and a fine taste for works of art, will permit. He listens to no voices from the land of dreams, and never labors to express the inexpressible. Almost every sentence in his essays is clear, sharp, pointed, direct, pictorial. He never whines, although he is not more deficient in sensibility than many authors who do little else. His quick sense of the ridiculous preserves him from cant and all its manifold sins. To give raciness and energy to his style, he has no hesitation in using phrases which young ladies might consider inelegant, and which Miss Betty would pronounce decidedly "low." His works overflow with antithetical forms of expression, and thoughts condensed into sparkling epigrams. The latter he seems to love with all the affection which Shakspeare had for puns. Sometimes they betray careful elaboration-at others, they have the suddenness of poetical inspiration. His page is brightened with them. Gleaming over the discussion of a question of taste, like incessant flashes of heat-lightning, thrown off like glittering sparks, in the rush of his declamatory logic, at one time used as the agreeable vehicle to convey an important truth, at another, the shining armor in which a paradox or a sophism is impenetrably encased-they seem almost native to his mind, and he to the "manor born." There are whole pages in his writings which must be interpreted according to the laws of epigram, instead of the proprieties of statement. That this love for pointed dic tion leads him into many errors, cannot be denied; but the blemish is so delightful that the reader no more thinks of making it a matter for grave critical accusation, than of quarrelling with Congreve for his excess of wit, or with Carlyle for his excess of spirituality.

It may now be asked by some sapient critics, Why

make all this coil about a mere periodical essayist? Of what possible concern is it to anybody, whether Mr. Thomas Babington Macaulay be, or be not, overrun with faults, since he is nothing more than one of the three-day immortals, who contribute flashy and "taking" articles to a quarterly review? What great work has he written? Such questions as these might be put by the same men who place the Spectator, Tatler and Rambler, among the British classics, yet judge of the size of a contemporary's mind by that of his book, and who can hardly recognize amplitude of comprehension, unless it be spread over the six hundred pages of octavos and quartos. Such men would place Bancroft above Webster, and Sparks above Calhoun, Adams and Everett deny a posterity for Bryant's Thanatopsis, and predict longevity to Pollok's Course of Time. It is singular that the sagacity which can discern thought only in a state of dilution, is not sadly gravelled when it thinks of the sententious aphorisms which have survived whole libraries of folios, and the little songs which have outrun, in the race of fame, so many enormous epics. While it can easily be demonstrated that Macaulay's writings contain a hundred-fold more matter and thought than an equal number of volumes taken from what are called, par eminence, the "British Essayists," it is not broaching any literary heresy to predict that they will sail as far down the stream of time as those eminent members of the illustrious family of British classics.

THIS large and well-printed volume has been domesticated on our table for a long time, and although not publicly noticed, has not been forgotten. A review of it has held, for many months, a prominent place among our deferred projects and virtuous intentions. The book, however, has not thought proper to await our judgment before it commenced its tour of the country, but has quietly travelled through many States and four editions, and now returns our glance with all the careless impertinence inspired by success. That fickle-minded monster, called "the reading public," which sometimes buys and praises before it receives its cue from the reviewer, has taken the work under its own patronage, and spread before it the broad shield of its favor, as a protection against the critical knife. We hope, nevertheless, to be able to give it a sly thrust, here and there, in places where it is still vulnerable.

Mr. Griswold has prefixed to his book an eloquent, hopeful, and extenuating preface. This is followed by a lively and learned historical introduction, displaying much research, devoted to a consideration of the metrical mediocrity of the Colonies. He has disturbed the dust which had mercifully gathered around antiquated dog

*The Poets and Poetry of America; with a Historical Introduction. By Rufus W. Griswold. Philadelphia: Carey & Hart. 8vo. pp. xxvi. and 476. - North American Review, January, 1844.

gerel and venerable bathos, with no reverential fingers; and his good taste has not been choked or blinded by the cloud he has raised. The common fault of antiquaries, that of deeming puerility and meanness invaluable because they happen to be scarce and old, and of attempting to link some deep meaning to what is simply bombast, affectation, or nonsense, he has avoided with commendable diligence. He makes no demand on our charity, in favor of some poetaster, for whom he may have imbibed a strange affection. He does not estimate the value of his antiquarian spoils by the labor and money expended in. their acquisition; and has emerged from his resurrectionist delvings in the grave-yards of rhyme, without confounding moral distinctions, vitiating his taste, or becoming imbued with any malevolent designs against good composition or public patience.

The series of selections and biographies begins with Freneau, and ends with the Davidsons. Between these, Mr. Griswold has contrived to press into the nominal service of the Muses no less than eighty-eight persons, all of whom, it can be proved by indisputable evidence, did, at various periods, and inspired by different motives, exhibit their ideas, or their lack of ideas, in a metrical form. The editor is well aware that a strict definition of poetry would shut out many whom he has admitted. Much of the verse in his collection is not "the creation of new beauty, the manifestation of the real by the ideal, in words that move in metrical array.' 999 It is rather commonplace, jingling its bells at certain fixed pauses in its smooth or rugged march. To versify sermons is not to create beauty; nor can good morality be taken in apology for threadbare tropes. A morbid and uneasy sensibility may give a certain swell and gaudiness to diction with

out the aid of imagination. A young gentleman, while groaning beneath some fancied woes, may ask for public commiseration in the husky utterance of grating rhyme, and yet display no depth and intensity of feeling. We think, therefore, that Mr. Griswold has "been too liberal of his aqueous mixture" in his selections. Some of the authors whom he has included in the list are unworthy of the honor of having their feebleness thrust into notice. From others of more pretensions he has copied too unsparingly. A few of his critical notices reflect more credit upon his benevolence than his taste. He seems to have fixed the price of admittance low, in order, as the show-bills say, that the public might be more generally accommodated. King James the First debased the ancient order of knighthood, by laying his sword on the shoulder of every pander or buffoon who recommended himself by the fulness.of his purse, the readiness of his jests, or the pliancy of his conscience. Editors should keep this fact in mind, and extract from it the warning and admonition it is so eminently calculated to suggest.

Although we deem Mr. Griswold deserving of a little gentle correction for his literary beneficence and critical benignity, we are not insensible to his merits. The work before us must have demanded the labor of years. Those portions which are intrinsically the least valuable, undoubtedly cost the editor the most toil, and afforded him the least gratification. To hunt out mediocrity and feebleness, and append correct dates to their forgotten effusions, is an exercise of philanthropy which is likely to be little appreciated; and yet, in many instances, it was necessary, in order to give a fair reflection of the rhyming spirit of the country and the time. In the editor's wanderings in some of the secluded lanes of letters, he has