In turning over the pages of the manuscript which has afforded the materials for these Volumes, it excited no little surprize, that in a literary life so extended and diversified, there seemed to be no mention of poetry or poets. It was notorious that the Sexagenarian had a sort of propensity for the art, and had dabbled in it himself; but it seemed odd that having lived with most of those, who, in his day, were considered as more or less accomplished in this way, he should no where notice either them or their productions. But surprize had hardly subsided, when in one of the covers, carefully secured by a wafer, some memoranda on this subject were discovered, to which the motto which heads this Chapter was prefixed. They were written in a very small hand, and like many other portions of the manuscript, appeared like hasty notes to be revised at some more favourable opportunity. They are, however, subjoined with little, indeed with no other alteration, than not allowing the introduction of the first person. It is remarkable, observes the writer, in the experience of a tolerably protracted life, how few examples have presented themselves of individuals avowing a devotion to the poetic art, and cultivating it with persevering diligence, who have really deserved the appellation of poets. Cicero thus remarks—“Sæpe audivi poetam bonum neminem id quod a Democrito et Platone in scriptis relictum esse dicunt, sine inflammatione animorum existere posse et sine quodam afflatu quasi furoris.” The “Furor” has been sufficiently conspicuous within the last thirty years, but the genuine “Afflatus” has been rarely communicated. From what principle, or rather from what infirmity of man’s nature can it proceed, that the writer of poetry is endowed with a greater portion of self-complacency, with respect to his own compositions, than any other author. Yet the fact is so, and the affirmation that it is, is as old as the age of Augustus. May not the appeal too safely be made, even to the present æra, whether the same self-confidence does not still characterize the poetic tribe. Cicero had no possible pretensions to the character of a poet, yet there is sufficient evidence that he thought very well of his own poetical compositions. It is his remark, that every poet thinks his own productions better than those of any other person. After relating the beautiful story of Damocles and the tyrant Dionysius, speaking of the latter he says, “Musicorum vero perstudiosum accepimus, poetam etiam tragicum: quam bonum nihil ad rem. In hoc enim genere nescio quo pacto magis, quam in aliis suum cuique pulchrum est. Adhuc neminem cognovi poetam, et mihi fuit cum Aquinio amicitia, qui sibi non optimus videretur. Sic se res habet. Te tua, me delectant mea.” But enough of this digressive excursion. The following are rough outlines of modern poets, personally known to, and more or less familiarly connected with the author.