all, he is the most particularly indebted.

How little he owes to intellectual pre-eminence and how much to the mere overbearing impetuosity of his opinions, would be a singular subject for speculation. Nevertheless it is true, that this rash spirit of domination would have served, without his rich ideality, but to hurry him into contempt. Be this as it may, in the first requisite of a critic the Scotch Aristarchus is grossly deficient. Of one who instructs we demand, in the first instance, a certain knowledge of the principles which regulate the instruction. Professor Wilson's capability is limited to a keen appreciation of the beautiful and fastidious sense of the deformed. Why or how either is either, he never dreams of pretending to inquire, because he sees clearly his own inability to comprehend. He is no analyst. He is ignorant of the machinery of his own thoughts and the thoughts of other men. His criticism is emphatically on the surface — superficial. His opinions are mere dicta — unsupported verba magistri — and are just or unjust at the variable taste of the individual who reads them. He persuades - he bewilders he overwhelms — at times he even argues - but there has been no period at which he ever demonstrated anything beyond his own utter incapacity for demonstration.

His "Genius and Character of Burns" will place Professor Wilson in a clear, but not (for him) in the most advantageous light. We may glean from this book, however, a very accurate conception, if not of Burns, at least of Christopher North. His most usual tone of thought and turn of expression, are here happily conveyed. To the lovers of mere rhapsody we can recommend the volume as one likely to interest them; to those who seek, in good faith, a guide to

-

the real Burns - to the merits and demerits, literary and personal of a man whose merits at least have been more grossly more preposterously exaggerated (through a series of purely adventitious circumstances) than those of any man that ever lived upon the earth to these seekers of the simple truth, we say you will look for it in vain in this volume by Christopher North.

FESTUS: A POEM BY PHILIP JAMES BAILEY, BARRISTER AT LAW. FIRST AMERICAN EDITION. BOSTON : BENJAMIN P. MUSSEY. FOR SALE IN NEW YORK

BY REDFIELD & Co.

[Text: Broadway Journal, Sept. 6, 1845.]

THE poetical and critical world of England were, about six years ago, violently agitated (in spots) by the eruption of " Festus," a Vesuvius-cone at least -if not an Aetna - in the literary cosmos. It is only lately, however, within the last eight or nine months, perhaps, that anything more than a mere rumor of the eruption has made its way to us. This is the more strange, since Festus " is, beyond question, a poem of the most remarkable power, and since, in general, we are ludicrously on the alert to catch the echoes of the British opinion in respect to even the most nonsensical books.

We shall speak of "Festus" hereafter, at length, as its peculiarities deserve. At present, we have read it only in snatches. In the meantime we may observe first, that its author is, or was, at the period of its original publication, a very young man, and secondly

that his work has been lauded in no stinted measure, by many of the best authorities in Great Britain. Bulwer, for example, calls it "a most remarkable and magnificent production." Mrs. Hall says "It contains some of the most wonderful things I ever read." Horne, the author of "Orion " (no common man and no common poem) speaks of its unrepressed vigor of imagination" its "splendor of great and original imagery"-its" passion of poetry. The design of "Festus may be stated, in brief, as the demonstration of the necessity of Evil. quote the concluding Sonnet, which the poet affectedly calls " L'Envoi."

66

:

Read this, world! He who writes is dead to thee,
But still lives in these leaves. He spake inspired
Night and day thought came unhelped, undesired,
Like blood to his heart. The course of study he
Went through with was the soul-rack. The degree
He took was high: it was wise wretchedness.
He suffered perfectly, and gained no less

A prize than in his own torn heart to see

We

A few bright seeds: he sowed them - hoped them truth.
The autumn of that seed is in these pages.

God was with him, and bade old Time to the youth
Unclench his heart, and teach the book of ages.

Peace to thee, world! farewell! May God the Power
And God the Love and God the Grace be ours!

This sonnet happily conveys much of the prevalent tone of the whole poem

- its

its imperiousness

its ruggedness —

a straw to

its contempt of law in great things and small. Observe the defective rhyme in the conclusion the way of the wind.

--

Mr. Mussey is to be thanked for the very handsome and substantial manner in which he has issued this American edition.

COXE'S SAUL.

[Text: Broadway Journal, Sept. 6, 1845.]

66

- but in some manner it

THE subjoined jeu d'esprit has been going the rounds of the papers for some time, and we had intended to copy it before escaped us. The editorial prefix (very generally published with it) is that of "The Morning News " with which paper we thoroughly agree as to the cleverness of the verses.

THE RETOrt.

The Rev. Arthur Coxe's Saul, a Mystery, having been condemned in no measured terms by Poe of the Broadway Journal, and Green of the Emporium, a writer in the Hartford Columbian retorts as follows, which strikes us as being very clever :

A REVERSAL.

An entertaining history

Entitled "Saul a mystery"

Has recently been published by the Rev. Arthur Coxe. The poem is dramatic,

And the wit of it is attic,

And its teachings are emphatic of the doctrines orthodox.

But Mr. Poe, the poet,

Declares he cannot go it

That the book is very stupid

or something of that sort :

And Green of the Empori

Um, tells a kindred story,

And "swears like any tory" that it is n't worth a groat.

But maugre all their croaking

Of the "raven"—and the joking

Of the verdant little fellow of the used to be review
The PEOPLE, in derision

Of their impudent decision,

Have declared without division, that the "Mystery will do."

The truth, of course, rather injures an epigram than otherwise; and nobody will think the worse of the one above when we say that we have expressed no opinion whatever of "Saul." Give a dog a bad name, etc. Whenever a book is abused, it is taken for granted that it is we who have been abusing it. Mr. Coxe has written some very beautiful poems, and "Saul" may be one of them for anything that we know to the contrary. As yet we have not found time to read the poem - which, to say the truth, is an unconscionably long one.

THE PROSE WORKS OF JOHN MILTON, WITH A BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION BY RUFUS WILMOT GRISWOLD. IN TWO VOLUMES. PHILADELPHIA :

HERMAN HOOKER.

[Text: Broadway Journal, Sept. 27, 1845.]

DR. GRISWOLD deserves the thanks of his countrymen for what he has done here:- it certainly is no