heaven the "luminous distance" of evening, with its pale green, or the morning's "still small voice of level twilight behind purple hills," so suggestive of "spiritual hope, of longing, and escape." In corroboration of this remark it will be observed that pictures in which one artist has painted the figures and another the landscape, are not often noted for their harmony or their truth. A still more intimate union has, indeed, been attempted; and there are pictures in which a Venetian hand has supplied the coloring to a Florentine design. If such pictures are among the wonders of art, they are seldom its best examples. The coloring of Titian would have sensualized, and the radiance of Correggio have etherealized the conceptions of Michael Angelo; but the loss of his sublime strength, thus neutralized, would not have been compensated for by any accession of alien qualities. Nor more successful, probably, would have been the experiment, in case those earlier masters, to whom we have alluded, had been able to add the Florentine vigor of design and variety of composition to their own especial meritsspiritual elevation and the quietude of pathetic beauty. It is common, indeed, to express an edifying amazement on account of their want of variety, relief, &c. While many an elegant connoisseur has been doling out to them his supercilious and qualified commendations, young ladies, fresh from the boarding-school, have turned for a moment from the Guido or the Carlo Dolce which they were copying, to glance at a saint of Pinturrichio, Perugino, or the old Seer of Fiesole; and have compassionately wondered that the austere should be unbending also, that the ascetic should be unfamiliar, and that the absorbed should reply to their inquiries with such unloquacious eyes. Objections brought against great works, not on the ground of faults but of deficiencies, are for the most part frivolous and vexatious, for no excellency is attained except by sacrifice. Every great poem, as well as picture, by necessity includes some high qualities in a greater, and some in a lesser degree; and to be perfect, or approach perfection, it must possess them in a due proportion. This proportion is determined, not by external rule, but inwardly, by the imagination, which conceived the poem originally, and conceived it as a whole. Accordingly, the law of just keeping is to be accounted the truth of the imagination. If this proportionate truth be wanting, not only will the result be unsatisfactory, but the work will thus be proved to have been spurious in its origin; since a work of art, to be genially produced, must be homogeneous or harmonized. It is impossible for a healthy imagination to beget hybrids or monsters; these are not natural conceptions; but it is very easy for an unsteady and uninspired hand to join together a piece of ill-assorted though splendid patchwork. Meanwhile, a first-rate poem supposes a still higher unity. It is not only the product of the imagination; it is the offspring and exponent of the poet's total being. Now, the being of man is one; his various faculties exhibiting but different modes of intellectual action, and his manifold principles of thought branching out from a single stem. The unity of the poet's nature ought, therefore, to be imaged in his intellectual progeny. Every portion of it, as it grows, must be a true reflection from his own mind, or from nature as contemplated by that mind; its elements, however complex, must be fused into a crystalline oneness; its parts must be graduated by a just law of proportion. The result of all, namely, a perfect truth of keeping, will, consequently, be but an expansion of that truth which was inherent in the impulse and germinal idea from which the poem sprang. These observations are borne out by the fact, that every first-rate poet is felt to be the regent of a separate sphere, and the master of a complete poetic world of his own; in which, while every element is proportionate to every other element, it is not the less distinguished by its dissimilarity, both as to relative proportion and intrinsic character, from the corresponding element in the work of other poets. Their mode of viewing life, character, and nature is as different, in the several great poets, as is the species of thought, sentiment, or passion which they express. A corresponding diversity will be always found in their styles, however free from mannerism. In one it is expressive, in another suggestive; in one energetic, in another adroit. In Dante it is intense, in Milton solemn, in Homer divinely familiar and friendly, in Shakspeare elastic and joyously strong, unexhausted in resource, and incalculable as the curves of shells, or the endless variety of outline in forests and clouds. In all it is truthful. For art in its versatility is a shadow of nature's infinitude; and many revelations still leave the depths of truth unfathomed.* *The same diversity will be found in the mode in which different poets exhibit the faculty of what It is from a perfect truth of keeping that | self-destructive: without it greatness, instead poetry chiefly derives its verisimilitude-a of rolling onward in an ever-ascending wave, quality without which it can make no appeal perpetually tumbles over like a breaker, and to the heart. Poetry professes to have wit- loses itself in foam. Closely allied to selfnessed that of which it makes report. If its possession is that rare attribute-poetic witness be true, the sympathies of men will moderation-which excludes such exaggeraeventually seal that truth and receive that ted admiration of one especial excellence as witness if its tidings be but hearsay, its em- might lead to the neglect of others. The piricism will be proved by the inconsistent highest poetry rests upon a right adjustbabbling with which men describe what they ment of contending claims. Some persons have not known. Let a man's theme be ever are advocates of the sensuous, and others of so high or ever so low, he may have seen what has latterly been called the subjective; what he speaks of, or he may have only but poetry of the first order reconciles both wished to see it. Burns, when he describes demands, being of all things the most ina daisy uprooted by the plough, is not more tellectual in its method and scope, while in truthful than Dante, when Dante sings of its form and imagery it is the largest reprethe choirs that rejoice in heaven. The for- sentation of visible things. Partaking at mer sees with true poetic insight that which once of the nature both of Science and of actually exists; the latter with a more crea- Art, it spiritualizes the outward world while tive eye, but with equal truthfulness, sees it embodies the world of Thought. It comthat which might exist, and which, if it exist- poses also the border warfare between pased, would appear as it presented itself to sion and imagination. Though passion frees him in definite and authentic vision. It is a man from self, yet it sells him in bondage thus that in arduous instances of fore-short- to outward things: it clasps the material ening, positions of the human form which world like a vine, sucks out and circulates its could never have been observed, even in the life-blood, stirs up heroic natures to high model, by the outward eye of the painter, achievements, and yet, being servile in its are faithfully exhibited by his inspired guess- nature, it makes the end of their wanderings es. Dante's unshaken self-possession in the a blind subjection to Fate. Passion is, midst of the marvels around him, is itself a therefore, the sanguine life of that tragic poproof that his vision was true; for had it etry which hailed in Bacchus a master-just been false, that artificial excitement, which as the poetry of mirth and grace boasted a alone could have sustained the illusion, would protector in Mercury. The imagination, on have swept him into the vortices of splendor the other hand, passes through all barriers, and motion which he describes; and he spurns the mountain-tops and feeds on each would have written with as unsteady a hand succeeding object, but only till it has gained as his imitators have ever done. Self-pos- strength to outsoar it. This is the poetry which session, a thing very different from unimpas- sought a patron in Apollo-the lord of light, sioned sedateness, is a note of mature great- deliverance, and healing. Passion by itself ness in poetry; and it is so noble a resultant would violate the freedom, imagination would of it that repose itself, which has often been transcend the limits of art. Whatever qualextolled as an ultimate merit in art, may, ities tend to maintain this twofold equipoise, perhaps, derive no small part of its charm to which the innumerable balances of poetry from the fact that it is among the modes by are subordinate, promote its keeping and its which self-possession is evinced. This is one truth. of the characteristics, which mark the analogy between the inspiration of the true poet and that of the true prophet. Without it enthusiasm runs into madness, and passion is is called poetical painting. "The representations in the Fairy Queen,' in 'Paradise Lost, and in Dante's Inferno,' have each a specific character, appropriate to the poems in which they are found respectively. The first are dream like, fit for fairyland; the second are cosmological: they are grand symbols of the universe; while Dante's Spirit-world, especially the first division of it, is described with matter-of-fact particularity."-Appendix to Coleridge's Biographia Literaria," last edition. Poetry is a large thing, and poetic truth is but one department of it. There are few of its departments which have not been ably illustrated in the recent as well as the earlier periods of English literature; and to exalt any one of them with exclusive reverence, is among the last things we should desire. The root of theological heresy has been traced to a disposition arbitrarily to select and lift on high some one great verity, which in thus losing its relative position loses half its value. And no doubt such a disposition is equally fruitful in poetical and philosophical heresies. It has seemed to us, however, that we could not better illustrate our views respecting Mr. Taylor's poe- | try than by these imperfect remarks on that poetic truth, which we account his most striking characteristic; and which, from its inti mate relations with strength and with beauty, we deem the foundation of excellence, not only in poetry, but in every art that possesses a moral origin, and subserves a | human end. From the Athenæum. "WHAT IS TRUTH?" BY FRANCES BROWN, COMES that question on thy spirit Which it brought to souls before thee, Since our wisdom's youth- Ask'st thou, "What is truth?" Earth will send thee answering voices Comes a flood of swift replies, By far ways in sooth. Saith the priest, "What I have taught," Saith the sage, "What I have sought," And some whisper, "But found not." Searcher, that is Truth! Fiercely speak the world's hard workers, "In the growth of halls and manors, Never yet hath walked with power Pens are hailed and crowns flung by- There are sadder tones that murmur From the inward sea: "Seek thou all earth's wealth bestoweth, Hope for all her wisdom showeth; Of Time's cankering tooth- Ever thus the dark responses As the sands of life are shaken, Yet in tireless youth; From the New Monthly Magazine. ALCHEMY, ANCIENT AND MODERN. The last part of this statement is as true as if the Devil had not made it. AMONG the Ayscough MSS. in the British | darke and obskure names and manye operaMuseum is to be found one (No. 1118-10) tions." in which occurs a series of questions and answers respecting the Philosopher's Stone, which, it is there stated, "a certain nigromancer named Elardus, in the province of Cattalonia, hath made with the Devell." As may readily be imagined, from the nature of the subject, one of the interlocutors is very eager, the other very cautious. Elardus pushes home, but the Devil is very cunning of fence, and reveals only just enough to stimulate the questioner to seek for more without his direct assistance. The colloquy is continued for some time, until, at last, Elardus, tired of beating about the bush, puts it to his friend direct: By what means and wherefore is it called a ston?" Stat nominis umbra is the motto of the Devil as well as of Junius, and with a prudence and wariness which would have done honor to a general of the Jesuits, the Father of Lies backs out of the difficulty, making answer: After some preliminary matter with regard to the actual existence of the stone, the nec- "I say unto you his name is a ston, and romancer asks: there is not so muche liberty given unto me "Is it not possible for a man to make this to manifest any further of this matter unto same ston?" To this the Devil, who exhibits a great deal of pious submission throughout the conversation, and actually does what Lord Byron thought impossible-"talk like a clergyman"-replies: "Whatsoever God hathe revealed, it is possible for a man to enter into; yf it have a pplio, (proportion.) But it were difficult to make the ston; and yet, notwithstanding, it may be made by man." This is rather vague and misty, but Elardus catches at the last admission, and inquires : "Whether had Virgill the ston or not?" The great poet, it must be remembered, was believed, in the middle ages, to be the most renowned magician the world had ever seen, the principal scene of his exploits being laid at Naples. In his answer to this question, the Devil comes out somewhat more explicitly; he knows he is upon velvet, the Past being a much safer subject than the Future. He says: Not he onlye had the ston, but manye other philosofors had the same; and they have written of the same manye bookes with thee." The question, therefore, as far as the Devil was concerned, remained just where it was. It is possible, taking into consideration the clerical style of his discourse, that he was at the moment under the influence of some compunctious visitings, and forebore to enlighten the world so fully as he has subsequently done. Perhaps, since then, he has had more provocation. Pearce, the Black Monk, who was the author of one of the "obskure" works above alluded to, seems to have wished the world to understand that he had achieved the Great Secret, for in the rhymed production which bears his name, he says, in treating of the elixir, "Take erth of erth, erth's moder, But the reader may go through the entire poem without getting any nearer the mark than the Catalonian necromancer did. Pearce, the Black Monk, like many of his fellow-laborers, was too discreet to reveal his know ledge to any but the initiated. What they less, had carefully studied the "Bird of knew they wisely kept to themselves, though Hermes," and if all accounts be true, he did they had no objection to the world's giving so to advantage. This man was the celethem credit for not having had their labor for brated Nicholas Flamel, a countryman of their pains. One of these philosophers, Raymond Lully, born at Pontoise, in the year named Jean de la Fontaine, a native of Va- 1328. His parents were poor, and left him lenciennes, who wrote a poem about the little more than the house in Paris, in the commencement of the fifteenth century, inti- | Rue des Notaires, which he possessed at the tuled "La Fontaine des Amoureux de Sci- time he was last heard of in France, for of ence," does not confine himself to mere hints, his supposed death we shall have something but states with sufficient distinctnesss that more to say. He earned a livelihood in he had actually made the grand discovery, for at the conclusion of his poem he speaks thus: "J'ay à nom Jehan de la Fontaine : Alfonso the Wise was another who had plucked out the heart of this mystery. He speaks in one of his poems (the usual vehicle for conveying alchemical knowledge) of the manner in which he toiled with his master, who knew how to make the stone, and afterwards of how they made it together: "La piedra que llaman filosofal Sabia facer, e me la enseño, Raymond Lully, who flourished in the time of Edward III., and was a friend of the famous Dominican known as Albertus Magnus, not only testified to the same effect in his poem called "Hermes' Bird," but, according to Elias Ashmole, "was employed to make gold for the king to prosecute war against the Turks. Edward's real purpose, however, being against France, Lully," with a patriotism which cannot be too highly commended, "refused to supply him from his furnace. He was therefore confined in the Tower, from whence he subsequently escaped." He was probably too much disgusted with the base uses to which the stone might be applied, for his furnace never glowed in France, a circumstance which Philip of Valois must have had cause to regret. His book, however, he left behind him, and Ashmole, who read it, pronounces this opinion upon it: "The whole work is Parabolicall and Allusive, but highly Philosophicall." These parables and allusions appear to have found an interpreter in one who, doubt Paris as a scrivener, copying deeds or writings in Latin or French; but, looking beyond the narrow limits of his profession, sought his fortune by a darker and more uncertain track than even the law. Chemistry was the mystic guide that beckoned him onward, and the sole purpose for which it was studied in the time of Flamel was because in its unknown depths was supposed to lie the secret of transmuting metals, and with it the art of renewing eternal youth. He became an Hermetic student about the year 1357, while he was yet in his thirtieth year. Amongst the works which he studied were probably all that treated of the Divine philosophy-the translated writings of Claudius, Ptolemy, and of Geber, of Aben Sina (Avicenna) of Averroes, and of Friar Bacon, as well as those of such of his own countrymen as had distinguished themselves in the science; Raymond Lully, as we have already conjectured, and Jehan de Meung, the collaborator of Guillaume de Lorris, in the "Romance of the Rose," but the author also of a treatise which bears the title of "Les Rémonstrances de Nature à l'Alchymiste errant; avec la réponse du dict Alchymiste." But the volume to which he was most indebted, according to his own account, was a very curious book which fell, by chance, into his hands, and cost him only two florins. It is thus described in Miss Costello's "Memoirs of Jacques Coeur, the French Argonaut," a work of the highest interest, dramatic as well as historical: "It was a gilded book, very old, and of very great size, made neither of paper or parchment, like other books, but of the bark, apparently, of young trees, and was bound with leather, (another account says of brass,) curiously wrought with strange characters, written in an unknown, but seemingly an Oriential tongue. The interior was engraved with a short-pointed instrument on the bark, and the characters were Latin, beautifully colored. The book contained three times seven leaves. At the end of the first division was a leaf without any writing, but instead thereof a painting, repre |