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who may wish to be revered for his goodness, as well as to be admired for his talents in this branch of literature. Without this virtue so necessary to form the character of a good man and a good Critic, the censor will not only incur the contempt of the good, and the hatred of the bad, but will give full reason, for the justice and impartiality of his criticisms deservedly to be impugned. A good Critic should at all times act the part of a just judge; his censures should not be written in blood, as were the laws of Draco of old, but rather, in the true spirit of equity which characterized the milder regulations of Solon, should temper justice with mercy. The noble sentiment of Terence, "Homo sum, humani nil a me alienum puto,' should be ever present to his mind; and he should constantly bear in view, the respect due to all his fellowcreatures from him, not as their censor, but as a man. The Critic will thus command the reverence even of those whom he condemns; and his praises will be received with the more delight and gratitude, because they bear with them the marks of sincerity and truth.

The Critic, though the censor of others, should lay the severest restrictions on his own pen, and should pass the most rigid judgment on his own actions. The caprice of a moment, the slightest portion of rancour or harshness, which may hastily flow from it, will yield sufficient ground to his enemies (for who are there among the great and good that have not enemies?), to deface his fair character, with imputations as frivolous and illfounded as they are foul and malicious. The censor's bearing towards all men, should be as conspicuous for mildness and affability, as his writings for equanimity

and moderation. No arrogance towards his equals, no haughtiness to his inferiors, should leave a stain on the character of the Critic. He should be as averse to resent, in a manner unworthy of his dignity, as he should be to inflict, an injury. Such a man will never fail to command the respect and secure the esteem of all.

But, as Shakspeare finely observes, "men's vices live in brass, their virtues we write in water;" so the bad part of mankind prevail over the good. It is with regret, we must confess, that there are, in the republic of letters, many, too many Critics, who are unworthy of being ranked with Aristotle and Longinus, of Addison and Johnson. There are Critics, whose hearts are full of bitterness and envy; whose minds are puffed up with pride, or sunk with narrow prejudice; who, like the cynic, snarl at all around them; and who are equally indifferent to the fall of friend or foe. Such are the individuals who have thrown a foul stigma on an useful and salutary art; who have covered a multitude of good men with base aspersions which belonged solely to themselves. These have no share in the fame of learning, nor in the more excellent renown of justice and virtue; they spread indeed for a time, their baneful influence, like the mist of the night, but like it, are finally dispelled by the radiant beams of the sun of science and truth. webat bite

Candidus is a Critic endowed with genius, learningy a classical taste, and the soundest judgment. His opinions are regarded as oracles by those who cultivate the art of criticism, and over all of whom he maintains undoubted superiority. Yet this high distinction, has neither altered in any respect the affability of his demeanour,


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nor the equanimity and moderation he constantly displays in his criticisms. He is neither haughty nor arrogant, neither invidious, nor resentful. His renown in the literary world has been gained solely by his own talents, and his own persevering industry; yet he is as remarkable for his modesty, as his learning and his merit. In the judgments which he passes upon those writings which he reviews in the character of a censor, he is ever ready and indefatigable in praising every word that merits commendation; but a censure, though given with decision, is given painfully and reluctantly. The only author, who dreads the censure of Candidus, is the impious scoffer at religion, who disdains every thing that is sacred, and scruples not to profane every thing that is holy. In short, Candidus is the model of a good and great Critic; one, whose deserts are fully equal to his recompense; whose praise is never tainted with flattery, nor his censure with envy; a man who is above all littleness of mind; who unites the talents and the virtues which do honour to the Critic and the man.

Mævius, though possessed of a good understanding, and excellent talents, is a character totally opposite to Candidus. His talents are sullied by rancour and envy, and his judgment is perverted by the prejudices of a little and narrow mind. Mævius makes the science of criticism

wholly subservient to his own secret purposes and designs. The pages of his criticism are defaced by the worst passions that harden the heart, or debase the understanding. In his praise he is actuated by base motives of interest and selfishness, and his censures are a vehicle of rancour and malice. Mævius is, I allow, the terror of GrubVOL. II.


street, and the dread of all the tribe of poetasters that inhabit its garrets; but he is hated by the bad and despised by the good; and must undoubtedly, sooner or later, sink into that state of oblivion from whence he

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Then Memory come, on lyre and spirit breathe,
And with thine emblem flow'rs my temples wreathe.
Few may be those o'er whose dark features steal
Crime's burning stamp, or sad misfortune's seal;
All whom fate regarded with portentous loure ne eswil

Een at their birth, and childhood's playful hours afte gur Mock'd with a sneer, so nipp'd the op'ning flow'r.

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The scenes where Mem❜ry to Remorse gives place.
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Which Mem'ry wafts to me; hail, goddess, hail!ro 3.
Peace on thy wings, and honey in thy smile,

No phantoms haunt thee, and no crimes defile!

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saduro From some bright mountain pours his flood of light, De Straight wreath on wreath adown the neighb'ring height, Rolls the bright veil of nature, till display'd,

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Village and flocks and winding streams are laid
ad oma So oler my raptur'd soul those visions glide,
Dim shades at first, till Mem'ry by my side,
With retrospective art my fancy warms,

And bids the past to glow with Recollection's charms.
From what slight causes, goddess, can thy pow'r
A lasting pleasure draw! a kiss, a flow'r,
A look of love from eyes unsunk by care,
Stamp'd on the heart, will live for ever there!
Then in soft melancholy's twilight hour,
Seek the lone grot, or overhanging bow'r,
Nor let ambition in your thoughts be found,
A bright allurer, and an empty sound.

Thence o'er th' Atlantic borne on Mem'ry's wing,
Roam to the lands where spicy forests fling
Unceasing odours to eternal spring.


K. L.

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It was on a fine evening at that period when Sylla, after a series of sharp contests and the most wily intrigues, was considered to be on the point of entering Rome in triumph for the last time, that two persons of the Marian faction, which was now rapidly decaying, were walking together at a quick pace from the forum, towards the Tiber. The quiet, firm, and yet sorrowful,

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manner, and the plain and soldier-like dress, of the elder of these two, formed a striking contrast with the studied and perfumed eloquence which shone over the person of the younger, and with his agitated and unequal gait. The first seemed about forty years old, and one who from

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