ples, was also selected to
be the tutor of the prince, his son. When Charles VIII. of France invaded
Naples, Pontanus was deputed to address the French conqueror. To render
himself agreeable to the enemies of his country, he did not avoid
expatiating on the demerits of his expelled patrons: "So difficult it is,"
adds the grave and dignified historian, "for ourselves to observe that
moderation and those precepts which no man knew better than Pontanus, who
was endowed with such copious literature, and composed with such facility
in moral philosophy, and possessed such acquirements in universal
erudition, that he had made himself a prodigy to the eye of the world."[B]
The student, occupied by abstract pursuits, may not indeed always take
much interest in the change of dynasties; and perhaps the famous cancelled
dedication to Cromwell, by the learned orientalist Dr. CASTELL,[C] who
supplied its place by another to Charles II., ought not to be placed to
the account of political tergiversation. But the versatile adoration of
the continental _savans_ of the republic or the monarchy, the consul or
the emperor, has inflicted an unhealing wound on the literary character;
since, like PONTANUS, to gratify their new master, they had not the
greatness of mind to save themselves from ingratitude to their old.

[Footnote A: In the article entitled "Anecdotes of Censured Authors," in
vol. i. of "Curiosities of Literature."]

[Footnote B: Guicciardini, Book II.]

[Footnote C: For the melancholy history of this devoted scholar, see note
to the article on "The Rewards of Oriental Students," in "Calamities of
Authors," p. 189.]

Their vengeance, as quickly kindled, lasts as long. Genius is a dangerous
gift of nature. The same effervescent passions form a Catiline or a
Cicero. Plato lays great stress on his man of genius possessing the most
vehement passions, but he adds reason to restrain them. It is Imagination
which by their side stands as their good or evil spirit. Glory or infamy
is but a different direction of the same passion.

How are we to describe symptoms which, flowing from one source, yet show
themselves in such opposite forms as those of an intermittent fever, a
silent delirium, or a horrid hypochondriasm? Have we no other opiate to
still the agony, no other cordial to warm the heart, than the great
ingredient in the recipe of Plato's visionary man of genius--calm
reason? Must men, who so rarely obtain this tardy panacea, r