ovid,) which has been long since, and not unjustly, forgtten. A delicate volume might be made up of single-piece poems of English and American poets of this century. In English poetical literature, Mrs. Southey's Pauper's Death-Bed, Noel's Pauper's Funeral, delicate verses of Darley, Montgomery's Grave, &c., &c.

Our American Parnassus entertains many occupants, who can prefer but a single claim (or two) for possession. The following are all of the gems we can, at present, recall. The famous song of R. T. Paine, entitled Adams and Lib

erty, though its poetical value we forget, was the best paid copy of verses ever printed here and exceedingly popular. Tom Paine wrote some clever lines, called the "Castle in the Air," (?) with some stinging satire in it; and previous to either, and much better than both put together, the spirited "Indian Burial Ground," which Longfellow has lately recovered, and whence Campbell borrowed a line or two, (a common trick with him). But our best fugitive poetry has been written by prose writers. Irving's delicious lines, the Dull Lecture, illustrating, or illustrated by, (we know not which,) a capital picture of Stuart Newton; and his classic verses to the Passaic River, as graceful and picturesque as that winding stream. A noble poem on Alaric, by governor Everett; some fine versions from the German, by the Hon. Alexander Everett; three or four admirable pieces by John Waters; the two last addressed to ladies, printed in the American newspaper, some six or seven years ago. Nicholas Biddle wrote some very agreeable jeux d'esprit and vers de société. A lively epistle of this kind, appeared in the weekly New Mirror last summer. A noble poem, "The Days of my Youth and of my Age contrasted," by the Hon. St. Geo. Tucker, of Virginia, has been going the rounds of the papers for a year past. Can no printed book or magazine show us more of the author? We often ask ourselves this question, with regard to many other authors, without ever receiving a satisfactory answer Very many such we still remain in utter ignorance of, in common with the reading public, and this fact must account for our omissions. When we think of the stupid long poems, with which the world has been deluged for years past, and recollect how many exquisite brief pieces are lost merely by their brevity, as a jewel is hidden in a pile of common stones, we often wish that a critical police, consisting of one judge of fine taste, two of good judgment, and three sharp critical scholars, might be continually kept up, to pound all stray poetical cattle; or, at least, to advertise where they might be found.

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