tem, but of an ignorance of its principles or a mistake in their application; and it proves only that those who are not sufficiently acquainted with the art, ought not to attempt its practice. Whether there are any families, or any merchants, "who scrutinize or look sharply after heads," or not, I am not prepared to say. I was not aware that the subject had advanced into such general practice. But, supposing it to be so, these mistakes are as likely to arise from the misapprehension by these families and merchants of the principles of phrenology, as from any deficiency in the principles themselves.

The supposition that universal distrust would be the consequence, if these things were to go on, is really a most happy thought. It supposes a complete change will be wrought by this wonderful system in the human character. Where does this learned Theban ascertain that mankind are ever likely to become universally distrustful? I thought that their prevalent failing was to confide rather too much in the truth and honesty of the world. And it is upon the well known accuracy of this opinion, that a certain number of persons successfully calculate and reap their unlawful gains.

Why should it be supposed that phrenologists, in their investigations, will discover nothing but causes of universal distrust? That nothing but evil can be distinguished in the character of man? There is an opinion entertained by many persons that, notwithstanding many faults and imperfections, the good qualities of human nature are decidedly predominant; and, if this be so, we may depend they will be discovered, and instead of exciting distrust, will create confidence and inspire esteem. It is besides very much to be questioned whether any discoveries which phrenology could make in the elucidation of mortal depravities, would surpass the catalogue which has been already exhibited upon the most approved methods of the antique system; and the objection is liable to the remark, that it first assumes predominant causes of distrust, and next concludes that the knowledge of the truth would be pernicious.

It seems that, whatever the legislature of Vienna might think of the consequences, they at least had a good opinion of the plausibility of the system, its capacity to gain proselytes, and disseminate its principles. They seem to have anticipated a measure of success which could scarcely have been expected from a tissue of falsehoods and errors. They thought it true, but considered it dangerous. The danger, however, appears to be chimerical, and the truth established.

It has been also objected, though not by this writer, that there is not a clear and decisive correspondence between the external and internal parts of the skull; that the convexity of

the one, is not always in accordance with the concavity of the other. If this point could be maintained in the generality of instances, it would be very important, and so important that it would constitute one of the strongest objections. Were it founded in fact, it is singular that it has not been more insisted upon, and that some conclusive evidence has not been adduced to maintain it. The point is capable of easy demonstration. Take indiscriminately any number of skulls, and examine them in reference to this position, and the result must satisfy the mind of any candid spectator. It is a question of fact capable of instant determination; and whoever will take the trouble to bestow the slightest inspection upon the interior of a skull, must be convinced that it corresponds with the form, and has been impressed by the action, of the brain. There are distinctly perceptible, even the marks of the small vessels which are found on the surface of the brain, stamped on the inner surface of the skull.

But, assuming that some cases may be produced, supporting, in some degree, this objection, they are few in number and capable of explanation. The fact is, that the habitual employment of some of the organs is changed, and their action. discontinued, whilst others become excited, and obtain a superior degree of activity; and, consequently, the brain partially recedes, or subsides, and the space is occupied by the continued deposit of those particles which are destined to supply and nourish the bony structure; in the same way in which a fractured bone becomes increased in bulk at the place where the injury was sustained.

Besides, these hollows are, of course, perceived only after death; and generally after either a lingering or violent disease, during which material alterations may naturally be expected to have occurred; so that the objection, even supposing there be many instances to support it, is not very formidable. Again, the peculiar prominence of some of the organs may mislead with respect to the estimate of the degree of development of others. For instance, if the organs of benevolence and firmness, (No. 13 and 18,) and which are in situation near each other, should be strikingly indicated; the organ of veneration which lies between them, (No. 14), though brought strongly into action, but at a later period than the others, may not be peculiarly manifested.

It appears that the difficulty of acquiring a knowledge of the science is increased by the necessity of studying the collective, as well as the individual, power of the faculties. It is easier to ascertain the abstract nature of any single organ, than to form an estimate of the aggregate result of many organs; especially as several of them, if not all, exist in different

and various degrees of manifestation. Yet, still, this is not more difficult than the old mode of studying the human character, and the new system possesses the advantage, when perfectly known, of leading to greater certainty and a higher degree of precision and accuracy. We may, therefore, justly give it the preference.

ON

MILTON'S PARADISE REGAINED.

MILTON preferred his "Paradise Regained" to the "Paradise Lost." This preference has been ascribed to a supposed incapacity in authors to judge of their own productions. It is somewhere said, however, that every good poet includes a good critic. If this be a correct position, it is hard to conceive how one, who had evinced sufficient command over his prejudices, to select in a great work those ideas and sentiments which were the most conducive to the proposed end, and most proper to excite sensations of the sublime and beautiful, could afterwards be so subject to the influence of prejudice as to be totally incapable of exercising a rational choice, and more liable to error than they who, perhaps, have never been able to raise their minds to that eminence, whence only the landscape might be taken in, in all its parts and proportions, the delicacy of shadow, and the harmonious gradation of light, from the remotest tint, to the most consummate splendor, uninjured by the mists of ignorance or the fogs of jealousy. The painter, himself, has the most intimate acquaintance with the process adopted in the execution of his picture, and can tell where, and how gradually, the light and shade are blended or contrasted. On the other hand, it is certainly to be feared, that he will be apt to decide according to the trouble he has been at, and not in precise ratio to the merit it involves.

It

Milton, notwithstanding, must have had some reason for his preference; and the probability is, that his reason was a good one. As an epic, it may be inferior to "Paradise Lost," but it is not an epic. It is more of a dialogue, and is almost as much a drama as "Sampson Agonistes," or "Comus." opens after the manner of the antient drama, adopted in the two poems just mentioned, with a soliloquy, in which the actor relates all his previous history. This manner has an engaging, though severe, simplicity about it, but has no pre

VOL. I. PART II.

X

cedent in the epopée. It would be an evident injustice to decide upon its merits as an epic.

"In every work regard the writer's end,

Since none can compass more than they intend."

It

And what he intended, Milton has completely compassed. is perfect in itself,-why should it be made to suffer by an undue comparison? Milton might have thought that the poem was superior in kind, and equal in degree. Whatever we may think of its nature, there can be no doubt that its execution is equal to that of his most sublime production. There is no falling off here, there is the same energy of language, the same vigor of intellect, the same extensive combination of classical allusion and religious feeling, the same harmony of versification, music on which Handel might brood and become pregnant with sounds of lofty import and majestic sentiment. And in addition to all this, there is "high argument," an argument between the supreme principle of good, and the principle of evil, in which the sublimest philosophy of virtue is opposed to all the subtle theories and acute deductions of the insidious fiend. It would be an interesting task to compare the very different manner in which a similar speculation is conducted in Lord Byron's poem of "Cain," with the method which Milton has here so successfully pursued. To do this, in a systematic way, would extend this essay beyond its prescribed limits. We may, however, have convenient oppor tunity to introduce some observations in the course of our review. Perhaps Milton thought that the exercise of the ratiocinative faculty was more meritorious than that of the fancy and imagination, which, with the "lesser faculties,"

Reason as chief;"

"Serve

and that its combination, with the exertion of the imaginative, included whatever was worthy in both, and consequently was superior to either. Throughout the whole of his poetical works, it is clear that he kept his fancy under control. He never "warbles native woodnotes wild." We know that nature has given him voice, as an organ, to peal the melodious anthem up to heaven; but are conscious that it is ever restrained, lest a sound should intrude unworthy of the solemn strain.

We would not be supposed to say, that Milton is not a poet of nature; his genius was undoubtedly born with hiin, and he was a poet from his cradle. There are some verses of his written at the age of twelve, and mascu line verses too. He had given early proofs of his genius be fore he went to the university,-a university, where poetical

* Cambridge.

*

It

exercises are not so much encouraged, and yet where most of our great poets have been bred, as Spencer, Cowley, Waller, Dryden, Prior, not to mention any of the lesser ones, as the lives of the author have it, when there is a greater than all-MILTON. But, if nature made him a poet, he did not, therefore, despise the assistance of art. Though he felt the divine afflatus, he did not pour it out as if unconscious of its import, but insisted on understanding its meaning, and its relative consequence, before he lent it utterance. A rigid master over his muse, he never suffered her to overpower him; she was always subject to his control, and, when he bade her discourse, he suffered only what was proper to the theme. was eloquent music, indeed; and snatched graces beyond the reach of art; but such graces as art would be proud to adopt, and not contrary to her established forms of excellence and propriety. He knew that true art was the daughter of nature, and the priestess of her mysteries; and that, as a parent may be won by winning the affections, and wounded through the sides of his child, so might nature be approached through art, and outraged if she were offended: yet he was not a slave to her dictates, but appealed to her mighty mother, upon occasions, where he doubted her veracity, or questioned her infallibility. The poets of the present day are apt to run wild, to despise the ordinances of the daughter of nature, and to appeal on every occasion to her omnipotent parent. But they should beware, lest, in forsaking art, they forsake nature also, and that the great mother do not resent the affront thus offered to her child. Nature becomes art. Men first acted and wrote according to the impulse from within or without, and their writings and actions became examples to succeeding generations; they were looked up to as standards,-as the standards of experience. Genius, however, is creative of new combinations, and, as it appeared, the standard was often altered, it was improved; the rules of art accumulated. Thus, at every epoch, each age improved on the preceding, and genius always outstript the present: still the standard which it institutes is founded, if well founded, in nature; but the superstructure becomes art. Art is, therefore, the succession of combinations in nature, gradually accumulated, and systematically perpetuated, as experimental rules which have answered once, and to the same extent may answer again.

He who, therefore, willingly resigns all acquaintance with this standard, goes back to the simplicity of nature; and depends upon his own powers of combination, to excel that which powers similar in kind, and, perhaps, superior in degree, have, from age to age, through the successive exertion of them by different and variously-gifted individuals, successfully la