Upon my word, you will never be satisfied, I am afraid,
till I have convinced you that you are a blockhead!—in
matters of poetry, I mean; for, as a man of good understanding,
and fine taste, not natural, but acquired taste,
in other matters, I shall always regard you. But why
put me to the trouble of telling you such a disagreeable
truth? Will nothing content you—and Mr. Walsh, and
the present conductors of your North American, but
to be told, in downright English, when poetry is the subject
of your conversation, that you don't, any of you,
know what you are talking about. Why not keep to
what you understand? Why not be content with the
reputation of good sense, and excellent judgment? Why
drive a man to an absolute demonstration of your insensibility,
in all matters of feeling and passion?

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You can't agree with me, in my estimate of Mr. Percival,
or any body else; and you cite the opinion of
“Robert Walsh, Jr. Esquire,” against me. Very well—
I can bear that—I only smile, and hold my tongue.--
But unhappily for you, my silence is misunderstood---misinterpreted.
You think the authority of Mr. Walsh has
concluded me. You drive me to a defence of my opinion;---
an explanation of it---although you well know, that I do
nothing at the halves; and that, if I think a man a blockhead,
I never hesitate to say so, whenever I think it
worth my while---be he who he may.

Mr. Walsh, I am willing to think well of, if you will
let me. But beware how you attempt to convince me of
too much. The testimony may recoil. Mr. Walsh is
mistaken about Mr. Percival. So are you. So are the
present conductors of the North American. As for
Mr. Walsh, he wants the poetical sense—for it is a sense--
the natural feeling for poetry.--So do you.--So do they.
Yet I ought to make one exception. The review of Mr.
Percival, in the January number of the North American,
for 1822, although very cautious, and constrained—is
witty and original, and take it altogether is a capital
article for that paper. But that for 1823—what shall I
say of that? It is altogether too wise and thoughtful—
too ridiculously emphatick—as if it were the job-work of
some writer, who had just good sense enough to know
that, if he did'nt manage well, he would make himself ridiculous,
and ruin the author whom he wished to befriend.
The first writer is a tolerable judge of poetry—the latter
is a blockhead.

But Mr. Percival is called a great poet. Ridiculous.--He
is a beautiful poet, and that is all. He is passably deep;
gentle, tranquil, and uniform. You are never amazed, never
alarmed, by anything that he does. He never says
anything positively foolish, absurd, or extravagant. It
is impossible to make him ridiculous, by a parody, or a
travesty. Can he be a poet, then? No—he cannot.—
But let me tell you what he is—and what his poetry is.
He is a man, who never would have been a poet, or attempted
poetry, of his own head, had he been born away

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from poetical men; or beyond the influence of their example.
He would never have thought of poetry, for his own
consolation, and still less, for the consolation of another.
In one word—he is not a natural poet—although he has
a very pure, but timid and fine sense of poetry. So
much for the man. Now for his poetry. It is a
buried pond of warm water—buried in the woods—unruffled—
never turbid—never noisy—never tumbling about—
but always teeming with pleasant shadows—birds—water-lilies—
clouds—tall green trees—wild flowers, floating
about—and shining fish—silent—but not with the silence
of a natural solitude—deep, but not with the unsearchable
depth of the ocean.

You love Percival. So do I. I don't know him; but,
he is a bold hearted fellow; and I can't help loving any
man, right or wrong, who has the courage to tell men
what he believes to be unpalatable truth. True—he is
affected—with melancholy, I mean—and so was your
William B. Walter; and half a dozen others, who have
a notion, that other men would like to be troubled with
what they call their “woes”—the extremity of which, in
all probability, has been a head-ache---a few hours of
foolish despondency---self reproach---or a cholick—a dun—
or a criticism—a slight, at a dinner party—or a cut
direct—or a disappointment in love or ambition—the love
of a simpleton, who had no relish for the abstract and
poetical part of a man—and the ambition of being great,
where it is always most difficult to be great—among
one's playfellows.—Alas, for such men! and alas, for poetry!—
for them, if that be all that has come of their being
gifted as they are;—and for it, if that be all, that it
brings with it—a spirit that will not be comforted—a
heart that cannot be contented—a mind that keeps itself
from repose, by continual goading; as if it were the sign
of a vulgar nature, to be satisfied, in any degree, with
any thing in God's providence; and as if, to be happy,
were to be unsentimental, and prosaick.

But you praise Mr. Percival, more than I. And so
does Mr. Walsh. And yet, quere to that....Both of you,
it is true, use finer words, and more of them; and call him

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greater, than I do. But, I doubt much, if he himself,
would think your praise greater than mine. The fact
is, that you both want the poetical taste; and he is aware
of it. I do not---and, all that he gets from me, therefore,
will go to the right place. It will do him good. But that
which you are so prodigal of, depend upon it, is more
likely to trouble him, than to make him better satisfied
with himself. He is obliged to endure it, to be sure.
But why?---because Mr. Walsh is the editor of the National
Gazette---and you have great influence with
the world of fashion---which has all influence with the
North American.

To judge of poetry, or of any thing, indeed, a man
should be a workman, at the same trade. But if he be a
workman at the same trade, it will never do for him to
find fault with the work of another---ah no!---that, no
matter how just it may be, or how evidently well founded,
will always be attributed to envy. “Two of a trade can
never agree.” So that, if a man be truly a judge---he
cannot criticise impartially---he must not. A critick,
therefore, must either be ignorant of the subject---or he
must praise it, whatever may be the merit of it.

Believe me, sir—there is no blast, like untimely approbation;
no censure so fatal, as the injudicious praise
of men, who do not know where, nor when, nor what to
praise. It is ten to one that you blunder upon something
that the author has stolen,—or that, he, himself, knows
to be so bad, that, if you were anything of a poet, you
must have denounced him for it. In the first place—he
damns himself—in the next, you.

Mr. Percival knows that he is not a great poet:---and,
I have no doubt, pities the men that call him so, at the
same time that he is offended, at their insensibility to what
he is—a beautiful poet. Stay, a moment—I have a question
for you. Are you prepared?—You love his poetry—
you are familiar with it. You have read it all—now,
think well, before you speak. Can you remember half a
dozen thoughts, or expressions out of all that you have read?
What! are you amazed at the question?—or does your
heart fail you?---or your memory?---your memory, per

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haps you will say, is bad. Nay, nay, man, never attempt
to get off, with that plea. A great poet will be remembered---in
spite of your memory. You cannot forget
him. In every page, notwithstanding the trash and
dross, and emptiness and rubbish, there will be some imperishable,
indestructible thought, that will engrave itself—
like a legend upon your heart—like the motto of a
hot coin upon wax. Nay, open the book---open, where
you will---and point me to, if you can, a single thought
of greatness; or to many of even uncommon beauty. That
is a hard judgment—but it is an honest one. Perhaps
you will call it envy. Very well—call it envy, if you
please. Envy will always defeat itself; and, if my judgment
have aught of envy in it—the world will find me
out, and punish me for it—and think the better of him,
in the long run. Let him be assured of that; and, if he
oan persuade himself that I envy him—let him!---I am
perfectly willing—it will be a comfort to him. Let him
pity and forgive me, as I would, any man that should
trouble me in the same way.

But let me go through with what I have undertaken,
which is, to show that Mr. Walsh, and the North
American do not understand poetry—and that, I do:—
that, it is perfectly ridiculous for any of you to pretend
to talk about it;—and that, I do not despair of making
you feel that it is—nor of making you acknowledge, that
whatever else you may be, you are not made to sit in
judgment upon either poets or poetry.

I have read the first number of Mr. Percival's Clio—
but I have never been able to get the second, although I
have seen an extract from it, which contains the most
beautiful thing that he has ever done; it is in the Coral
Grove.

[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]

There, my friend, the words that I have underlined
have more true poetry, and a thousand times more beautiful
originality in them, than any thing else that I have
ever met with, of Mr. Percival's. I remember one other
thought of his, however, that I will mention here,—and
then, away with quotation. It is in the poem on Consumption.

Now Mr. Walsh would never believe, that the essence
of that thought, the beauty of the whole passage—lies in the
simple word tender—and that the words—not in italicks,
are altogether beneath poetry. Not that they are prosaick,
or out of place—I do not mean that—I only mean
that the poetry is not there: and that the other words,
italicised, are, though beautiful, not half so remarkable,
as the word tender in that place—it is like the tender
green, of the new earth. It is really wonderful, how instantaneously
and happily poetical thought will fashion
for itself, a correspondent language. Here the poet let
his heart have her own way—he had been touched by the
thought, while standing before, or sitting by some sweet
girl, dying in a consumption—and he had there seen the
purple blood (which, by the way, is bad to any ear
not classically familiar with the purple of the ancients;—
for, with the multitude, purple is not a blood colour—nor
a blue—but a deep violet—Although the ancients
meant everything and anything, just as Byron does, by the
same word)—melting through it—he thought then of the
snow—stained, very faintly, with blood;—and, the language
arranged itself—forthwith, so as to be touching and

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innocent, like the thought. And so it always must be.—
Poetical thought does not seek for rhyme—but it always
will seek for peculiar expression;—it has a sound of its
own—rejecting the more barbarous of our consonants:
and delighting in melody and gentleness—or smoothness
and strength, even when exalted to sublimity.

The first volume of poetry that Mr. Percival (by the
way---he was never a lawyer, I believe---although I
have often heard that he was) is made up of little pieces
and large ones---put together, between the ages of seventeen
and twenty-five, or twenty-six. I have just read
it; and I am very sorry for it. It has lowered him, beyond
all belief, in my estimation, as a poet. I can forgive
a child for attempting poetry—but I cannot forgive
a man for publishing it. No matter, at what age the
poems were written—it is enough for us, that they have
been published by the author, when his judgment was
mature. That is a very just criticism, take it for all
in all, which first appeared in the North American; but
it does not go far enough—it is too timid and irresolute;
wanting in discrimination, patience, and dignity; and
what is more, the author was too much inclined to kindness
and pleasantry, for the occasion:—but, be that as it
may---he was a fine fellow----a much finer one, believe
me, than any other one among you, who dares to talk about
poetry, now, so far as I can judge from your late numbers,
which I sometimes meet with. A great part
of Prometheus, I do not scruple to say, is not only
as good as the major part of Childe Harold, but so
like it, that I should have pronounced it to be Byron's
without hesitation. Mr. Percival, it is true, can walk
like Byron---on his midway journeying;---but he cannot
go up aloft, like him, and steady himself among the
clouds:---nor does he ever grovel so brutally or stupidly
as Byron. Let Mr. Percival do his best---and I should
say, at a glance---no! that is not Byron. Here is another
hand writing. Let Byron do his best, and I should be
certain,---instantaneously certain---that nobody but Byron
could have done it. But let them both philosophise---
Byron in his own way---and Percival in Byron's way---
and I would defy any man to tell “which was which,” as

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we say in New England. Byron's legitimate dominion
is a desert. It is the barren, rocky, silent dwelling-place
of a stern shadow---an enchanter---who hath forbidden
the winds to blow---the waters to run---the clouds
to pass over him---or the grass to spring up under him---
lest they might disturb him in his incantations. The
territory of Mr. Percival, for it is not a dominion---he is
absolute no where---is a beautiful, and vividly green tufted
place, all alive with water courses, and parted off, by
flowery hedges---into inexpressibly pretty solitudes, in
miniature---where, if a man mean to be alone---he must
stick his head into the bushes, and stop his ears; where
there is nothing awful—nothing that will make a devotee to
the solitude chant, or pray, under his natural voice---but
everything, to please a fellow that don't like getting
wet---or muddy, and yet is fond of green silent places;
and the finest echo in the world, for repetition, and prolongation
of low and complaining musick.

There is not a single ode, song, or sonnet; nay, not a
single passage or thought of striking beauty, or peculiar
character, in all the poetry that I have yet seen of Mr.
Percival's, which I cannot prove to be an imitation of
somebody or other, who has preceded him;—and generally,
of Byron, Campbell, Milman, and even of some of
our Amercan writers. For example—there is, in the
first number of Clio, an ode to Greece, which is altogether
after Byron—a song, about some raval victory, actually
made up of the battle of the Baltick, (“where the
boldest held their breath,”) and the Mariners of England;
several songs—which are downright imitations of
Moore;—and many other passages—many pages—after
Milman; particularly one, which is beautiful—insupportable
to me, as all imitation is—where he has taken Milman's
Italian Wife, (Fazio,) and distilled it into a
page. These plagiarisms are not of language, or expression,
so much as of thought and manner—nay, many of
them are hardly to be called plagiarisms; and ought to
be mentioned only in proof, that the author has no strong,
prevailing, natural character of his own, or he could not so
readily, and would not, so fondly and continually,

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assimilate himself with the character of every other poet that he
gets a glimpse of. It is this facility of adaptation, which
will prevent Mr. Percival from ever becoming a great
poet; and which, if he be not upon his guard, will finally
ruin him for a beautiful one. Nay, that I may not leave
anything for conjecture, I will say the whole at once.
Mr. Percival is not a poet. You are amazed—you smile;
and so does Mr. Walsh. But I rely on the opinion of
Mr. Percival's reviewer—(the first one, I mean)—He
agrees with me, that, to be less than a great poet, is to
be nothing at all. And this cannot be denied; for, exactly
in proportion to the pleasure that we receive in
poetry and musick, when they are the best; is our intolerant
reception of whatever is less than the best. In matters
of the understanding, it is not so. We can endure
tolerable sour bread—but tolerable sweetmeats are intolerable—
we can bear up against pretty good water,
but pretty good wine is a little too bad. We can endure
bad talking---but bad singing is insufferable, just
in proportion to our fondness for what is good. Nay---
to talk of bad poetry, or bad musick, or bad eloquence, is
to talk of what, is a contradiction in terms.

Believe me—Mr. Percival is an artificial poet. God
never meant that he should make poetry. At least,
such is my opinion for the present;—and is founded upon
his having kept the secret of his power—if he have power---so
long, that any man would be pardonable for
doubting it.

But you may ask where these imitations appear---
and demand to see them---more particularly. Sir—
there is no answering such a demand. If you do not
instantly perceive the counterfeit---no reasoning will convince
you:---You cannot be made to see it---because you
must be made to see, at the same time, your own want of
judgment hitherto; or, at least your own blindness. “But
surely,” you will say---“if these imitations are so plainly
to be seen---anybody may be made to see them.” Indeed!—
do you know a counterfeit bank note, when you see
it? Can you make anybody, and every body, see that it
is counterfeit? You can see an imitation in this man—

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of some other man, whom you know, in his voice, tone, or
gait—can you make it evident to another—can you describe
it? No. Nor can I describe these plagiarisms of
manner in Mr. Percival—they must be felt, instantly—
or not at all. I feel them, I see them. I am pained and
mortified continually with them; and yet I should despare
of making anybody else, but a poet—and a poet too,
familiar with all the moderns, perceive them.

But what do I think of Byron? you say. Really, my
dear sir, I hardly know what to say. I am weary of
talking about that man. I think that, as a poet, he is
not to be compared with little Tom Moore. But, as a
dramatist—as one, that understands the passions—and
gives to poetry just the place that it is entitled to, in describing
their operation, he is superiour to any man
that I can now call to mind. Byron shows to you, the
very thing itself—the poet only shows the counterfeit:—
one is all fact—the other, all illustration. Byron takes
you, by main force, to the base of the pyramid, and commands
you to take its altitude—not by measuring the
shadow—but the substance. Not so with the poet—he
fatigues you with resemblances. But Byron's tragedies,
you will think, are sad examples of dramatick talent. Very
true. They are a sort of barbarian metaphysicks. But
I appeal to his early poems; the finer creatures of the
brain, begotten while his heart was in fusion. Then, he
was all passion, directness, and scorn, heartfelt scorn,
of the empty creatures that beset him. Then he had little
or nothing to lose, and every thing to gain. Now, it
is exactly the reverse. Now, the kingly drapery that he
used to wear, is nearly worn out; and he clings to it, with
the desperation of one to his wedding suit, when he has
only that left, to remind him of his bridegroom-days,
when all the world took hold of hands, and danced round
him, as round an idol. Byron's talent is prodigious---
his imagination neither brilliant nor delicate, but strong
as death---taste, so, so---sentiment, burning---industry,
great, very great, for a poet and a lord.

And now, for some of the other great men of the day.
In the first place, I would have you know, that this age

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is, emphatically, the age of poetry; and that,even our common
newspaper poets throw out finer poetry—without
knowing it—than is ever to be found among the heavy
volumes of ancient poetry, numerous and wonderful as
they are.

Your Wordsworth tickles me, prodigiously. He is
a great, plain-hearted, august simpleton. A gifted creature—
of prodigious power: a devout dreamer, who cannot,
for the soul of him, tell when he is awake; a strong
man, with the organs of a child; whose ample and profound
thought, can find no correspondent diction. He
thinks like an angel, and talks like something less than
a man. He is a giant---blind of both eyes---and deaf as
a post---who has blundered, somehow or other, into Nature's
laboratory---and there goes, groping and rummaging
about, most unprofitably for himself, among all the
beautiful elixirs of immortality, and crucibles for transmutation---wading
into oceans of uncongealed precious
stones---ploughing through heaps of rough gold, hardly
cool from the furnace---waking strange, subterranean
musick, at every step, as he tumbles along, first one way,
and then another, among the sources of sound, and harmony,
totally insensible to all, one would think; while
the very dust that he brings away upon his garments,
never fails to enrich those who have the first scouring
of them, and picking of him---a matter that keeps a mob
of retail dealers in poetry, watching after him, as they
watch, in China, after people who are seen to make wry
faces;—and when they get him in a corner, they never
fail to beguile him of his old clothes---heavy with unknown
spoil---and wash him clean, even to the hair of
his head---all the time talking baby-talk to him, and profaning
his simple majesty, with all sorts of idle and
wicked mockery. In short, Wordsworth is not a little
like the lump of fresh meat that Sinbad found—rolling
about among diamonds—wounding and tearing itself
continually—without any profit to anybody, but the
creatures that grew dizzy in waiting for him. Wordsworth
is altogether a natural poet. Education has done
nothing for him, except to make him tedious, childish,

[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]

obscure and metaphysical. His talent is more sublimated,
simple, and clear-sighted, than that of any other
man---sentiment, angelick---imagination, altogether subordinate,
quite common-place---taste, too pure, periodical,
subject to accident, time, place, and the moon---industry,
none at all---misunderstood and misapplied.

Rogers.—I hardly know what to say of this gentleman.
He appears to be an amiable good-for-nothing sort
of a man; who declaims downright, incorrigible prose,
with such a look of gentle, inward self-satisfaction, that
it would be really cruel to laugh at him. And then, too,
at times, the man has such an imploring countenance---
such a deprecating tone---that you cannot find in your
heart to tell the truth of him, or of his dandy poetry, to
his face. But Rogers---heaven be praised---is altogether
a made-up poet. No imagination---no talent---pretty
taste, and agreeable sentiment---good memory; and a stomach
like an ostrich---intellectual stomach, I mean,
which can digest anything---find aliment in anything---
and convert anything into what he calls poetry.

Southey—Is a natural poet; but altogether destitute
of tenderness and sweetness. He is gifted, largely, with
a kind of power, that is entirely his own---the power of
making great poetry, appear common-place; and common-place
poetry, great. He has been too adventurous---
I do not mean, by soaring too high---but, by wandering
too far. His course has been sidelong, downward, backward,
onward; any way, but upward, for a long time.
Ten years ago, he might have been one of the two or
three great poets of the age. Now, it is altogether too
late. He had a great capacity; but he took in a cargo
of inflammable air, for ballast; carried too much sail;
and is now in a fair way of abandonment to his old underwriters,
for a total loss. More imagination than talent;
but his imagination is rather wild, flighty, beakish,
and heavy, than beautiful or eagle-pinioned---talent, rather
solid than showy---no taste at all---sentiment, hercick,
but too epick.

Campbell.—Were it not for Hohen-Linden, which
was a fine accident—and great, absolutely great, only in

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one stanza—(“By torch and trumpet fast arrayed”—is
the one that I mean;) and Lochell, which is a miracle;
and about a dozen lines—not more—here and there,
scattered over his Pleasures of Hope; and a part of the
Mariners of England, so remarkable for its warlike
simplicity;—I should point to Mr. Campbell, as the finest
specimen that the world ever saw, of the artificial poet.
And, even as it is, with all these exceptions, I am not by
any means convinced that he has a downright, natural
passion for poety. That he has a good, sound, discriminating
judgment of poetry, in the abstract, I cannot deny;
but he wants fire, tenderness, simple grandeur, and sensibility.
He has all the outward expression, look, and
carriage of the poet—the gentlemanly poet—but I do
hold him to be badly off, for that inward instinct, which
I do not know how to express better, than by calling it
Shakspearean: that intuitive, unlabouring, prompt, unthinking,
headlong aptitude—quickness—and delicacy of
perception, which makes the truly poetical nature, talk
poetry, in spite of itself—just as Shakspeare does—when
and where poetry is entirely out of place—in the deep,
deep drama,—I do not mean in the descriptive, but in the
narrative, and active drama. Poetry can be endured in
dramatick description—now and then;—but, in dramatick
narrative, it is wholly out of place,--and, in dramatick
action, absolutely abominable. We can bear to hear
a description, in tolerably poetical language---in a general
way---of the general effect of being heart-broken;—
but when one goes about narrating a particular case, we
wince, at every departure from simplicity—and quiver
all over with suspicion, or dislike, at the appearance of
poetical ornament;---but, if he go one step further, and
attempt to show to us---by acting---that his own heart is actually
breaking before our eyes---we cannot believe---it is
in vain that we would try---we cannot believe---that he is in
earnest---if he talk poetically.

In short---Campbell's poetry is the poetry of the brain,
not of the blood. To my notion, it is the strange product
of a strange poetical alchymy. Some one has been
trying experiments—in the bright chambers of poetry—

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while the apparitions were away from their blinding labaratory—
and the issue has been, a material, that—without
being either diamond or gold in reality, has all the
weight of the one, and the glitter of the other. Very
fine talent—pure and solid—not malleable—not fusible:—
little or no imagination—rather a man of intellect than
genius—taste, first rate—but timid and squeamish; easily
frightened, and more easily disheartened—sentiment, unexceptionable—
industry, worthy of all praise—without
being profound or continual.

Milton.[3]—A great man—but much learning hath
made him mad. He was far too learned—and reasonable—
for a poet. He was of that ancient school, who wrestled,
and ate, and danced, and slept, in their heavy armour,
that it might not be an incumbrance, on the day of battle.
He is never without his weaver's beam, and ponderous
helmet. At every tread, he crushes—what he is
continually calling upon us to admire—the green, spongy
earth, and the matted wild-flowers weltering in the
light and shadow. If he lean against a tree—in his
stately enthusiasm—or lie, all along, upon the broad,
heavy grass—the tree is barked by the pressure—and
the green earth bruised and crushed into barrenness, by
the weight---or scorched into ashes, by the “intolerable”
brightness of his armour. Sometimes, when his mail
has become too hot for him---he has been seen to throw
it off, for an hour or two---untie his “invincible locks”---
and leap away, from before you, like a young man just
out of the depth of the blue ocean---strong as a giant---and
naked and beautiful as God's own offspring. Give Milton
time to prepare---let him know that you are coming---
and, taking the hint, he begins to sit up for company:
becomes little else than a tiresome, pompous old fool---
who cannot ask you how you do, but in some unintelligible
exhausted idiom; and wears you to death with the
legerdemain of gone-by ages---making up for a want of
that sweet wisdom, which you have come to see---in the
mighty Bard---by a continual display of lofty nothingness.
Milton has misunderstood poetry. Various and

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universal as it is---there is one character, under which
it never appears---a learned one. Fire and water will
agree better together, than learning and poetry. One
is all fact---the other all imagination. One all heat---
the other all coldness. Learning is cold and exact---
poetry hot, loose and careless. Milton had a magnificent
angel for a guardian---but neither he nor his angel,
had any tenderness of disposition. Both were of that
race, who beget their children by sound of trumpet---
and make love, like unicorns---in broad day-light---with
all the world looking at the miracle. Miton's talent
was absolutely stupendous---his imagination, hardly
third ratel—aste, classical---but unnatural---and unfeeling---no
sentiment at all. Industry, respectable.

Barry Cornwall, (or Proctor.)---The most tender
and beautiful creature of the age. His dialect is pure
poetry---his very idiom---prattle and gossip—they are
all legitimate poetry; he is the very essence and heart of
Shakspeare, before Shakspeare was fully grown. I am
only afraid that he will become too dainty---too tender---
too sentimental. There is danger of it. He wants
nerve---and people are coaxing him, in every direction,
to lie a-bed, night and day, and indite to them. He is a
natural poet---so true---so gentle---so affectionate. His
poetry is of the heart---rather than of the blood or brain.
But, all that won't do. He will pall upon the taste, if he
don't touch us up, now and then, with something more
racy, fiery, and pungent. Talent, sweet, but not strong;---
taste, exquisite;---industry, very good;---imagination,
first rate----but more remarkable for delicacy, tenderness,
and affectionate beauty, than for brilliancy, or
strength;—sentiment, pure and tender, beyond example.

Moore.—The best trained singing bird that God, and
man together, ever made. He is the first and the
last of his family. There will never be another, who
will whistle, so like nature—through all the delicate entanglements
of art. The Bird-Waltz was made
for him. No such combination of plumage and note was
ever imagined before;—and then, the creature dances;
keeps time with his feet; and gets through the most

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complicated minuet, all at the same time, as if dancing were
as natural to him, as singing. Moore makes less use of
poetical language, than any body else—his words are
never fine, or grand—but always very simple, natural,
and familiar. People overlook that wonderful talent.
Moore is never great—never altogether natural—but he
is always happy, familiar—shining, adroit, and graceful;
with the purest notion of song poetry in all the world.
He is the rarest combination of the thrush, linnet, nightingale,
and canary;—without being like either—he resembles
them all. He attempts, now and then, to fly
perpendicularly upward, into the very sky—but he can't—
he can't;—the golden chain, and the golden spots upon
his plumage, weigh him down again—and he cannot,
though he burst every tiny blood vessel of his little heart,
he cannot get beyond the atmosphere of the flower garden,
and the beaks of butter-flies. Talent, pure gold—
little or no fire;—imagination, exquisite—but of the
insect tribe—sentiment, voluptuous, altogether sensual;—
taste, unrivalled, for perfection and aptitude;—industry,
very uncommon; about no. 2, among poets.

Montgomery.—He is one of your honest, plain dealing,
solemn, gentlemanly, christian poets—a good man—
who must be tolerated, wherever you find him. He
is one of a dozen—although he least resembles the master—
whom Wordsworth has had the spoiling of;—but
he is the only one, who has not grown the richer by it.—
No poet, either by nature or art. Talent, good;---
taste, so, so---sentiment, so, so---industry, quite commendable.

Coleridge.---Here is a precious fellow! His friends
are mad about him---and his enemies with him. He was
meant for one of the best poets, that ever went astray---
like an angel, with his wings clipped---among the vulgar
creatures of the earth; until, for so it is, with Colridge---
he had forgotten his own heavenly language, and
learnt the gibberish of the schools; forgotten the metaphysicks
of the sky, and taken up with the perplexities

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of the earth. Heaven help him! His Ancient Mariner is a
perpetual wonder---even for its touches of foolishness;
for it is the foolishness---not of humanity---but of something
divine. Talent, dreamy, uncertain, doubtful;---
imagination, wild, beautiful, strange;---taste, metaphysical;
alternately, divine and earthly---above the highest---
or below the lowest---1000---or less than zero;---no
industry at all.

Milman—A stately creature, who, unfortunately
for himself, was caught young, before he had attained
his full growth—thrust into a mould, to which he has
grown altogether too scrupulously, as I think. I like
neither your long-headed people—nor your long-eared
ones—when they are made by pressure and weight. I had
rather see a man unnaturally crooked—than unnaturally
straight. The first may be nature, after all; the latter
cannot be. Samor, tedious as it is—is a greater poem than
Paradise Lost. Milman, some how or other, has the
knack of diluting solid gold—or beating it, as you would
eggs, into a golden foam, or a vapour. Leaf-gold is not
thin enough for him—he would have it so essentially combining
with the very atmosphere, that, after any disturbance
in heaven, he might find it again, if he should want it--
see all the earth sprinkled with it, again.---Pick it up if
you can—it slips through your fingers like quick-silver,
or vanishes, like the gold of a butterfly's wing. You are
rich, as you believe, in what you have been hoarding—
but when you yourself are pinched—or choose to pinch that,
you will find, generally, that there is only a metallick
brilliancy on the end of your fingers—a little humming-bird-dust
at the bottom of your strong box. So with the
poetry of Milman—his late poetry, I mean. It is amazingly
beautiful—but very superficial. The language, to
be sure, is solid enough—and there is enough of it. But
the real poetry of thought, is neither weight nor measure.
Talent, strong—not showy—imagination, respectable
and stately; taste, scriptural—formal—but dignified—
industry, great.

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Hunt—is a prodigy. He is a most living supply of
poetry. He drinks it up, as from a fountain. Every
sense is alive to it—but he is getting qaite too dainty and
affected. He has trifled with his gift, until he has made
all his poetical senses, a by-word to other men, and a
torment to himself. He is not a great poet—and, therefore,
if I am right in my doctrine, respecting poetry, as
applied to Mr. Percival—he is no poet at all. But that
won't do. The proposition must be wrong, which leads
to such a result. I had better see first, what I mean by
great poetry. Is it grand, daring, tempestuous poetry—
or is it, perfect poetry in its way. If the former, then
there have been but few, very few poets among men.—
If the latter, then are Percival and Hunt, poets—great
poets—because both of them are very great, in their little
way. So---I take back what I said of Percival. He is
a poet—a great poet—within his natural element;—not
great in dimensions, amplitude, or elevation; but great in
his perfection---which sort of greatness, most people are
best able to comprehend. A great jeweller to them—like
a great astronomer---is only that one, who is among the
best, at the trade.

Hunt's peculiarity, is a miraculous sense of beauty and
affinity, in language---a miraculous power of appropriation.
He goes through the dictionary with a divining
rod---that will find every drop of fine poetry, wherever it
may be hidden---and tremble over it—till it be dug out.--
Thus, he tells you of---


“— the little whiffling tones,
“Of rills among the stones.---
“Where the fountain's tongue begins to lap.”
And, of

Now---a man that had never seen a little fountain---
with the tongue out---like a young puppy---just running

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over, by starts, at one edge---would get a correct idea of
it, from that;---and understand just the sort of muttered
musick that would come from it. Hunt is foppish; affected
and childish; but nevertheless, a most exquisite
creature. Let me state a case.---He wants to describe
the sunshine, after a shower, when the rain fell upon the
dry leaves, like “twangling pearl,” trembling through
the green tree-tops, upon the fine grass below. How
does he do it? Hush!---There was a little “strawy fire,”
he says; “a little golden ferment in one place.” Such is
Hunt; full of such queer, lucky, hazardous, unpremeditated
adventure. My friend---there is one drop of pure poetry
in the heart of every living creature---but, like the
tear of an angel---which every pearl has within it---it may
never be seen, except on the happening of some poetical
accident. Stop---let me convince you of it. You fancy
that you have a taste for poetry---wait five minutes, and
I will put that drop in motion---and then, you will be
satisfied, from the sensations that follow, that you have
hitherto mistaken classical rhyme---for the musick of
heaven;---the heavy talking of men, that are dead, for poetry.
But first, of Hunt---Talent of the finest, incapable
of undergoing analysis, escaping in the test---imagina
tion, unexampled in its fineness, but limited---destitute of
grandeur---taste exquisite, unequalled, but apt to be sickly
and affected---industry —.

Let me attempt to show you, by this very example, of a
little sunshine spattered upon the grass, the difference between
several of the ancient and modern poets. I will
try to tell it in the manner of each.

Hunt, you may see, with his head in the bushes; holding
on by his ruffles, with one hand; looking at the place
with quick, shining eyes, just like a child watching the
progress of a lightening bug through wet, green moss.--
He tells you that there is a little golden ferment there.

But Wordsworth would say, standing solemnly over
it, all the while, and speaking like one---a very wise man--
trying to make a mysterious thing intelligible to a child.
He would say—

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