which appeared about the end of the eighteenth century, to rouse these slumbering faculties, and seize this long neglected means of power.

For all these great spirits were born superstitious, in the midst of a most practical age. And while those around were busily coining the heart of the hills, hewing forests into cities, or brandishing the scythes of war over armies of their brethren, poets offered a united, earnest cry to heaven for the descent of Truth. For they felt that mere intellect, whether occupied with the laws of matter or the essence of Power, could never attain it. For mind is slave to the will and all its associate impulses; and to establish her as the only authority for faith is to place the sceptre on the throne, or send the falchion forth to battle.

So the poets' hearts were fields of strife, where faith and reason fought for mastery. But the poets did not wait for the result; they penned the struggle while it was taking place, and sent forth "Thoughts that breathe and words that burn," for their fellow men. And in the contest they soon learned to act upon a new principle, previously unknown in the world of mind.

Our early poets valued truth, and strove to represent it. They observed the world without and the world within, and figured them through Imagination as they are. The decorations of fancy and the glow of thought were only valuable to them as they subserved the one great end of bringing before the mind what they believed to be truth. Hence these poets were consistent, each with himself. But the tendency of the "Onward flowing tide of time" was to sever poetry from life; and as life became more real, less poetical, poetry was driven to the opposite extreme, and became more abstract, less practical. This tendency facilitated the adoption of their new principle by the poets of the last age.

This principle was that a striking thought, or an exquisite metaphor, should have a value for its own sake. A train of reasoning was precious among these authors for its own glow and ingenuity, not for the result at which it arrived. A beautiful image was loved for its beauty, not for the meaning which it shadowed. Hence consistency was not an object with these writers. They would set forth any principles, for not the principles, but the forms in which they were presented, were of importance.

This, however, was only the first excess of the spirit of rebellion. In opposing one extreme, men are ever prone to reach the opposite; but Truth always vindicates her omnipotence in the end. This spirit died away in one generation; and the poetry of the present age shows the benefit which it bequeathed to us.

We may safely name Alfred Tennyson as the representative of contemporary poetry. For we find in him much that is good from the last age, without the evil which then was inseparable from it. The influence of faith upon his writings is to be traced in every page; and a mind which can sympathize with its operations will find there lines conveying each a volume of thought and feeling. A single example will convey my meaning better than any description; and one line from "The May Queen" is selected, because few passages even in his poetry are at once so simple and so suggestive. It is that in which the dying girl speaks of the clergyman who " Told her words of peace," and says—

"He shewed me all the mercy, for he taught me all the sin."

66

May the Poet live long to give us works of still greater power, and meet at last with the reward of those "True hearts" which are more than coronets," and that "simple faith" which is better "than Norman blood."

The realization of something above the realms of the understanding, and the awakening of simple humility in the proud heart of a practical age, is, then, the true mission of modern Poetry.

T.

The Critic.

Ir is often adduced as an admirable economic arrangement of Nature, that the lower orders of animals prey upon each other. It is supposed that to the irrational creature death by old age, or long-continued life, would be less desirable than suddenly to fall a victim to the rapacity of his superior in cunning or strength. This condition of things may illustrate the notions entertained by some respecting the "Nature and Uses" of Critics. They are looked upon as men who live by devouring the fruits of others' toil, while they themselves, like Pharaoh's "lean kine," continue ever" ill-favored as at the beginning."

This picture, so derogatory to a class of literary men, would be unworthy a moment's attention, but for the fact that there are both true and false Critics. The latter may be properly characterized as rapacious animals-Literary Harpies. The elements of character which more especially pertain to them in the discharge of their office are three: ignorance, pride and malice. Ignorance appears in their selecting only the worst

passages of an author for particular criticism, and dispensing vague generalities to the rest; their pride in professing to judge with authority where they are in no respect qualified to do so; and their malice in substituting sarcasm and raillery for judicious censure and appreciative commendation, and in assailing the author himself instead of that which he has written. There are such as these who profess to criticise-unfortunately there are also works which deserve to fall into no better hands.

We turn to the true Critic; what are the elements of his character ? and what his position in the system of literary action ?-The true Critic is a philosopher. Take Newton as a specimen of this class; upon what rests his claim to the title of philosopher? He surveyed the phenomena of Nature, and from their various forms, carefully distinguishing the accidental from the necessary, he deduced the laws of the material world The Critic has spread before him phenomena of mind; his world is found on written pages-a wonderful creation-and from them, like Newton, he derives the laws of thought, distinguishing fitful irregularities from the steady course of connected logic, discerning the attracting forces by which one thought depends upon another, and searching out the method by which clearness, beauty, and strength are given to the offspring of creating mind. He is a philosopher, then, in that he reasons by induction from given phenomena. The whole "universe," as has been sublimely said, "is a thought of God." Newton traced out that thought-discovered its mode of expression. Literature is emphatically the thought of man, and the true Critic, instead of blindly following the rules of others, traces this thought for himself, and evolves from it the true laws of mental expression.

Again, the true Critic is a lover of the ideal perfect. Criticism is a work of comparison. The pseudo-critic compares, so far as he does so at all, with some external model; the true Critic compares with an ideal in his own imagination, formed not from one excellent model only, but from all. Human nature being imperfect, more imperfect than physical nature, no single production embodies a perfect ideal, but the critical mind catches the hint contained in each, and with avidity treasures up the impressions, till a whole is formed, distinct, true, beautiful. Thus, acquaintance with literature makes the impressions; love for the perfect fixes the pattern rightly, and objects of criticism please or displease, according as they fit this exquisite mould.

The true Critic is also a sympathizer with human nature. Literature embraces within itself almost all human experience. Not only are the subjects of thought and writing as extensive as human nature, but its

modifying forces are found in all the infinitely varied circumstances and passions of life. He, whose theme is the wrongs over which his heart bleeds, must not be judged with the same feelings as he who writes because "a thing of beauty" dwells in his mind and longs for expression. How can a single mind be expected to appreciate alike the dry discussions of prose, and the impassioned lyrics of poetry? No man needs the ability to place himself in another's stead like the Critic; for his object is not to reduce all writing to one standard, but to show how, with a given subject and circumstances, it is proper to give utterance to thought. He sighs with the lover—raves with the madman-soars with the inspired enthusiast; weeps with the sorrow-stricken, and laughs with the jester. Varieties of character he not only recognizes but sympathizes with, as placing him in the only proper position to criticise.

The true Critic is also a man of invention. Genius and Taste, it is often said, do not necessarily coexist. True, they do not in the same measure; we can appreciate and enjoy, without being able to create : nevertheless, some degree of invention is a natural consequent upon taste or knowledge. Franklin could not make a thunder storm, though he had discovered what lightning is; yet he could charge a single jar, and as much as this was expected in proof of his discovery. Moreover that man is not qualified to judge of another's actions, who has no correct idea of what is required to perform them. What are his opinions worth upon painting, who knows nothing of the art? How can he who never wrote a line of poetry estimate the worth of "Paradise Lost!" He may notice grammatical constructions; see the beauty of imagery; but he can never feel the value of the work, till he is sensible of what it costs to produce it. So in the case of worthless productions, the clear conception of the need of improvement can in no way be obtained as by experience, invention. More than all, by this characteristic the true Critic maintains a sympathy with genius such as none but a genius can have. 'Tis true that " he who fully understands an author is next to him," and equally so that he who properly criticises an author is equal to him— equal not in knowledge perhaps, but in talent, in genius.

We may add that the true Critic is a man of great knowledge. To criticise without a knowledge of the subject is mockery: to criticise without such an acquaintance with Literature, Nature, Science, Art, and History as would enable one fully to understand the imagery and allusions, is, to say the least, a very limited exercise of the art. A vast store of knowledge, then, belongs to the Critic; yet while he passes judgment on the work of others, is he modest in his own pretensions? From the

nature of his office, he cannot be so thoroughly conversant with particular subjects as those whom he criticises. Facts he learns; thought and its expression pass under his judicial scrutiny. In his official capacity he has to do with laws of thought, not laws of matter; modes of conception, not objective realities; and to fit him for this work is the tendency of those characteristics which we have now enumerated. Difficult is it to find such a real Critic, and only with a high conception of his duties will there be preparation to discharge them.

The position of the Critic is as exalted as his duties are arduous. He is the Chief Justice in the judiciary of Literature. Before his tribunal are summoned the productions of the past and present. The rule of judgment is the proper relation between truth and thought; between truth in the world and truth in words: the consequences of the decision affect the purity of language, and the growth of genius. Where would be law without a court to interpret and apply it? Where would be literature without a body of men to study and maintain it in its purity? Men think and write carelessly, forgetting and violating the most sacred laws of mental expression, and there must be some authority to call them to account for it.

But to encourage and guide Genius is the noblest prerogative of the Critic. Genius is often wayward and extravagant, but it is sensitive, and tractable to those who have a right to attempt managing it. Its first productions are not always chastened to a high degree of purity, and the stupid would-be-critic sees nothing but the smoke of enthusiasm and vanity. Not so the real Critic. He detects the impress of the soul which fails not to leave its stamp on its every creation. A single passage is sufficient to convince his appreciative mind that the fire of genius glows in the breast of the author. And why? Because the rules of his art relate not merely to external forms, but to living mental realities; because he detects something, though it be small, which fits his own ideal; because he has a sympathy with mind, and feels its every movement. Many a genius has writhed and withered; stung to madness by those who trampled under their feet the unpolished gems from a Divine mine. Some have even died because their power of endurance was so disproportionate to their power of thought. But he only has a right to adopt the profession of a Critic who is in himself all that we mean by genius, and genius with electric sympathy discovers its own kindred. Again, the real Critic not only discovers and encourages, but guides literary genius. This is not as intractable as is sometimes represented; it will not patiently follow where it ought to lead, nor obey when it