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200 exposition, rather than the justice or completeness of its reasoning, it never can be considered on any subject as a positive final instructor. Its office is to incite to reflection, and provide materials of thought; to accompany, not to direct, our progress. Variety of topic, variety of view, variety of sentiment and opinion, are indispensable for mental culture; and it is not easy to see how better the mind is to be provided with these, and roused from its natural sloth, than by a perusal of the poets, whose very task it is to give forth the various subjects of human thought in their most captivating and impressive form.

Of course, the perusal of poetry is not to be urged in the same dictatorial manner in which other studies may be advocated and enforced. No one can sit down to the work of the poet as he might to that of the mathematician, with great labour to understand, and with great labour to enjoy it. This is against the very nature of poetry; it cannot be made task-work of. If the pages of genius laid open before the attentive mind will not attract, will not rivet, will not delight, then for that mind, so constituted, there must be other literature, other incitement. But if it does delight, then let the charm work. Do not think, you who have the supervision of our youth, that your pupil is reflecting to no purpose, because he is reflecting with greatest ardency. He is not idle who sits apart with the slender volume in his hand, wrapt utterly and most deliciously from the world around him, the vision of the poet on his eye, the music of the poet in his ear. His mind is making more rapid growth in those hours of heartfelt passionate thinking, than in days, and weeks, and years of steadfast and very commendable labour, where the heart, however, is unengaged.

It is only by understanding and keeping in view the exact office of poetry, that any fair defence can be made for such writings as those of Byron. The beneficent influence of such a poet as Wordsworth, no one will dispute. He not only leads to reflection, but reflection of the purest kind. He has taken it for his province even to correct many associations, which, other poets finding in the minds of men, have taken advantage of, without calculating their tendency. It has been his peculiar achievement to extend our sympathies towards the neglected and forgotten, towards the humble and the weak, who need them not the less because they have few qualities to attract them. Witness that little piece, "The Cumberland Beggar," which throws so singular a charm over a torpid slow old man, creeping along the highway with his head bent to the earth, not more by age and infirmity than with sluggish apprehension. The old man creeps along with scarce a thought—no fictitious sentiment is infused into his mind—no ideal grace is added to his figure—there is nothing in all the picture but the simplest reality—there is nothing new but the poet's heart, which, however, has circled its object with so singular an interest, that it is impossible for any one who has read the poem, ever again to look with perfect apathy upon one of these old children of the earth. Of such writings there will not be two opinions. But what are we to say of his contemporary, Byron? His teaching extends not our sympathies, but our contempt, over mankind, and justifies this arrogance towards others by an equal self-disparagement. He teaches his pupil to despise the homely expedient of regulating the passions of his own bosom, and to preserve the tumult, and with it the wild license of infinite complaint. In his own vivid phrase, we are "half dust, half deity." He does not raise what is in us of divine, but teaches us perpetually to contemplate with bitterness that part which is dust and clay. He teaches half the lesson, and there leaves his tortured and disquieted reader. If every book, especially of poetry, were looked on as a sole instructor, who would not feel compelled to denounce such writings? But many books, many thoughts, much contradictory and perplexing and turbulent matter, go to the making up of a cultivated mind. Every mode of thinking has its place; and the very best is not the best until it has been viewed in juxtaposition with others. He who has read, and felt, and risen above the poetry of Byron, will be for life a wiser man for having once been thoroughly acquainted with the morbid sentiments which there meet with so full and powerful an expression. And so variously are we constituted, that there