“Repose at last, where it is ever found By weary mortals, in the peaceful grave, _In which his heir, that moralising youth,_ _The melancholy Lameth, had before_ _Laid down the o’erpowering burden of his woes._” _Page 12._ And again: “The _harnessed-spirits_ spreading forth their wings.” _Page 11._ And thus: “Then was the hour of vengeance; then the stern _Hell-generated_ tyrant felt dismay, And in his chariot fled—” _Page 262._ But we must bring a still heavier charge against the Dr., that of a total want of originality. The whole plan and conception of the Antediluvians is copied, but “longo intervallo,” after Paradise Lost. Had Milton never written poetry, Dr. McHenry would never have published bombast. Yet the one is only the shadow of the other’s shade. This imitation is perceptible, not only in various attempts to copy the versification, but oftentimes in more glaring and less defensible plagiarisms. Would it, for instance, be believed that the second book of the Antediluvians begins with a passage so nearly resembling the opening of the second book in Paradise Lost, as to make, as Dogberry has it, “flat burglary?” Thus: “High on a throne of royal state, which far Outshone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind, Or where the gorgeous east, with richest hand, Showers on her kings barbaric, pearls and gold, Satan exalted sat.” _Paradise Lost, Book II._ “In royal robes, magnificently bright, On his imperial throne of burnished gold, And polished ivory, which sparkling shone, With gems innumerable, of various hues, That shed a blaze of streaming radiance round The gorgeous hall, the haughty monarch sat.” _Antediluvians, page 29._ And so on diluting the idea of Milton into a dozen more lines, and shewing, at once, the grandeur of the model, and the feebleness of the imitation. Yet Dr. McHenry calls himself a poet, and pretends to the divine afflatus. But again: “Such scenes of cruelty and blood, Exhibited before appalled Heaven, _To make the angels weep_, to look on earth!” _Antediluvians, page 202._ “But man, frail man, Drest in a little brief authority, Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven, As make the angels weep.” _Shakspeare._ We might multiply such instances;—but enough. Has the Dr. forgotten the celebrated verse of Virgil? “Hos ego versiculos feci, tulit alter honores.”