were generally intended as apologies for his own poems, rather
than as expositions of general principles; he, therefore, often
attempts to deceive the reader by sophistry which could scarcely
have deceived himself. His dicta are the dicta, not of a judge,
but of an advocate:--often of an advocate in an unsound cause.
Yet, in the very act of misrepresenting the laws of composition,
he shows how well he understands them. But he was perpetually
acting against his better knowledge. His sins were sins against
light. He trusted that what was bad would be pardoned for the
sake of what was good. What was good, he took no pains to make
better. He was not, like most persons who rise to eminence,
dissatisfied even with his best productions. He had set up no
unattainable standard of perfection, the contemplation of which
might at once improve and mortify him. His path was not attended
by an unapproachable mirage of excellence, for ever receding, and
for ever pursued. He was not disgusted by the negligence of
others; and he extended the same toleration to himself. His mind
was of a slovenly character,--fond of splendour, but indifferent
to neatness. Hence most of his writings exhibit the sluttish
magnificence of a Russian noble, all vermin and diamonds, dirty
linen and inestimable sables. Those faults which spring from
affectation, time and thought in a great measure removed from his
poems. But his carelessness he retained to the last. If towards
the close of his life he less frequently went wrong from
negligence, it was only because long habits of composition
rendered it more easy to go right. In his best pieces we find
false rhymes,--triplets, in which the third line appears to be a
mere intruder, and, while it breaks the music, adds nothing to
the meaning,--gigantic Alexandrines of fourteen and sixteen
syllables, and truncated verses for which he never troubled