midst of the glowing nature he describes. Indeed, these descriptive passages, together with the characters of Demodocus and Cymodocee, seem to us to be, after all, the bright spots in this long and grave work; and when we are wearied with the libertinism of the Roman court, and the follies of Grecian philosophy, with martyrdoms and battles, with scenes in hell, purgatory, and heaven, that are offensive alike to reason, Christianity, and poetry, we gladly come back to this open, free, and beautiful nature, and refresh our spirits with the descendants of Homer, amidst the mountains of the Peloponnesus and Judea, or on the banks of the Eurotas, the Ilyssus, and the Jordan.

On the whole then, it seems to us, that this last and greatest of M. de Chateaubriand's literary efforts, is not destined to final success. It is, on the one hand, too much encumbered with learning, to be generally interesting, and on the other hand, too theological and systematic, to entertain much of the free and fearless spirit of poetry. It will, therefore, probably fail of the distinction to which it aspires; that, we mean, of being placed at the side of the Télémaque, as an enduring monument to the poetical glories of Christianity: and, regarding it as a failure, notwithstanding the grace and romantic interest of some of its characters, the eloquence of some of its declamations, and the touching beauty and truth of almost all its descriptions, it will hardly be able, we think, long to escape the oblivion, which, with a single exception, has already overtaken all its predecessors among the French prose epics.

With the Martyrs and the Itinerary, M. de Chateaubriand closed up his literary career, until very lately. In both, he takes a solemn leave of all works of the imagination, and professes his purpose of devoting himself exclusively to history: "For," says he, "if my name is to live hereafter, I have written enough, and too much if it is to perish." For a long time, however, the circumstances of his country, while they led him to fulfil his intention of abandoning the brighter walks of letters, prevented him from claiming the distinctions to which he aspired as a historian; and even now, leave his reputation to rest on the pretensions of Atala, the Genius of Christianity, the Martyrs, and the Itinerary. What else he may do, is very doubtful. He promises Memoirs of himself, and a History of France; but he is still a political partisan, and is, besides, entering on those years, when, even perseverance and enthusiasm like his, may begin to abate. We of the present time, must therefore judge him, and posterity will, perhaps, be called to judge him, by the works he has already published. That these works show much originality, much talent, much force of personal character, is admitted; but these high qualities, it cannot be forgotten, are mingled with not a little extravagance, and even a fantastic ex

travaganté, in the language, conception, and feelings, of almost all he has written; and, in many cases, with a gloomy and incongruous misanthropy and superstition, which may, sometimes, indeed, have their poetical side; but are oftener dark, threatening, and offensive. Thus, after all, though Atala may save its author's name, and though some passages of the Genius of Christianity and the Martyrs, will not soon or easily be forgotten, yet we cannot, for ourselves, think that M. de Chateaubriand and his works, are destined to that wide and popular immortality, to which they so openly and so proudly lay claim.

ART. VII.-Clio. By JAMES G. PERCIVAL. No. III. G. & C. Carvill, New-York: 1827.

WE are glad to meet Mr. Percival again on the public theatre of literary emulation. The country has much cause to be pleased with what he has contributed towards building up its poetical character. Without having become generally popular, he has yet been universally acknowledged to possess fine powers, and to have exerted them admirably in some instances. The praise of genius and of extensive information belongs to him. There is a variety in the subjects which he selects, and in the manner in which he treats them. The eye that can see nature in her beautiful forms, and the heart that can commune with her silent grandeur, are evidently his.

The general character of Mr. Percival's poetry is peculiar. It is not to the common feelings of mankind that he addresses himself; and we may say also, that the passions which he most frequently delineates, and represents as most intense, are not such as belong to many. In this he differs from the most successful poets of former times. Dryden, and Pope, and Shakspeare, are intelligible to all; depict passions, or deliver truths, which any cultivated mind may comprehend; and without sacrificing the elevation of poetry, are still widely acceptable. Unlike the poets of highest renown, Mr. Percival holds more intercourse with nature than with his own race. The clouds, and the mountains, and the everchanging, and yet eternal beauties of the earth, are his delight. His muse meditates in loneliness. He tells us more of his own sensations, when his mind is wrought upon by poetic excitement, than of the sympathies of others. It is a metaphysical passion for nature; a sublime, and self-denying, and almost misanthropic spirit of meditation; an indifference to the great mass of men, that we most frequently meet in his poetry. He forgets that

Contemplation is a cherub, elevated on a fiery throne, serene, yet not indifferent to the change and progress of the universe.

The liberty of selecting his own topics, and treating them in his own way, is too sacred to be taken from the poet. Many of the best minds in a kindred art, have been doomed to spend their powers on odious and often on loathsome subjects, that the altar of some saint might be decorated with a picture of the very horrors of his martyrdom. It is far wiser to leave the mind to its own impulses, when it aims at inventing; and the greatest success is attained, when genius seizes on the brightest of the living thoughts that crowd on the inventive soul, and imparts to them a glorious permanency. We speak, therefore, of Mr. Percival's peculiarities, not so much to censure him for his choice, as to account for his want of universal popularity.

The tastes of our nation are not averse to poetry. So far from it, there is hardly a family of ordinary culture, of which the resources are not in some measure increased by the stores of verse. If a popular piece finds its way into a journal, and above all, if its spirit is not only poetical, but national, every newspaper in the country repeats it; and perhaps from the beginning of the typographic art to our own day, there has been nothing, unless a presidential message, which, in one form or another, is so many times reprinted, as a popular American poem. In Europe, this number of reprints cannot take place in the same defrom the limited number and character of their periodical gree, presses. And yet, while some of Mr. Percival's shorter poems have been general favourites, his longer pieces have been almost as a sealed book, and the works in which he has embodied his contempt for the great mass of his fellows, have never found their way to injure the self-complacency of those whom he pretends to scorn.

We say, whom he pretends to scorn. We are no believers in the reality of that state of mind, which acknowledges the sublimity of inanimate creation, and has no admiration for the immortal natures which dwell in the midst of that sublimity; that can gaze with rapture on the glittering and ever-varying hues, which decorate the clouds, and diversify the sky, and has no power to acknowledge the charm of fancy, and the varying brilliancy of the wit and good sense of animated intelligence. A man is ill at ease in society; therefore he declares society dull: he finds men do not share his views; therefore he condemns their judgment. Perhaps we ought, in such cases, to pity and exeuse, not to censure. The very object, which the public may wish a writer to attain, is, perhaps, precisely that after which he is ineffectually striving. We admire Mr. Percival's descriptive poetry exceedingly; we should like it still more, if his lovely valleys and shores were peopled, and if he would tell us more of VOL. II.-No. 4.

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the hardy and beautiful mountaineers, whom he may meet with in the rambles he so gorgeously describes.

The poet, who has an imagination exercised and accustomed to rapid action, and who also, from the very nature of his occupation, has leisure, as well as the power, to transfer himself readily into remote scenes, and to receive into his mind strange and uncommon combinations of thought, is often in danger of proceeding beyond the reach of the many, who must be his readers, and who can neither readily follow him, nor devote time to spell out a hidden meaning, to grasp at ideas conveyed with metaphysical refinement, or shadowed out in the mysteries of dark and protracted images. If clearness is the first virtue in the style of an orator, the poet must, in like manner, seize at once on the mind, as readily as the musician does on the senses. A literary dilettante may be pleased with having some obstacles to overcome, and pique himself on his ability to discover latent beauties; but in general, the splendour of genuine poetry will at once be apparent. The poet is not to be humoured in every thing. If he will please mankind, he must show a respect for them, and understand their feelings. But it might be asked, is not the poet more refined, his imagination more cultivated? And ought we not to tower after him, and follow him in his high flights and contemplative musings? and think his thoughts? and share his haughty disdain? It may be so; but the best poets have practised otherwise. Homer set the example in a different way, and others have followed. He takes us at once into the Grecian councils; he walks directly on the banks of Scamander; he deals in real armies and real heroes; Paris going out to battle like the war-horse prancing to the river side; the wife, the mother, in natural anxiety; or, most touching of all, the aged and mourning father a suppliant at the feet of the youthful hero who destroyed his son. Therefore it is, that Homer pleases, wherever the springs of social life flow in their untainted purity; and is read with delight by all classes, in almost every cultivated language, as well as by those who understand the dialect he uses.

In a little poem, by no means one of Mr. Percival's best, entitled "The Soul of Song," the bard demands, in a series of interrogatives, where that soul is to be found: and after declaring that it does not dwell in festive halls, in gay saloons, in the forum, nor with the conquering host, he finds it in the uncultured plain, the depth of woods,

"Where the lone wanderer's silent footstep falls."

If Mr. Percival's general style in poetry did not agree with this view of its office, we should regard this little piece as a playful effort of a contemplative moment. In sober earnest, the theory thus conveyed is a mistaken one. The Spirit of Song is essentially a social spirit, dwelling in the midst of meu, making appeals te

their best sympathies, stealing away their sorrows, and beautifying and enlarging their enjoyments. It gathered its thousands in the theatres of old; it sounded the clarion when victory was won; it welcomed the soldier, returning from his toils to the endearments of civil life; it made itself heard at the banquet, the festival, and the triumph. What need of many words? At a later day, it went with Romeo to the gay saloon and the happy masquerade; it embalmed the virtues of Imogen; it went to battle with Hotspur; it kept Lorenzo and Jessica company in the moonlight hours; and when the lone Prospero seemed without friends, it taught him to find beings even under the cowslip's bell. Or, if it be not fair to draw examples from the drama, we would go to the very poet, who, more than any other, has contributed to foster the spirit of misanthropy, as a part of a poetic temperament. Lord Byron composed the most glowing and universally popular of his poems, while under the influence and excitement of society; the reigning and the happy favourite of the fair idolaters of genius. The fever of his mind was then at its height; he was impassioned for distinction, and of a peculiar kind, in the gayest circles of London; and it was not till disappointment had destroyed the delirium which pervaded his social as well as his poetic existence, that he indulged his mind in an affectation of indifference to his country and the moral dignity of man. But even yet, as far as we would prove life, human agents, and busy scenes, to be necessary ingredients in fine poetry, his lordship furnishes a most striking example in support of our views. His Don Juan is a creature of society, not of solitude: it is a living picture of the age, of the vices, the ambition, and, in short, all the qualities of high life in a corrupted state. Bad as it is, its moral tendency, in one point of view, may be defended, as a satire on the vices of the higher classes of Europe,-an exposure of the immorality of courts and the privileged orders.

If these views are just, we stand acquitted of a want of justice to Mr. Percival, if our admiration of his productions is comparatively a cold one. We acknowledge his superior powers; the profusion with which he pours forth the most varied imagery; the richness and the charm of his diction; the elevated sentiments and train of thought in his poetry: we delight to bear our testimony to his surpassing merit; and yet, his volumes are hardly favourites; and, except, perhaps, a few of his shorter efforts, excite admiration, rather than impart pleasure: they awaken a respect for the genius of the writer, rather than the enthusiasm which the best poets know how to kindle.

The present volume opens with a pleasing sonnet, on a subject which has ever been a favourite one with poets-the decline of the imagination as life advances: