ABSTRACT
The public are already persuaded that Dr. Southey’s pen is too quick for his thoughts. He goes on year after year, labouring at the production of new books, apparently without caring much about the fate of his past works, or perhaps trusting with overweening confidence to their superlative merit for their final triumph over criticism and time. By thus incessantly wielding the weapon of language, sometimes in sport, but oftener in obstinate conflict, he has acquired a skill and readiness in the management of it, which frequently conceal his constitutional deficiency of vigour. With one or two exceptions, no living writer is so thoroughly possessed with confidence in his own powers, or in the patience of mankind. He conceives every possible topic to be accessible to his genius, and has no doubt whatever but that men will stop the wheel of public business, or of pleasure, to listen to the music of his periods, which are not, however, the most musical that could be constructed.
