But they who read to talk, and to dictate the tone of fashion, are not the persons who have an intrinsic pleasure in reading; or who regard as the test of merit that to which the unsophisticated bosom is simply responsive. The general reader, when he has an opinion of his own, which induces him to sympathise in private with one work, yet awed by the popular cry, joins in public the clamorous praises which are heaped upon another. It seldom therefore happens that the noisy notice of the public voice is built upon the true criterion.

All the sublime and beautiful sights and sounds of external Nature connect themselves with the spiritual world within us, in a manner which can only be traced by a poet. When «< the Curfew tolls,» GRAY has shewn what deep and tender moral visions it lights up in an inspired brain, endowed with such mental qualities as his! The service, which the communication of those visions has done to our moral and intellectual nature, is too extensive, too permanent, too ameliorating, and too forcible to be expressed by adequate language. While it refines the understanding, it at once softens and exalts the heart; and while it reminds us of our frail and sorrowful existence, it reconciles and consoles us by the equal sympathy which it awakens for every condition. Yet how tame must it appear to those

who are accustomed to the glare or the affectation of modern productions! He, who has not a sufficient apprehension of « the ministers of human fate» and of the helpless destiny of mortals, is an hardened and dangerous member of society: and the poet who can touch him with his wand, and make water rush from the flinty rock of his bosom, is a potent and healing ma gician! But the scintillations of false wit will play upon him unfelt; and the stroke of the false rod will be repelled with scorn. Or rather perhaps they will encourage him in the favourite maxim, that all sentiment, and all morals, are affectation and hypocrisy.

Such are the effects of true poetry: and such, of that which is factitious. Corrupt or tasteless Criticism always cherishes the latter. The best chance of purification arises from extending the comparison, and examining the standards of all ages. Moral science always dwells on the same truths; and the heart always clings to the same affections. He who pretends to discover new images of sublimity or beauty, or new subjects of passion, is a charlatan. From the times of the Greeks and Romans, nothing which has been written on a different principle of composition, and in a different taste, from theirs, has ever long retained its reputation. The Romantic and the Chivalrous, which arose out of the dark ages,

is no exception to this. What is excellent in this line, still depends on the same principle: what is peculiar, is adscititious: an excressence, which for the most part might be separated without detracting from the value of the production.

Sterility of natural power catches at these peculiarities as substitutes for its deficiencies. By such knotted and gnarled protuberances it hopes to fix the attention: and trusts to impose on the undiscerning reader nodosity (*) for strength.

The lights and shades of morals, the movements of the heart, and the appearances of nature, are so diversified, that the subject, which they afford for notice and description, will never be exhausted. It is not necessary therefore to resort to extravagance, or buffoonery, or tinsel glitter, to attract attention.

Nearly the same observations may be applied to the manner of writing history and biography, as of poetry. The same artifices are now resorted to, for the purpose of exciting notice. Men who have not thought, or read, or examined, undertake to write; and to supply by tawdry crudities their want of sterling materials, and their defect of reasoning, reflection, and simple and eloquent sentiment.

(*) See Boswell's record of Burke's inimitable distinction between Johnson's strength and Herbert Croft's empty imitation of his grandiloquous style.

Our ancestors surely knew the human character as well as we do; and drew it at least with equal distinctness and force. It is pretended that they did not equally understand the legitimate principles of government; nor judge of political arrangements with the same enlightened and sound views. But this is the mere assumption of conceited ignorance, which forms its conclusions from its own short-sightedness; and then denies the existence of all beyond its ken. All the just arguments in favour of Freedom are to be found in the works of the Learned of former days at least as well and as boldly urged, as they are now: but they were not, as at present, mixed up with so many (if any) low, stupid, flagitious and Satanic materials, as lead only to rebellion, and anarchy; as poison the minds of the uneducated, who have not been taught to distinguish truth from sophistry; and lead astray the weak reason of those, whom it is the duty of wisdom and virtue to reconcile to the humble station, in which Providence has placed them.

Familiarity with the literature of past ages has this additional advantage; that we examine authors with less passion. We are free from the prejudices and intrigues which influence our judgment of cotemporaries. Our reason therefore, and our taste, are calm and impartial. The halo also of momentary fashion with regard to opinions,

****

as well as authors, has ceased. All that is said must stand or fall by its native and intrinsic merit or demerit. All false meteors have then ran their course; and sunk behind the wave of obli

vion.

It may be doubted, if an author of great genius, who has a morbid sensibility to the capricious opinions of an unjust and misled Public, would not do well to refrain in the strictest manner from all intercourse with cotemporary literature, and content himself with the treasures of the Dead.

He would gain much by this forbearance; and surely it is not uncandid to say that he would lose but little. If the fire had purged away the major part of the poetry of the present Century, would it be any loss? If nine tenths of modern criticism were sunk beneath the sea, would it not be a good? If almost all the politics, which have been written since the death of Burke, were annihilated, would not the world be relieved of pestilent and poisonous nonsense? Out of the department of Poetry and Fable, Malthus and Sismondi, and a very few others, may be allowed to instruct and enlighten the world: but the mob of modern writers, who are in fashion, are indubitable charlatans, whose works will probably go long before them to the grave. We have in Britain scarcely a living moralist;

and I know