stirs the stomach up like the tossing of the sea in a thunder storm. You can't reason young bards from such fits, any more than you can reason music into a cart-wheel or poetry into a Dutch cheese, and each successive expostulation is considered by them as a renewed persecution of this heart wearying world.' Parnassus becomes a huge charnel-bouse, or rather a dwelling for rooks and ravens judg ing from the sound; the world has nothing cheering in it and is literally a vale of tears, while the stream of Arethusa is the stream of forgetfulness, under which they long to sleep from the oppressive weight of human wo-lack-a-day!

Another evil resulting from allowing them this privilege is, the destruction of all manly sentiment. Any one who reads the poetry of the present day, will see that the day of manly sentiment has mostly gone by; that ease, brilliancy, force, and naturalness, the four great characteristics of good poetry, have given place to voluptuous insipidity. How many are our poets who can be easy without weakness, brilliant without the show of it, powerful without bombast, and simple without mawkishness? We have one or two in each department and but one or two; while every year spawns its imitators in crowds and fools in every thing. The essence of pure poetry seems going from us, the crowd will catch up a piece of rant before the sweetest efforts of Cowper's muse, and it is to be feared that every thing will go-except the form. We shall hold that as we hold the shell picked up on the sea shore, which once 'discoursed eloquent music,' but from its fractures can now do so no more; or as we cherish the 'clayey fold' of a loved one, whose music breath has died on our ears forever. The sweet spirit which came in our summer dreams and breathed into our souls the awe of its witchery, shall come to us no more; and the bright creations of our young imaginations shall pass away, and leave us but the dull cold realities of common day existence. The fire breathed on the heart at its birth, is the last faint flashes of an extinguished altar, of which the poor dust and ashes left on it, are the only evidences of its Heavenborn illumination. We shall be flung upon an age of utilitarianism— practicality will be the cry from the east to the west-and every thing which is pure and beautiful, every thing which is high and holy in the ideal world, will wither before it. The age of poetry will have become the age of folly; the age of elevated and far reaching thought the age of visionaries; while all that tribe of glorious spirits of the best days of letter'd Greece and Rome, and the few who have followed them, will have become a tribe of madmen. Now to counteract this evil we need the prevalence of our doctrine, viz. that poets-poets according to the received phraseologyare nothing different from other men. Surely there's a lack of modesty in some of their assumptions; as, for instance, when they arrogate to themselves certain prerogatives over other men, such as the right to starve, to shut themselves in garrets, live on bread and water,

and take poison. By what right do they all this which extends not to other men, and why may not we if we find the world press us sorely, shift off our troubles! When the doctrine shall be fully established, that poetry is nothing but manly sentiment in the garb of a pleasing imagination, it will once more become honorable. The flocks of croakers on the sides of Parnassus, will be swept away by the common sense of mankind; and the few whose steadiness of wing sustains them at the top, will still stay there the admiration of the world.

We have been helped to some of these notions by a little book before us, purporting to be writ by one O. W. Holmes-an unpretending one indeed, yet full of instruction. We thank the author for it, and in the spirit of gratitude take occasion to commend him. At the present day we are almost afraid to take up a book of poetry, for we can generally tell its contents about as well before as after reading it, and a review were about as well when prepared on the same principles, a pretty good proof of the book's worthlessness. We have thought that Editors of magazines-and indeed we don't know but they do so-would do as well to keep some dozen or two on hand well written out with a few blanks for extracts. They would be handy in all emergencies, and we'll venture to say that in nine cases out of ten they would give just decisions. It is the same with them all, a few thoughts that look like inspiration, and all the rest a dead level of mediocrity; and instead of stopping to descant on the merits of the performance, we pity the publishers. Not so with this little book of beautiful writing-beautiful we call it, not from interested motives or because we are bribed to it, but because it is beautiful. The name of the writer has come to us before with one or two playful little puerilities, yet such puerilities as made us wish to have more of him. There was always a sort of affected dislike of his art, under cover of which we invariably detected a genuine enthusiasm ; and though he has doubtless imposed on many by it and made them think him in earnest, not so with us. A man of delicate sensibility, knowing well how a part of the world think and speak of poetry will shield himself in this very way, and we have always laid thus much sin at the door of Mr. Holmes. We have seen in him a love of his art, a delicate appreciation of a poet's peculiar situation, and have honored him for it. We always felt him to be a man of genius, and his book has not altered our opinion; for in it he has given us some genuine poetry, and nobly vindicated his claim to the appellation.

The distinguishing characteristics of Mr. Holmes' book, are manliness and humor. We say of his book, we shall give our notions on what we think are the true elements of his character (id est his poetic character) in the course of our article. The first thing that strikes is, that the writer has a way of saying a thing which is his own way, and that this is always manly. He casts his thoughts in a

mould that shows his familiarity with the best writers; that he has been to the very fountain head for instruction, and come away benefitted by it. He knows how to be sentimental without silliness, and vigorous without violence; and in such situations as we would think him most likely to fail, he has contrived to acquit himself with credit. He does not for the sake of a thought let himself down to it, but if he must have it he brings it up to his own station. Neither does he seem to have yielded to that most besetting sin of all clever writers, a disposition to run as near to mawkishness as possible without falling into it, and by a delicacy and a mastery of good language produce something which we can't call bad, and yet for the life of us cannot give them credit for. We see nothing of this. On the contrary, there is too little sentimentality; and we could wish he had allowed himself more latitude where he shows himself so capable. He stops as if he were afraid of cloying us, and contents himself with saying a little less than just enough. Now though we honor the motive here we could wish it otherwise. We would have Mr. Holmes indulge himself in that delicate vein of simple melancholy which is so full of pathos, which is always found in every genuine poet, and which he himself possesses in an eminent degree; and though we know advice of this kind would let a host of evils on us if taken indiscriminately, yet we have no fears in giving it to a man like him whose good sense will surely never let him overstep the bounds of modesty.

The other characteristic of this book is, its playfulness. We don't recollect ever to have met before, in any one book and written by one person, so many pieces of sparkling humor. Some of them are conceived in the happiest vein, and executed in the most felicitous manner. They have the advantage of being finished without the appearance of study-in fact seem to have dropped from the pen without effort. They open sly and soberly, about the middle you begin to suspect something, at last you lay aside the gentleman and literally roar. We notice also that there rarely or never recurs the same thought. The old Greeks and Latins set a bad example here, and all the luckless wights of modern times bent on showing up 'the gift and faculty divine,' have done the same; with this difference however, the ancients showed it was not for want of substance, while moderns have given evidence of a most immodest lack of this same commodity. The thoughts in this book are rarely or never diluted; every line seems to have its business there, and the conclusion you come to after reading it is, that the thing is 'about done up.' Now this is saying a great deal. The art of writing a playful poem, easy yet vigorous, familiar yet original, and then to know just when to leave off, is the highest art of poetry. When we try to be natural, and select smooth and musical words to make the rhythm melodious, there is danger of letting the thought go for the word; and while we are chasing after this phrase or that, twisting it about and

trying to knock the corners off that it may fit into the structure, the spirit is gone. Any one at all familiar with writing knows also, that the thoughts suggested in the heat of composition seem original often when they are not; and we take up many a manuscript after laying it by to cool, and find a work valueless which cost us a deal of labor. Mr. Holmes has steered clear of all this. Dean Swift's definition of a good style fits him exactly, proper words in proper places.' His words are well chosen, the rhythm is smooth, and in most cases the thought apparent at a glance. In his hands the language is made to twist itself many ways; yet the collocation is always natural and the spirit preserved. The conclusion we come to is, that Mr. Holmes is a poet of very fine powers, and that he deems his art of importance enough to be studied and studied well. His book has delighted us, and as we said before we thank him for it.

But we have not done with him. The reader will perceive we have all along carried the impression, of humor and manly sentiment being his chief characteristics. This is true of his book, in which, with one or two exceptions, these qualities are mostly prominent. But we said something back, of some different notions entertained by us about the true character of his genius-which we now return to. Nothing is more glaringly apparent in literary history, than the wonderful discrepancy we sometimes find, when we compare the works with the ways of literary men. An author before the public is like a belle in a drawing-room, in his very best; every thing offensive is put out of sight, out of compliment to the company. But this supposes the author's character bad-let us change the illustration. An author before the public is like a well educated lady, who out of favor to certain prejudices of the company avoids certain topics of conversation which are offensive to them. This suits our purpose better, and it is here we believe where our poet is. There is a delicate vein of the most melancholy witchery in him, which so far as we can judge he keeps aiming to suppress, and his reason is doubtless the fact, that the common mass of mankind speak coldly of or do not understand it. We believe we can understand him here; we believe that poetry with him is a sacred feeling; and if he ever brings it up and lets it gush forth in the full freshness of its own deep melody, he feels very much as the ancients did when strangers laid hands on their household gods, it seems to him like a kind of desecration. We believe this the secret of our poet's not indulging himself in this kind of writing, and yet in this vein we believe lies his power. We are strengthened in this by the fact, that the very finest specimens of real poetry in the book are of this character; and, also, that in the humorous pieces there is an under current of simple pathos, the more fascinating perhaps from the stinted quantities dealt out to us. The following is a specimen of what we

mean.

'THE LAST READER.'

"I sometimes sit beneath a tree,

And read my own sweet songs;
Though nought they may to others be,
Each humble line prolongs

A tone that might have passed away,
But for that scarce remembered lay.

"I keep them like a lock or leaf,
That some dear girl has given ;
Frail record of an hour, as brief
As sunset clouds in heaven,
But spreading purple twilight still
High over memory's shadowed hill.

"They lie upon my pathway bleak,
Those flowers that once ran wild,
As on a father's care-worn cheek

The ringlets of his child;

The golden mingling with the gray,
And stealing half its snows away.

"What care I though the dust is spread
Around these yellow leaves,

Or o'er them his sarcastic thread
Oblivion's insect weaves;

Though weeds are tangled on the stream,
It still reflects my morning's beam.

"And therefore love I such as smile
On these neglected songs,

Nor deem that flattery's needless wile
My opening bosom wrongs;
For who would trample, at my side,
A few pale buds, my garden's pride?

"It may be that my scanty ore

Long years have washed away, And where were golden sands before, Is nought but common clay;

Still something sparkles in the sun

For Memory to look back upon.

"And when my name no more is heard,

My lyre no more is known,

Still let me, like a winter's bird,

In silence and alone,

Fold over them the weary wing

Once flashing through the dews of spring."