loading them as with the weights of peine forte et dure, till they almost cease to breathe; yet still the blockheads and zealots, and even martyrs who have done this, have in the main, if fools, been honest fools, and, therefore, puzzle us the more. Yet passion, fierce, blind and bloody, has even here prevailed, to expel all hope of certainty, all satisfaction of doubts, or the development of mystery; and when I had plunged into controversy, though the dreams of sectaries were laughable, yet their fanaticism was horrible and revolting, and their treatment of one another both indecent and cruel. I pass their burnings for the good of the soul, and the thousand pieces of either nonsense or inanity, which disfigure almost all commentators. But what think you of the language of Calvin to Luther, both engaged in the same sublime and sacred duty, of expounding truth from Scripture? Beast-blockhead -dog-swine!' are the terms he employs, the better to recommend his doctrines. What doctrines can be convincing, so recommended? But then comes Erasmus, the polished, the elegant, the learned; so polished, so elegant (and add, so afraid of losing certain pensions he enjoyed,) that he dreads to speak out! After poring over him, therefore, for a month, you are never the wiser.

"Worse than this; we labour deep among the commentators, and find our foundation only weakened. It is always so, by the attempt to prove too much. Not satisfied with the sufficient evidence we have, we are crammed with farther proofs, both by saints of old and modern bishops, till our reason revolts, and we are in danger of being altogether blinded by too much light. This reminded me of those emphatic verses, of a real and unsophisticated divine, and a wise good man, upon this very subject:—

"Against her foes Religion well defends

Her sacred truths, but often fears her friends.

If learn'd, their pride, if weak, their zeal she dreads:

And their heart's weakness who have the soundest heads.**

Still more I felt the description of the same ex

*Crabbe: The Library

cellent poet, who tells you truly that by divinity we learn

When grieved to pray, when injured to forgive,
And with the world in charity to live.'

"Yet he adds,

"But questions nice, where doubt on doubt arose,
Awaked to war the long-contending foes;
For dubious meanings learn'd polemics strove,
And wars on faith prevented works of love.t'

"This is all too true; and though I preserve my Bible, I have no satisfaction in half the commentators.'

"I am glad, however," said I, "to hear you would preserve the Bible."

"Undoubtedly," returned he, with warmth; "but I would burn nine-tenths of the comments that have been made upon it. For though the Old and New Testaments, in their simplicity, are a blessing to our hearts, yet let the head interfere, in the shape of exposition or disputation, and adieu to satisfaction. Depend upon it, if you go beyond your beautiful prayers, or your confidence in God, as promised by Christ, and seek to know more through the aid of human learning, you will be swamped, and lost past all redemption.”

"I am afraid then," said I, that this part of your studies did not bring you the restoration you sought." "No! nor any other part. Every thing I read only increased my spleen from its eventual delusion, save only the real practical sciences that are the parents of the Arts. Yes! experimental philosophy was always unobscured by doubt or drawback. But this was the only subject that was so:-and my usual fortune attended me there; for I had no taste for it."

"There is surely, however," said I, "something in Moral, as well as in Natural philosophy. What beautiful theories!"

"Yes!" cried he; "and as certain, no doubt, as beautiful. Every tenet proved; every principle of

*Crabbe: The Library,

every sect consistent, uniform, and admitted. Stoics! Platonists! Epicureans! Academicians! O! you have made a shrewd guess!"

"I talk not of their agreement," said I, "but only of the genius and eloquence with which they are recommended."

"Let shallow idlers take delight in this, if they please," said he. "My object was truth, and I could not find it; and though a tolerably honest man when I sat down to it, when I rose up, like Brutus I was ready to exclaim,Oh! Virtue, thou art but a name!'

Here Mr. Yawn looked sourer than ever; so that I was almost afraid to continue the conversation. At length, thinking myself safer than with history, divinity, or philosophy, I ventured to ask if he did not, at least, love the Muses.

"Yes!" he said, "as I once loved women, till I found them false. Their glowing songs on the actions and passions of men, their heroes, their battles, their sufferings, their victories, are all exaggerations of virtue. They are all

Faultless monsters which the world ne'er saw."

• Incre

Never was poor human nature so burlesqued. dulous odi.' Then if you come to other natures, and send me to Milton: was there ever such a failure? But so indeed it ought to be, as a punishment for the presumptuous, the almost blasphemous attempt, to give action and discourse to the Almighty, and to turn angels into generals and soldiers. So much for Epic: and for Elegy, what is it but a whine? what is more drivelling than Pastoral, or more provokingly false than Descriptive? How have I hated green bowers and hills, and dancing in chequered shades, when I have returned from them with my feet wet, and my hair dripping! how hated in verse, the glow of the sun which in England I never see! As for the Spring, and propitious May, and Favonius, and so forth, what are they but mist and vapour? As for Favonius, I should be glad to hear what his most glowing panegyrist would say to him in a high equinoctial; and for the

You

east wind, the mere name shivers my marrow. will tell me to take my eclogues to Italy. It is a long journey; but what should I go for, except to be scorched there by too much sun, or if I find shade, to be stung by snakes, or slimed all over by lizards"

Here my poor friend interrupted himself by a groan proceeding from his gout; which I was almost glad to hear, as it in some measure accounted for the splenetic treasons he had been uttering, and which I saw it would be useless to attempt to refute. I could not help, however, observing, that it was well for poetry, and indeed for literature in general, that he did not indulge in criticism; which, by the way, I said, must have formed at least one source of literary pleasure, though so many had failed.

"No! Sir," he replied, "I was here equally unfor

tunate.

"Critics I saw, that other names deface,

And fix their own with labour in their place.
Their own,
like others, soon their place resign'd,
Or disappear'd, and left the first behind.'

"This is pretty much the account of the noble science of criticism: for noble it is in itself:-but altogether marred in the bringing up.' You are right in thinking it might have been a source of literary pleasure; and it only wanted liberality to be so. But when you see how much ingenuity and learning are thrown away upon the abuse of criticism, from personal vanity, prejudice, or ill-nature, from a barking, discontented disposition like my own, who can enjoy the feast set before him? Is it not lamentable that such a man as Warburton should defile this pure stream with such cart-loads of rubbish, as he has thrown into it; and that his abominable insolence, jealousy and illwill to those he undertakes to judge, should destroy the whole charm which his stores might have shed over their productions. His notes are often Billingsgate, instead of what they ought to have been, the water of Helicon. Can we say much better of Johnson, with all his grandeur, equally prejudiced and therefore equally unjust? As to the periodical critics,

were their fairness equal to their abilities, they might rival Apollo in their power, both of enlightening and pleasing. As it is, enlisted under particular banners, and fettered by prejudice as much as their predecessors, what gratification can a mind really and liberally seeking truth expect to derive from them? Some of them are scholars, ripe and good ones; some, themselves considerable authors. Even about these there are clouds; but to many others, of a lower order, we may apply a character long since given by a man far more capable than I of judging: They are like brokers, who, having no stock of their own, wish to turn a penny by the wares of others.*” ”

Having made no inconsiderable exertion in this conversation, I found my hipped friend relapsing into apathy, and was about to take my leave, when, on rising, I saw the "Black Dwarf" of Sir Walter lying open upon the table, and could not resist hazarding the observations thus prompted.

"O! ho!" said I, "there is at least one class of reading which can delight you still! Nor am I surprised. The dear and ever delightful, though delusive Romance maintains all its rights, I see, over old and young. This at least you will not exclude from the power it has always had to please and excite, whatever our temper of mind or cause for disgust.'

"And do you," said he, "call Scott a writer of Romance? Did I so consider him, I would not read him ; for Romance, whatever it may be to children, is to men mere nonsense. But Sir Walter is too natural for a Romance writer. His characters are real portraits; his descriptions, his situations, his language, his manners, his every scene and sentiment, however extraordinary, are realities: they are the life itself, and as such, may be enjoyed by the driest philosopher, as well as by the warmest imagination. He is the Shakspeare of our times; and as well might you call Shakspeare's scenes (those close pictures of nature,) romances as the works of Sir Walter. In truth, speaking for myself, I never had much imagination. I

*Sir William Temple.