genius, and cannot, therefore, be held accountable for the meaning of his ravings, be they even blasphemous; more than that he is a Syncretic genius, and his associates, by the designation they have chosen, by the terms of their agreement, are bound to cry each other up—­to defend one another from the virulent attacks of common sense and plain reason.  They are sworn to stick together, like the bundle of rods in AEsop’s fable.

[Illustration:  SYNCRETISM.]

Mr. Stephens, their chief, the god of their idolatry, is, consequently, more mad, or, according to their creed, a greater genius, than the rest; and evidently writes passages he would shudder to pen, if he knew the meaning of them.  Upon paper, therefore, the Syncretics are not accountable beings; and when condemned to the severest penalties of critical law, must be reprieved on the plea of literary insanity.

It may be said that we have descended to mere detail to illustrate Mr. Stephens’ peculiar genius—­that we ought to treat of the grand design, or plot of the Hungarian Daughter; but we must confess, with the deepest humility, that our abilities are unequal to the task.  The fable soars far beyond the utmost flights of our poor conjectures, of our limited comprehension.  We know that at the end there are—­one case of poisoning, one ditto of stabbing with intent, &c., and one ditto of sudden death.  Hence we conclude that the play is a tragedy; but one which “cannot be intended for an acting play” (preliminary preface, p.1,)—­of course as a tragedy; yet so universal is the author’s genius, that an adaptation of the Hungarian Daughter, as a broad comedy, has been produced at the “Dramatic Authors’ Theatre,” having been received with roars of laughter!

The books before us have been expensively got up.  In the Hungarian Daughter, “rivers of type flow through meadows of margin,” to the length of nearly three hundred pages.  Mr. Stephens is truly a most spirited printer and publisher of his own works.

But the lavish outlay he must have incurred to obtain such a number of favourable notices—­so many columns of superlative praise—­shows him to be, in every sense—­like the prince of puffers, George Robins—­“utterly regardless of expense.”  The works third and fourth upon our list, doubtless cost, for the copyright alone, in ready money, a fortune.  It is astonishing what pecuniary sacrifices genius will make, when it purloins the trumpet of Fame to puff itself into temporary notoriety.

* * * * *

INQUEST EXTRAORDINARY.

     The Whigs, who long
     Were bold and strong,
  On Monday night went dead. 
     The jury found
     This verdict sound—­
  “Destroy’d by low-priced bread.”

* * * * *

AN EXCLUSIVE APPOINTMENT.