however, is often the unavoidable concomitant of a powerful imagination, and extreme susceptibility.

An author is perhaps never so likely to write well, as when he guides his pen "with the carelessness of despair," reckless alike of the applause or censure of others, and alive only to the private and selfish gratification of literary employment.

He is then in that frame of mind, in which, above all others, he is most likely to produce thoughts that breathe, and words that burn." He who is happy in himself, whose writings are such as to excite and to gratify his own feelings, is unquestionably the most likely to excite sympathy and powerful emotion in others. And, oh, how infinitely superior are works which have been the offspring of real emotion, which have issued from the heart of the writer, to such as have been the forced and unnatural produce of labour and constraint, and effort and artifice!

In a work of genius, every page, every sentence, every line, must be fervid and glowing; the heart must always be interested; the delineations must be felt, and deeply felt, both by author and reader. Wherever the pen does not glide with the rapidity of lightning, and thoughts do not flow with enthusiastic fervour, the paper ought instantly to be thrown into the fire. All artifice, all constraint are despicable. Where the writer is not forcibly im

pelled by the feelings of his own heart, he ought never to think of writing at all. An author ought to take up the pen only for his own solace, to relieve and soothe a heart bursting with elevated passions, and to delight himself by fixing his favourite trains of thought, emotions and imagery.

Oct. 1812.

H. F. A.

N° LXXXIV.

On the Dangerous Effects of Praise.

TO THE RUMINATOR.

SIR,

You have sometimes deplored the influence of censure and neglect in repressing the productions of genius. There really appears to me to be very little reason for this. The effect of praise is, in my opinion, far more dangerous to minds of morbid susceptibility than that of censure.

Adversity has almost invariably been found favourable to greatness of character. Almost every original genius, every hero, every creator of his own fortune, has been the child of adversity.

That praise, instead of bracing, frequently enervates the mind. Cowper appears to have been sufficiently aware of this, from a passage in one of his letters, in which he desires his correspondents not to extol his epistolary powers, as such praise would infallibly lead to their extinction.

Self-possession, that independence and freedom of soul, that nice equilibrium of the mind, which constitute the first of intellectual blessings, are sel

dom to be attained but by him who lives in a certain degree under the influence of a cloud.

I am indeed thoroughly convinced that to bear praise, requires a much greater degree of fortitude than to withstand censure. Perhaps it is carrying this too far, when I add that it appears not improbable that to the censure so liberally bestowed on Lord Byron's first publication, we are indebted for the bold and fervid strains of " Childe Harolde." I earnestly hope that the noble Lord's power of withstanding flattery may be equal to his fortitude in resisting whatever debilitating influence arises from censure. But, in truth, censure is NOT debilitating; and praise and flattery undoubtedly are so.

I would rather endure the most cutting contempt, and the most poignant wounds of the critic, which in truth would give me no pain whatever, than I would encounter praise; especially from one whose judgment I value. To me this is ruinous; and I should be more sleepless, feverish, and depressed for the next fortnight, than all the adversity I have yet known has ever rendered me. The pleasures of literary employment are pure, elevated, and independent. Applause is not requisite to excite the exertion of one to whom that exertion is in itself the first of gratifications.

I am, Sir, &c.

H. R.

N° LXXXV.

"Here much I ruminate, as much I may,
With other views of men and manners now
Than once, and others of a life to come."

TO THE RUMINATOR.

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IF I may be allowed to draw an estimate your character from your writings, you will not be averse to follow the example of your great predecessor the Spectator, in admitting subjects of a moral, and even of a religious nature, into your excellent work. In that admirable book essays of this nature do not form even, at present its least attraction; and those readers who are tired with the eternal mention of the "fair sex," turn to the Saturday papers with increasing pleasure, as to a constant fund of gratification. The very title which you have assumed, must be supposed to have been chosen in something of that turn of mind, in which the pensive and moral Cowper, wrote the beautifui lines which stand at the head of this paper. How indeed is it possible for a man to ruminate, without sometimes turning his thoughts to the most important, as well as serious, of all subjects! without