so neither could he resign those mental feasts enjoyed in London libraries and societies.
Poor Dublin! what could she yield in return? Whiteboys (in her vicinity)—faction-fights—hostile religions—homely, if not coarse manners and customs—little literature—angry party spirit—narrow views—and now with an army of volunteers, influenced by genuine patriotism indeed, but without great care on the part of their leaders, likely to run wild and try to disconnect themselves from the only country that could advance their wealth and civilization. Amid her wit and her ease she was merely provincial; and provincialism is but another name for inferiority of every description, from a halfpenny ballad to an epic poem! Bishop Percy, in one of his letters, had injured the island materially in his opinion:—“In this remote part of the kingdom (Dromore) nothing could afford me a higher gratification than to be honoured with a few lines from you or any other of my good friends, to inform me what is doing in the literary world, of which I can seldom get intelligence sooner than it would reach to the East Indies.”
Toward the latter part of the year was commenced the main business of our Critic’s life—the edition of Shakspeare. A pretty long course of preliminary training, as we have seen, pointed to this as the natural result of the days and nights, the thought and research, devoted to the study of the poet and his age. Whatever new light had been thrown upon either, much obscurity remained. A steady, persevering advance into the mists of antiquity could alone render objects distinct. Connecting circumstances likewise
