s delight in singing, though none hear
Beside the singer: and there is delight
In praising, though the praiser sit alone,
And see the praised far off him, far above.'
--W.S. LANDOR.

It has been said, with more of truth than flattery, that literature of
any kind which requires the reader himself to think, in order to
enjoy, can never be popular. The writings of Mr Henry Taylor are to be
classed in this category. The reader of his dramas must study in order
to relish them; and their audience, therefore, must be of the fit,
though few kind. Goethe somewhere remarks, that it is not what we take
from a book so much as what we bring to it that actually profits us.
But this is hard doctrine, caviare to the multitude. And so long as
popular indolence and popular distaste for habits of reflection shall
continue the order of the day, so long will it be difficult for
writers of Mr Taylor's type to popularise their meditations; to see
themselves quoted in every provincial newspaper and twelfth-rate
magazine; to be gloriously pirated by eager hordes at Brussels and New
York; or to create a furor in 'the Row' on the day of publication, and
turn bibliopolic premises into 'overflowing houses.' The public asks
for glaring effects, palpable hits, double-dyed colours, treble X
inspirations, concentrated essence of sentiments, and emotions up to
French-romance pitch. With such a public, what has our author in
common? While _they_ make literary demands after their own heart, and
expect every candidate for their _not_ evergreen laurels to conform to
their rules, Mr Taylor calmly unfolds his theory, that it is from
'deep self-possession, an intense repose' that all genuine emanations
of poetic genius proceed, and expresses his doubt whether any high
endeavour of poetic art ever has been or ever will be promoted by the
stimulation of popular applause.[2] He denies that youth is the poet's
prime. He contends that what constitutes a great poet is a rare and
peculiar balance of all the faculties--the balance of reason with
imagination, passion with self-possession, abundance with reserve, and
inventive conception with executive ability. He insists that no man is
worthy of the name of a poet who would not rather be read a hundred
times by one reader than once by a hundred. He affirms that poetry,
unless written simply to please and pamper, and not to elevate or
instruct, will do little indeed t