port of his autobiography is to prove that he has been unjustly treated by the nobility and the public, and that notwithstanding the opposition he has met with in both capacities, he is entitled to be recognized as a peer and a poet of a high order. He is so thoroughly blinded by pride and passion, that, like Rousseau, he thinks the whole world is in a conspiracy against him. The unfavourable decision of the Lords and the severity of the critics are alike attributed to jealousy and hatred. His disappointed ambition has excited a burning fever in his soul that the grave alone may cure. Who can administer to a mind diseased?" It is painful to observe the inconsistencies into which this able but unhappy man is continually betrayed by the conflict between his reason and his passions. While he expresses with a solemn earnestness his contempt for rank and fame, he unconsciously betrays how bitterly he feels the want of them; and every complaining word is steeped in the blood of a wounded heart. But though he gives vent in the plainest terms to his jealousy of the modern nobility, and styles them "insolent parvenus," his notices of his more fortunate poetical contemporaries are always liberal and judicious. Even their popularity is accounted for in a manner that is equally just to them and to their admirers. It is only in his own particular case that his judgment fails him, when he unconsciously exaggerates the value of his own poetry, and unjustly censures the critics or the public for their hostility or indifference. He is a more daring egotist than Rousseau or Montaigne. He is sometimes, too, almost as eloquent as the former, and is always quite as rambling and irregular as the latter. He dwells, however, less upon little personal incidents than either. His adventures are only adventures of the heart and mind, that are laid open with an unsparing hand, and all their sore places unblushingly displayed. Nothing but the most consummate vanity and the desperate energies of a repressed ambition could have led any man to put forth

such a fearful revelation*.

The world, however, will be a gainer

by the author's boldness. A more interesting though painful picture-a more instructive lesson is rarely met with. The evil consequences of overrating our talents, and of encouraging a wild ambition and a morbid sensibility are illustrated by this unfortunate painter of his own portrait, with a force and truth that cannot fail to leave a deep impression upon every thoughtful mind.

Generally speaking, though there are many exceptions to the rule, egotism and vanity are unfavourable signs. It is the want of knowledge that makes us vain. The profoundest spirits are often the humblest. Newton compared himself to a child gather. ing pebbles on the sea-shore. The farther we advance, the longer appears our road; for the more we see before us,

"Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise.”

The perusal of superior books has not the same humbling effect as the meeting with superior men. A book is a kind of abstraction, but a personal contact with our betters occasions that strong sense of inferiority which is so painful to little minds and so useful to noble ones. The anxiety which some people evince to escape from such uncongenial company, and their bitter humiliation and restless discontent until restored to their own little circle of admirers,

* Sir Egerton Brydges is a very reserved man in society. It is strange how easily men who are shy in private, run into a bold egotism in public. They who are much in the habit of addressing the public acquire a confidence of success, and fall into a degree of familiarity with their thousands of unseen and unknown readers, that is quite unaccountable to those who have confined themselves to the intercourse of private life. It is like uttering impudent or foolish things in a dark room. No rebuking eye kindles a painful blush upon the speaker's cheek. The author and the public do not meet face to face. The former sends out his oracles or his egotisms from the concealment of his quiet study. The late William Hazlitt was a striking illustration of the strange contrast which a person may present between his public and his private manners. He was a bold and egotistical author, but a shy man. In addressing the whole world, he was often daring and dogmatical; but in a small private company, if any strangers were present, he could scarcely muster up sufficient courage to go through the ordinary ceremonies of social intercourse.

is an illustration of this remark. A library is not so great a check on our self-approbation, though adorned even with a Milton and a Shakspeare! In minds, indeed, duly chastened and subdued by extensive study, a work of true genius will always excite a reverent admiration ; but I am now alluding to its effects on those writers and readers who possess but a superficial knowledge of literature and life. They who are apt to talk flippantly and even to think lightly of books, are brought to their own level in the presence of living genius.

Sir Egerton Brydges had unfortunately the temperament of genius without its power, and for the want of that self-knowledge without which we cannot turn the talents and acquirements we may possess to any real advantage, he has passed a life of misery and discontent. He has inherited an ample fortune, he is the representative of one of the highest and most ancient families in the kingdom, his powers of mind and his literary accomplishments are of no ordinary character, (though immeasurably overrated by himself,) and he has had books and leisure at his command; yet with all these means and appliances he has done but little for his fame, and still less for his happiness. If he had devoted his whole energies to some single and noble purpose, instead of dissipating his time and talents on unconnected and comparatively trifling objects, he might have won to himself a far higher name in literature than he has yet acquired. Though he has poetical feelings, he is not a poet, and has fallen into the too common mistake of confounding a mere attachment for the Muses with an actual inspiration. But he who loves poetry is not necessarily a poet, any more than a lover of music is necessarily a musician. This was the grand error of his literary life. It is his failure as a poet that has poisoned all his pleasures. If he could have forsworn verse, and have devoted himself exclusively to any other department of literature, he would have saved himself many bitter disappointments, and have occupied a more respectable station among his

literary contemporaries. His works are occasionally characterised by such ingenious thoughts, such noble feelings, and such a fervid eloquence, that it is impossible to resist the impression that he was meant for higher tasks than he has yet attempted. His failures, however, are to be attributed to very different causes from those assigned by himself. His want of success was not owing to the "want of cheers," as he quaintly expresses it; but to the self-mistake already alluded to, and to the irregularity and capriciousness of his literary labours. It was not Sir Egerton Brydges in his personal character, but in his character as an author, that the public ever thought of him at all; and it is a great error to suppose that they are prejudiced judges of literary merit. If he had written any thing really worthy of general notice, he would undoubtedly have obtained it. Genius has no occasion to be mute and inglorious in these times. A follower of the Muses has now a much greater chance of over-praise than unjust censure.

Sir Egerton Brydges "lisped in numbers." It is a pity that his mind took this turn so early. It were to be wished that young students would direct their attention more frequently to prose, though it is natural enough that they should take in the first instance to a kind of composition apparently so easy, though in reality so difficult. Their ears are captivated with the sweet sound of verse, and their minds are not always sufficiently critical to distinguish words from sense-the leaves from the fruit. Even persons of tolerable sagacity, and who can observe the shallowness of a florid and feeble prose style, are often found to surrender judgment hoodwinked in reading verse, and especially if it be their own. It is astonishing what mere inanities have satisfied the self-conceit of writers of verse, who would have been heartily ashamed of the same emptiness in their prose. So long as the words run smoothly and the rhymes are correct, there is something like an air of completeness and a vague elevation in metrical composition that are exceedingly delusive. There are certain words also the

common property of verse-writers, that often suggest poetical associations for which the reader is more indebted to his own imagination than to the genius of the author. These pretty external ornaments are often worn by a poetaster who is as ignorant of the effect he produces as the unconscious fish that makes its gold and silver scales to glitter in the sunny water. It is the ease with which vulgar writers can put on the costume of the Muse that has brought her spirit into contempt, amongst men who do not sufficiently discriminate between harmonious and pretty verse and genuine poetry. Thus Jeremy Bentham, perceiving how easy it is for people to put common thoughts into correct rhyme, and of what miserable stuff the great mass of verse generally consists, jumped at once to the conclusion, that poetry was a trifling amusement, unfit for grown men, and less useful than the game of pushpin! He forgot Homer and Shakspeare and Dante and Milton, and recollected only the small fry of small poetasters. But to judge fairly of an art we should not estimate its claims by an exclusive reference to the works of its unsuccessful votaries. The rarity of great poets only proves the difficulty and dignity of their art,-the same also is proved by the glaring ill success of the countless host of verse-writers, who might have attained to perfection in any other human accomplishment with the same zeal and labour. Hayley, a learned, elegant and sensible person, spent nearly half a century in the study and practice of poetry; but amongst his thousands of correct and harmonious verses he has not left us a single line that is breathed upon by the Muse. Nature had denied him that peculiar quality without which no man can produce genuine poetry, however great may be his learning, his industry, his zeal, or his general intellectual power. We should always, therefore, feel some hesitation in enIt is not to be denied that couraging young persons to write verse. the practice of versifying is an elegant amusement, and well calculated to familiarize a young student with the language in which he