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The comparison made by Horace, of poetry to a picture, will, I think, hold good with regard to every literary composition: there are many works which, though of no intrinsic merit, have, from one or two happy expressions, well adapted to the caprice of the times, caught at the moment the aura popularis, and obtained for the author undeserved rewards.

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These, however, as their merit is built on no solid foundation, have never been found able to bear the brunt of critical investigation, but have soon met with the neglect which they deserve, when, after a closer inspection, their faults have been detected, and their follies exposed. If, then, such an unusual share of praise is given to those who least deserve it, what portion of admiration ought we to bestow on those whose works, instead of affording us a temporary pleasure, are a perpetual source of entertainment and instruction; the frequent perusal of which, instead of leading us to detect faults, only compels us to discover new beauties. Perhaps, among the many authors whose works are held up to the admiration of mankind, and whose names shine conspicuously in the annals of the world, I cannot do better than select Homer for example, whose works, as being the first and greatest of the kind, have always been considered as the standard of poetry. I do not here intend to enter into any general dissertation upon the merits or demerits of Homer; such an attempt would be

useless, since his works have so long stood all the brunt of inquiry, and caprice of criticism, and have raised for him a monument which neither time nor envy have been able to destroy. Critics, indeed, content themselves with directing their ingenuity towards the discovery of new beauties, which had hitherto escaped their observation. I think it may be acknowledged, without risking the imputation of any wish to detract from the merits of Homer, that he is, perhaps, indebted to this ingenuity for some beauties he did not intend. If, however, we acknowledge this, it is, perhaps, the part of the candour we owe him, to suppose that some beauties are still unnoticed which he did intend. Many are the verses whieh, from time to time, have been pointed out to us as peculiarly demanding our admiration, some, as excelling in the perspicuity and beauty of the composition, and others, as enabling the reader, by the rhythm of the line, to form some idea of the action they are intended to record. It is needless to repeat all these verses, and I am sure the reader will excuse me this omission, as I have no doubt that he is acquainted with them. There is one, however, which, though apparently of no great merit, is altogether undeserving of the neglect with which it in general meets. · This verse, allow, does not possess any of the extraordinary qualities of the verses to which I have alluded, nor is it so remarkable for the loftiness of idea, as it is for its sim plicity, the reader will probably imagine that I allude to the well-known line

و . .

- Τον ' άπαμειβόμενος προσέφη” –κ. τ. λ.

(I have purposely forborn filling it up, as I thought it best to leave that to the reader.). Could any thing be more simple, and, at the same time, more elegant? Could any thing be better adapted to enhance the reader's estimation, and awaken his attention? Here an interest is excited, our expectations are roused : we look forward with eagerness to the answer of the hero who takes his place at the end of the verse, while we are amused with the pleasing variety of a zódas axus 'Αχιλλεύς, or a κορυδαίολος “Έκτωρ. Νor is this verse only calculated to give pleasure to those who take delight in reading Homer ; but others also, who look upon the obligation to read it as a trouble, rather than a source of instruction and amusement. Where is the individual, who, being compelled to toil through thirty or forty verses, and endeavouring to understand, with the assistance of a lexicon, the meaning and derivation of the words, has not received some little pleasure on meeting with this line as with an old friend? But there is another merit which this verse possesses, and in which no other line, I think, will bear comparison with it; I mean the peculiar manner in which it is adapted to every hero in the poem. Would it not (if I may be allowed to make the comparison) baffle the art of a Stultz, or a Pulford, were they to attempt to make a coat which might fit men of different sizes? Yet, the poet has in the most masterly manner, by one single effusion of genius, rendered it conformable to the size and quality of every hero. And we see the worúuntis 'Oduoriùs agreeing as well in point of rhythm as the great Τελαμώνιος "Αιας. Having gone thus far in my observations upon the merits of this verse, it would perhaps be unjust to omit observing, that the heroes of the poem are not the only persons qualified to answer the rhythm, nor have mortals the sole right to this verse, but immortals have an equal right, and the νεφεληγερέτα Ζευς or λευκώλενος “Ήρη, shine as conspicuously, and excite as much interest as the greatest heroes in the poem. Indeed, both Greeks and Trojans, Gods and Goddesses, take their place here with equal facility, and without any rivalry in beauty.


I.-A View from Glen Aber.
Between yon rocks, that wave with many a tree,
Burst the wild waters of the boundless sea,
And dash the billows in the sunbeam's smile
Round the black cliffs of Seiriol's lonely isle.
The distant roar, as bounds the breeze away,
The shadowy sails that flit along the bay,
And yon clear sky, that spreads its azure plain,
And beams in glory o'er the sparkling main,
All speak of joy, and rapt the spirit springs,
And soars in freedom on the morning's wings.



Dark roll the waves--yet on the horizon's verge
What line of brightness gilds the living surge!
What tints that shame the rainbow's every dye,
Blend all in one the ocean and the sky !
He comes : the sun, amid the ruddy dawn,
And man has liv'd to hail another morn.
Fast fly the shades, and hill and vale and stream
Burst into glory with the gladdening beam ;
While from yon rock, far beetling o'er the bay,
The eagle soars to meet the god of day.



Fuit vivis quæ cura

eadem sequitur tellure repôstos.

As I lay awake the other night, I found it impossible to turn my attention from the publication of “ The Eton Miscellany." I turned from one side to the other, and back again, with equal inutility; I tried to compose myself to sleep, by resorting to all the usual methods; I shut my eyes, and endeavoured to count the waves of the sea, but could think of nothing but the metaphorical launch. I endeavoured to repeat verses—I could think of nothing but the motto of “The Eton Miscellany." I endeavoured to count-I could not get beyond the number of copies. I soon gave it up in despair, and, par conséquence, in five minutes I fell asleep. As I had been considering what my defunct predecessor, Peregrine Courtenay and his merry colleagues would think of my presumption in setting up another periodical while their own laurels were yet green, it was but natural that my waking thoughts should still pursue me in my dreams; indeed, it would have been incredibly incorrect, and contrary to all the unities of Aristotle, if they had not. To cut the matter short, I had one of those convenient dreams, so common in books, and so rare in bed, the substance of which I shall shortly relate to my readers.

I saw a little, hale, active old man, with wings on


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