stitions coeval with himself, he gives us a picture of past existence, fresh with sincerity, and fraught with authentic character, like the "Prevailing Poet, whose undoubting mind On these grounds, namely, that Poetry may be suspected to exhaust her own resources in presenting reiterated descriptions of Nature; that some of the fairest flowers of Poetry have been put forth under the morning light of civilization, whilst it might be said of lingering credulities, that they "shadowy set off the face of things;" and that the human mind, when it learns soberly to contemplate existence, sees the powers of magic exorcised, and superstition part with her charms as well as her errors-on these grounds, appears to me to be founded the only possibility of suspecting, that the tendency of continued civilization is to limit, rather than enlarge, the influence of Poetry on the human mind. In stating these arguments, I have spoken of the progress of Poetry seeming to exhaust the materials which external nature offers as subjects of description to the poet. I use the expression "seeming," because there is an appearance of such a fact without the reality. Sensible writers seem to me to have at times treated poetical imitation so much in the light of a material process, as to forget the perpetual and spiritual novelty of which it is susceptible*. Madame de Stael, when speaking of the poet's representation of the physical world, observes, "that the portrait can go no farther than the resemblance." In a certain sense, this remark is admissible, and, undoubtedly, the poet of a succeeding age can not continually improve upon the imitations of nature made by an antecedent one, so as to render the resemblance of nature more and more striking and faithful; but still he may vary our impressions of existence by new and true likeThe objects of the universe are susceptible of varied nesses. * Madame de Stael has not absolutely argued the probability of Poetry decaying under the continued influence of philosophy; but she takes a view of the Poet's art, which, if admitted, would lead to that conclusion: “La Poësie proprement dite," she says, "est l'art de peindre par la parole tout ce que frappe nos régards. L'alliance des sentimens avec les sensations est déjà un premier pas vers la philosophie." But the language which should paint only what strikes our senses in external nature, without allying moral sentiment to physical observation, neither can be, nor ever has been called Poetry. In the Iliad itself, there is that first step towards philosophy, to which Madame de Stael alludes; not refined sentiments, but the strong and natural outlines of moral feeling which mark the poet's knowledge of man. But when philosophy is thus transubstantiated into art, does Poetry end where the knowledge of human nature begins? As well might we say of a picture, in which the laws of perspective and human proportions were accurately observed, that is not painting, but anatomy and optics. combinations and associations with our moral feelings, to an extent which may almost be pronounced illimitable. When the poetical imitation of nature is compared, as by the eloquent authoress whom I have quoted, to the portrait of a single person, the illustration will deceive us, if it be literally understood. The features of the external universe have diversities of aspect, produced by time, by nature, and by circumstances, to which there is nothing comparable in the changing appearances of a solitary individual. The range of objects which poetry may convey to our imaginations, can scarcely be said to be limited, but by the extent of human enjoyments. And if we add to the diversity of things themselves, the different lights of association, in which the same objects may be viewed, not capriciously, but justly, by different minds, we shall probably conceive that a world, inhabited by active, impassioned. and perishable beings, must for ever be an inexhaustible emporium of materials to the poet. We may be reminded, that poetry attained an early maturity and beauty, beyond which she has never actually advanced. This fact, however, only regards the excellence of her individual works. Her collective variety has increased with the progress of society; and at every new epoch of human improvement, literature has enriched her casket with fresh gems of immortal lustre. The benefits which Poetry has received from splendid and imposing false mythologies, form a more important argument on the subject. It may be doubted, if the enlightened imagination of man may always be expected to dwell with the same complacency on poetical resources, borrowed from ignorance and credulity. And one can scarcely help suspecting, that in proportion as the general religion of society becomes purified from superstition, (an event which no friend to religion will regard as visionary,) the gradual oblivion into which old traditions and mythologies must necessarily fall, will probably affect the character of poetry with regard to the speciosa miracula of her fiction. But, supposing the human fancy ceased to converse with exploded mythologies, still the active principle of imagination must remain alive, and it will only change the objects of its visionary enjoyment. The arts may rise and fall, but the powers of the mind from which they spring can not be extinguished in the constitution of man, without a metamorphosis of his nature, or rather a disease that would paralyse one half of his moral fabric. And can this be expected from civilization? No. There is an indestructible love of ideal happiness in the human breast. Whilst there is a star in heaven, man will look to it with a daydream of brighter worlds. As long as a mortal and imperfect state fails to accommodate the shows of things to the desires of ANECDOTES OF J. MACPHERSON, THE ANCIENT FREEBOOTER AND MUSICIAN. MR. EDITOR,-You are, no doubt, acquainted with many traits of character peculiar to the Gael; and it is believed the following account of a gipsy freebooter will show, how much the ferocity and meanness of his maternal tribe were corrected by occasionally associating with the generous mountaineers who countenanced him, for the sake of his father. James Macpherson, the subject of our memoir, was born of a beautiful gipsy who at a great wedding attracted the notice of a half-intoxicated highland gentleman. He acknowledged the child, and had him reared in his house, until he lost his life in bravely pursuing a hostile clan, to recover a spraith of cattle taken from Badenoch. The gipsy woman, hearing of this disaster, in her rambles, the following summer, came and took away her boy; but she often returned with him, to wait upon his relations and clansmen, who never failed to clothe him well, besides giving money to his mother. He grew up in strength,, stature, and beauty, seldom equalled. His sword is still preserved at Duff-house, a residence of the Earl of Fife, and few men in our day could carry, far less wield it as a weapon of war; and if it must be owned his prowess was debased by the exploits of a freebooter, it is certain no act of cruelty, no robbery of the widow, the fatherless, or distressed, and no murder, was ever perpetrated under his command. He often gave the spoils of the rich to relieve the poor; and all his tribe were restrained from many atrocities of rapine by their awe of his mighty arm. Indeed, it is said that a dispute with an aspiring and savage man of his tribe, who wished to rob a gentleman's house while his wife and two children lay on the bier for interment, was the cause of his being betrayed to the vengeance of the law. The magistrates of Aberdeen were exasperated at Macpherson's escape, when they bribed a girl in that city to allure and deliver him into their hands. There is a platform before the jail, at the top of a stair, and a door below. When Macpherson's capture was made known to his comrades by the frantic girl, who had been so credulous as to believe the magistrates only wanted to hear the wonderful performer on the violin, his cousin, Donald Macpherson, a gentleman of Herculean powers, did not disdain to come from Badenoch, and to join a gipsy, Peter Brown, in liberating the prisoner. On a market-day they brought several assistants; and swift horses were stationed at a convenient distance. Donald Macpherson and Peter Brown forced the jail, and while Peter Brown went to help the heavily-fettered James Macpherson in moving away, Donald Macpherson guarded the jail door with a drawn sword. Many persons, assembled at the market, had experienced James Macpherson's humanity, or had shared his bounty; and they crowded round the jail as in mere curiosity, but, in fact, to obstruct the civil authorities from preventing a rescue. A butcher, however, was resolved, if possible, to detain Macpherson, expecting a large recompense from the magistrates: he sprang up the stairs, and leaped from the platform upon Donald Macpherson, whom he dashed to the ground by the force and weight of his body. Donald Macpherson soon recovered, to make a desperate resistance; and the combatants tore off each other's clothes. The butcher got a glimpse of his dog upon the platform, and called him to his aid; but Macpherson, with admirable presence of mind, snatched up his own plaid, which lay near him, and threw it over the butcher, thus misleading the instinct of his canine adversary. The dog darted with fury upon the plaid, and terribly lacerated his master's thigh. In the mean time, James Macpherson had been carried out by Peter Brown, and was soon joined by Donald Macpherson, who was quickly covered by some friendly spectator with a hat and great coat. The magistrates ordered webs from the shops to be drawn across the Gallowgate; but Donald Macpherson cut them asunder with his sword, and James, the late prisoner, got off on horseback. He was some time after betrayed by a man of his own tribe; and was the last person executed at Banff, previous to the abolition of heritable jurisdiction. He was an admirable performer on the violin; and his talent for composition is still in evidence in "Macpherson's Rant," "Macpherson's Pibroch," and "Macpherson's Farewell." He performed those tunes at the foot of the fatal tree; and then asked if he had any friend in the crowd to whom a last gift of his instrument would be acceptable. No man had hardihood to claim friendship with a delinquent, in whose crimes the acknowledgment might implicate an avowed acquaintance. As no friend came forward, Macpherson said, the companion of many gloomy hours should perish with him; and, breaking the violin over his knee, he threw away the fragments. Donald Macpherson picked up the neck of the violin, which to this day is preserved, as a valuable memento, by the family of Cluny, chieftain of the Macphersons. B. G. THE MAID'S REMONSTRANCE. FROM AN UNPUBLISHED OPERA, BY T. CAMPBELL. NEVER wedding, ever wooing, Rivals banish'd, bosoms plighted, Damp'd, and wavering, and benighted, Charms you call your dearest blessing, Lips that thrill at your caressing, Eyes a mutual soul confessing, ABSENCE. FROM THE SAME. 'Tis not the loss of love's assurance, The fondest thoughts two hearts can cherish, What though, untouch'd by jealous madness, Absence! is not the soul torn by it From more than light, or life, or breath? 'Tis Lethe's gloom, but not its quiet, The pain without the peace of death. |