Criticism is like champaign, nothing more ex crable if bad, nothing more excellent if good; if meager, muddy, vapid, and sour, both are fit only to engender colic and wind; but if rich, generous, and sparkling, they communicate a genial glow to the spirits, improve the taste, expand the heart, and are worthy of being introduced at the symposium of the gods. In the whole range of literature, nothing is more entertaining, and I might add, more instructive, than sound and legitimate criticism, the disinterested convictions of a man of sensibility, who enters rather into the spirit, than

readily swallow them down as they could wish, presently heaven engages in the cause! Thus the immaculate conception was established by a revelation; as was purgatory, transubstantiation, auricular confession, &c. And by this means also, the reputation of their several orders has been raised; the credit of their images kept up; and image-worship introduced and supported.

For the same purpose, they have recourse to miracles.The legends of their saints abound with stories of prodigious things: some of which are ludicrous; as their St. Swithin's making whole a basket full of eggs, by the sign of the cross; Patricius making the stolen sheep bleat in the thief's belly after he had eaten it; their St. Bridget's bacon, which in great charity she gave to a hungry dog, and was, after the dog had eaten it, restored again in her kettle. Of the like nature is their story of St. Dunstan, who took the devil by the nose with his tongs, till he made him roar; Dominicus made him hold the candle till he burnt his fingers; Lapus imprisoned the devil in a pot all night; a consecrated host being put into a hive of bees, to cure them of the murrain, was so devoutly entertained, that the bees built a chapel in the hive, with steeple and bells; erected an altar, and laid the host upon it, and sung their canoni. cal hours like monks in a cloister.-Vid. Bennet against Popery.

*I suspect an error here-the bees built the chapel, but the drones performed mass.

the letter of his author, who can follow him to the height of his compass, and while he sympathizes

with every brilliant power, and genuine passion of

It

the poet, is not so far carried out of himself as to indulge his admiration at the expense of his judgment, but who can afford us the double pleasure of being first pleased with his author, and secondly with himself, for having given us such just and incontrovertible reasons for our approbation. When death deprived the house of commons of the talents of Charles Fox, I conceive he did not leave behind him a more elegant classic in all that enlightened body. I once heard him say, that he was so idle at Eton, that he verily believed he should have made but little comparative progress in the Greek language, had it not been for the intense pleasure he received on his first taking up Longinus. was lucky for me,' he would say, 'that I did not then know where to procure an English translation, and I never quitted him until I could read him with such facility as to derive more pleasure from his remarks upon Homer, than from the poet himself.' On mentioning this circumstance to an old Etonian, he confirmed it by the following anecdote: he said that on one occasion, by a wilful kind of mistake, Fox took his favourite Longinus, a book above his class, into the school-room, and it happened rather unluckily, that he was called upon to go through a portion of some other author appropriated to that day; he was not a little puzzled, and the master perceived his embarrassment-What book have you got there, sir?' said he'; 'hand it to me.' On perceiving that it was a Greek copy of Longinus, 'Sir,' said the master, 'I shall punish you severely for having neglected to bring the right book, unless

you can immediately construe and parsnis page in the author you have thought proper o choose for yourself,' picking out at the same time one of the most difficult passages in the volume. The man was never less at loss in answering Pitt, than was the boy on this occasion, in accepting the challenge of the master, to the astonishment of whom, no less than of his school-fellows, he accomplished off-hand the task imposed npon him, rendering the passage into English, not at all unworthy of the eloquence of the original, 'Who was himself the great sublime he drew.' But, to revert to the subject, criticism written in the style of Longinus, must ever be extremely rare, until great genius be extremely common. There is indeed another kind of criticism, which will never be rare, because it requires only labour and attention; I mean that which is principally confined to dates, facts, chronologies, niceties of grammar, and quantities of prosody; a criticism conversant with words, rather than things, and with the letter, rather than the spirit. A style of criticism, like that of him who, when all the world were enraptured by a Ceres of Raphael, discovered that the knot in the wheatsheaf was not tied as a reaper would have tied it. To be a mere verbal critic, is what no man of genius would be, if he could; but to be a critic of true taste and feeling, is what no man without genius could be, if he would. Could Johnson have had less prejudice, Addison more profundity, or Dryden more time, they would have been well qualified for the arduous office of a critic. rials for a good critic, might be found in the three, since each had many of the requisites, but neither of them all. As to the three great names of

Mate

Bentley, Porson, and Parr, they came nearer to our purpose, but have not fully accomplished all that we want Bentley united two things that were very incompatible, dogmatism and whim, and was at the same time both conjectural and dictatorial; he often substituted creation for correction, invented where he ought rather to have investigated, and gave us what he conceived his author should have said, rather than what he did say. Porson was too cold and costive in his approbation. and too microscopical in his views, for the perfect critic, being more occupied about the syllables, than the sense, with the counters of knowledge, rather than knowledge itself. His temper, too, was not sufficiently placid for his mission, which required more patience than that of Job, and more meekness than that of Moses. He was too apt not only to quit the game, but to do so in order to worry some mongrels of his own pack, who were at fault from having overrun the scent. He took his Greek, as some persons take their snuff, that is, he not only stuffed his head with it almost to suffocation, but his pockets as well,* and not

* Porson was once travelling in a stage-coach, when a young Oxonian, fresh from college, was amusing the ladies with a variety of talk, and, amongst other things, with a quotation, as he said, from Sophocles. A Greek quota tion, and in a coach too! roused our slumbering professor from a kind of dog-sleep, in a snug corner of the vehicle; -shaking his ears and rubbing his eyes,' I think, young gentleman,' said he, 'you favoured us just now with a quotation from Sophocles; I do not happen to recollect it there.' 'Oh, sir,' replied our tyro, the quotation is word for word as I have repeated it, and in Sophocles, too; but I suspect, sir, it is some time since you were at college,' The professor, applying his hand to his greatcoat, and taking out a small pocket edition of Sophocles, quietly asked

without occasionally bespattering his neighbours with the superfluity. As to Doctor Parr, fortu

him if he would be kind enough to show him the passage in question, in that little book. After rummaging the pages for some time, he replied: Upon second thoughts, I now recollect that the passage is in Euripides.' Then perhaps, sir,' said the professor, putting his hand into his pocket, and handing him a similar edition of Euripides, you will be so good as to find it for me, in that little book.' The young Oxonian returned again to his task, but with no better success, muttering, however, to himself, Curse me if ever 1 quote Greek again in a coach. The tittering of the ladies informed him that he was got into a hobble. At last, 'Bless me, sir,' said he, how dull I am; I recollect now, yes, yes, I perfectly remember that the passage is in Eschylus.' The inexorable professor returned again to his inexhaustible pocket, and was in the act of handing him an Eschylus, when our astonished freshman vociferated: 'Stop the coach-halloa, coachman, let me out, I say, instantly—let me out! there's a fellow here has got the whole Bodleian library in his pocket; let me out, I say-let me out; he must be Porson or the devil!'

I wish to make some observations on anecdotes, and I think I may as well take this opportunity as another. Imprimis, I am not so particular about their originality, as their application. If an anecdote comes across my mind, which tends to the support of any argument or proposition I am advancing, I hesitate not to adduce it. There are no anecdotes in these pages that will be new to all my readers, and perhaps there are none but may be new to some of them. Those to whom any anecdote is old, will not be offended, if it be well applied; and those to whom it may be new, will receive the double pleasure of novelty and of illustration. In fact, there are only two modes by which an anecdote can be perfectly original; the parties who relate it, must either have heard it from, or made it for the prin cipals. Anecdotes, like the air, are private property only so long as they are kept in; the instant the one is told, or the other liberated, they are common stock. But the prin cipal reason that has induced me to intersperse these pages with anecdotes, is to tempt young minds to a higher and more intellectual kind of reading. If they read a book on such subjects as mine, they must think, at least, before they