really worthy but modest scholar. The quack will carry off by far the plurality of votes by the mere force of external display.

Fashion is never more absurd than in her patronage of letters. She inevitably mistakes pretence for performance, and fails to distinguish between merit and presumption. A fashionable author is, generally, a writer whose books are read only by people of fashion, and that only for a season or two. The fashionable author is made such, more by his manner and address than by any quality in his writings worthy of notice. He dresses well, therefore takes rank as an elegant poet: he can carve neatly, hence is granted station as a critic or philosopher. The true poet, the genuine philosopher, is never fashionable-except as an incident to his reputation-it being a peculiar quality of the servile crowd to join in wherever they hear a shout. The great author writes for the whole world; the writer of fashion for a very circumscribed sphere or clique of readers. What is in cant phrase styled the "great world" of fashion, is, in fact the most insignificant field of authorship. Fashionable people take more pleasure in creating reputation out of nothing, than in worshipping established idols, inasmuch as it gratifies their self-love. Of an inferior scribbler they make a genius for a season, and then cast him off, as they do their tailor or their hounds-whence the poor victim readily concludes, or should, that notoriety, like all matters of fashion, is merely a reigning folly, a current prejudice.

Somewhat connected with the subject of fashionable reputation, is the question of the public taste, more influenced by mere notoriety, than, perhaps, most readers imagine.

As a general rule, the public taste is vicious to a great degree. This is abundantly proved by the innumerable in

stances of ephemeral popularity, and consequent neglect of many of the best writers. Their works happen to hit a particular taste, or favor a prevailing fashion; they chime in with the prejudices, and foster the passions of the day, and are rewarded by a short-lived reputation. In judging of poetry, in particular, one can hardly be too fastidious, who recollects that at one time Jonson lorded it over Shakspeare: at another, Cato was esteemed the first of English tragedies: and still later, Darwin and Hayley were thought great poets. How many schools are extinct, how many great men have proved in the eyes of posterity (that severe judge), very small persons indeed! How many philosophical systems have been consigned to oblivion, with their inventors and promulgators! What shoals of tragedies, epics, novels of every description, lives, travels, sermons, speeches, and periodicals, choke up the river of Lethe-across that stream who can venture unless first drugged to sleep by the pages of a writer

Sleepless himself, to give his readers sleep?

Taste is a natural sensibility to excellence, heightened by the nicest observation, and perfected by close study. If we allow this, how dare the great multitude of readers to set up their critical claims? Every man now is a reader, and a critic of course. What a monstrous absurdity is this? In other things we see its ridiculousness, but we seem blind here.

The purest poetry and the noblest philosophy are so much above the comprehension of vulgar minds, that they never can be popular-so with the most delicate wit and humor, and the finest works of fancy. Pure language and an elegant simplicity, are also out of the reach of common intellects.

Sure fame is a very different thing from notoriety. Cowley has placed the idea of fame in the proper light. He says, "I love and commend a true good fame, because it is the shadow of virtue: not that it doth any good to the body which it accompanies, but it is an efficacious shadow, and, like that of St. Peter, cures the diseases of others."* The true fame is, "that which follows, not that which is run after;" the companion of goodness, not the lacquey of fashion.

We have treated notoriety as a fraud of men; it is sometimes the dream of youth—an honest dream. When we are young, we are goaded by a false impulse, and would be famous without any regard to the conditions of obtaining fame; but when years have brought a certain equable gravity of temper, and calmness of judgment, we begin to see things in their true colors, and to value a life of virtue above a life of honors. We at last discover the pitiful shifts of those who would obtain notoriety, and the incredible meannesses to which they subject themselves, by their ignorant zeal in the pursuit of worldly glory. Titles, wealth, applause, what chimeras ye are! what bubbles ye make of us your greedy followers! The highest powers of intellect, the most brilliant gems of poesy, are incomparably inferior to the possession of a peaceful conscience, and a heart filled with none but good intentions.

The fame of the popular poet, or the great general, has an almost overpowering charm for the young man; but a later age, which cools his blood, clears his mind also, and he only wonders how he ever happened to entertain such images of greatness, as the gods of his idolatry. The flashes of the skilful rhetorician captivate the youthful student; but the

* Essay on Obscurity.

powers of the philosophic reasoner attract his maturer judgment. Light, airy poetry is fit food for the raw critic; but experience and reflection give the palm to a deeper and more majestic vein. Amusement gains us then, but instruction holds us now. Then, we imagine we have learnt all that is to be known; now, we feel our real ignorance of the highest mysteries, and would die learning. Thus we see the love of applause (in its place, and in its integrity, a noble incentive to generous action) is still an insufficient motive. Milton, in that well known passage, which summons all the powers of the soul as with the sound of a trumpet, has written nobly of fame-as

The spur which the clear spirit doth raise.

Though he feels obliged to add

(That last infirmity of noble minds),

To scorn delights and live laborious days.

Yet as fame is not altogether of a disinterested nature (though the interestedness is of the highest character), it cannot furnish the only sure foundation for a life of virtue. The sense of duty is our only resource; and on that, as on an eternal and immutable foundation, we may erect a superstructure as high as our genius may serve to raise it, sacred to both genius and virtue.

XXII.

LETTERS.

NEXT to the essay, the letter is the most agreeable form of the minor literature. It is the most familiar species of writing, and approaches the nearest to ordinary converation. Letters are the opuscula of great authors, but they form the opera of lesser writers. We weekly critics and magazinists may be proud of a volume of clever epistles, fearful of essaying a higher flight. Authors of the first class, and with the highest pretensions, affect to look down upon letters as the mere entertainment of a scholar; and hence, from want of sympathy, no less than from want of nicety of apprehension and subtle delicacy of taste, have almost uniformly failed in this department of composition. A professed orator, a great divine, poet or philosopher, cannot easily descend from the heights of speculation and eloquence and imagination, to the plain ground of commonplace reality. Raillery is the most delightful talent in epistolary composition (a delicate talent); and next to that, refined sentiment. These are minute excellences, however agreeable, in the great character, and the incidental ornaments of a strong intellect. Women uniformly write the best letters, both of the narrative kind and lively description. Lady Montague and Madame D'Arblay are yet unsurpassed. The female intellect is allowed to possess a finer tact and a minuter (instinctive) observation of things and characters, than the manly understanding. It is better pleased with the details of a subject, and paints the manners with a lighter hand. Boarding school girls, and young ladies, who have just come out," are readier with their pens in recounting family history, and current fashion