CRITICISM.--That was a charming trait in SCOTT's character, which prompted him to 'set an author upon his legs,' by quoting the better passages of his works, as an offset to the objectionable portions, which a censor of the meat-axe school was dwelling upon with characteristic gusto, to the exclusion of every thing of an opposite character. No critic should read for mere occasion of censure, and for the sole purpose of dragging forth lurking errors; nor should he be ambitious to act the part of a judge who determines beforehand to hang every man that may come before him for trial. Such censorial dogmatism is both unjust and injurious. We do not object to severe criticism, so that it be just and honest; but we devoutly eschew the captious, cavilling strain of quibble, in which it is getting to be so much the fashion to indulge, and that without any exertion of thought, or labor of investigation, in the discussion of the work condemned. Unfavorable criticism should be so tempered as to be instructive and consolatory, yet at the same time just, to the youthful aspirant. We have been led to these remarks, by noticing the wholesale condemnation which has been poured out upon a small volume of poems, by a young graduate of Yale College, WILLIAM THOMPSON BACON, which was briefly reviewed in our last number. Now we do not know Mr. Bacon, nor any one who does, nor did we ever receive a line from him, or any of his friends, nor from any body else, in relation to his book. The qualified praise which we rendered to his little work, was therefore wholly disinterested, unsolicited, and sincere; and to prove that it was just, we annex the omitted extract, referred to in our last: 'How many years have passed away, Since on this spot I stood, And heard, as now I hear them play, The voices of the wood, Green boughs and budding leaves among, Piped low in one continuous song? 'How many years have passed, since here Upon this bald rock's crest, I lay, and watched the shadows clear Upon the lake's blue breast; Since here, in many a poet dream, I lay and heard the eagle scream? 'The seasons have led round the year Many and many a time, And other hands have gather'd here The young flowers of the clime, The which I wove, with thoughts of joy, About my brows, a poet boy. 'And there were voices too 'lang syne,' I think I hear them yet; And eyes that loved to look on mine, I shall not soon forget; And hearts that felt for me before-- Alas, alas, they'll feel no more! 'I call them by remember'd names, And weep when I have done; The one, the yawning ocean claims, The distant church-yard, one; I call--the wood takes up the tone, And only gives me back my own.