is Eclogues with boyish inexperience, the praise, which
these compositions obtained, tempted him into a belief that Nature was
not to be trusted, at least in pastoral Poetry. To prove this by
example, he put his friend Gay upon writing those Eclogues which their
author intended to be burlesque. The instigator of the work, and his
admirers, could perceive in them nothing but what was ridiculous.
Nevertheless, though these Poems contain some detestable passages, the
effect, as Dr. Johnson well observes, 'of reality and truth became
conspicuous even when the intention was to show them grovelling and
degraded.' The Pastorals, ludicrous to such as prided themselves upon
their refinement, in spite of those disgusting passages, 'became
popular, and were read with delight, as just representations of rural
manners and occupations.'

Something less than sixty years after the publication of the 'Paradise
Lost' appeared Thomson's 'Winter;' which was speedily followed by his
other 'Seasons.' It is a work of inspiration: much of it is written from
himself, and nobly from himself. How was it received? 'It was no sooner
read,' says one of his contemporary biographers, 'than universally
admired: those only excepted who had not been used to feel, or to look
for any thing in poetry, beyond a _point_ of satirical or epigrammatic
wit, a smart _antithesis_ richly trimmed with rhyme, or the softness of
an _elegiac_ complaint. To such his manly classical spirit could not
readily commend itself; till, after a more attentive perusal, they had
got the better of their prejudices, and either acquired or affected a
truer taste. A few others stood aloof, merely because they had long
before fixed the articles of their poetical creed, and resigned
themselves to an absolute despair of ever seeing any thing new and
original. These were somewhat mortified to find their notions disturbed
by the appearance of a poet, who seemed to owe nothing but to Nature and
his own genius. But, in a short time, the applause became unanimous;
every one wondering how so many pictures, and pictures so familiar,
should have moved them but faintly to what they felt in his
descriptions. His digressions too, the overflowings of a tender
benevolent heart, charmed the reader no less; leaving him in doubt,
whether he should more admire the Poet or love the Man.'

This case appears to bear strongly against us:--but we must distinguish
between wonder and legitimate admiration. The