olent and complacent countenance of the gentleman who figures so prominently in the advertising illustrations of a certain firm of wine merchants, with which the sides of railway-carriages are not unseldom embellished, is a very delightful beverage; but even if this benignant creature of the artist's brain were to receive it under the name and at the cost of Vino de Pasto, his beaming face would probably at once be puckered into frowns. It would not be a sufficient excuse that the connoisseur who induced the purchase had a friend in the trade to whom he wished to do a good turn; he would at once be denounced as an imposter and a humbug, upon whose judgment for the future no reliance whatever was to be placed. In the same way, as long as the critic conscientiously adheres to his own convictions-it being pre-supposed that he is capable of possessing these-no fault can be found with him. If his taste is not exquisitely refined, that is rather his misfortune; he acts up to the best of his ability, and with that. we ought to be content. Directly, however, he begins to diverge from the plain path of duty, he is guilty of the unpardonable sin. It can be no manner of excuse that he should, through a private weakness for Jones, puff Jones's wares, laying the flattering unction to his soul that Jones is an industrious workman, and that, after all, Jones's productions are good enough in their way as times go. What we want is the critic's free unbiassed opinion, and this is what we do not get.

Open, honest, independent criticism is, in truth, not only a very rare but necessarily a very difficult article to meet with. If one knows a person in private life intimately, entertains towards him feelings not only of friendship but respect, and knows too that upon the success of any one particular venture, or of any series of ventures, his worldly well-doing in great measure depends, it is a hard thing deliberately to run down his handiwork. Amicus Plato, magis amica veritas, is an adage of which all acknowledge the excellence, while a few have moral resolution enough to carry it out into active every-day practice. It involves, perhaps, no small struggle against human nature to have to do violence to the dictates of

one's inclination, and to give the preference to the calm unimpassioned judgment of the head over the emotional and enthusiastic sentence of the heart. People have such a horror of the serpent's tooth of ingratitude, that the best-intentioned critic in the world cannot well help feeling a twinge of remorse when he sits down to pull to pieces the novel or drama of that friend whose hospitality he was enjoying a few hours ago. There is a certain indefinable sanctity, according to English notions, attendant upon the social institution of dinner. To dine and to converse amicably with one's friend, and then to proceed, should circumstances require it, to do the work that an enemy might do, is popularly supposed to be just as much an act of sacrilege as to murder one's host, after having partaken of his salt, would appear to Oriental ideas of decorum. Or if the talented and kindlynatured author, who does the theatrical critiques for the Fiddler, happens to be acquainted with something of the private circumstances of that ineffable stage stick, Pump, and to be aware of the fact that he has to support, upon a salary of five pounds a week, a wife and seven ravenous children, can he find it in his heart to speak as his critical conscience would impel him to speak, knowing all the while that an unfavorable notice in that powerful organ, the Fiddler, will at once make the manager of the theatre in which Pump is engaged knock one pound off his weekly stipend, and eventually, perhaps, send him loose on the world altogether. It is to be hoped that such instances as these are not of every-day occurrence, but still they can be by no means unheard-of; and when such pitfalls do lie in the path of the critic, he must possess a breast girt round by triple oak and brass who does not stumble in his weakness.

If these are some of the adverse influences under which the cause of criticism suffers, there are others of far greater and more culpable magnitude. Cases such as have been above alluded to can only occasionally happen; they do not at any rate amount to an organized system, while the human weakness which they exhibit is not without a certain attractive side as well. Cliques really constitute the great curse of criticism. Litterateurs are a gre

garious race. They like to meet together, and to talk over the events of the day. The same kind of coteries exist now as in the days when the wit of Shakespeare and Jonson reigned supreme at the Mermaid, or when the burly lexicographer used to be voted the dictator and arbiter bibendi at the little coffee-room in Fleet Street. Such réunions as these, viewed in the abstract, are anything but culpable. Conversation is just as sure a means of eliciting truth and of improving intellectual acumen now, as it was in the days of Socrates. The only objection is that this private literary clanship is unpleasantly perceptible in public life as well, and that these select meetings of literary confrères not unfrequently resolve themselves into societies with the direct purpose of securing a mutual admiration for each other, a profound dissatisfaction with all those other laborers in the broad field of letters, who do not care about making their way into that charmed circle which embraces so many self-conceited celebrities, and which rapidly develops itself into a position of antagonism towards all who are not of the enviable number. The Yahoos, for instance, compose a brotherhood of this description. Amongst themselves the Yahoos are united by an oath of eternal friendship and goodwill, by a moral obligation to sing each other's praises at every conceivable opportunity, in season and out of season. As for what the feeling of their secret hearts may be, it is impossible to say. They may perhaps be consumed often by mutual jealousy, and heartily wish each other at the bottom of the Dead Sea. But, at any rate, they manage to preserve an exterior of persistent and boisterous good-fellowship. It is mere matter of history how impossible it is to infer from the angelic suavity of the feminine expression what may be precisely the state of feeling of one lady towards her bosom friend; and in the same way when the Yahoos use the easy-going, good-natured salutation of "old boy," "dear boy," and other such forms of convivial affection, one is quite unable to make any certain conjecture as to the genuine nature of their internal disposition. They laugh and talk with each other, praise themselves, abuse every person else, and

very fine, noble, clever fellows in their own estimation they are. There is a certain monotony, perhaps, in their conversation, and a stranger will not unlikely get heavily bored with the fulsome compliments mutually bestowed, with so lavish a hand. But what of that? If it pleases them it can certainly injure no one outside the four walls of the tavern room in which they meet together for their grog and pipes. This is perfectly true, and not the least harm would be done to any one or in any way if they would but confine themselves to these humble orgies. The worst of the matter is that a considerable number of the Yahoos are in the habit of writing criticisms of various kinds for the press, and that in the discharge of these duties they cannot make up their minds to forget their position as Yahoos, and to adopt the tone of men of gentlemanly taste and critical honor. The spirit and influence of the dingy tavern room will perpetually keep cropping out. By a certain system of dichotomy they divide mankind into two classes-Yahoos and not-Yahoos, each to be handled in a respectively different manner. They admit, of course, of various gradations of censure just as they do of praise; but the latter is monopolised by the Yahoos. The former is exclusively devoted to the benefit of the not-Yahoos. It might be thought perhaps that these literary small fry cannot do much harm, either by their blame or by their panegyric; but at the present day, with the amount of influence that attaches to each separate member of the London press, it can hardly be said that such is the case. Besides, the clique of the Yahoos is not without its modicum of talent, position, and celebrity. There have been, it is currently reported to the eternal shame of recalcitrant members of the brotherhood, cases in which certain Yahoos have been troubled by conscientious qualms as to the legitimacy of such an indiscriminate practice of mutual puffing, and have positively ventured to issue a personal and practical remonstrance by presuming to speak their mind, frankly and openly, when some one of their number has written a book or produced a play that is egregiously bad. But the esprit de corps of the coterie must at any expense be kept up. The

Yahoos possess unusual opportunities for worming out the secrets of the internal management of certain journals; the traitor is discovered, and visited with a becoming amount of vengeance. On the other hand, supposing a Yahoo so far forgets himself as to be enthusiastic in his praise of some clever production by the member of an adverse faction, the authorship of this article is at once equal ly readily traced back to him, and he is visited with a sharp reprimand.

But as there are other cliques of the same order as the Yahoos, more or less respectable, so too there are coteries of a distinctly opposite nature based upon essentially different principles, yet producing substantially identical effects. Thompson and Robinson are both of them members of that highly intellectual and aristocratic set calling itself the Superfines. Both write for nearly the same journals, and Robinson always knows, as do the remainder of the community, what articles Thompson writes, and vice versa. Thompson may in the recesses of his heart hate and despise Robinson's new book on Literary Principles, or Theories of Fiction, or the Province of Criticism, or any other such theme. But he is kept from pronouncing his real judgment upon it, through a horrible fear lest Robinson in his turn should pitch severely into his new novel, which is now on the eve of publication. Between the Superfines and the Yahoos it is needless to say there is a wide gulf fixed. It is a certain immutable principle in the moral code of both heartily to hate, and to attack everything done by, and to do with, the other; and just as the Yahoo would shrink from even the most guarded commendation of the Superfine, so, too, the Superfine cannot find in his heart to say anything in praise of the Yahoo.

These imaginary instances which have been given are really no exaggerated representation of actual facts. Cliques, sets, and coteries innumerable,-such as these are the constant bane of the world of popular criticism. There existence is a perpetual check upon everything like free outspoken opinion. A is afraid to say what he thinks about B, because B would recognize the authorship of the article, and he, A, is in a certain way bound to do B a good turn for the man

ner in which he helped him on with that spirited notice two months ago. And so it is through all the various sets and factions of popular critics of the day. It is through no wish to bring the charge of intentional literary immorality against these gentleman that the above remarks have been made. The evil is merely consequent upon the phenomena of the times. It is difficult, next door to impossible, to prevent following the multitude to do evil. It is important, however, to lay stress upon the expression popular critics. That there are many, very many, critics whose views could never receive such a bias as this, cannot for a moment be doubted. The comments here advanced are merely intended to be applicable to a numerous section of those writers who conduct the popular criticism of the day, and after all it is the popular criticism which is likely to have most influence in the long run.

Unfortunately, it is far easier to point out errors than to suggest a practicable remedy. Before these matters can be thoroughly mended, a different tone and spirit must be imported into the province, both of criticism and authorship. Perhaps the most obvious method of improvement would consist in the more rigid, preservation of anonymity; as long as litterateurs are in the habit of making known to each other the different journals to which they contribute, and the particular articles which they write, it will never be quite as easy to speak the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, however unpalatable that truth may be, with reference to one's friends. Possibly it might be unavoidable to prevent the secret of the authorship of articles eking out in the literary world, but, at any rate, the experiment might be tried. There are, of course, some reviews now in which much mystery is kept up as to the sources from which certain articles have emanated, even amongst those who are admitted to view the "very pulse of the machine," and to regulate with their own hands the pistons and wheels. But generally, if any one particular piece of writing attracts an unusual amount of attention, it is pretty well known, by all those whom it can effect to know, whose piece of writing that is. Cliques and coteries are quite inseparable from literature; but

there does not seem any sufficient reason for refusing to believe that the weakening influence which cliques have upon criticism, may not, by some precautions, at some time or other, be made considerably less than is at present unfortunately the case. The misfortune has now at tained the dimensions of a nuisance, and it would be really well if popular critics would bethink them a little more of the parts which in public estimation they fill, and the duties which they are supposed to discharge.

Fraser's Magazine.

ON POETRY.

The spirit of poetry in man is that force which every where and through various means is urging him to the production of something beautiful-to the production of beauty. Through Metrical Speech it finds one channel to express itself. Through this, it expresses itself on the whole more completely than in any other way. And, therefore, Metrical Speech, in its best examples, is called "Poetry:" this manifestation of the Poetic Spirit is called "Poetry "-par excellence.

But the word "Poetry" is used sometimes in this sense, sometimes in the wider and more general sense; and thus is produced, perhaps, some haziness in our minds. The words Poetry, Poet, Poetical, are often applied in a loose, indefinite manner. A beautiful place or A beautiful place or prospect is called poetical; a starry night perhaps; a romantic incident; a noble action; a fair face or form. A picture, a piece of music, is said to be poetical, or "full of poetry." Dancing has been called the "Poetry of Motion;" Sculpture, "silent Poetry;" Beethoven is sometimes styled a "tone-poet;" Turner, a" poet in colors."

In these cases, perhaps we mean, "Here is a manifestation of the Spirit of Poetry;" or, perhaps, "Here is something that impresses us like Metrical Poetry puts us into a similar mood." We may, consciously or unconsciously, refer either to the ideal source of all kinds of Poetry, or else to the flower and finest embodi

ment of the Spirit of poetry which exists in metrical language; we may be using the words Poet and Poetry in a direct sense, or an indirect, or partly in the one and partly the other. Hence, some indistinctness and confusion of thought; greatest, when we come to compare one form of words with another form of words, and to call Prose "poetical," or even to call Prose "Poetry," as is done every day. What more common than to praise some rich and sonorous bit of prose writing, or some flight of oratory, as "highly poetical?" and now and again we go farther and declare it to be "true poetry."

Richly

Let us examine this a little. colored and melodious sentences there are in the writings of several of our high prose-writers. Many parts of our English Bible have a powerful poetic impressiveness. If you call these "poetry," do I dissent? No. Substantially we agree. The question that remains is one of words, of definition of words.

Here is a passage you say, which embodies the spirit of poetry in a powerfully impressive form. As to this, we are of one mind. Also it has a very discernible rhythm and modulation of sound-a greater degree of this than ordinary prose. Thus it has not only the high spiritual qualities of Metrical Poetry, but a noticable degree also of the peculiar quality of metre. This does not amount to a regular metre, or the composition would be Metrical Poetry. It approaches, but is not, Metrical Poetry; it is something else. Might we not call it Rhythmic Prose? Then "Rhythmic Prose" (you remark) may be, and is as high, perhaps a higher thing than regular Poetry. Not so either.

In certain grand and rare examples of Rhythmic Prose, the matter, the substance, is transcendently impressive, and the total effect upon the mind more powerfully poetic than the effect of any lower matter in a regular metrical form. Still, as a general rule, and other qualities being equal, and the matter expressed being suitable for rhythmic treatment, a composition in regular metrical form is more impressive than one which is not in regular metrical form. Nay, must not the Psalms be finer still in there original form than in any translation? and that

original form is metrical, and after the Hebrew manner. Isaiah and Ezekiel, too, and the author of "Job," recognized Metrical Poetry as a thing different from Prose, and rose into it when they felt need of their highest means of expression.

"Poetry" -Poiesis- Making-in the widest sense (as applied to man) I take to mean the mental Creative Energy, and its products-the whole group of the inventing, systematizing, and ordering faculties; that energy which is the earthly well-head (but drawn from a higher invisible source) of morals, laws, arts, society.

Long usage has applied the word more distinctively to the Fine Arts-those arts which spring from, and appeal to, our sense of Beauty; and, in its strictest application, we confine the word Poetry to one particular Fine Art-that which expresses beauty through metrical speech. When any one speaks simply and without qualification of Poetry, he is understood to mean Metrical Poetry, and nothing else. And it is in this sense that I desire to use the word.

Now, Poetry is a different thing from Prose. Prose is sometimes very like Poetry; but speaking broadly, Prose and Poetry are two distinct things, and ought, I submit, to have two distinct names. You might ask me to call the latter Verse; but I don't see that we need give up the old and honored name, by which metrical Poetry is marked as par excellence.

Poetry includes every highest quality of Prose, and includes them in a definitely metrical and musical form, peculiar to itself: but observe, this form is not a mere grace and decoration; it is found by experience to give to words their greatest attainable force and beauty, and as a rule to convey the highest thoughts incomparably better than Prose. Poetry is metrical, Prose is non-metrical; they are thus at first definable by their forms; but the distinction is found to permeate their substance and spirit.

No doubt (though each has its proper realm, its own authority and laws) there is a kind of borderland where they sometimes mix. Prose is never without some share of rhythm and modulation, because these are inherent qualities in human

speech; and in the best rhythmical prose this rises into a near approximation to the effect of metre. There are many gradations of rhythm from the merest Prose-say of an Act of Parliament, rising through that of a statement in the Nisi Prius Court, of a familiar letter, of a conversational narrative, of a newspaper leading-article, of an eloquent novel, of an impassioned oration, up to the rich, emphatic and almost lyrical modulation of our intensest prose-writers.

So, in the Pictorial Art, you may pass from a design in simple outline, to one in outline shaded to a woodcut, an etching, an engraving, a tinted sketch, a sketch in colors; and upwards, by gradations, till you arrive at the finished water-color or oil picture.

Now an etching, or even a design in outline, may exhibit the highest qualities of the Pictorial Art in larger measure than many a painting. You might properly prefer one of Rembrandt's etchings, or one of Dürer's woodcuts, to a large and careful picture by Benjamin West, although President of the Royal Academy, and admired by George the Third. Yet, in the finished picture only, the Pictorial Power uses all, its means. And it is in organized metrical poetry that human speech attains its most perfect and impressive form.

But let us rather consider Prose in its usual and average condition, when it is most in its own character, and less emulous of those qualities which are the especial property of Poetry. Taking the simple and usual point of view, Prose is obviously one thing, and Poetry another.

It is the very nature of Prose to be non-metrical; and it is artificially put together with that very intention. Prose is a later, less natural, more conventionalised and artificial form of composition than Poetry. The metri al qualities of language are by effort and practice subdued, reduced to a minimum, kept out of observation. Prose is the expression of the scientific and analytical intellect, striving to take things separately, to examine them narrowly, little by little, continually guarding and limiting itself in its progress. Prose is careful, cautious, judicial; its business-like eyes fixed upon some attainable object, towards which it