of the heart abhorring the odious,
execrable man, whilst our fancy hovers, fascinated, about the marvellous
creation! Yet we do not call Shakspeare here a Satirist. The distinction
is broad. The Satirist is, in the most confined, or in the most
comprehensive sense--PERSONAL.

And now we doubt not, readers beloved, that while you have been enjoying
these our reflections on Satire, you may likewise have been dimly
foreseeing the purposed end towards which our drift is setting in, as on a
strong tide. We have been dealing with first-raters. In them the power of
the poetry reconciles us to the matter--mitigates the repugnancy otherwise
ready to wait, in a well-constituted mind, upon a series of thoughts and
images which studiously persevere in venting the passions of hate and
scorn. The curse of the Muse on all middling poets--and upon Parnassus one
is tempted to ascribe to the middle zone of the mountain, all those who do
not cluster about one of the summits--the common curse seems to fall with
tenfold violence upon the middling Satirist. The great poet has authority,
magistery, masterdom, seated in his high spirit; and when he chooses to
put forth his power, we bow before him, or stoop our heads from the
descending bolt. But if one not thus privileged leap uncalled into the
awful throne, to hurl self-dictated judgments, this arrogant usurpation of
supremacy; justly offends and revolts us. For he who censures the age, or
any notable division of contemporary society, in verse, does in fact
arrogate to himself an unappealable superiority. He speaks, or affects to
speak, muse-inspired, as a prophet, oracularly. He does not enquire, he
thunders. Now, the thunder of a scold is any thing but agreeable--and we
exclaim--

"Demens! qui nimbos et non imitabile fulmen
AEre et cornipedum cursu simularat equorum."

Poets are the givers of renown. Their word is fame. But fame is good and
ill; and therefore they speak Eulogy and Satire. They are the tongues of
the world. The music of verse makes way for Lear's words to all our
hearts. It makes way for the Satirist's to the heart, where they are to be
mortal. If mankind justly moved condemn, the Poet will find voice for that
condemnation. Wo be to those who by goading provoke him, who is the organ
of the universal voice, to visit his own wrong, to wreak his own vengeance
on their heads! The wrong, the wrath is private; but the voice retains its
universality, and they are withered as