ing those established regulations, by the observance of which Miss Joanna Baillie has so far exceeded Shakspeare, and Mr. Scott's modern Epics are so superior to Homer and Virgil. In fact, to what but to the establishment of these high tribunals, to which the honest public repair to see justice done upon offending authors, as the mob go to see the execution of a malefactor, can we ascribe the wonderful superiority of the modern over the ancient literature? A superiority which none will contest, except some droning bookworm, who, by dozing away his time among the musty classics, has acquired a sort of superstitious veneration for their mouldering remains.

Such, therefore, being the vast dignity as well as usefulness of the art of criticism, it is no wonder that men should greatly covet a seat in one of its courts, any more than that they should aspire to the office of criminal judge, or public executioner. The reader will perceive that we have taken occasion to hint at certain resemblances which do exist between courts of criticism and courts of justice. There is, however, one radical difference in their organization, which is, that the officers of the latter are appointed by the authority of the government to administer justice to the people, whereas those of the former are appointed by no authority but that of the bookseller who employs them. Accordingly we find in Great Britain, and elsewhere, divers of these illustrious tribunals springing up in different obscure places, where the judges, like those of the secret tribunal of Germany, administer justice unseen, and condemn those offending authors, who, though notorious delinquents, do not come under the jurisdiction of either the common, or statute, or civil law. One great advantage arising from the multitude of these courts is, that as their decisions are for the most part diametrically opposite to each other, the mind is by this means kept in a most happy dilemma, and remains in that salutary state of doubt, which grave philosophers assure us is the most favourable of all others to the discovery of truth. For as order rose out of chaos, so the glorious luminary of truth springs from the con

fused mass of doubt and irresolution, in like manner as the most perfect specimens of art are dug from the rubbish of Pompeii and Herculaneum.

Another great advantage attending the establishment of these numerous tribunals is, that if the author is not satisfied with the decision of one, he can, by appealing to some other, generally get the obnoxious judgment reversed. Thus, in a suit at law, we appeal from one court to another, until we arrive at that pure fountain of justice called the court of errors, (because it is generally in the wrong), where all former decisions, whether just or otherwise, are tolerably sure of being overturned. Thus the condemned author may, by a regular rotation of appeal, and without much expense, generally, among the multiplicity of judges, find one with good nature or good taste sufficient to admire and praise his work, and to acquit him of his adjudged offences.

As criticism is undoubtedly the noblest species of literature, so its professors occupy the highest stations in what has been ludicrously called the republic of letters, and appear among the inferior herd of poets, play-wrights, historians, and philosophers, as a sort of nobility, who, though they contribute nothing to the wealth of the community, revel in all the spoils of industrious labour. The critic, in fact, stands in relation to the author, the same as a rider does to his horse. He is the true cavalier, who, getting as it were upon the back of some miserable hackauthor, ambles along with marvellous ease to himself, and by a little occasional kicking and spurring, irritates the poor animal until he curvets pretty handsomely. This affords great amusement to the good-natured mob, who, considering an author, like a man in the pillory, fair game, take great delight in seeing him worried. There is something naturally very delightful in beholding an author cut up by the mischievous waggery of the critic. The true epicure in literature enjoys it with the same satisfaction that a surgeon does a dissection, and the mob, to wit, the great VOL. II. 2D ED.

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majority of mankind, with all the eagerness with which they flock to see a bull worried by dogs, or a malefactor hung in chains. From this singularly good-natured propensity it arises, that the critical works of the present day are sought after with such avidity, and have in a great measure superceded all other productions of literature, except the newspapers.

The critic, independently of his high rank, enjoys a variety of immunities by the courtesy of custom, such as hunting in other men's grounds without being stigmatized as a poacher, and killing other men's game without the formality of a license. Thus enjoying all the delights of a great estate, without an acre of fee-simple, and luxuriating in all the splendours of genius, without possessing a spark that is exclusively his own. Indeed, the profession of criticism affords a man wonderful advantages in the attainment of reputation at the expense of others. Thus, suppose the critic wishes to figure on a certain question, or to forward the views of a particular party; but has neither information or invention to construct a regular system of reasoning. In this dilemma betwixt inclination and impotency, he has only to seize, vi et armis, the weakest and most miserable advocate of the other side and bring him into court. There, by selecting his worst arguments, praising them for their ingenuity, and knocking them on the head; by having nobody to oppose him, and by the pitiful contrast afforded by his adversary, the critic absolutely appears with considerable splendour, and obtains the reputation of great talents. Thus imitating the famous Manchegan Knight, who metamorphosed sheep into stout armies, and puppets into immeasurable giants, demolishing them at the same time in a twinkling; or, perhaps more appropriately, the invincible Thumb, who, according to the testimony of the Grizzly Grizzle," made the giants first, and then killed them." By this admirable system of choosing one's enemy, the critic in time acquires great fame, and gains as much glory by demolishing a man of straw, as if he were a real Jack the Giant Killer.

A great critic of the present age pronounced that books were made for no other purpose but to be reviewed. This decision has relieved our minds from a great doubt, which has long perplexed us with regard to the uses of certain books which are exceedingly plenty, and which it would puzzle a very ingenious person to appropriate to any other purpose than that of criticism. This opinion of the learned critic, that the author's work is written merely to be devoured, is justified by many striking analogies in the natural world, were there are millions of animals and insects, which seem to have been created for no other purpose but to be eaten. Thus the hawk pounces upon the pigeon; the shark upon the smaller fry, and even the demure lethargic oyster is hugely suspected of now and then betraying the unsuspecting innocence of the shrimp, and devouring it without remorse. The critic may, therefore, by analogy, be allowed to make a meal of the author, who seems to belong to that unhappy race of animals whose destiny it is to be eaten much oftener than they eat.

Some, perhaps, who have not considered this matter curiously, may doubt this claim of the critic to the exclusive privilege of serving up the author at his table, inasmuch as if it were not for the author, the critic could have no existence, the latter standing in the same relation to the former that the maggot does to the cheese in which he is generated. It may also be urged that genius, which creates the materials on which taste is to be exer cised, is a much nobler attribute than mere taste itself. But these arguments are altogether inconclusive, because nothing is more obvious than that it requires much more ingenuity to detect a fault than to commit it, and more genius to recognise a beauty than to conceive it in our minds. To establish this principle we will merely adduce an instance, which, not having been quoted more than a thousand times, may claim the merit of novelty at least. What would have been the fate of Paradise Lost, and Chevy Chace, had not Addison discerned their beauties, and raked them from that oblivion which would have been the fate

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of many other works, without the timely assistance of the critic, who, like the pious nurse, fondles the infant bantling, and by dint of chuckling and crowing makes people take notice of the beautiful child. Without the aid of Addison, the world would never have had taste to admire the beauties of Milton, or judgment to appreciate his faults; and as by law the finder of a hidden treasure is entitled to a large portion of his discovery, so, on the purest principles of justice, the critic who points out an obscure fault, or latent beauty, is clearly entitled to, at least, a moiety of the proceeds. On the score even of a fellow-labourer, these claims may be established, for there are a prodigious number of books which are infinitely more troublesome to read than to write. Admitting the critic reads one half of the work he reviews, which, we are told, some of them do, he has a fair title to supersede the author in a claim to superior mental labour.

The right, therefore, of the critic to devour the author wherever he can catch him is clearly established on the foregoing premises; and it is, therefore, no subject of surprise that authors who, for the most part, are a set of hungry rogues, should anxiously aspire to a seat in some court of criticism, where they are sure of getting plenty of food. The highest ambition of a modern author is to eat, and where we see young literary adventurers singling out so noble an object of pursuit as criticism, we may safely pronounce them possessing that great characteristic of genius-a mighty appetite.

"Ingenii largitor venter."

We, in the hope of coming in for a share of the spoils of those anthors, who, for their manifold transgressions of the rules of that great lawgiver, Aristotle, have suffered sentence of outlawry, and may be knocked on the head by any body-we, too, will essay to establish a claim to a seat in the great court of criticism, that stern inexorable Areopagus, where no author was ever yet acquitted entirely to his own satisfaction. For this pur