Horace thought otherwise. I never agreed with the Venusian poet. Walter Scott was not a _born_ poet: he was _made_ by the scenes around him from his birth. Byron was not a native poet: his early "poetry" (?) proves the fact abundantly. His only true poetry was the result of circumstances. His first good poem was _made_ by an article in the Edinburgh Review. His next was _made_ by an unhappy marriage, and all the rest that deserved the name have an origin of the kind. Would Burns the cit have ever turned out what Burns the Ayrshire ploughman proved, think ye? And was Pope _born_ a poet? No more than Napoleon was _born_ Emperor of the French! J. F. O. {173} _EDITORIAL_. CRITICAL NOTICES. PAUL ULRIC. _Paul Ulric: Or the Adventures of an Enthusiast. New York: Published by Harper & Brothers._ These two volumes are by Morris Mattson, Esq. of Philadelphia, and we presume that Mr. Mattson is a very young man. Be this as it may, when we called Norman Leslie the silliest book in the world we had certainly never seen Paul Ulric. _One_ sentence in the latter, however, is worthy of our serious attention. "We want a few faithful laborers in the vineyard of literature, to root out the noxious weeds which infest it." See page 116, vol. ii. In itself, the book before us is too purely imbecile to merit an extended critique--but as a portion of our daily literary food--as an American work published by the Harpers--as one of a class of absurdities with an inundation of which our country is grievously threatened--we shall have no hesitation, and shall spare no pains, in exposing fully before the public eye its four hundred and forty-three pages of utter folly, bombast, and inanity. "My name," commences Mr. Mattson, "is Paul Ulric. Thus much, gentle reader, you already know of one whose history is about to be recorded for the benefit of the world. I was always an enthusiast, but of this I deem it inexpedient to say much at present. I will merely remark that I possessed by nature a wild and adventurous spirit which has led me on blindly and hurriedly, from object to object, without any definite or specific aim. My life has been one of continual excitement, and in my wild career I have tasted of joy as well as of sorrow. [Oh remarkable Mr. Ulric!] At one moment I have been elevated to the very pinnacle of human happiness, at the next I have sunk to the lowest depths of despair. Still I fancied there was always an equilibrium. This may seem a strange philosophy to some, but is it the less true? The human mind is so constituted as always to seek a level--if it is depressed it will be proportionately elevated, if elevated it will be proportionately depressed. But" says Mr. U., interrupting himself, "I am growing metaphysical!" We had thought he was only growing absurd.