operation on the feelings of those against whom they are directed. Besides, there must be much disappointment where there are many competitors: excellence is comparative,-the higher the level of mediocrity is raised, the more difficult it is to rise above it.

Whatever are the causes, it is obvious, that where the cultivation of letters prevails so extensively as it does in our own country, the effect will take place; and I cannot, for my own part help feeling for the blighted hopes of many a pure, sensitive, and enthusiastic mind. The modern critic thinks little of these things he takes up the volume of a young author to review, and marks the ambition and the weakness of his victim with a triumphant self-complacency in his own superior knowledge of life, and power of estimating the chances of success. If he is one of the illnatured tribe, he takes occasion to show the dexterity with which he can disentangle faults from the beauties which concealed them from a duller discrimination. If he is a benevolent critic, he thinks he is conferring a kindness, by recommending the writer to desist from the unprofitable pursuit of poetry, what

ever else he may have attempted, for which nature has not adapted him, and to turn his attention to some branch of the common business of life; as if the transition from high hopes of literary excellence to some other object could be as easily accomplished as recommended. He reflects not that there is one mind to which every word that he is penning is a dagger; that, simple as it may seem to him, this lowering of high hopes, this abandonment of cherished schemes, is the destruction of a system of happiness, and involves a total alteration in the moral and intellectual character; and that the failure, which must be inevitable if there is little real merit, is an evil requiring no aggravation from insensibility, dull-sighted kindness, or intentional malignity. The plea, that it is necessary to protect the public from crude works, to save our literature from debasement, and to repress dulness and unfounded pretension, cannot avail much with any man of sense, who is aware that nothing but sterling excellence can permanently support any work in the public opinion; and that, as guardians of our literature from the contamination of what is worthless and

in bad taste, the critics are of very dubious utility.

When a young writer sends his first production into the world, he feels an anxiety so intense as to appear out of all proportion, to cool observers. We should probably find a good deal of the ludicrous in his feelings, could we trace all his reveries of hope; could we see the visions of glory which dawn upon his imagination; could we penetrate into the structures of happiness which he has reared on the fragile basis of future fame; could we mark the agitation which the merest whisper of censure or applause is sufficient to create; the high estimates of self-importance, the gasping of intense interest, the occasional qualms and misgivings when any thing happens to cool the imagination, and the final fall from the sublime heights of hope and confidence, to the level of other people's opinions. In all this, if there is a good deal to be laughed at, there is a great deal to be pitied; and he must have a heart worse than unfeeling, who at such a moment can take a pleasure in demolishing those brilliant illusions, which would fall quite soon enough if left to themselves.

I was indulging in some remarks of this sort a few days ago to our friend B——, who, you know, is of a very cool and sedate temperament, when he surprised me by saying, that he could very well enter into all the feelings of a young author, as he had once experienced them him

self. "When I was a boy of sixteen," he continued, "I used to fancy that I possessed wonderful talents for poetry. I was so pleased with my own verses, that I began to feel the longing after immortality,' the generous desire of imparting in perpetuity to others some of that delight which filled my own breast. I accordingly looked out for some means of appearing in print. A writer in the present age is not under any necessity of remaining unknown for lack of the opportunity of standing at the bar of the public. Every newspaper has a corner dedicated to literature and the muses. It was in one of these that I thought I clearly saw the path to fame. I determined to risk the publication of a few verses in the weekly journal of a neighbouring town, and with this view selected one of my best pieces, and employed three weeks in the arduous task of correction. At length, in my own apprehension, it was

faultless, and I made a fair copy on a sheet of gilt-edged paper. It was one fine evening in autumn, just after sunset, when a few stars had already come out of the sky, and the air was fresh and balmy, that I sallied forth, with my manuscript in my pocket, and my imagination inflated with gorgeous visions of fame, and immense conceptions of my own importance. I looked down with some contempt on several groups of boys, who had protracted their sports till it was almost too dark to continue them; and as I passed through the streets of the town, and cast my eyes into the shops which were lighted up, I could not help feeling pity for men destined to pass their lives in dealing out soap and calico, and contrasting their occupations with the dignity and elegance of my own pursuits. During these feelings and reflections, I reached the office of the printer, and watching my opportunity, when nobody was near, I safely deposited my manuscript in the box designed to receive the favours of correspondents like myself. My heart beat as I heard it drop, and reflected that I had now passed the Rubicon, and must take the consequences. For a moment, I half repented what