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filling, in short, the place of a private friend. Such an individual then, is not only honoured but loved. He contributes largely to the enjoyment of his fellows, and is accordingly rewarded by them. Now, what is the extent of the offence committed by an unsuccessful imitator? Led by that very common, if not almost universal source of error, an undue estimate of his own powers, he has undertaken to amuse the public ! he has attempted to give a refined and honourable pleasure ! he has had the presumption to think that what cost him labour and time, is worthy to fill up a few of the idle moments of others, and he has accordingly induced a bookseller to multiply copies of it, and make their existence known ! For this imprudence he is punished by disappointment; he experiences the mortification of neglect : he finds that what cost him so much trouble and was taken to be the offspring of a moment of high inspiration, is not considered by the public as worthy of the languid glances of a few unemployed minutes; he experiences the silent and cutting conviction of his inferiority in natural faculties and influential rank to the writers whom he had hoped to equal if not to excel. And, to aggravate his misfortune, he is an individual belonging to a peculiarly sensitive class; it has been for years his professional task to excite and to preserve in their utmost acuteness all those emotions of his mind, which the habits of ordinary business are calculated to blunt. In order to work upon the feelings of others, he has intentionally kept his own sensations of pain in the liveliest exercise. “Si vis me flere, dolendum est primum ipsi tibi,” was the precept of the critic; and he has put it in the most complete execution. To find himself, in addition to this, treated, and that habitually, with a rudeness of language and style which implies that he is not considered entitled to the

ordinary respect due to a gentleman, is indeed additionally wounding to the individual himself, but, as there is no retaliation, is not very honourable to the manliness of the reviewer.

If we examine the office and duty of the latter, we shall not, I think, find any new motives to confirm us in our admiration of the brutal style of criticism. The general obligation of a reviewer or other critic, as I understand it, is not to punish, but to discriminate-he is not employed as an executioner, nor even as a constable, but as a judge. The importance of his office is certainly very great. The larger mass of the reading public are too much occupied with business or amusement to be able to peruse more than a very small portion of the books that come out ; and the influence which may be exerted on the selection of those they do read, by a critic, himself generally attended to, and speaking with the authority conferred by talents and learning, must naturally, till it meets with contradiction, be almost unbounded. And when an authority of this class does clash with its competitors, it is generally about the works of individuals who are the political or other rivals of the editors; leaving the great mass of literature to the operation of ordinary causes. The public are habitually influenced in their opinions by these tribunals to a very great degree indeed, and consider their perusal as a short cut to a great amount of knowledge, which most persons have no time to acquire in any other form.

Of how much importance, then, is it that these duties should be faithfully performed. From how much useful knowledge or agreeable reading may an unfaithful reviewer debar us, as effectually as if by the combustion of a library! By the simple disapprobation of an influential tribunal, the public are prevented from inquiring; there

is no appeal, and all future efforts of the same author are blasted with the reproach of dulness, and almost deprived of the utter possibility of a retrieval. Now, when we reflect upon the ordinary progress of authorship, this will appear manifestly unjust. There are scarcely any instances of an author having met with brilliant success in his first attempt. Voltaire, Pope, Byron, and a number of others, who afterwards reached the highest distinction, met at first with disheartening failures ; and had they been crushed in the bud, had excessive severity succeeded in discouraging them from all future efforts, I will not now say what a loss to mankind ! but what a shameful injustice to the youthful aspirants !

It is time now to draw this essay to a conclusion ; and I will only recapitulate by saying, that I do not mean to object to candid and rigid criticism; but only to the manifestations of ill-nature, cruelty, and a partisan spirit, when the task is executed. I maintain that justice should be done to the merits of the weakest writer whenever his productions are noticed at all; and that bitter and sweeping condemnations of the whole of a candidate's productions are just as unsuitable to the true character of criticism as those nauseous and inflated panegyrics, which we occasionally find inserted in the daily sheets, to aid in the circulation of trash and mawkishness. Dulness and imbecility should undoubtedly be discouraged from wasting their own time and that of the public ; but the censure should be founded upon the real merits of the case, and not depend upon political partisanship, the wishes of a bookseller, or the personal dislikes of an editor. And above all things, critics, in the utmost severity of their indignation, should never forget that they are bound as much as any other mortals by the common rules of humanity and politeness.

THE GENIUS OF POETRY.

BY T. H. STOCKTON.

GENIUS of Poetry! thou noblest born!
Thy themes are as thy joys-rich and sublime !
Creation is thy range; where'er a star
Sends forth a ray, thy wing is wont to fly.
And oft, where never rolled an orb, away
In solitary, unillumined gloom,
Thou holdest high communion with thy God.
His omnipresent pow'r and tender love
Delight thy musing moments, and thy harp
Is richest and most eloquent in praise,
Thy quick perception gladdens in events,
To others hid ; thou knowest sounds and views
Unheard, unnoticed by the grosser-born.
Where'er thy pinions wave, new pleasures rise
Sweet in thy breast, and eye and ear, and all
Thy ravish'd senses wonder and admire.
The music of the spheres is heard by thee,
And angels ne'er may know its richest tones,
Delighting thee;--thou see'st a purer light
In ev'ry beam, than falls on other eyes;
Colours have finer shades than others see,
By thee perceived—and when the thunder speaks
Loud from his midnight throne, thou dost discern
An import and a tone none else may know;
And in the lightning flash thou see'st a glance,
That else who once beholds shall surely die !

Does grandeur call thee? LO! the boundless scene Glows with a living spirit; and thy heart Swells with expanding rapture, high and wild, And unexpress’d, save in thy thrilling song. The aged forest bows his hoary head, In reverence, and waves his trembling arms On high, to hail thy coming to his shades. The mountains loftier lift their lofty heads, And stand like giants guarding the sweet vales Of humble peace, from the demoniac storm. The seas explain to thee their mysteries ; For thee the blue heavens cast their veil aside, And sun, and moon, and stars come near, and show Unto thy favour'd eye their wondrous things. Does novelty attract thee? things more strange Appear in things the strangest, and a power Alike peculiar, wonders in thy sight. The clouds assume all hostile forms, and wage Celestial warfare ; meteors on swift wing Bear to the Prince of Hell tidings of earth : And comets, issuing from the eternal throne To see if earth's iniquity is full, Wave wide the threat’ning sword—the startled sky Shrinks from the horrid light, and pales with fear. Earth listens, motionless, expecting still The thunder of Destruction's chariot wheelsAnd Time throws down his scythe, crushes his glass, And, trembling, waits th' archangel's dooming voice!

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