describing. How different from such enjoyments as are merely sensual! The latter may be designated as the prose of our existence; and some of it is, no doubt, pleasant reading, but it wants the spirit, the stamp of immateriality, which the offspring of the mind, those "fairy creatures of the element," always bear with them. They seem not to belong to this world; we get them so by snatches and glimpses; they are like the nebula seen in the Heavens by astronomers, which appear to be little openings into regions of infinite light and splendour. The sensations which, viewing the subject in this way, we may properly denominate poetical, give to existence uncloying delight. Unembodied as they are, they cannot one of them be spared from our scanty stock of pleasures. They give us a fore-taste of what is perhaps the nature of the enjoyments of spiritual beings; for they seem under the direction of agents of a superior nature. What a reaching out of the soul, an ardent longing of the mind after something that is above mortality, we sometimes experience! Who has not felt emotions beyond the power of language to describe at a glorious sunset, when the sky is decked in the richest colours, and cloud is piled upon cloud in gorgeous magnificence, among which imagination pictures -Purple castles where red turrets frown, Who does not aspire to mingle in the scene, ramble in fairy vales, or climb mountains of ruby and chrysolite? Who, when walking out at night and viewing The eternal lights that live along the sky does not feel a wish to fling himself from earth into the abyss of space that intervenes, and attempt to reach those unknown orbs and bathe in their fountains of living brightness? The remembrance of a beloved friend or relative, long deceased, brings him often, without warning, to the mind's eye, perfect in every feature, affecting us with a pleasing melancholy this is particularly the case when we dream-for dreams belong to the poetry of life. The rush of recollection that comes suddenly upon the mind, bringing up even the feelings of boyish days with astonishing freshness-a forgotten song, re-heard by accident, certain strains of music, the first coming of spring, the solitude of wild and sublime scenery, dark with woods and precipices, where -a thousand phantasies Begin to throng into the memory, Of calling shapes and beckoning shadows dire, the riding over a wild heath where no human habitation appears and the silence of desolation seems to govern every thing—all raise unutterable feelings, which, with many others differing in character and intensity according to the different degrees of our constitutional susceptibility of such impressions, may be styled the romantic of life's poetry, being the most lofty and spiritual part of it. The impressions of love and friendship, of the beautiful and sublime, the relish for the higher classes of art, such as sculpture and painting, form another kind of sensations under the same head; among which may be ranked almost all the virtues that do honour to human nature, and are distinguished from mechanical and coarse passions and worldly pursuits. Business, money-getting, calculation, politics, nothing in short that is mathematical and corporeal, that is," of the earth earthy," can be designated as the "Poetry of Life." The world of life's poetry is golden, as well as that of the poet of literature; to whom it furnishes the magic by which, like Timotheus, he Swells the soul to rage, or kindles soft desire; But language is too limited to describe it. The Poetry of Life is felt, not syllabled-it is wild, solemn, and unearthly, or "Musical as is Apollo's lute," or sublime from its vastness and obscurity-it far "Beyond dim earth exalts the swelling thought." Touches which recall its vivid impressions are frequently shewn in the productions of gifted men; but these are so minute a portion of the whole, and language is so inadequate a medium to convey even a fractional outline of their character, that the filling up of the parts must be left to the mind. The most artful and sweetest combinations of language are too material for painting the subtle shadows and colourings: they only serve as remembrancers to bring back sensations that are past, in order to delight us by their revivification. But the highest Poetry of Life, or, what is the same thing, the finer impulses of our nature, the glowing fancies, the ardent emotions, the sweet imaginings of the soul, are every day becoming closer and more retired inmates of our bosoms. They are less frequently imparted-for the mass of mankind are getting less poetical in feeling. This is because of their intangible nature: the world is busy in hunting after substances, no matter how base may be their composition. The "airy nothings" of the mind, that reason cannot comprehend, mathematics prove real, or arithmetic gauge, are held as of little value. But the Poetry of Life can never be extinct; it is a part of our natures; and if there be cold ascetics in the world who scout every thing that a line cannot measure and a diagram demonstrate, still there are others left who will continue to revel in "fairy fictions," and forget at times the painful realities of existence in the mighty visions of the imagination-for these can be enjoyed where the showy appliances of life are wanting. We are told, indeed, that, as the march of reason advances, that of imagination will retrograde as if mankind can ever become wholly subject to reason's influence, and passion and feeling hold a subordinate station in the human breast. Reason may, perhaps, temper what it cannot subdue. But where is the individual who can resist grief by reasoning upon its inutility, or conquer love by reflecting on its transitory nature Who can hold a fire in his hand "Whip me under the gallows" the cold philosopher that would banish the Muses from his republic; but the wretch that would wish the Poetry of life and feeling to be extinct, let him for ever dwell “In caldo, e 'n gielo," as Dante has it In flame, in frost, in ever-during night. What else is there that is worth the "whips and scorns" of life? It is painful to reflect that, in large congregations of men, who mingle together for objects of business or politics, every year seems to wear away more and more of the finer feelings, and renders the mind more unsusceptible of the pleasures of imagination; but much of this is the result of long habit and of locality. The Poetry of Life can never die while we are conscious breathing animals. To those who smile at it, and are still daily experiencing more or less of its influence-who feel only indifferent towards it because they will not acknowledge it to be the great charm of our being, I shall only address the words of an old writer respecting persons insensible to poetry in general. "But if (fie on such a But!) you be borne so neare the dul-making cataract of Nilus, that you cannot heare the planet-like musike of poetry-if you have so earth-creeping a mind that it cannot lift itself vp to looke to the skie of poetry, or rather, by a certain rusticall disdaine will become such a mome as to be a Momus of poetrie-then, though I wil not wish unto you the asses' eares of Midas, nor to be driven by a poet's verses as Bubonax was, to hang himself, nor to be rimed to death, as is said to be done in Ireland, yet this much curse I must send you in the behalfe of all poets-that, while you liue, you liue in loue and never get fauour, for lacking skill of a Sonet, and when you die, your memorie die from the earth for want of an epitaph." V. SONNET. GIOVANNI PIETRO ZANOTTI. Jerusalem destroyed by Titus. SION, thine eye beheld and wept too late Devoted City! from thy woes in vain Thy glance upturn'd to Heaven for rest intreated. THE LIAR. Σχέτλιε, ποικιλομῆτα, δόλων ἄτ', οὐκ ἄρ ̓ ἔμελλες ODYSS. 13. SIR, I reckon myself one of the most accomplished liars of the day. I tell a lie the most readily, the most ingeniously, the most unblushingly of any of my acquaintance. But that is not all: not only are my lips false, but I lie with my eyes, I lie with my gestures, I lie with my habitual carriage: my shovel-shaped hat is a lie, my snuff-coloured dittoes and bob-wig are lies, the bright polish of my Day and Martin blacking is a lie; in short every thing about me, from the deafness of my ears to the shuffle in my heels, is a mere imposition and a thorough falsehood. So completely indeed am I embued with the spirit of deception, that I do not think I should now make you this anonymous communication if I had not a sort of conviction that you will not believe me. Lucian thought himself excused for writing lies in his true history, because he gave fair notice; and I consider myself as derogating in nothing from the unity and simplicity of my character, by telling truths that will mislead more than the most ingenious fictions. I have often pondered most seriously but without being able to arrive at any satisfactory solution of the difficulty, upon the reasons which have induced mankind to resent so deeply the imputation of falsehood, and to consider it as a stain upon the reputation, which nothing but blood can wash away. Their whole reasonings on this subject seem to me very capricious and absurd. For, admitting their own premises, and allowing (what I am very far from being disposed to concede) that a lie has something in its nature so very discreditable, yet "all the blood of all the Howards" cannot alter the nature of things, and make that true which is in itself false; and I cannot conceive how a man grows a bit the less a liar, by becoming a murderer into the bargain. But, leaving this point to nicer casuists, I must take leave to remark, that the preliminary absurdity is not less of being so mortally offended at the imputation itself; seeing not only that all mankind, more or less, indulge in this figure of rhetoric, but that children and savages (those nearest to a state of nature) are the most egregious liars. Is there a nation in the civilized world that does not pride itself most upon those passages of its early history, which are the most palpably and extravagantly false? Have not the Greeks their Hercules, and their Cadmus, and their Theseus, and above all, that arch impostor and liar, their Ulysses? Have not the Romans their Romulus and their Quintus Curtius? the Peruvians their Manco Capac? the Irish their Milesius, and the English their Trojan Brute? If lying be so terrible an offence, why do we read with so much pleasure, Herodotus, and Livy, and Vertot. Liars, says the proverb, should have good memories:-they require also ingenuity, invention, the promptitude of an improvisatore, and the lucid comprehension of intellect of a first-rate mechanist. Liars also require great judgment, in order to see clearly when a lie will and will not tell, and likewise to take care that it be not thrown away on an inadequate subject. This I take to be the moral of the apologue of the Shepherd's Boy and the Wolf, which figures in the first book we put into the hands of children. That mendacious guardian of the sheepfold was in the habit of calling "wolf" from mere wantonness and sport, to laugh at his comrades, a most reprehensible practice; whereas, had he kept this fiction for some great occasion, he would not have lost his lambs. Besides the qualifications already enumerated, a liar requires great self-possession; that modification of courage which confers command of countenance; and that species of perseverance which is falsely called obstinacy, and which enables the liar to bear up against the clearest evidence, and to assert the most hardily when proof weighs the heaviest against him. From all these considerations, I am inclined, then, to think, that the importance attached to giving the lie depends upon its being a slur upon the understanding; and that " you lie" means nothing more than, "you are found out," "you want the talent of lying like truth," " you are a bungling blockhead, and use a weapon without understanding its management :"-the criminality, like that of the Spartan pickpocket, being placed altogether in the detection. The same indeed is the case with respect to borough traffic, cheating at cards, crim. con. robbing "the King's exchequer," and many other pleasurable and profitable amusements of the like nature. Having premised thus much concerning the art of lying, I shall proceed with the immediate object of my letter-a sketch of my own life. I received from my parents what is called a liberal education; and, after spending three years at college, was articled to an attorney, with whom I was initiated into the mysteries of the law. My master's office was a climate congenial to my nature. I was particularly delighted with those theoretical tamperings with the truth, called "fictions of the law" the process of ejectment, with all its gratuitous suppositions of actions that never were done, and of things that never happened, was my especial delight; but my joy was without bounds, when, on entering into the practice of the law, I found a field so thoroughly adapted to my talents and dispositions. My progress accordingly was rapid. I was early admitted a partner in the business, and I have no doubt that I should have speedily made a great fortune, but unluckily being entrapped in giving evidence by a close hunks of a counsellor, and thus compelled to speak the truth against my inclination, I was very abruptly struck off the roll, and dismissed to exercise my talents in some other profession. "The world was all before me, where to choose," and I chose to become a paragraph-collector for the daily journals. It is astonishing the scope this employment affords to a man of bright parts and mendacious disposition ! His writing may be considered as the chronicles of whatever is not: accidents that never happened, fires that never burned, floods that never quitted the bed of their river, feats of horsemanship and of pedestrian exertion that were never performed, battles that were never fought, treaties that were never signed, marriages which were never celebrated, fêtes that were never given," lame ducks" that never "waddled," ghosts that never appeared, volcanoes, storms, earthquakes, duels, murders, and highway-robberies, all mere entes rationis, and children born with more heads and members than ever were found in the bottles of a show-anatomist. The political intelligence of such a writer is like the decree of Demosthenes alluded |