e
votarist of polite literature, which ought to be mentioned, as strongly
calculated to repress the arrogance of the men of science, and the
supercilious contempt they are apt to express for those who are
engrossed by the pursuits of imagination and taste. They are for ever
talking of the reality and progressiveness of their pursuits, and
telling us that every step they take is a point gained, and gained for
the latest posterity, while the poet merely suits himself to the taste
of the men among whom he lives, writes up to the fashion of the day,
and, as our manners turn, is sure to be swept away to the gulph of
oblivion. But how does the matter really stand? It is to a great degree
the very reverse of this.

The natural and experimental philosopher has nothing sacred and
indestructible in the language and form in which he delivers truths. New
discoveries and experiments come, and his individual terms and phrases
and theories perish. One race of natural philosophers does but prepare
the way for another race, which is to succeed. They "blow the trumpet,
and give out the play." And they must be contented to perish before the
brighter knowledge, of which their efforts were but the harbingers. The
Ptolemaic system gave way to Tycho Brahe, and his to that of Copernicus.
The vortices of Descartes perished before the discoveries of Newton;
and the philosophy of Newton already begins to grow old, and is found
to have weak and decaying parts mixed with those which are immortal and
divine. In the science of mind Aristotle and Plato are set aside; the
depth of Malebranche, and the patient investigation of Locke have had
their day; more penetrating, and concise, and lynx-eyed reasoners of
our own country have succeeded; the German metaphysicians seem to have
thrust these aside; and it perhaps needs no great degree of sagacity
to foresee, that Kant and Fichte will at last fare no better than those
that went before them.

But the poet is immortal. The verses of Homer are of workmanship no less
divine, than the armour of his own Achilles. His poems are as fresh and
consummate to us now, as they were to the Greeks, when the old man of
Chios wandered in person through the different cities, rehearsing
his rhapsodies to the accompaniment of his lute. The language and the
thoughts of the poet are inextricably woven together; and the first
is no more exposed to decay and to perish than the last. Presumptuous
innovators have attempted to mo