Burton's fine versified abstract of his own "Anatomy; and says ter than the strong lines now in vogue in this critical age." In one department of verse, that of Hymns and the versified Psalms of David, some writers are classic from having produced one or two admirable pieces of the kind; in this class come Addison, Pope, Young, Ken, Cowper, Heber, Wotton. Many writers, of very considerable pretensions, have succeeded in one long poem, but are not generally known by any second production of equal value. Of this class the best. instances are Young, in his " Night Thoughts"-hard reading, except in detached passages; Akenside's "Pleasures of Imagination" (with all his pomp of philosophic speculation and elaborate fancy, very heavy for these very reasons.) The Pleasures, (by the way) of Memory and Hope, in these long general poems, are far from pleasant reading; Churchill, whose local and temporary satires are forgotten and give place to his "Rosciad," a monument of his sense, acuteness, and happy satire-a gallery of theatrical portraits hit off with the justness and vivacity of Pope, and forming a capital supplement to Colley Cibber's collection; Allan Ramsay's "Gentle Shepherd," that Arcadian pastoral; Garth, in his Dispensary," an author in whom the man and humorist was more than a match for the poet; Somerville's "Chase," pretty fair verse for a sporting country gentleman; and Armstrong's "Art of Preserving Health," a sensible essay that might as well have been written in prose. The same criticism may be applied to Garth and Somerville. 66 Among general readers the Hudibras of Butler is eagerly perused by all who delight in the union of sense, wit, and learning, all devoted to the cause and end of wholesome satire; yet the other sharp satires of the same writer are, virtually, unknown. And the Seasons of Thompson, by no means his best poem, is universally read, while very few ever think of glancing at the delightful "Castle of Indolence," of which he was both the creator and master. Then again, certain fine poems are continually quoted, not as the sole efforts, but as the masterpieces of their authors, quite to the exclusion of any other works of theirs; the selection, for instance, of such fine poems as the Ode to the Passions and the Elegy in a Country Churchyard, in works on elocution, with which every schoolboy is familiar, has thrown the other equally fine pieces by the same authors, comparatively into the shade. Shenstone's Schoolmistress comes within the same category; but after all, the fame of the poet depends on it alone. The ballad of Jemmy Dawson is not superior to many that have been consigned to obscurity; while the Pastoral Ballad, with a certain vein of tenderness, does not rank much above Hammond's strain (once called the English Ovid), which has been long since, and not unjustly, forgotten. A delicate volume might be made up of single poems of English and American poets of this century. In English poetical literature, Mrs. Southey's Paupers's Death-Bed, Noels's Pauper's Funeral, delicate verses of Darley, Montgomery's Grave, &c., &c. Our American Parnassus entertains many occupants, who can prefer but a single claim (or two) for possession. The following are some of the gems we can, at present, recall. The famous song of R. T. Paine, entitled Adams and Liberty, though its poetical value was slight, was the best paid copy of verses ever printed here, and exceedingly popular: the spirited "Indian Burial Ground," of Freneau, which Longfellow has lately recovered, and whence Campbell borrowed a line or two. Coke's Florence Vane, Neals's Birth of a Poet, Wilde's My Life is like a Summer's Rose, Pierpont's affecting lines on his dead child, Lindley Murray's charming verses to his wife, Pinckney's spirited and truly poetical songs, Aldrich's Death Bed, Field's Dirge on a Young Girl, Woodworth's Old Oaken Bucket, Eastman's Farmer's Day, &c. But our best fugitive poetry has been written by prose writers. Irving's delicious lines, the Dull Lecture, illustrating, or illustrated by (we know not which), a capital picture of Stuart Newton; and his classic verses to the Passaic River, as graceful and picturesque as that winding stream. C. C. Moore has in a choice volume, among other delicate verses, included three classic poems sufficient to secure a place for their author on the same shelf with Gray, Campbell, and Logan: the capital humorous visit of St. Nicholas-with the verses to the Poet's wife, and the lines to his children, accompanying their father's portrait: verses worthy of Goldsmith. A noble poem on Alaric, by Governor Everett; some fine versions from the German, by the Hon. Alexander Everett; three or four admirable pieces by John Waters; the two last addressed to ladies, printed in the American newspaper, some six or seven years ago. Nicholas Biddle wrote some very agreeable jeux d'esprit and vers de société. A lively epistle of this kind appeared in the weekly New Mirror last summer. A noble poem, "The Days of my Youth and of my Age Contrasted," by the Hon. St. Geo. Tucker, of Virginia, has been going the rounds of the papers for a year past. Can no printed book or magazine show us more of the author? We often ask ourselves this question, with regard to many other authors, without ever receiving a satisfactory answer. Very many such we still remain in utter ignorance of, in common with the reading public, and this fact must account for our omissions. When we think of the stupid long poems, with which the world has been deluged for years past, and recollect how many exquisite brief pieces are lost merely by their brevity, as a jewel is hidden in a pile of common stones, we often wish that a critical police might be continually kept up, to pound all stray poetical cattle; or, at least, to advertise where they might be found. XXVIII. ON PREFACES AND DEDICATIONS. THE day of prefaces and courtly dedications is well nigh past. The readers of the present generation are generally in too great a hurry to penetrate the inner courts of the Temple of Truth, or oftener of Pleasure, to linger long about the sacred Porch, and are too apt to neglect the formal compliments and elaborate address of the janitor, at the gate. With a disregard and indifference (more especially with us Americans) to the amenities of social intercourse, has also been introduced a carelessness on the part of authors. Rarely we meet a conciliatory poem or an affectionate salutatory; still less frequently we encounter a critical introduction, or argument of the work. Modern society laughs at the studied courtesies of the old school of politeness; and modern critics are equally inclined to ridicule the hyperbolical praises and scholastic introductions of their literary forefathers. But let us discriminate. At the same time that the herd of authors (not very different in the most unpleasant aspects, at any one period from what they are at all others) ran riot in extravagant adulations, and prolix, stupid and tiresome selfeulogium, or worse yet, self-censure, there were writers living who have made the Preface and the Dedication classical provinces of elegant composition; whose skill in spirited portrait and delicate flattery, in the last department, and whose clear, acute, and copious analogies and illustration, in the first, have rendered them indispensable appendages to the works we are accustomed to regard as standards in their class. A preface may be regarded as having the same relation to the work that follows as a prologue to a play; or when extended and explanatory, as an overture to an opera. It should give the reader the key-note to the book itself, and the harmonies it is supposed to contain. Or else it should, in a bird's-eye view, display the whole scope of the theme, with all its bearings. It should rarely admit of an apologetic tone, and never deprecate the honest severity of just criticism. That is a bad book as well as a feeble character, that begs off from a close inspection. There should be no petitio principii, no morbid modesty; neither any false fears, nor artful affectations. Its business is to speak the truth, yet not necessarily the whole of the truth. It is well to keep something in reserve; to promise too little rather than too much; to know how to disappoint one's friends the right way. In the Dedication, the writer makes his bow and presents his compliments; addressing a near friend, or heart's idol (a great author or public character, who stands on an elevation far above him, yet whom he cherishes with an affectionate veneration); and, although the custom is rapidly falling into |