ems to mourn for another day which is gone and will return no more.

The feeling of the present age has taken a direction diametrically
opposite. The magnificence of the physical world, and its influence
upon the human mind, have been the favourite themes of our most eminent
poets. The herd of bluestocking ladies and sonneteering gentlemen seem
to consider a strong sensibility to the "splendour of the grass, the
glory of the flower," as an ingredient absolutely indispensable in the
formation of a poetical mind. They treat with contempt all writers who
are unfortunately

nec ponere lucum
Artifices, nec rus saturum laudare.

The orthodox poetical creed is more Catholic. The noblest earthly object
of the contemplation of man is man himself. The universe, and all its
fair and glorious forms, are indeed included in the wide empire of the
imagination; but she has placed her home and her sanctuary amidst the
inexhaustible varieties and the impenetrable mysteries of the mind.

In tutte parti impera, e quivi regge;
Quivi e la sua cittade, e l'alto seggio.
(Inferno, canto i.)

Othello is perhaps the greatest work in the world. From what does it
derive its power? From the clouds? From the ocean? From the mountains?
Or from love strong as death, and jealousy cruel as the grave? What is
it that we go forth to see in Hamlet? Is it a reed shaken with the wind?
A small celandine? A bed of daffodils? Or is it to contemplate a mighty
and wayward mind laid bare before us to the inmost recesses? It may
perhaps be doubted whether the lakes and the hills are better fitted for
the education of a poet than the dusky streets of a huge capital. Indeed
who is not tired to death with pure description of scenery? Is it not
the fact, that external objects never strongly excite our feelings but
when they are contemplated in reference to man, as illustrating his
destiny, or as influencing his character? The most beautiful object in
the world, it will be allowed, is a beautiful woman. But who that can
analyse his feelings is not sensible that she owes her fascination
less to grace of outline and delicacy of colour, than to a thousand
associations which, often unperceived by ourselves, connect those
qualities with the source of our existence, with the nourishment of our
infancy, with the passions of our youth, with the hopes of our age--with
elegance, with vivacity, with tenderness, with the strongest of natural
instincts,