Blacklock was a most amiable, genial, and benevolent being. He was sometimes subject to melancholy--_un_like many of the blind, and one especially, whom we name not, but who, still living, bears a striking resemblance to Blacklock in fineness of mind, warmth of heart, and high- toned piety, but who is cheerful as the day. As to his poetry, it is undoubtedly wonderful, considering the circumstances of its production, if not _per se_. Dr Johnson says to Boswell,--'As Blacklock had the misfortune to be blind, we may be absolutely sure that the passages in his poems descriptive of visible objects are combinations of what he remembered of the works of other writers who could see. That foolish fellow Spence has laboured to explain philosophically how Blacklock may have done, by his own faculties, what it is impossible he should do. The solution, as I have given it, is plain. Suppose I know a man to be so lame that he is absolutely incapable to move himself, and I find him in a different room from that in which I left him, shall I puzzle myself with idle conjectures that perhaps his nerves have, by some unknown change, all at once become effective? No, sir; it is clear how he got into a different room--he was CARRIED.' Perhaps there is a fallacy in this somewhat dogmatic statement. Perhaps the blind are not so utterly dark but they may have certain dim _simulacra_ of external objects before their eyes and minds. Apart from this, however, Blacklock's poetry endures only from its connexion with the author's misfortune, and from the fact that through the gloom he groped greatly to find and give the burning hand of the peasant poet the squeeze of a kindred spirit,--kindred, we mean, in feeling and heart, although very far removed in strength of intellect and genius. THE AUTHOR'S PICTURE. While in my matchless graces wrapt I stand, And touch each feature with a trembling hand; Deign, lovely self! with art and nature's pride, To mix the colours, and the pencil guide. Self is the grand pursuit of half mankind; How vast a crowd by self, like me, are blind! By self the fop in magic colours shown, Though, scorned by every eye, delights his own: When age and wrinkles seize the conquering maid, Self, not the glass, reflects the flattering shade. Then, wonder-working self! begin the lay; Thy charms to others as to me display.