whose physiognomy indicates the very opposite of honesty and intelligence, he flies onward to other continents and other climes, where, in the name of himself and of godlike reason, he plants his flag in undisputed, undisturbed possession. Thus Herschel, by mathematical license, won a world, where the glory of his name shall remain till the stars of heaven cease to shine. Where is the lawless poet that has plundered a brighter or more enduring fame? But, nevertheless, the highest power of the poet consists in his being true to nature. In no place does Milton, or Homer, or even Shakspeare, indulge in that lawlessness, that wild, irregular sporting of the fancy, which has no prototype in the real world. To no order of beings do they ascribe attributes or powers for which they have not the authority of tradition or general belief. To people the air, the groves, the rivers, with multitudes of spiritual beings, is not the province of the poet. With these he may hold a more intimate communion than the rest of the world, but every image which he brings from thence must have its original distinctly graven upon the memory of men, or they cannot be agreeably affected by his productions. Do you say we are taking from him the magic of his art? It is a great mistake to suppose that obscurity and fiction are the chief sources of the poet's power. It is not by veiling the transcendent beauties of truth from the gaze of the multitude, that he allures them to pay their devotions at her shrine. No artifice can heighten her charms; and if these, in their "unconcealed perfection," have not power to excite and warm into enthusiasm the feelings of the soul, the minstrel may "hang his harp upon the willows," and, sitting down by the cold waters, breathe a sad requiem over the dying hope of song. That a clear perception of truth is not only compatible with, but even necessary to high poetic feeling, one or two illustrations will show. Suppose a telescope were constructed of power to bring to our view in a distinct light, all that transpires among the various forms of life and action in the distant planets. Let the stately and graceful figures of men, herds of sporting animals, birds of every plumage, and insect tribes-let the gay flowers of spring, the deep verdure of summer, and the golden hues of autumn, pass in succession across the field of view, instead of the huge, dim, ill-defined objects that now appear, and we need not say that nothing would be diminished from the poetry of the scene. A Byron, perhaps, driven as he deemed himself almost from the communion of living things, might choose to perch, in the lone and dark sullenness of his passion, upon the hazy top of the Lunar Helicon, scowling his brow, and filling the deep chasm which banished hopes and lost affections had left in his mind, with the misty grandeur of the scenery around. But those who had not lost the attributes of humanity, would delight to mingle at once with the current of joyous feeling that animated the living and

moving creation there. Again, had the old poets been destined to inhabit the caves of Ocean, and, instead of that beautiful clearness with which they now behold the face of nature, the azure sky and glowing heavens, had they seen them only in the obscure light that struggled through the dense medium above them, would they have drawn from these regions richer material for song than we now find embodied in their works? Is truth, then, the enemy of poetry? And is the only condition on which the Muses deign to dwell with us, that we offer no worship to this divinity? Far from it! Nothing is clearer than that the very reverse of this is true. If philosophy has exploded the old systems of mythology-if it has scared the "sacred nine" from their retreat in the groves and lawns of Hellas-if it has dispelled the awful mists that shrouded the summit of Olympus, concealing the Thunderer's throne from the gaze of mortals—if it has penetrated the ocean's depth, and driven Neptune with his attending Nereids from their watery realm-if it has, with a bold usurpation, dissolved the parliament of Jove, and scourged the licentious deities from their fabled heaven; yet for this merciless vandalism upon the empire of the bards, it has bestowed on them a kingdom far more extensive, more fertile, warmed with more congenial suns, and over-arched with milder skies. Whilst before its clear light the faint and shadowy creations of fiction have faded away, it has thrown its illuminations upon a magnificent system of realities; a system which, in its power to interest the mind and to draw out the latent energies of the soul, as well as in the richness and abundance of its materials, infinitely surpasses the highest conceptions of antiquity. It has introduced us to "a realm where the rainbow never fades," where bright and buoyant worlds are "spread out before us like islands that slumber on the bosom of the ocean, and where there are beautiful beings, that will no more pass before us like shadows, but will stay in our presence forever."

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That we are not alone in the opinions here advanced, a cloud of witnesses are ready to testify. We would not wish to make a mere "show of authorities;" but since our subject is one of serious import, we should prove recreant did we not invite the reader "listen to the voices of approbation, as they come up from every part of the republic of letters," and unite in one full swell of commendation of these liberal studies. That the greatest of modern poets considered the severer studies as not unfavorable to poetry, may be gathered both from his practice and his writings.

The biographer of Milton tells us, that after he left the university, he "retired to his father's house at Horton, in Buckinghamshire, making occasional visits to London to meet his friends, to buy books, or to learn something new in mathematics or music; plainly implying that he strove to keep pace with the progress of mathematical science. But for our better satisfaction, let us lis

ten to his own words. In his treatise on the education of youth, to which he would have the years from twelve to twenty one allotted, he places among their earliest studies, arithmetic and geometry. "And," says he, "having thus passed the principles of arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, &c., they may descend in mathematics to the instrumental science of trigonometry, and from thence to fortification, architecture, enginery or navigation, &c. ; then also those poets which are now counted most hard, will be both facile and pleasant;" among which he numbers the Georgics. of Virgil; thus making that book with which we are required to be familiar, as early at least as with arithmetic, succeed, in the order of mental discipline, a pretty extensive and thorough training in the higher branches of the mathematics. Such was the opinion of one who, from experience, was prepared to judge of the influence of the different studies in forming the mind. Nor does he make any exceptions to suit the case of those effeminate, lovemelted, moonshine-mongers, whom Shakspeare describes as

Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad
Made to their mistress' eyebrows."

We will next introduce the charming bard of Mantua, with whose biography it would be strange if every classical scholar were not familiar. At the age of sixteen we find him listening to the instructions of Syro, a distinguished epicurean philosopher, and celebrated teacher of that sect. "But," says Lempriere, "medicine and mathematics were the sciences to which he was chiefly addicted." And we are willing to set the Georgics and the Æneid against the opinion of Schaliger, in deciding whether "your geometer should be a dull and patient intellect." It may seem futile to drag in the name of Homer, as authority on this point. But those who have the bravery to encounter Dr. Cudworth, may find abundant reason to believe that the bard of Chio could not have been unskilled in so much of geometry and astronomy as was taught in his age. The perfect ease with which he handles every branch of Grecian learning and art, especially navigation, has been adduced by Coleridge, as proof, that he had an accurate acquaintance with every branch of science and art then cultivated among the Grecians; and, we may add, among the Egyptians. Madame de Staël in her Germany, remarks very justly, that "poets find in the sciences the genuine beauties of the universe." Leibnitz, the cotemporary and rival of Newton, was a powerful mathematician and no mean poet. Of Haller, whom the Germans regard as their second Leibnitz, his biographer says: "it cannot be denied that his compositions breathe the genuine spirit of poetry, and are animated by the sublimest inspirations. Though Haller has been surpassed in harmony, grace, and correctness, he has perhaps never been equalled in richness and vigor

of imagination." We are sorry we cannot add to our catalogue of witnesses the distinguished name of Bayle. His opinion certainly would bear nothing in our favor, for D'Israeli remarks of him, that according to his own acknowledgment, "he never could comprehend the demonstration of the first problem in Euclid." But the same author remarks further, that he was destitute of fine taste, and poetic discernment; by which it appears, that an aversion to mathematics is not always indicative of poetic talent. But being aware of the futility of catching here and there a flying phrase from a one sided and partial reviewer, without being able to refer to times and places, we must content ourselves with advising those who would learn the real sentiments of the distinguished scholars of every age upon this subject, to become acquainted with their early history; then, tracing the progress of their minds up to the height and maturity of their action, they will know what it is that gives vigor and permanancy to their efforts. And when they see a Milton, like the eagle, with strong and sinewy wing, buffetting the storm, and stretching his flight above the clouds, till he gazes, with unflinching eye, upon the bright sun, let them remember the words of the immortal bard, and