the wits in the capital, “that he will not consider himself bound by that promise; seeing that every week he receives so many private notifications of that appointment, that it would quite beggar him to pay for them at that rate.” With respect to the various petitioners, the bakers, the glaziers, the hair-dressers, &c., they all maintain, that though Fitz-Hum may have been a spurious prince, yet, undoubtedly the man had so much sense and political discernment that he well deserved to have been a true one.
ON THE POETRY OF SOUTHEY.
Southey and Scott are the only great writers of the present day, that have confined themselves in their verses to the fair and direct path of poetry. They have come forward simply, as men moulded and informed like the rest of the world, not affecting to be honoured with temper or wisdom different from that of their fellows. They display superiority of genius, ’tis true, but that superiority not in kind, but in degree. They do not strike at any latent chord of sympathy, at any untried sentiment; but their bold and seemingly hopeless attempt is to enchant and enthrall us by touching on those common feelings, that have been stricken, and harped, and jarred, almost into apathy. Yet do they succeed. Pure heroism, unmingled with any save common traits of character, infantine love, unsophisticated religion—these are the trite sentiments with which they yet contrive to fling a spell over us—these are the vulgar every-day passions, with which unalloyed they enchain our sympathy, and lead us, lost in delight, from volume to volume.
Few people accustomed to the egotism and consequent facility of our present style of verse, are aware of the great arduousness attendant on writing poetry in this old and modest style. In past times there were no schools of poetry, as amongst us; there might have been diversity of taste, but that applied merely to the accidents of criticism, to words, to rhymes, to melody, or some such particulars. And whatever different creeds of philosophy were then afloat, they at least had not as yet pretended to make part of poetry.
To this unity and universality of feeling there was allowed but a general appeal. Then was fraternity in the reading world – all were to be addressed or none. The poet, to be one, must have been “the poet of all civilization,” and his only means of success lay in awakening those feelings that were in every heart. Any attempt,
