cannot be denied that the critic himself and his opinions, often form the main point of interest, and that the author is comparatively uninteresting; when it is not so, the critic is often depended upon to excite for the author an interest, which is to cease with the remembrance of the former. The sympathies are with the critic, not with the author. Besides this, reviews treat mostly of what is passing; the attention of the review reader is, therefore, in a great degree confined to that. Hence we have, in many of those who are thought to be acquainted with literature, a love for excitement, dependent on what is conventional and present, rather than a permanent interest resulting from broad and well grounded views.

It is certain that he who aims not merely to understand, but vigorously to apprehend, and distinctly to appreciate the work before him, will wish, in matters of opinion, to banish all thoughts of the critic, as an unwelcome intruder, however excellent in his kind, between himself and the author.

In order that a man may thus become a critic for himself, he should seek to excite in himself a love of literature for its own sake, in opposition both to a mere love of entertainment and to mere indifference. For here, it is eminently true that unless a man loves he cannot understand. But then that love must be liberal and discriminating; it must be a love which will carry one through the difficulties of the way. But for these qualities a mere love of entertainment is least remarkable, devouring indiscriminately what is often least valuable, and blindly rejecting the rest.

It deserves to be considered, whether this has not been too much the spirit of the readers of poetry. The maxim, that “it is the office of the poet to please, not to instruct," ought not to be taken thus absolutely. It is indeed "sweetly uttered knowledge,' which the poet imparts, but is it the less knowledge? It is not indeed knowledge systematized, but not the less real knowledge of the human heart in all its relations.

But the great obstacle to be removed, is an indifference which leads to desultory reading. We refer especially to an indifference to merits. Fault-finding we have enough; while of merits there is often a comparatively languid appreciation. A very low mind and small abilities may be equal to the former; the latter demands a mind liberal and vigorous.

In order to remove this indifference, there must be a love of literature for its own sake. This will animate the mind with a liberal zeal, and, at the same time, will supersede the love of mere entertainment.

Let him who would feel such a love, endeavor to obtain some notion of literature as it is. In order to this let him acquaint himself with its history. Let him view it as the offspring of the human mind in all ages, wrought up to its divinest energy; as that which embodies in itself thoughts of power and images of beauty; as a

purifier and refiner of the human feelings. Let him consider it also, with direct reference to his own mind and heart. For this end, he should place himself on the broad ground of our common humanity, in distinction from any prejudice, or conventional mode of thinking. Viewing himself as a man, and as such recognizing the mind and the human feelings within his own breast, let him look upon literature, as the glorious expression of what is kindred to those, and as such demanding his sympathy. By this habit of constant reference to his own mind, he will acquire in literature, a permanent interest. Distinctly conscious of the mind within his own breast, he will welcome mind wherever he meets it: recognizing the feelings of his own heart, he will go forth in sympathy with those of another; feeling within himself a love of the beautiful, he will stand ready to admire and value its objects. Unless a man cultivates such habits, so that he shall have a warm and living interest in ascertaining literary worth, he cannot be a critic. He will not seek out merits which he has not some interest in finding. If, on the other hand, a man have this habit of immediate reference to his own mind, he will not only have such an interest, but will also have placed himself in the only right point of view to judge of any literary production. He will not be guided by a set of rules which are in a manner foreign to the mind; nor will his criticism be expressed in phrases which are unmeaning, or the meaning of which he has never asked himself. It will be the faithful exhibition of the warm impressions upon a mind rightly prepared to receive them. How the mind is to be thus prepared is another question. The attitude which it should take we have stated; but to assume this it is not qualified at once, and with regard to every work. Obviously it must be enlightened by knowledge of the various departments of literature, that it may judge accurately of any one. Yet this is not all that is demanded of it. In order to judge of the intrinsic merits of any literary production, there must be an exercise of powers like those which originated it. The mind must be trained distinctly, and by itself, for this end. Otherwise, it cannot form any conception of those powers, much less can it known how to value their productions. In proportion also as the latter are of a high order, must be the activity to which feebler powers must be aroused to apprehend them. While this is true with respect to every kind of writing, its necessity is more distinctly seen in reading the works of the poet. For the powers there demanded are less in daily use. The reader must, in a certain sense, be himself a poet, in order to be a critic of poetry. Otherwise, he cannot sympathize with the author, and cannot judge of him at all. For, we repeat it, it is by a direct reference to our own minds, as appealed to by the mind of another, that we must judge of literary worth.

Thus to qualify and attune the mind, is indeed a task. The necessity, however, is plain. We may now, also understand how it is

that a man may with ease equal the critic whom he reads, and then flatter himself into the belief that he has compassed the author whom he has not the vigor and habits of mind necessary to appreciate. For want of them, the opinions of the critic will be either forgotten, or vaguely remembered or applied. In either case the mind will have gained a feeling of undue self-importance.

It may seem audacious to approach in the manner we have attempted to describe, the works of those to whom we have been wont to look up with implicit reverence. But no one, we think, will be more humble in his own eyes, than he who has tried and found how hard it is to attempt fully to comprehend when fairly set before him, that which another wrought out from unshaped materials. Nor will his admiration be the less, because he sees that it is well grounded; while by a habit of raising himself to cope with great minds, he will be enabled to see in their true light, and to approach with an air of just superiority those which are inferior.

We have thus attempted to show some of the preparations of mind and spirit, for the office of criticism. But there must also be

a strict and severe judgment, to exercise over the mind a constant supervision, and to keep it from partaking of the unsoundness of those with which it comes in contact, as well as a sensibility to their merits.

It has not been our object to dwell upon the particular points of criticism. There is one which will be found to include almost all others, and which has been already implied. We have spoken of literature as the means of correspondence between mind and mind. Of course, by far the most important point of criticism will be to study the mind and spirit of the author in his works. Much may be learned, in this way, that shall fix a lasting communion between ourselves and the author who is worthy of such intimacy. And further, by laying bare the shaping and moving spirit of that which is presented to us, and by ascertaining the precise attitude of the author with respect to his work, we shall be enabled to see more distinctly what are merits and defects, because we shall know whither to refer them. By this means, even the minutest peculiarities may be marked; that which is artificial, may be distinguished from that which is genuine; style may be clearly characterized, and the whole work will be set before us in two-fold clearness, and with two-fold interest.

If literature is worth any thing, it is worth such study and such exertions, on the part of every one. He who studies it in this way, will not view the books which meet his eye with a languid and feeble interest; nor as so many subjects for examination, which are afterwards to be set aside, as a sort of explained phenomena. He will study their merits in order to welcome and appropriate them to himself, as the fruits of kindred minds. The wise and the good of all ages will thus become his friends and companions.

G.

TRUMBULL GALLERY.

WASHINGTON ON THE BANKS OF THE DELAWARE.

'Tis well to gaze upon thee, glorious chief:
There is instruction with thee. There's no brief
Or fleeting lesson traced on thy calm brow.
A nation's love is thine. Her prayer is now
Uprising for thy weal. A nation's life

Is trusted to thy care; and calls thee to the strife.
The mother leaneth on her well tried son

And finds thee never wanting, Washington.

The angry waters leap and roar below.

Danger is on the air-sounds of the mighty foe-
Wildness is all around thee. The scathed oak,
Rent rock-earth ploughed by the death wing'd stroke,
Wind-shriek, storm-gloom, death-chill.

Thou art alone unmoved. Thine eye is still

Proudly undaunted-far darting, fearless, grand,
Flashing with patriot fire, shielding our father-land.

Thine is no kingly dignity. Thy brow

Wears not so poor a wreath.-The sacred glow
And majesty of freedom beam around thee there—

Her laurel crown is thine-no other would'st thou wear.

She knows thee, her lov'd worshiper. To guard her shrine
No truer arm the sword has bared, high chief, than thine.
'Tis well to think of thee-thy immortality how won,
Tried warrior, statesman, father, Washington.

IONE.

GREEK ANTHOLOGY.-No. I.

READER! hast thou seen the Greek Anthology? If not, go get it. 'Tis passing beautiful. Dost thou wish to see into the very heart of the finest people God ever made? Dost thou long to acquaint thee with the real character of the bright-souled Grecian? Then lay upon the shelf the fiery Homer, with his "damnable iteration," and even the neat Xenophon-the soldier, historian, and philosopher. Lay them aside, I bid thee, and run thine eye gently over those little heart-bursts, to which chance gave being, and which chance has most marvellously preserved. Dost thou look to see the true proportions of the actor, as he "struts his brief hour upon the

busy stage?" Go to the green-room, and behold him divested of all the super-imposed grandeur of cork and buskin. Dost thou think to know men, by scanning them, as they thread the streets of the city, as they toil in the heat of the forum, or pray among the pillars of the temple? The smile is, indeed, gracious-the bow lowly the look subdued. But, man, you see the face, not the heart. They are all masquerading-most ludicrously too. Go to their homes, my friend. Watch them by their fire-sides-with their wives and children-in their household familiarity. Vexings are upon them, and their hearts are troubled. The world-the censorious world is far away, and they fear not the scrutiny of its prying eyes. A cloud comes over the sunshine of the soul, and they fret and fume at their petty tribulations. And are these those unctuous men, on whose faces sat enthroned such unruffled peace? Yea, verily !

Thou mayest think this an impertinent digression; but I made it, and I best know its design. 'Tis merely a rambling illustration-a stroll through the woods instead of a prosing walk along the road. 'Tis a similitude, I say-too long-yet a good one. Its pith is this. The poets, orators, philosophers, and historians-in fine, all the great authors dressed for court, or if that term seem too monarchical for the Republic of Letters-they dressed for a levee—a democratic jam-they rouged, frizzled, combed, brushed, and bedizened themselves artificially. Homer, the oldest, is likewise the simplest of them all. But even he knew that he was stared at, and, like a man in company, adjusted his neckcloth, felt queer, and walked stiff. He does not give his own sentiments-he was writing a history of his nation, and it was at once his interest and his pleasure, to gild each slightest incident, and turn poverty to splendor. Thus does he show us about as much of the real character of those simple people in that early age, as do the roundelays of chivalry acquaint us with the habits of those motley knights, whose loves they celebrate, and whose prowess they record. It is not, then, in the elaborate writers of any nation, that you are to look for faithful portraitures of that nation's character. Great geniuses bear the same leading traits in all climates, and their works are simple mental creations, rather than copies of the habits of their age. Tis familiarity with the various effusions of a thousand different pens-drinking from the heart's overflowing fullness, that thoroughly acquaints one with a people.

Reader, I am weary of these remarks, as I doubt not thou art. Therefore will I cease. And here would I advertise thee that I travel more for my own pleasure than for thine. My path lies through a lovely country, and I shall walk, run, halt, refresh, whenever and wherever I think proper. I shall take the cross-roads rove through the green fields-lie under the shady trees-and drink of the cool springs. If thou wilt wander with me, it is well, and I