ment had been attained in humble life, and in very unfavourable circumstances; and that this exercise of the mind, instead of rendering the individual discontented with his station, had conduced greatly to his happiness, and if it had not made him a good man, had contributed to keep him so. This pleasure should in itself, methought, be sufficient to content those subscribers who might kindly patronise a little volume of his verses. Moreover, I considered that as the Age of Reason had commenced, and we were advancing with quick step in the March of Intellect, Mr Jones would in all likelihood be the last versifier of his class; something might properly be said of his predecessors, the poets in low life, who with more or less good fortune had obtained notice in their day; and here would be matter for an introductory essay, not uninteresting in itself, and contributing something towards our literary history. And if I could thus render some little service to a man of more than ordinary worth (for such upon the best testimony Mr Jones appeared to be), it would be something not to be repented of, even though I should fail in the hope (which failure, however, I did not apprehend) of affording some gratification to "gentle readers:" for readers there still are, who, having escaped the epidemic disease of criticism, are willing to be pleased, and grateful to those from whose writings they derive amusement or instruction.'

Prefixed to the poems of John Jones is a short memoir by himself, in the form of a letter to Mr Southey, in which he describes, simply and naturally, his progress in life, the situations in which he had been placed, and the difficulties which he had experienced in acquiring knowledge, and in composing his poetical effusions. He says

I entered into the family which I am now serving, in January, 1804, and have continued in it, first with the father, and then with the son, only during an interval of eighteen months, up to the present hour; and during which period most of my trifles have been composed, and some of my former attempts brought (perhaps) a little nearer perfection; but I have seldom sat down to study any thing, for in many instances when I have done so, a ring at the bell, or a knock at the door, or something or other, would disturb me, and not wishing to be seen, I frequently used to either crumple my paper up in my pocket, or take the trouble to lock it up, and before I could arrange it again, I was often, sir, again disturbed; from this, sir, I got into the habit of trusting entirely to my memory, and most of my little pieces have been completed and borne in mind for weeks before I have committed them to paper: from this I am led to believe that there are but few situations in life in which attempts of the kind may not be made under less discouraging circumstances.'

The circumstances were indeed discouraging, and it would be illiberal to visit with severity of criticism poems which have been so produced. Mr Southey says of them, that though containing

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'abundant proofs of a talent for poetry, which, if it had been ' cultivated, might have produced good fruit, they would not be deemed worthy of publication in these times.' This is measured praise; and leads us to conclude that the Laureate has not discovered in Mr Jones any indications of genius of a high order. That a man of defective education, and living in a menial capacity, should write any thing that can be dignified with the name of poetry, is a strong presumption of the existence of poetical talent. But there are many degrees of this talent, from the mere aptitude for rhyming, to the loftiest rank of imaginative power; and Mr Jones assuredly has not exhibited any even uncultivated germs of that' mens divinior,' which alone can lead to the attainment of the highest poetical excellence. Education might have rendered him a pleasing poet; but we are not warranted in imagining that, under any circumstances, he would have been a great one. His poems bear the stamp of mediocrity. We see no signs of a vigorous fancy struggling through defects of expression and of taste, sparkling amidst the dross with which it is encumbered. His verses seem written for the most part with very respectable correctness and care. They have perhaps more polish than might have been expected; but they want originality and force. Among them are some which it would be easy to ridicule; but we abstain from the ungenerous task. Defects of taste should be lightly visited in one to whom it is highly creditable to have exhibited so much. As a specimen, the following may suffice: it is the commencement of a poem entitled Reflections on Visiting a Spring at different • Seasons of the Year.'

'Twas early in summer, and mild was the ray

Which beam'd from the sun on the waning of day;
And the air was serene, and the leaves on the trees
Were hardly emotion'd, so soft was the breeze;
The birds were in song in the wood on the hill,
And softly a murmur arose from the rill

Which ran through the mead, where its channel was seen,
By herbage more rude, and more tufted and green;
The teams, clinking home, had the fallow resign'd,
And whistling the ploughmen their cares to the wind,
When, pensive and slow, up the hamlet I bent,
And meeting the stream on its margin I went ;
I stray'd to the spot whence it sprang from the earth,
Most pure in its nature and silent its birth;
It ran from a mound with green moss o'erspread,
Its birth-place was shaded by shrubs at its head;
'Twas onward impell'd by its kindred more strong,
And driven from home it went murmuring along.

In indolent ease on the bank I reclined,

And gazed on the stream, till awoke in my mind
A thought of the joys in its windings 'twould yield,
To the birds of the air and the beasts of the field,
To the web-footed tribe on its surface that ride,
And the bright-speckled trout in its bosom that glide,
To the poor thirsty beggar who drinks in his palms,
And softens the crusts he obtains for his alms;
To the thrifty old dame, who, with low-bowing head,
Shall search it for cresses, to barter for bread;
To the youth, who, in groups, on its borders shall play,
And launch their frail barks to be wreck'd in a day;
To the low in their need, and the high in their pride,
Who tenant the domes which are rear'd by its side,
And I mentally said, as in beauty it ran,

"Flow on, thou bright stream, thou'rt a blessing to man.'

But it is not so much to the poems of John Jones, as to the remarks of Mr Southey, and his Introductory Essay on the Lives and Works of our Uneducated Poets, that it is our intention to advert.

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This introductory essay is ushered in with the singular observation, that As the age of Reason had commenced, and we were advancing with quick step in the March of Intellect, Mr Jones would in all likelihood be the last versifier of his class; and something might properly be said of his predecessors, the poets in low life, who, with more or less good fortune, had obtained notice in their day.' By the March of Intellect' in the above sentence, is meant, we presume, not merely the progress of scientific improvement, but the more general diffusion of knowledge among the poorer classes. To find this diffusion of knowledge spoken of in distasteful terms by Mr Southey, can surprise no one who is acquainted with the writings of that gentleman. Yet even to these it must seem extraordinary to discover such reproachful expressions in a work, the tendency of which is to encourage, among the working classes, a pursuit which demands a very high degree of mental cultivation. The prediction above quoted, that such a diffusion of knowledge is likely to prevent the future appearance of versifiers in humble life, is one which we should hardly have thought necessary to notice seriously, if it had come from a pen of less influence than Mr Southey's. His proposition, translated into plain unfigurative language, is, that the more the poor are educated, the less are they likely to write poetry. In the first place, we disbelieve the predicted result; and secondly, we say, that if true, it is not a subject for regret, as it is evidently considered by Mr Southey. It seems almost a waste of words to confute so untenable a theory

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as that education is unfavourable to the developement of poetical talent. The rare occurrence of uneducated poets, and the wonder excited by their appearance,-the indispensableness of something more than the mere rudiments of education to afford to the incipient poet a competent store of the materials with which he works, the fact, that our most distinguished poets have almost uniformly been men of studious habits, and of various and extensive reading-of which we have an example in the Laureate himself these are circumstances on which it is needless to enlarge-which, when heard, must be acknowledged, and when acknowledged, must convince; and we gladly close this part of an argument, in which the humblest disputant could gain no honour by confuting even the editor of the work before us. Indeed, it can scarcely be imagined that Mr Southey could seriously maintain such an opinion; and that he must mean rather, that the poor who receive the advantages of education will, at the same time, learn to apply their acquirements to more useful purposes than writing verses. But there is this difficulty in such a supposition, that a reproach would thereby be cast upon the practice of versifying, which Mr Southey is very far from intending; and it is evident, from the tone of his book, that be does not contemplate with the pleasure which it ought to afford to a benevolent mind like his, the prospect of the poorer classes being inclined to apply the fruits of their extended education to works of practical utility. We must therefore conclude, that he does not believe that the condition of the poor will be improved by such an education as will induce them to apply their acquired knowledge to purposes which are commonly called useful; but that it is better either to keep them ignorant, or to give them just so much information as will encourage a developement of the imaginative or poetical part of their nature, without awakening them, more than can be helped, to any exercise of their reasoning powers. If this is not what is intended, then the praise bestowed upon uneducated poets, the encouraging complacency with which their efforts are regarded, and the sarcastic allusions to the Age of Reason and the March of Intellect, which is to arrest the progress of such commendable efforts, are utterly without a meaning.

But a writer who feels so strongly as Mr Southey, can never, even when he is least logical, be accused of writing without a meaning. Mr Southey, both in this, and in other writings in which his ideas are more distinctly expressed, teaches us that poetry softens and humanizes the heart of man, while it is the tendency of science to harden and corrupt it. It would be useless to plead that Mr Southey may never have expressed this

sentiment in these precise words, while he has written much from which no other inference can be drawn.

According to this theory, the poor man who has a turn for versifying is likely to be more moral than one who discovers a bent for calculation or mechanics; a cultivation of the former talent will tend to constitute a pious man and a good subject,— the latter, if encouraged, may too probably lead to republicanism and irreligion. A labourer may write lines on a linnet, and be praised for this amiable exercise of his humble talent; but if he reads any of the cheap works on science with which the press now teems,-if he presumes to learn the scientific name of his favourite bird,-to consider its relation to other birds,-to know that it belongs to the genus Fringilla, and to ascertain the marks by which he might distinguish the name of any wandering stranger of the same tribe that happened to fall within his notice, if he does this, then he becomes a naturalist, a scientific enquirer-and, as such, must fall under the ban of Mr Southey. Let him apostrophize a flower in rhyme, but let him not learn its botanical name, or more of its properties than can be extracted from the Galenical lore of the oldest woman in the parish: He finds a fossil bone-let him pen a sonnet about it if he pleases; but let him beware of consulting a geologist, lest he become a hardy sceptic;-doubt if there ever was a deluge, and question the Mosaic account of the creation. Utterly do we reprobate and disavow the doctrine, that it is otherwise than beneficial for minds of every degree to be rendered intimate with the mysteries of nature,-that the study of nature can be injurious to the morality and religious faith of any man whose morality and faith would have been safe without it,-that the faith of the rustic who believes that the sun moves round the earth, and that the stars are small lamps, is more devout and pure than that of the same man would be when informed of the real sublimity of the scene around him. It is a doctrine of which any illustration is equivalent to a reductio ad absurdum. It is very natural that the Poet Laureate should think well of poetry. Some persons may smile at such an illustration of a propensity which they may have thought peculiar to humbler callings-namely, that of attributing to a production or pursuit many more excellent qualities and advantages than can be discovered in it by the rest of the world; and they may have expected that a very cultivated mind would have soared above a prejudice of this description. Mr Southey recommends poetry as eminently favourable to morality, and considers that every amiable man will be both the better and the happier for writing verses.' Mr Southey is a celebrated poet, and is, we believe, at the same time a very pious and amiable