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agree that terror is a very high one; and where lies the great difference between horror and terror, but in the uncertainty and obscurity, that accompany the first, respecting the dreaded evil?"

"But what say you to Milton's image—

"On his brow sat horror plumed."

"As an image, it certainly is sublime; it fills the mind with an idea of power, but it does not follow that Milton intended to declare the feeling of horror to be sublime; and after all, his image imparts more of terror than of horror; for it is not distinctly pictured forth, but is seen in glimpses through obscuring shades, the great outlines only appearing, which excite the imagination to complete the rest; he only says, 'sat horror plumed ;' you will observe, that the look of horror and the other characteristics are left to the imagination of the reader; and according to the strength of that, he will feel Milton's image to be either sublime or otherwise. Milton, when he sketched it, probably felt, that not even his art could fill up the outline, and present to other eyes the countenance which his mind's eye' gave to him. Now, if obscurity has so much effect on fiction, what must it have in real life, when to ascertain the object of our terror, is frequently to acquire the means of escaping it. You will observe, that this image, though indistinct or obscure, is not confused."


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"How can any thing be indistinct and not confused?" said Mr. S. Ay, that question is from the new school," replied W.; "but re. collect, that obscurity, or indistinctness, is only a negative, which leaves the imagination to act upon the few hints that truth reveals to it; confusion is a thing as positive as distinctness, though not necessarily so palpable; and it may, by mingling and confounding one image with another, absolutely counteract the imagination, instead of exciting it. Obscurity leaves something for the imagination to exaggerate; confusion, by blurring one image into another, leaves only a chaos in which the mind can find nothing to be magnificent, nothing to nourish its fears or doubts, or to act upon in any way; yet confusion and obscurity are terms used indiscriminately by those, who would prove, that Shakspeare and Milton were wrong when they employed obscurity as a cause of the sublime, that Mr. Burke was equally mistaken in his reasoning upon the subject, and that mankind have been equally in error, as to the nature of their own feelings, when they were acted upon by the illusions of those great masters of the imagination, at whose so potent bidding, the passions have been awakened from their sleep, and by whose magic a crowded Theatre has been changed to a lonely shore, to a witch's cave, to an enchanted island, to a murderer's castle, to the ramparts of an usurper, to the battle, to the midnight carousal of the camp or the tavern, to every various scene of the living world." "Yet there are poets, and great ones too," said Mr. S————, "whose minds do not appear to have been very susceptible of those circumstances of time and space-of what you, perhaps, would call the picturesque in feeling-which you seem to think so necessary to the attainment of any powerful effect on the imagination. What say you to Dryden ?"

"That he had a very strong imagination, a fertile wit, a mind well prepared by education, and great promptness of feeling; but he had

not-at least not in good proportion to his other qualifications--that delicacy of feeling, which we call taste; moreover, that his genius was overpowered by the prevailing taste of the court, and by an intercourse with the world, too often humiliating to his morals, and destructive of his sensibility. Milton's better morals protected his genius, and his imagination was not lowered by the world."

"Then you seem to think there may be great poets, without a full perception of the picturesque; I mean by picturesque, the beautiful and grand in nature and in art-and with little susceptibility to what you would call the accordant circumstances, the harmony of which is essential to any powerful effect upon your feelings."

"No; I cannot allow that. Such men may have high talents, wit, genius, judgment, but not the soul of poetry, which is the spirit of all these, and also something wonderfully higher--something too fine for definition. It certainly includes an instantaneous perception, and an exquisite love of whatever is graceful, grand, and sublime, with the power of seizing and combining such circumstances of them, as to strike and interest a reader by the representation, even more than a general view of the real scene itself could do. Whatever this may be called, which crowns the mind of a poet, and distinguishes it from every other mind, our whole heart instantly acknowledges it in Shakspeare, Milton, Gray, Collins, Beattie, and a very few others, not excepting Thomson, to whose powers the sudden tear of delight and admiration bears at once both testimony and tribute. How deficient Dryden was of a poet's feelings in the fine province of the beautiful and the graceful, is apparent from his alteration of the Tempest, by which he has not only lessened the interest by incumbering the plot, but has absolutely disfigured the character of Miranda, whose simplicity, whose tenderness and innocent affections, might, to use Shakspeare's own words in another play, be shrined in crystal.' A love of moral beauty is as essential in the mind of a poet, as a love of picturesque beauty. There is as much difference between the tone of Dryden's moral feelings and those of Milton, as there is between their perceptions of the grand and the beautiful in nature. Yet, when I recollect the 'Alexander's Feast,' I am astonished at the powers of Dryden, and at my own daring opinions upon them; and should be ready to unsay much that I have said, did I not consider this particular instance of the power of music upon Dryden's mind, to be as wonderful as any instance he has exhibited of the effect of that enchanting art in his sublime ode. I cannot, however, allow it to be the finest ode in the English language, so long as I remember Gray's Bard, and Collins's Ode on the Passions.- -But, to return to Shakspeare, I have sometimes thought, as I walked in the deep shade of the North Terrace of Windsor Castle, when the moon shone on all beyond, that the scene must have been present in Shakspeare's mind, when he drew the night-scenes in Hamlet; and, as I have stood on the platform, which there projects over the precipice, and have heard only the measured step of a sentinel or the clink of his arms, and have seen his shadow passing by moonlight, at the foot of the high Eastern tower, I have almost expected to see the royal shade armed cap-a-pee standing still on the lonely platform before me. The very star- yon same star that's westward from the pole'-seemed to watch over the Western towers of the Terrace, whose high dark lines marked themselves upon

the heavens. All has been so still and shadowy, so great and solemn, that the scene appeared fit for no mortal business nor any sounds that the earth owns.' Did you ever observe the fine effect of the Eastern tower, when you stand near the Western end of the North terrace, and its tall profile rears itself upon the sky, from nearly the base to the battled top, the lowness of the parapet permitting this? It is most striking at night, when the stars appear, at different heights, upon its tall dark line, and when the sentinel on watch moves a shadowy figure at its foot."


From the Italian of Labindo.

"Or Druda, or Serva di straniere genti, &c."

MISTRESS, then slave of strangers! with thine hair,
Harlotlike shorn of glory, and thy pall
Heroic shorten'd, and on down thy fair
And noble strength laid wanton, or with rare
And languid step abroad,-unto the call
Of God, thine elder self, thy glory, all
Thy many mighty memories, deaf and dead!
To dance, to feast, to couch, carousal, ball,
Constant and headlong, with thy sons, instead
Of warriors, wassailers at thy heel, thy pride-
Thou! who the world and ages hast defied-
With none to boast, none-none to thee allied,
But those who were and are not, those who died
The shadows of thy Capitol by thy side,
None other-thou who hast the world defied!
Shame! contumely! foulest, longest, last!
Tear thy bad garments of disgrace away,
Away with them from every limb, and cast
Flower, chaplet off in wrath; in open day
Come forth, replant the helm, for aye and aye,
Upon thy warrior locks; and if thou hast
Still of the Roman, gird upon thy heart
Armour and iron-from thy day-sleep start,
Start up thine own defender; do the part

God, and thy sires, have carved for thee, and dart
An eagle to thine Alps!-thy glorious part

Relearn-first war-then fame-the second glorious part.

God gave thee walls-the walls of Alp and sea;

If man shall burst them, if that Goths shall tread
Where Hannibals have paused,-if, vain decree
Of Heaven and hand of mortal-if a shred
Be all ye have of empire and that flee—

From even the brave and freemen stand, but dread,

Still shalt thou be victorious, over fate,

O'er kings, o'er conquerors !-at home, though late,
Here headlong shall they rush and meet their mate-
A vengeance that is certain, though it wait-

Their grave!-even here in Italy-elate,
Dig here their universal grave. A state

Shall rise from it, as once it rose, though late!


We now lay before our readers the last portion of the letters of Edmund Burke in our possession, which will be found as characteristic of the writer as those which preceded them.

No. XIX.

MY DEAR SIR,-The present unhappy state of public affairs, has required my daily, and almost hourly attendance in the House of Commons. I have therefore not had a single moment's time to answer your letter of the 15th of November, from the County of Kerry, and which inclosed one from Mr. John Hennessy to you, until this day. I am equally surprised and shocked at the picture that gentleman has drawn of what he supposes the effects of my conduct. He indeed obligingly attributes it to my ignorance of the true state of the rights and sufferings of the claimants. But if that ignorance had arisen from any neglects imputable to me, the fault would have been nearly the same as if I had been unjust and inhuman with the clearest knowledge of the case.

I am sorry, that I am obliged to remind you of the circumstances of a matter, of which you must yourself be at least as well informed as I am. I will now in a few words lay them before you.

In the year 1765, my brother died; and among other things bequeathed to me his interest in Clohir, which is the subject of yours and Mr. Hennessy's letter. I understood, that during my brother's lifetime, whilst the transaction was recent, and all the parties and witnesses living, the affair was litigated; that the litigation had proved unsuccessful; and that a decree of a Court of Equity had established him in peaceable possession.

I suppose that nobody will think me unjust in supposing that I had a fair title to what was so left, and so confirmed. In this light things appeared to me, and I believe facts so stood, when, about a year after the death of my brother, I was for two or three weeks in your country; that is, about eleven years ago, in the autumn of the year 1766.

It only remains for me to account for what has happened since. Not having been able to visit Ireland in all that long space of time, nor consequently to look after the rights of others, or even of myself, I did what I thought most effectual towards remedying the ill consequences of my ignorance, with regard to the one or to the other. I placed that affair, together with all the rest of my little concerns in Ireland of whatsoever nature, in the hands of my friend the late counsellor Ridge, implicitly resigning myself to his direction, and referring wholly to him every application that should be made to me in relation to any Irish business. His great integrity and his sound knowledge in his profes.. sion, gave me all the reason in the world to be persuaded, that he never would advise me to the assertion of any right which I could not support in law, and which in honour and conscience was not justifiable. From that time to this I have met with no disturbance. I am persuaded no better method could be found out to prevent any ill effects which might happen from my long absence and consequent ignorance. of my affairs. I most certainly never desired or remotely wished him to controvert for a moment the just rights of any man living. I think I should not have done so for interests of the greatest magnitude in the Feb.-VOL. XVI. NO. LXII.


world, much less for one, which, though in my circumstances not to be neglected by me, is as nothing in comparison of those, which I slight every day of my life in favour of what I think fair and honest. Indeed, it is little worthy of any injustice either to obtain or hold.

So far as to my just presumption in favour of my legal right. But I must say, that I should think it a very poor account of my conduct, if satisfied with having such a right, I had reason to think there had been any original wrong in the obtaining it, though not by my act or consent. But your father, a man I believe of as perfect integrity as ever lived, is my authority for the fairness of the original transaction. I apprehend it is mistated in the case which you have transmitted to me. For he expressly told me, that it was carried on not only with the clearest light into its true nature, but at the earnest entreaty of the parties; my brother, who was in his disposition timid and cautious, having for a long time declined to meddle with it. The narrative says, that on some doubtful intentions of my deceased brother, and on having received an unsatisfactory answer, Mr. Robert Nagle immediately went to Dublin, and equipped himself with a new religion in order to entitle himself as a Protestant discoverer to bring his bill for vesting in him this whole interest. Whether he would not have acted more honestly, and in the event more prudently, in endeavouring by some means to enforce the agreement he had made, if the performance, as he says, had been evaded, is more than I can say, unacquainted as I am with the intricacies of the unhappy laws on which this business turns. Most certainly, those who have adhered to that agreement have no reason to complain of their condition. But by thus endeavouring to set aside his own act and to get the whole interest into his own hands, to which if his original title had been valid in law, he would have been entitled only to a part, he did all that he could do for the ruin of his own family. His distress, whatever it may be, is of his own making. I could not admit his claim, made as he made it, without affecting my brother's memory, and without bringing to beggary the mother of this unhappy man, his brother and a very large family of children, his and your nearest relations. Your father, I think yourself, I am sure Garret Nagle, all told me that this would be the infallible event of his success in his suit. As to his mother, whose situation Mr. Hennessy paints in such strong colours, I thought I had in some measure relieved instead of causing it. I saw her when I was in Ireland. I then gave something, I forget what, for her relief, and directed in general terms that she should have such helps to put her at her ease as she asked. If she had asked for more than she has done, she should have assuredly had it; for I trust I am not altogether grudging or penurious on such occasions. This I know, that she seemed perfectly satisfied; whereas I understood from herself, that she had considered her son's success and her being turned out of her own little tenement as one and the same thing. As to Garret Nagle, he knows whether I have been a sharp or oppressive landlord to him, either as to the term of his lease or to any other particular. There are some others who hold leases under my title, on what I conceive to be very moderate terms. If you or any judicious person had told me they were otherwise, I should instantly have thought it my duty to make an abatement. These people are all dependent, perhaps, for their existence on my right.

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