a master of a different order covers the walls of a palace with gods burying giants under mountains, or makes the cupola of a church alive with seraphim and martyrs.  The more fervent the passion of each of these artists for his art, the higher the !merit of each in his own line, the more unlikely it is that they will justly appreciate each other.  Many persons, who never handled a pencil, probably do far more justice to Michael Angelo than would have been done by Gerard Douw, and far more justice to Gerard Douw than would have been done by Michael Angelo.

It is the same with literature.  Thousands, who have no spark of the genius of Dryden or Wordsworth, do to Dryden the justice which has never been done by Wordsworth, and to Wordsworth the justice which, we suspect, would never have been done by Dryden.  Gray, Johnson, Richardson, Fielding, are all highly esteemed by the great body of intelligent and well informed men.  But Gray could see no merit in “Rasselas,” and Johnson could see no merit in “The Bard.”  Fielding thought Richardson a solemn prig, and Richardson perpetually expressed contempt and disgust for Fielding’s lowness.

Mr. Crisp seems, as far as we can judge, to have been a man eminently qualified for the useful office of a connoisseur.  His talents and knowledge fitted him to appreciate justly almost every species of intellectual superiority.  As an adviser he was inestimable.  Nay, he might probably have held a respectable rank as a writer if he would have confined himself to some department of literature in which nothing more than sense, taste, and reading was required.  Unhappily, he set his heart on being a great poet, wrote a tragedy in five acts on the death of Virginia, and offered it to Garrick, who was his personal friend.  Garrick read, shook his head, and expressed a doubt whether it would be wise in Mr. Crisp to stake a reputation, which stood high, on the success of such a piece.  But the author, blinded by self-love, set in motion a machinery such as none could long resist.  His intercessors were the most eloquent man and the most lovely woman of that generation.  Pitt was induced to read “Virginia” and to pronounce it excellent.  Lady Coventry, with fingers which might have furnished a model to sculptors, forced the manuscript into the reluctant hand of the manager; and, in the year 1754, the play was brought forward.

Nothing that skill or friendship could do was omitted.  Garrick wrote both prologue and epilogue.  The zealous friends of the Page xxi

author filled every box ; and, by their strenuous exertions, the life of the play was prolonged during ten nights.  But though there was no clamorous reprobation, it was universally felt that the attempt had failed.  When “Virginia” was printed, the pub lic disappointment was even greater than at the representation.  The critics, the Monthly Reviewers in particular, fell on plot ,characters, and diction without mercy, but, we fear, not without