HENRY TAYLOR.


'There is 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