we feel it to be new. In this case you can no more anticipate the effect from the elements than you can, from the knowledge of the letters, anticipate the words which are to be compounded out of them. In the other kind of originality, the materials bear a larger proportion to the resultthey form an appreciable quantity in our calculations of what it is to be. They are found for the poet, and all he has to do is, with skill and energy, to construct them. Take, for instance, Shakspeare's "Tempest," and Coleridge's "Anciente Marinere "-of what more creative act can we conceive than is exemplified in these? Of course, we have all had beforehand ideas similar to a storm, a desert island, a witch, a magician, a mariner, a hermit, a wedding-guest; but these are only the Alphabet to the spirits of Shakspeare and Coleridge. As the sun, from the invisible air, draws up in an instant all pomps of cloudy forms-paradises brighter than Eden, mirrored in waters, which blush and tremble as their reflection falls wooingly upon them-mountains which seem to bury their snowy or rosy summits in the very heaven of heavens throne-shaped splendors, worthy of angels to sit on them, flushing and fading in the west-seas of aerial blood and fire-momentary cloud-crowns and golden avenues, stretching away into the azure infinite beyond them;-so from such stuff as dreams are made of, from the mere empty air, do those wondrous magicians build up their new worlds, where the laws of nature are repealed-where all things are changed without any being confused-where sound becomes dumb and silence eloquent-where the earth is empty, and the sky is peopled-where material beings are invisible, and where spiritual beings become gross and palpable to sense-where the skies are opening to show riches where the isle is full of noises where beings proper to this sphere of dream are met so often that you cease to fear them, however odd or monstrous-where magic has power to shut now the eyes of kings and now the great bright eye of ocean-where, at the bidding of the poet, new, complete, beautiful mythologies at one time sweep across the sea, and anon dance down from the purple and mystic sky-where all things have a charmed life, the listening ground, the populous air, the still or the vexed sea, the human or the imaginary beings-and where, as in deep dreams, the most marvellous incidents are most

easily credited, slide on most softly, and seem most native to the place, the circumstances, and the time. "This is creation," we exclaim; nor did Ferdinand seem to Miranda a fresher and braver creature than does to us each strange settler, whom genius has planted upon its own favorite isle. Critics may, indeed, take these imaginary beings—such as Caliban and Ariel-and analyze them into their constituent parts; but there will be some one element which escapes them laughing, as it leaps away, at their baffled sagacity, and proclaiming the original power of its Creator: as in the chemical analysis of an aerolite, amid the mere earthy constituents, there is something which declares its unearthly origin. Take creation as meaning, not so much Deity bringing something out of nothing, as filling the void with his Spirit, and genius will seem a lower form of the same

power.

The other kind of originality is, we think, that of Crabbe. It is magic at second-hand. He takes, not makes, his materials. He finds a good foundation-wood and stone in plenty -and he begins laboriously, successfully, and after a plan of his own, to build. If in any of his works he approaches to the higher property, it is in "Eustace Grey," who moves here and there, on his wild wanderings, as if to the rubbing of Aladdin's lamp.

This prepares us for coming to the third question, What is Crabbe's relative position to his great contemporary poets ? He belongs to the second class. He is not a philosophic poet, like Wordsworth. He is not, like Shelley, a Vates, moving upon the uncertain but perpetual and furious wind of his inspiration. He is not, like Byron, a demoniac exceeding fierce, and dwelling among the tombs. He is not, like Keats, a sweet and melancholy voice, a tune bodiless, bloodless-dying away upon the waste air, but for ever to be remembered as men remember a melody they have heard in youth. He is not, like Coleridge, all these almost by turns, and besides, a psalmist, singing at times strains so sublime and holy, that they might seem snatches of the song of Eden's cherubim, or caught in trance from the song of Moses and the Lamb. To this mystic brotherhood Crabbe must not be added. He ranks with a lower but still lofty band-with Scott (as a poet), and Moore, and Hunt, and Campbell, and

Rogers, and Bowles, and James Montgomery, and Southey; and surely they nor he need be ashamed of each other, as they shine in one soft and peaceful cluster.

We are often tempted to pity poor posterity on this score. How is it to manage with the immense number of excellent works which this age has bequeathed, and is bequeathing it? How is it to economize its time so as to read a tithe of them? And should it in mere self-defence proceed to decimate, with what principle shall the process be carried on, and who shall be appointed to preside over it? Critics of the twenty-second century, be merciful as well as just. Pity the disjecta membra of those we thought mighty poets. Respect and fulfil our prophecies of immortality. If ye must carp and cavil, do not, at least, in mercy, abridge. Spare us the prospect of this last insult, an abridged copy of the "Pleasures of Hope," or "Don Juan," a new abridgment. If ye must operate in this way, be it on "Madoc," or the "Course of Time." Generously leave room for "O'Connor's Child" in the poet's corner of a journal, or for "Eustace Grey" in the space of a crown piece. Surely, living in the Millennium, and resting under your vines and fig-trees, you will have more time to read than we, in this bustling age, who move, live, eat, drink, sleep, and die, at railway speed. If not, we fear the case of many of our poets is hopeless, and that others, besides the author of "Silent Love," would be wise to enjoy their present laurels, for verily there are none else for them.

Seriously, we hope that much of Crabbe's writing will every year become less and less readable, and less and less easily understood; till, in the milder day, men shall have difficulty in believing that such physical, mental, and moral degradation, as he describes, ever existed in Britain; and till, in future Encyclopædias, his name may be found recorded as a powerful but barbarous writer, writing in a barbarous age. The like may be the case with many who have busied themselves more in recalling the past or picturing the present, than in anticipating the future. But there are, or have been among us, a few who have plunged beyond their own period, nay, beyond "all ages"-who have seen and shown us the coming eras:

"As in a cradled Hercules you trace

The lines of empire in his infant face "—

and whose voice must go down, in tones becoming more authoritative as they last, and in volume becoming vaster as they roll, like mighty thunderings and many waters, through the minster of all future time; in lower key, concerting with those more awful voices from within the veil which have already shaken earth, and which, uttered once more," shall shake not earth only, but also heaven. High destiny! but not his whose portrait we have now drawn.

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We have tried to draw his mental, but not his physical likeness. And yet it has all along been blended with our thoughts, like the figure of one known from childhood, like the figure of our own beloved and long-lost father. We see the venerable old man, newly returned from a botanical excursion, laden with flowers and weeds (for no one knew better than he that every weed is a flower-it is the secret of his poetry), with his high narrow forehead, his gray locks, his glancing shoe-buckles, his clean dress somewhat ruffled in the woods, his mild countenance, his simple abstracted air. We, too, become abstracted as we gaze, following in thought the outline of his history-his early struggles-his love-his adventures in London-his journal, where, on the brink of starvation, he wrote the affecting words, " O Sally, for you "-his rescue by Burkehis taking orders-his return to his native place-his mounting the pulpit stairs, not caring what his old enemies thought of him or his sermon-his marriage-the entry, more melancholy by far than the other, made years after in reference to it, "yet happiness was denied"—the publication of his different works the various charges he occupied-his child-like surprise at getting so much money for the "Tales of the Hall"-his visit to Scotland-his mistaking the Highland chiefs for foreigners, and bespeaking them in bad Frenchhis figure as he went. dogged by the caddie through the lanes of the auld town of Edinburgh, which he preferred infinitely to the new-the "aul' fule" he made of himself in pursuit of a second wife, &c., &c.; so absent do we become in thinking over all this, that it disturbs his abstraction; he starts,

stares, asks us into his parsonage, and we are about to accept the offer, when we awake, and, lo! it is a dream.

JOHN FOSTER.

THERE are two classes of character of whom the biography is likely to be peculiarly interesting. One includes those whose lives have been passed in the glare of publicity-who have bulked largely in public estimation, and who have mingled much with the leading characters of the age. The life of such includes in it, in fact, a multitude of lives, and turns out to be, not a solitary picture, but an entire gallery of interesting portraits. The other class comprises those of whom the world knows little, but is eager to know muchwho, passing their lives in severe seclusion, have, nevertheless, given such assurance of their manhood as to excite in the public mind an intense curiosity to know more of their habits, feelings, and history. Such a one was John Foster. While his works were widely circulated, and produced a profound impression upon the thinking minds of the country, himself was to the majority only a name. Few could tell what he was, or where he lived-what were the particulars of his outward history, or what had been the course of his mental training. He published little, he seldom appeared at public meetings, his name was never in the newspaperswhen he wrote, it was generally in periodicals of limited circulation and sectarian character, and when he preached, it was to small audiences and in obscure villages. There thus hung about him a certain shade of mystery, shaping itself to the colossal estimate of his genius, which prevailed. He appeared a great man under hiding; and while some of his ardent admirers found or forced their way into his grisly den, and ascertained the prominent features of his character and facts in his life, more were left in the darkness of mystification and conjecture. For twenty years, for instance, we ourselves have been enthusiasts in reference to this