equal propriety, be grave or gay, tender or severe, it will be readily conceded that no peculiar subtle turn, in short, that no "idiosyncracy" of language (if such an expression is allowable) can be requisite. The idiom of humour must be the reverse of that of melancholy, and from the tenderness of passion the causticity of satire is equally distinct. If, then, the English tongue is competent to the expression of the humorous, the contemplative, the pathetic, and the satirical, that reason should be both ingenious and forcible which is brought to prove that sonnets possessing all those qualities cannot be written successfully in the English tongue. "The author has not proceeded thus far unaware that the strongest, and certainly the most tangible part of the objection, is made to the complicated versification of the Sonnet. It is triumphantly observed, that the repeated rhymes, which, from the redundancy of similar sounds in his language, are convenient to the Italian, are, from the converse of the proposition, as distressing to the English poet. He is painted as, distracted with the din of importunate chimes, awkwardly and vainly imitating the masterly chords of the Italian; and, like him who, in emulation of the supple Hindoo, endeavours to keep half a dozen balls at once in the air, now letting sense go to catch sound, and now dropping sound in the laudable tenacity of meaning. "This may be ludicrous, but it is not conclusive; and such criticism, it is to be suspected, will bear repetition better than investigation. One of the latest and most intelligent of our Italian tourists asserts, on this ground, the utter inanity of the English sonnets, which he describes as "laboured and retouched things," evidently not like the Italian, "struck off in a heat." If this charge means any thing, it must mean that the labour of composition is always revoltingly apparent in the English sonnet. Now laborious composition does not necessarily shew itself in awkwardness or obscurity; as some of our best specimens of easy and clear versification are known to have been the result of sedulous and unwearied polishing. But, leaving this objection, it needs only to refer to the multitude of English sonnets extant, to shew that defective versification is not more to be found in them than in other species of composition; and, indeed, there is little reason that it should. The aspirant to Sonnetwriting must tax his ingenuity to the finding of four words rhyming to each other. A little reflection will serve to shew that this is by no means difficult. The framers of the objection appear to have forgotten that such poems as the "Faëry Queen," the "Castle of Indolence," the Minstrel," &c. are written in a stanza requiring a quadruplication of rhyme; to construct two of which must, of course, be very nearly as great a rhyming difficulty as to arrange one sonnet. It may not perhaps be improper here to observe, that there exists a remarkable identity of character in the Spenserian stanza and the Sonnet: the same measured, and rather ostentatious preparation, the same strength and singular suitability to every direction of thought from the sublime to the ludicrous. "That the composition of the Sonnet is by no means at variance with the genius and structure of his native tongue, the author has convinced, at least himself, by the foregoing considerations, backed by the admirable specimens scattered throughout the field of English poetry. What remains to be accounted for is the disrepute into which it has fallen in this country, or rather from which it has never completely emerged. "In pursuance of the object of these remarks, the reader is supposed to have admitted the assumption that the Sonnet has not risen, in the scale of poetry of this country, to the degree which it has attained in that of others. The cause of this failure may probably be traced to an erroneous general impression of the nature of its composition. Of all foreign poetry, the Italian has, perhaps, been treated most unjustly. Mr Capel Lofft, in the preface to his Anthology of Sonnets, enumerates tinsel, conceit, frigidity, and metaphysics, amongst the many heavy accusations against the Italian muse; and these unpleasant symptoms are supposed to have shewn themselves most inveterately in her offspring, the Sonnet. The Sonnet has been described as necessarily consisting of a "simple thought." Had the word single been used, it might have gone far towards saving the reader of Sonnets from a good deal of common-place. The expression, which was intended to be a mere assertion of unity, may be too conveniently construed into a denial of all "point," and consequently of all simile, comparison, or antithesis. In the present unavoidable dearth of simple originality, this is a most dangerous maxim; and the unfortunate practice, resulting from such a theory, has not been bettered by a horror, quite sufficiently intense, of those strainings after originality which the Italians themselves have stigmatized by the title of Concetti.' The proverbial lot of all terrified by Charybdis is to fall into Scylla. For the author of the present observations to assert that this has been the fate of most English sonnetteers may be bold, but, he believes, not unjust. It is the less so, because he does not intend to insinuate any thing against the general respectability of talent shewn by the writers in this department of literature. He only excepts against them, that they, in general, appear to have been led into a mistaken method of writing, which, if applied to any other species of poetry, would have produced consequences nearly as bad. "That simplicity is one of the greatest charms of poetical composition, most readers, and especially those in the slightest degree acquainted with the writings of the ancients, will not deny. But that originality is, at least, of equal consequence, the same judges will as readily allow. In fact, the call for originality is coeval with, and has accompanied, every age of poetry itself. Its whole composition, its language, thoughts, exaggeration of colouring and of circumstances, its metaphors, its similes, its sentiments, and its lessons, are all in compliance with this grand object of ex. cellence. Both the feelings and the practice of all readers of poetry may be safely appealed to in decision of the question, whether simplicity without originality, or originality without simplicity, is to be preferred. If that which in itself is beautiful, but which is already known, will please more than that which is somewhat less so, but which is new, the composition of poetry, instead of increasing in difficulty, must be come every day a more and more easy task. This argument it is needless to pursue any further. The gems of simple and pure sentiment, which lay near the surface, have been already collected. He who wishes to deal in such valuables must, for the most part, by tastefully and newly setting those which are common to him with others, substitute a collateral merit in the place of that which belongs only to a first discoverer. To add even a few perfectly new acquisitions to the stock already acquired, the search must be deep and laborious. *To deny that these remarks apply to poetry in general, would seem, to the author, to be the same as denying the inferiority of what is trite to what is not. His remaining business is to shew why this principle, instead of being disregarded, should be particularly attended to by the framer of a sonnet. This he is diffident in doing, from the delicacy, more than from the difficulty of the office. "It will easily be admitted that, in the course of a narrative, or in any diffusive collection of thoughts, each single idea, simple or complex, escapes that complete attention and exposure which one unsupported thought, exhibited in the pretension of individuality, and pervading an entire, though short composition, must draw up. on itself. The necessity of such a thought being good, is in the ratio of the chance of its being discovered to be bad. That which professes to have been sedulously selected and prepared, ought to be worth the pains of preparation and selection. The artfully cut and adorned avenue is expected to lead to something; and that which emulates the minute regularity of the brilliant should partake a little in its rarity and value. "The inventor, whoever he was, of the Portuguese aphorism, that “ a sonnet ought to be shut with a golden key," must. have been well convinced of the propriety of its containing something worth locking up. This sagacious "concetto" our sonnet-writers have not attended to. Unable to obtain a sufficiency of simple originality, they have too often, in their fear of quaintness, either contented themselves with simple common-place, or else endeavoured to disguise it under unintelligible mystery. To artificial value they have preferred even no value at all: and, when we expect a Juno, we are sometimes deceived with a cloud, and sometimes insulted with a drab. The sum of consequences is, that the bulk of English sonnets, compared with an equal quantity of other short composition, contains probably about as much less original thinking as it ought to contain more. Elegiac, pastoral, and amatory Sonnets, innumerable, have been written with neglect, or in contempt of that originality of idea which by their writers would have been admitted to impart merit to an elegy, a pastoral, or a madrigal. That comparative failure and disrepute should follow this inconsistency is not surprising, nor that the fine specimens of Sonnet to be found scattered throughout the works of our poets should have been insufficient to rescue the species from contempt. That even those specimens, excellent as many of them are, partake in the ill consequences of the prejudice they have failed to remove, and are the least read of the works of their respective authors, is as little to be wondered at." Let us now see how he who knows so perfectly well what Sonnets ought to be, writes them-for theory and practice are very different. We have no hesitation in saying, that, next to Wordsworth and Bowles, this anonymous poet, for he is a poet, is the best writer of Sonnets in our day. Are not the thirteen following Sonnets, taken at random here and there, all very beautiful, and all very different, shewing both great and various powers? II. Son of the earth, whatever thy degree, Placed in this changeable and troublous sphere, A work perfected but to be undone, Ye lights of th' olden time! now dimly seen, IX. Clelia, the pillar'd form, supremely made, A marble structure, with those lamps of pride Which spread around a downy lustre wide, The polish'd hardness in their light allay'd, What boots it, if, unseemly to degrade Such loveliness, a soul shall there reside, Foul as the worshipp'd reptiles that abide Within some Indian temple's column'd shade? Ne'er, on thy heart's ungenial altar, fires More mild than those of rage or hate have lain: For young, adoring troops of fair desires, Its rites the black-robed, impious passions stain; And can'st thou think too, that my wish aspires To join thy madly idolizing train? XIV. I will not praise the often-flatter'd rose, Or, virgin-like, with blushing charms half seen, Or when in dazzling splendour like a queen, All her magnificence of state she shows; No, nor that nun-like lily, which but blows Beneath the valley's cool and shady screen; Nor yet the sun-flower that with warrior mien, Still eyes the orb of glory where it glows;But thou, neglected wall-flower, to my breast And muse art dearest, wildest, sweetest flower, To whom alone the privilege is given Proudly to root thyself above the rest As genius does, and, from thy rocky tower, Lend fragrance to the purest breath of heaven. XXIV. Where yonder lilacs wanton with the air, And no autumnal blasts have blown to fade, If flowers thou seek'st a festive wreath to braid, Bend thy search thither, thou wilt find them there; Not in the arches of the forest, where The branching oaks extend unmoving shade; Of spring's minuter verdure disarray'd The earth beyond their twisted roots is bare; Save where perchance the hop, with tendril curl'd, Or ivy, string'd, may seek and twine around Some stems amidst the forest chiefs that tower:So, in the mightier landscape of the world, The flowers of joy and love are seldom found At the stern feet of knowledge or of power. XXVI. France, in thy bosom place some mountain flower, Let not thine eyelids waste their noble dew XXIX. Music, high maid, at first, essaying, drew And o'er the whole a glow of colouring threw, Tints that with sweet accord bewitch the sense, This silent, awful cave, how dimly grand! These gorgeous carpets of the golden sand; To hide his secret joys; perhaps her grief: Vain his alarms; she shall not change her lord For one still fickler to increase her fears. XXXVII. Her heart broke not; but had it for her weal "Twere best. She breathes, and so do they who lie Tranced in obliviousness; whom pharmacy Can hurt no further if it cannot healOh! see, how Sorrow hath the art to steal The essence that to life it value gives, Yet, as in mockery, still the victim lives, Like those, in restless sleep who move and feel Poor earthly ghost whose soul is in the grave; Whose eye no ray of hope e'er more ean view; Thou mind'st me, when I'look on thy distress, Of flowers that spring within a darksome cave, Sickly, devoid of odour or of hue, The forms of sweetness, faint and colourless! XL. A drowsy mist hangs heavy on the soul Still unconfirm'd remain'd, need we to fear Our frames seem heaven-design'd; waked by the touch Of Fancy's wand in Feeling's high-wrought hour, Or 'mid wild visions in Sleep's shadowy bower, Who but hath felt his carth-freed mind was such? And is it probable, an all-wise Power, Denying more, would ever grant so much? 2 F XLVII. Of soul so gentle, we alone might find, Now he is gone, we waken from the sleep, We knew him not till turning to depart. The last forty pages of this little volume are filled with anacreontiques, songs, and elegies-all of them elegant, and not a few exceedingly pathetic. We never saw a single copy of this book except our own; and we should suppose it not at all known. It will gratify us if we are the means of drawing it forth from its obscurity, and still more, if our notice should excite the author of it to come before the public again in a bolder manner. He has great natural endowments, and they are richly cultivated. Every page bespeaks the scholar; and perhaps we owe him some apology for the light and frivolous tone of the article in which we have introduced him to our readers. But in some of his Sonnets and little poems, he himself shews a lively and merry vein; and happening to be in our absurd mood when we took up his "Sixty-five Sonnets," we have written absurdly, which, in the present state of criticism, is excusable-for "pale cant and fat humbug" infest all our periodicals, and better surely sincere mirth than affected wisdom. So, sweet Sonnetteer, for the present, euge et vale. THE ENCHANTER FAUSTUS AND QUEEN ELIZABETH. 66 Anecdote extructed from the Doctor's unpublished Memoirs. "I do not say it is possible-I only say it is true." Elizabeth was a wonderful princess for wisdom, learning, magnificence, and grandeur of soul. All this was fine, but she was as envious as a decayed beauty-jealous and cruel-and that spoiled all. However, be her defects what they may, her fame had pierced even to the depths of Germany, whence the Enchanter Faustus set off for her court, that great magician wishing to ascertain by his own wits, whether Elizabeth was as gifted with good qualities as she was with bad. No one could judge this for him so well as himself who read the stars like his A, B, C, and whom Satan obeyed like his dog-yet, withal, who was not above a thousand pleasant tricks, that make people laugh, and hurt no one. Such, for instance, as turning an old lord into an old lady, to elope with his cook-maid-exchanging a handsome wife for an ugly one, &c. &c. The Queen, charmed with the pretty things which she heard of him, wished much to see him-and from the moment that she did, became quite fascinated. On his side, he found her better than he had expected, not but that he perceived she thought a great deal too much of her wit-though she had a tolerable share of it, and still inore of her beauty-of which she had rather less. One day that she was dressed with extraordinary splendour, to give audience to some ambassadors, she retired into her cabinet at the close of the ceremony, and sent for the Doctor. After having gazed at herself in all the mirrors in the room, and seeming very well pleased with their reflection,-for her roses and lilies were as good as gold could buy-her petticoat high enough to shew her ankle, and her frill low to expose her bosom,-she sat down en attitude, in her great chair. It was thus the Enchanter Faustus found her. He was the most adroit courtier that you could find, though you searched the world over. For though there are good reasons why a courtier may not be a conjuror, there are none why a conjuror may not be a courtier; and Faustus, both in one-knowing the Queen's foible as to her imaginary beauty-took care not to let slip so fine an opportunity of paying his court. He was wonderstruck, thunderstruck, at such a blaze of perfection. Elizabeth knew how to appreciate the moment of surprise. She drew a magnificent ruby from her finger, which the Doctor, without making difficulties about it, drew on his. "You find me then passable for a Queen," said she, smiling. On this he wished himself at the devil, (his old resting-place,) if, not alone that he had ever seen, but if any body else had ever seen, either queen or subject to equal her. "Oh, Faustus, my friend," replied she, "could the beauties of antiquity return, we should soon see what a flatterer you are!" 66 "I dare the proof," returned the Doctor. If your Majesty will it-but speak, and they are here." Faustus, of course, never expected to be taken at his word; but whether Elizabeth wished to see if magic could perform the miracle, or to satisfy a curiosity that had often tormented her, she expressed herself amazingly pleased at the idea, and begged it might be immediately realised. Faustus then requested her Majesty to pass into a little gallery near the apartment, while he went for his book, his ring, and his large black mantle. All this was done nearly as soon as said. There was a door at each end of the gallery, and it was decided that the beauties should come in at one, and go out at the other, so that the Queen might have a fair view of them. Only two of the courtiers were admitted to this exhibition; these were the Earl of Essex and Sir Philip Sydney. Her Majesty was seated in the middle of the gallery, with the Earl and the Knight standing to the right and left of her chair. The enchanter did not forget to trace round them and their mistress certain mysterious cireles, with all the grimaces and contortions of the time. He then drew another opposite to it, within which he took his own station, leaving a space between for the actors. When this was finished, he begged the Queen not to speak a word while they should be on the stage; and, above all, not to appear frightened, let her see what she might. The latter precaution was needless; for the good Queen feared neither angel nor devil. And now the Doctor inquired what belle of antiquity she would first see. "To follow the order of time," she answered, "they should commence with HELEN." The magician, with a changing countenance, now exclaimed, "Sit still!" Sidney's heart beat quick. The brave Essex turned pale. As to the Queen, not the slightest emotion was perceptible. Faustus soon commenced some muttered incantations and strange evolutions, such as were the fashion of the day for conjurors. Anon the gallery shook, so did the two courtiers, and the Doctor, in a voice of anger, called out, "Daughter of fair Leda, hear! Accustomed to command, rather than to be commanded, the fair Helen lingered to the last possible moment; but when the last moment came, so did she, and so suddenly, that no one knew how she got there. She was habited a la Grecque,-her hair ornamented with pearls and a superb aigrette. The figure passed slowly onwards-stopped for an instant directly opposite the Queen, as if to gratify her curiosity, took leave of her with a malicious smile, and vanished. She had scarcely disappeared when her Majesty exclaimed "What! that the fair Helen! I don't pique myself on beauty, but may I die if I would change faces with her!" "I told your Majesty how it would be," remarked the enchanter;" and yet there she is, as she was in her best days." She has, however, very fine eyes," observed Essex. "Yes," said Sidney, "they are large, dark, and brilliant-but after all, what do they say?" added he, correcting himself. "Nothing," replied the favourite. The Queen, who was this day extravagantly rouged, asked if they did not think Helen's tint too Chinawhite. "China!" cried the Earl; "Delf rather." "Perhaps," continued the Queen, "it was the fashion of her time, but you must confess that such turned-in toes would have been endured in no other woman. I don't dislike her style of dress, however, and probably I may bring it round again, in place of these troublesome hoops, which have their inconveniences.' " "O, as to the dress," chimed in the favourite "let it pass, it is well enough, which is more than can be said for the wearer." A conclusion, in which Sidney heartily joined, rhapsodying— "O Paris, fatal was the hour, |
