Of notes into the sunshine; First with care, then swift and strong; Till the bright air throbbed with song." To return, in conclusion, to our Modern Poets collectively, let us not forget their merits while deprecating their peculiar faults. Various as they are, in power, style, and subject-matter, -they have, nevertheless, much in common. Take, for instance, their universal sense of consideration for the well-being of humanity. They may not all be rigidly moral, much less religious, in a literal sense-but most, if not all of them, are well-meaning, and affect the grace if they have it not, of charity towards their kind. And with this better spirit comes a purer taste-tolerant of all truth, intolerant only of morbid or sectarian views of life. Poetry becomes more catholic in its functions, more consistent in the discipline required of its aspirants. Every poet may not be able to command an extensive audience, but the wider the circle of sympathies that he embraces, the better will it be-not only for his popularity and his power, but for his own heart. Whatever his public success, he may always find his best reward where Coleridge found it. In the words of this strongest thinker, and scarce-equalled poet of our times, we must conclude this article, as we began it. Poetry has been to me its own exceeding great reward: it has soothed my afflictions; it has multiplied my enjoyments; and it has given me the habit of endeavouring to discover the good and beautiful in every thing that surrounds me." '66 3 We may advert with pleasure to a most unaffected exhibition of this grace in the Hon. Mrs. Norton's "Child of the Islands." To this noble poem we might add Milnes'"Poetry for the People," and many more. ART. II.-Maxims and Opinions of the Duke of Wellington, collected from his Despatches and Speeches. London: 1845. Colburn, pp. 505. "GENIUS," says Dr. Johnson, "is nothing but strong natural parts accidentally turned into one direction." Few can have surveyed with an attentive eye the varieties of human character, at least of the highest class, whether in the historic mirror or real life, without being convinced that the observation of the great moralist is well founded. It is a very common thing indeed to see a strong propensity evinced even in the earliest years by particular persons, and it is the frequency of this peculiarity which has caused genius to be so frequently associated in general opinion, and common language, with an original and unalterable bent. It undoubtedly is so in many instances. Mozart, at three years of age, displayed not only a taste but a genius for music; Correggio declared in boyhood, "I, too, am a painter;" Canova, at nine years of age, made a little líon out of a pound of butter; Byron, at ten, felt an ardour of passion for an infant beauty of the same years, which was scarcely surpassed by the subsequent attachments of his empassioned mind. But in these early and precocious displays of inherent disposition, it is rarely, if ever, that the premonitory symptoms of the highest kind of intellectual power, or the noblest flights of original conception are to be found. They appear thus early in persons in whom the imaginative are far stronger than the reasoning powers-the latter require time for their growth; they rarely if ever appear before the age of puberty. Imagination combined with intellect, genius with reason, the greatest triumph of the human mind, of tardy development, and generally little conspicuous in youth, goes on gathering strength, and increasing in intensity to the close of life. This is easily explained if we consider, that a quick and fervent mind readily fans a flame from a few perishable materials; but a great one requires mighty and durable elements to warm into a glow: "Materia alitur, motibus excitatur, et urendo lucescit." If instances are numerous in which persons destined for future celebrity have given tokens of their inherent bent in their early years, examples are not less frequent of persons of the greatest future fame, being remarkable for nothing at all in the first stages of life, or if distinguished, known only by qualities the very reverse of those on which their future celebrity was founded. Julius Cæsar to the age of thirty-seven was distinguished only by the licentiousness and profligacy of his life; he was a living example of the oft-repeated saying, "that no man who had both in his power, ever did any thing among men till he had ceased to have any influence with women.' Burke evinced no particular ability at school or college; and what is very remarkable, the reasoning powers are chiefly conspicuous in his earlier compositions, the fervour of imagination united to the vigour of intellect in those of his maturity or old age. The common story of Shakespeare having been a deer-stealer in his youth, be it true or false, may be regarded as at least a certain proof that he did not in early life evince any of those extraordinary powers of conception and imagination which have rendered his name immortal. His profound knowledge of the human heart demonstrates the reverse that is never gained but by experience and suffering. Bacon's latest writings exhibit far greater original genius, vigour of expression, and energy of thought, than his earlier compositions. It was when blinded by study, and worn out by care, old, and unfortunate, that Milton wrote his "Paradise Lost." Sophocles composed his Tragedies in such advanced years, that when engaged in writing them, his sons brought him before the courts of law to have him deprived, as incapable, of the management of his affairs. Dante's "Inferno was the fruit of twenty years' exile, in which "life," as he himself said, “had been watered only by his tears." Nothing that can be relied on is known of the youth of Homer; but common and unvarying tradition which represents him in extreme old age, blind, and in misery, charming the inhabitants of the Isles of Greece by his strains, is an indication that it was in mature years that his deathless poems were composed. A long life of observation, thought, and reflection, combined with the utmost ardour of imagination, were required to form the "Iliad and Odyssey. man. Wellington belongs to the latter and by far the highest class of illustrious characters. He was not a great man because he was a great general, but a great general because he was a great He would have been equally great in any thing else which he undertook. It is reported that he has said, "that the native bent of his mind was towards finance and civil government rather than military affairs." Certain that when he took his seat at the board of the cabinet council, it was the vigour of thought and perfect command of every subject which came before them, even more than his military fame, which won such general respect, and ultimately raised him in difficult times to the highest place in the government. From his earliest youth, his despatches and observations evince a soundness of judgment, a maturity of thought, and elevation of principle, which we generally look for in vain in persons of the most advanced years and extensive experience; and which were the more remarkable, if, as is commonly said, his amusements at that period were of a much lighter description, and partook more of the gaiety of Cæsar's youth, than the austerity of Cato's age. But these distractions never affected the solid foundations, the deep substratum of his mind; and we perceive in his despatches, from first to last, unequivocal and frequent proofs of the same constant sense of duty, the same unfailing strength of judgment, the same singleness and patriotism of heart. The vigour and energy of his understanding, however, seems to have increased rather than diminished as he grew older; and at no period so much as in his later years, are such profound and far-seeing observations to be met with, which in advance of the age in which they were spoken, only came to be fully understood and appreciated in the next. The Duke of Wellington, however, is essentially a man of action. He was born to be the ruler, rather than the instructor of men; he has no poetical imagination, and little turn for abstract speculations or visionary thought. Hence his sway over the great majority of society, in future times, will never equal that of Napoleon, in whom the ardour of poetic fancy was singularly blended with the exactness of mathematical reasoning, and speculation on general subjects possessed as great charms as the pursuits of ambition, or the excitement of war. Wellington's maxims and opinions, as will immediately appear, are invaluable but they have all a bearing on practical affairs, and the immediate direction and government of men. A few great principles of rectitude and morality applicable alike to nations as individuals, were firmly fixed in his mind, and it was in applying them with undeviating steadiness and unerring sagacity, that his wisdom, as measured by the event, consists. But he always took a practical view of affairs: he considered them on every occasion, as the subjects of action, not speculation. He did not think that because he had taken up one position with one enemy in one campaign, that therefore he was bound to take up the same position with another enemy in every future campaign. His great merit consisted in seeing more clearly than other men, at all times, the coming course of events, and shaping his conduct so as to render it as little injurious, or as beneficial as possible, to the cause with which he was entrusted. In one particular only he was always the same, and that was in love to his country: his conduct, variable in other respects, was ever true to the polar star of duty. Of Wellington's far-seeing sagacity, which almost amounted to prescience, no more remarkable example can be presented than the constant and unchanging firmness with which he affirmed after the catastrophe of the Corunna retreat, that the cause of the Peninsula was not only noways hopeless, but that Portugal might be successfully defended by Great Britain against any force which France could bring against it. Few among the elder part of the present generation, by whom that dismal termination to all the highly-excited hopes of the nation is recollected, can ever forget the general feeling of despair which seized upon the public mind when the gallant army, once 30,000 strong, which had sailed from England a few months before, returned halved in numbers, depressed in spirits, having lost, like Francis I., all but its honour in that calamitous retreat: when the hosts of Spain had been dispersed, like chaff before the wind, by the legions of Napoleon: when Madrid had fallen, and a few thousand men alone remained to prevent the French eagles being forthwith planted on the towers of Lisbon. The English generals engaged in the combat regarded the cause of Spain as utterly hopeless, and the idea of defending Portugal too extravagant to be for a moment entertained. Sir John Moore and Sir David Baird had written to government under this impression, recommending that empty transports should be sent to Vigo Bay, to bring away the troops, instead of the 13,000 men which had been prepared to reinforce the army. "If the French succeed in Spain," said Sir J. Moore, in November 1808, "it will be in vain to attempt to resist them in Portugal. The Portuguese are without a military force, and from the experience of their conduct, under Sir Arthur Wellesley, no dependence is to be placed on any aid they can give. The British must, in that event, immediately take steps to evacuate the country1." There were few men in Britain at that time, with the disasters of the campaign before their eyes, who probably entertained a different opinion. But what said Wellington, a few months after, when no intervening success had occurred to shake the grounds of Sir J. Moore and Sir D. Baird's opinion: "Portugal may be successfully defended against any force the French could bring against it; and the maintenance of that position would be the greatest support to the common cause in Spain"." It was that opinion which was the foundation of 1 Sir J. Moore to Lord Castlereagh, Nov. 24, 1808. Parl. Deb. 2 Memorandum on the Defence of Portugal, March 9, 1809. Gurwood, iv. 261, and vi. 5. |