eir own, if intellectual culture has given them a
language in which to express it, have the highest faculty of poetry;
those who best understand the feelings of others, are the most
eloquent. The persons, and the nations, who commonly excel in poetry,
are those whose character and tastes render them least dependent upon
the applause, or sympathy, or concurrence of the world in general.
Those to whom that applause, that sympathy, that concurrence are most
necessary, generally excel most in eloquence. And hence, perhaps, the
French, who are the least poetical of all great and intellectual
nations, are among the most eloquent: the French, also, being the most
sociable, the vainest, and the least self-dependent.

If the above be, as we believe, the true theory of the distinction
commonly admitted between eloquence and poetry; or even though it be
not so, yet if, as we cannot doubt, the distinction above stated be a
real bona fide distinction, it will be found to hold, not merely in
the language of words, but in all other language, and to intersect the
whole domain of art.

Take, for example, music: we shall find in that art, so peculiarly the
expression of passion, two perfectly distinct styles; one of which may
be called the poetry, the other the oratory of music. This difference,
being seized, would put an end to much musical sectarianism. There has
been much contention whether the music of the modern Italian school,
that of Rossini and his successors, be impassioned or not. Without
doubt, the passion it expresses is not the musing, meditative
tenderness, or pathos, or grief of Mozart or Beethoven. Yet it is
passion, but garrulous passion--the passion which pours itself into
other ears; and therein the better calculated for dramatic effect,
having a natural adaptation for dialogue. Mozart also is great in
musical oratory; but his most touching compositions are in the
opposite style--that of soliloquy. Who can imagine 'Dove sono'
_heard_? We imagine it _over_heard.

Purely pathetic music commonly partakes of soliloquy. The soul is
absorbed in its distress, and though there may be bystanders, it is
not thinking of them. When the mind is looking within, and not
without, its state does not often or rapidly vary; and hence the even,
uninterrupted flow, approaching almost to monotony, which a good
reader, or a good singer, will give to words or music of a pensive or
melancholy cast. But grief taking the form of a prayer, or