wilderness. The time is not sufficiently out of joint to need such wrenching. A resolute and unostentatious persistence in well-doing cures such evils as are curable; and the occasion of these poemsthe annexation of Texas-being over, the truths of universal application which they contain are not so well expressed as to entitle them to preservation. The metre, too, is a dangerous one; tempting the author to draw out the images until they become weak and attenuated; and a fault to which he is prone-prolixity, we meanis thereby increased.

Much superior to the above is the rude and terse vigor of the poem entitled "Kossuth," the last two stanzas of which fairly reach the sublime. We believe brevity to be the soul of sublimity as well as of wit. Milton could not have added to the passage

"Far off his coming shone--"

one word, without injuring it. In "The Present Crisis," the sublimity is protracted until the reader actually yawns. The lines "On the death of Charles T. Torrey" are "strong without rage." There is in them a quiet power and impressiveness, unusual in reformatory effusions. The poem, entitled Above and Below," is a good one.

The exhortation of the Reformer, who stands above, calling on all men to come up to his level, is satisfactorily answered by the more practical crowd, who stand below. The best excuse Reformers have for the language they sometimes indulge in, is thus expressed in "A Glance behind the Curtain,"

"For men in earnest have no time to waste

In patching fig-leaves for the naked truth.” Mr. Lowell, in one of his books, ridicules and caricatures the notion of a great soul "ever climbing hopefully toward the peaceful summits of an Infinite Sorrow," but we regret to find in his poetry the same cant seriously expressed, in different places, with more or less felicity—as here

"High natures must be thunder scarred
With many a searing wrong."

Mr. Lowell must have been misled here by the analogy between a high object in nature, and a high intellect, an analogy, not necessarily perfect in every particular. We are all to a certain extent "thunder scarred," nor do we see how the relative height of our natures, determines the amount of searing wrong, by which we may have been damaged. High natures are not only not thunder scarred, according to their height, but taking them together, they are not more thunder scarred than other people, in proportion to their numbers.

'Prometheus" and "Columbus" are the names of two long, and quite ambi

tious attempts. They are monologues by the two " Representative Men," whose names they bear, and are made to personify favorite abstractions of the author. Prometheus is not entirely Greek. Both he and Columbus are in advance of their time, and as might be expected teach nearly the same lesson. Columbus feels urged forward by some impulse outside of himself, and perseveres alone despite the world's unsympathizing incredulity. Prometheus endures patiently the worst that tyranny can inflict, sustained by the consciousness that he has done service to the world. Both philosophize somewhat diffusely upon their present condition and coming fate. There are scattered through their reflections noble lines; and there is a simplicity and strength in parts of the Prometheus, indicating a familiarity with the Greek model. We hope we have expressed the author's idea, but he has not individualized the two characters with sufficient distinctness, to make us feel altogether sure.

We have now examined the reformatory poetry of. Mr. Lowell, and shown how it has been the result of his recent course of life and study, and the interest he has taken in the Antislavery Reform. In so doing, we have traced his poetry down to the present time. This we have done for the purpose of presenting clearly what we conceive to be his literary career, since he deserted his old Masters. His other publications now claim our attention.

Mr. Lowell's prose we can praise heartily. He writes English with manly freedom and directness. From the unaffected and beautiful dedication of his poems to his friend, William Page, we extract this passage, "As the swiftly diverging channels of life bear wider and wider apart from us the friends who hoisted sail with us as fellow-mariners, when we cast off for the voyage, and as some, even, who are yet side by side with us, no longer send back to us an answering cheer, we are drawn the more closely to those that remain." The models upon which he has formed his prose, so far as a man does form his style upon models, are the old and best writers of Saxon English.

In 1845 "Conversations on some of the Old Poets" appeared. This was a tribute to the subjects of his early studies, of whom he speaks with discriminating admiration. It contained many subtle criticisms, and called attention to many beauties not usually commented on, which showed an intimate familiarity with them. He seems, however, to us to have hazarded some very questionable assertions. The consummate art of Pope's Casura, is sneered at as if it were a blemish, and

called an "immitigable seesaw." He reproaches Queen Anne's reign for producing no better writer of English, than Swift-as if any age had produced a better. We are informed that Pope mixes water with the good old mother's milk of our tongue, rubs it down till there is no muscular expression left, and that a straightforward speech cannot be got out of him. It seems to us there is enough that is straightforward in "The Dunciad," and the "Prologue to the Satires," addressed to Arbuthnot, with its pungent eharacterization of Addison. What poet has more instances of the complete correspondence of the sense with the sound? It was a surprise to us to hear Mr. Lowell declaring Keats to be "the rival, and, I will dare to say, the sometimes superior of Milton." He no doubt speaks from an intimate knowledge of the two. But we opine that Milton was all of Keats and something more; and that no comparison ought to be instituted between them. The more natural comparison would be between Keats and Spenser.

The "Conversations" purporting to be on Old Poets, one would have thought, that with Mr. Lowell's old love for them, he would have been able to keep among them. But so strong a hold upon him had his new love, Reform, taken, that he insists upon introducing her into all sorts of company. We are not at all thin-skinned -yet we were a little shocked in a conversation on the Old Dramatists, after the announcement that the poetical sentiment and natural religion are identical, to be told that "Both of them are life members of the New England Antislavery Society"—that "You are, at heart, as much an Abolitionist as I"-that it is a capital merit in a poem "that the poor slave is not forgotten," etc. Would it be imposing undue restraint on the freedom of conversation to rule such remarks, in such a connection, out of order? We may say before leaving this book, that we doubt if the author's mature judgment would now sanction all the opinions embraced in it. And so far as it is any excuse for a printed book that it was hastily written, this book is entitled to it, as the author remarks in his preface.

We are naturally led to take up after the "Conversations on the Old Poets," a work, which our author published anonymously, entitled "A Fable for Critics," because it contains some comments, in rhyme, on the merits of American authors of the present day. Much of this book did not deserve to be published in a permanent form, but it contains many exceedingly clever and palpable hits. It showed a most sovereign command of rhyme, and a reckless profusion of ingenious puns, VOL. 1.-36

"If her heart at high floods swamps her brain now and then,

Tis but richer for that when the tide ebbs agen,
As, after old Nile has subsided, his plain
Overflows with a second broad deluge of grain."

The book abounds with touches equally felicitous. His recognition of the merits of his contemporaries, among whom he stands as a rival, not to be despised by the best of them, is always hearty and sincere, and, in our view, singularly discriminating. The passage on Irving is, perhaps, the best in the book. alluding to the "warm heart and fine brain," and the "gravest sweet humor," he continues:

After

"But allow me to speak what I honestly feel.
To a true poet heart add the fun of Dick Steele;
Throw in all of Addison, minus the chill,
With the whole of that partnership's stock and good
will;

Mix well, and while stirring hum o'er, as a spell,
The fine Old English Gentleman; simmer it well;
Let it stand out of doors till a soul it receives
From the warm lazy sun, loitering down through
green leaves,

And you'll find a choice nature not wholly deserving
A name either English or Yankee-just Irving."

A more thoroughly appreciative summing up of Irving's excellencies never was written. We wish we could say as much of his notice of Bryant. To be sure he enumerates his merits, but with too many qualifications, so that the impression gained by no means does justice to that great poet. When he calls him "a smooth, silent iceberg, that never is ignified," he does not bear in mind the poem entitled, "The Battle Field," embracing the sublime stanza

"Truth crushed to earth shall rise again," &c.; or the "Lines in Memory of William Leggett, " and others which we need not mention.

Fault has been found with Mr. Lowell for the severity of his castigation of Miranda. But we do not see why, if a woman chooses to enter the arena, and join in the athletic sports of men, she should object to being roughly handled. What right has she to claim the privileges

of both sexes and the liabilities of neither? As the editor of a newspaper well remarked, in reference to the encroachments of Bloomerism: "We are willing to grant to these women all our distinctive immunities; but, after that, if they insult us, we will tweak their noses." Acting to some extent on this reasonable doctrine, Mr. Lowell has said of Miranda what few will deny to be true, and what we think she richly deserved. So far, then, from joining in the deprecatory outcry of "Unprotected Female!" we tender Mr. Lowell our respectful sympathy.

The author's notice of himself is not the least ingenious:

"There is Lowell, who's striving Parnassus to climb, With a whole bale of isms tied together with rhyme.

*

*

*

*

*

*

His lyre has some chords that would ring pretty well,
But he'd rather by half make a drum of the shell,
And rattle away till he's old as Methusalem,
At the head of a march to the last New Jerusalem."

If our memory serves us, the old patriarch's name was not Methusalem; but the inexorable necessity of rhyme demanded the change. At all events, the description is good; and whether the author was ironical or not, his sentiments on the subject accord pretty well with

our own.

We have objected to Mr. Lowell's reformatory poetry, but only because what was reformatory generally swamped what was poetical. But this does not apply to all his writings of this kind; as, for instance, his inimitable "Biglow Papers. This is an unmistakably American performance. Whether the foreign reader could fully enjoy it, we know not. But whoever knows any thing of New England rustic life will find in it food for laughter on every page. The book is also a valuable repository of the dialectic peculiarities of New England, and worth resorting to, to discover its tone of thought and mode of viewing political affairs, such as the Mexican war and slavery. Percy's Reliques of the early English Ballads, and Jasmin's Ballads in the Langue d'Oc, are, probably, not more infused with the spirit and characteristics of their times. The personages introduced are few, and perfectly sustained, and suggest to every reader acquainted with New England village life, their originals. The Rev. Homer Wilbur, A. M., Pastor of the First Church in Jaalam, is an "elderly gentleman, with infinite faculty of sermonizing, muscularized by long practice"-a modern Parson Adams. The productions of his young parishioner, Mr. Biglow, are edited by him with a grave delight and an evident desire to be in keeping with the requirements of his own sober calling. In him is admirably represented a state of mind very pre

valent in Massachusetts during the Mexican war-half protesting against the existing state of things, and half conforming. He takes a pastoral pride in following the audacious and frolicsome flights of his young parishioner's muse, yet feels called on to administer an occasional solemn rebuke to his levity and ultraism, with which he more than half sympathizes. There is a grave, dry humor of his own in his remarks upon passing affairs, which, in its way, is as good as Mr. Biglow's, and seems all the more ludicrous from its contrast with that, and with the more elaborate formality of his own style. The sturdy rectitude of his principles, and the independence of his judgment, show him to be of the stuff of which the old Puritan divines were made, and is so much added to Parson Adams. We love and admire the old man, and the admirable pedantry he displays in his profusion of Latin and recondite allusions to the Fathers does not at all detract from the charm. His valuable contributions to the papers consist of an Introduction, containing some account of Mr. Biglow and a Pedigree of the Wilburs, tracing a possible" connec tion with the Earls of Wilbraham (quasi wild boar ham)." He evinces the genuine Dryasdust enthusiasm of the antiquary, and mourns over the ancient mutilated tombstone of "Mr. Ihon Willber " in this manner: "How odious an animosity which pauses not at the grave!" We are treated to two choice extracts from his sermons, and very good sermons they are too. The old gentleman has a fine image at command when he wishes it, as here: "I have taught my flock (under God) to esteem our human institutions as but tents of a night, to be stricken whenever Truth puts the bugle to her lips and sounds a march to the heights of widerviewed intelligence and more perfect organization." The parson sits well upon Mr. Lowell, and his exhuming of theological lore is a wonder to us.

Hosea Biglow is the Rev. Mr. Wilbur's parishioner, properly called MeliboeusHipponax, for the meaning of which the reader is referred to the Classical Dictionary. He is a shrewd Yankee with a touch of poetry in him, "a cross between Apollo and Sam Slick," with quite a preponderance of the latter element. But the reader must not suppose that he is at all on a par with Judge Haliburton's Yankee peddler. To him belong a poet's insight into human nature and a practical shrewdness of observation, which place him far above the ordinary level. His tendency to ultraism is just what is natural to an intelligent, reflecting man, who thinks for himself, in rustic seclusion from

the jostle of the world; but his humor is mixed with a sound sense that enables him to see through a sophism and state it so that its absurdity is manifest. Take this for an example:

"I'm willin' a man should go tollable strong

Agin wrong in the abstract, fer that kind o' wrong
Is ollers unpop'lar and never gits pitied,
Because it's a crime no one never committed;
But he mus'n't be hard on partickler sins,

Coz then he'll be kickin' the people's own shins." When Mr. Biglow began to poetize, Parson Wilbur says he "was inclined to discourage his attempts, as knowing that the desire to poetize is one of the diseases naturally incident to adolescence, which, if the fitting remedies be not at once, and with a bold hand, applied, may become chronic, and render one who might else have become in due time an ornament of the social circle, a painful object even to nearest friends and relatives." Finding this to be vain, he recommended him to devote his evenings to Pope and Goldsmith; and Mr. Biglow attempted some verses on these models, to which the Parson put the finishing touches. One specimen described his school days and the boys' pronunciation of Bible names.

"The vibrant accent skipping here and there, Just as it pleased invention or despair." Mr. Biglow, during the Mexican war, addressed a letter to a candidate for the presidency, requesting him to define his position, and versified his answer. We are tempted to take a few lines from it, descriptive of what is usually termed by politicians, "sitting on the fence." We needn't ask how many politicians can see their likeness here. He begins by asserting that his only desire is to express his mind fully and fairly, and he does it as follows:

"Ez fer the war, I go agin it-
I mean to say I kind o' du-
Thet is, I mean thet, bein' in it,

The best way wuz to fight it thru."

"My love fer north an' south is equil
So I'll jest answer plump an' frank,
No matter wut may be the sequil
Yes, sir, I am agin a bank."

Then, in a private postscript, is added:"Tell 'em thet on the slavery question

I'm RIGHT, although to speak I'm lawth;
This gives you a safe pint to rest on,

An' leaves me frontin' south by north." This will suffice to show the quality of Mr. Biglow's political verses. But he is something more than a satirist. We have a precious fragment of a pastoral of his, entitled, "The Courtin'," from which we take two verses, hardly knowing which two to take. Huldy is sitting in the kitchen all alone, peeling apples:

:

The first stanza we have quoted is a perfect Dutch painting; and the entire piece, though perhaps carelessly thrown off by its author, has never been surpassed by him. It is a confirmation of our assertion that Mr. Lowell is disposed unduly to elevate his reformatory strains over his others, that he ironically remarks of this fragment, that he laments to see Mr. Biglow "thus mingling in the heated contests of party politics," since he has talents "which, if properly directed, might give an innocent pleasure to many. The reader will not fail to notice the sneer in the expression "innocent pleasure."

The only other prominent character is Birdofredum Sawin, a rustic youth, whose moral perceptions, never very clear, have been obscured by a residence in Mexico. He is not a parishioner of Mr. Wilbur's; on the contrary, that worthy divine takes pains to declare that "Mr. Sawin, though a native of Jaalam, has never been a stated attendant on the religious exercises of my congregation." He writes three letters from Mexico, which Mr. Biglow, though despising their sentiments, has versified, and "intusspussed with a few refleckshuns hear and thair, though kind o' prest with Hayin'." His letters are a dismal recapitulation of his sufferings from the weather, the vermin (whose names Mr. Wilbur has carefully rendered into Latin, that the educated people in Boston might not be shocked) and other causes. He describes the variable weather, now a drought and now a deluge, like a native:

"The clymit seems to me jest like a teapot made o' pewter,

Our Prudence hed, that wouldn't pour (all she could du) to suit her,

Fust place the leaves 'ould choke the spout, so's not a drop 'ould dreen out,

Then Prude 'ould tip, an' tip, an' tip, till the holl kit bust clean out,

The kiver hinge pin bein' lost, tea-leaves, an' tea, an' kiver,

'Ould all come down kerswosh! ez though the dam broke in a river. "

What a picture of female perplexity is that of Prude managing her teapot. Poor Sawin loses a leg and an eye in the service of his country, and hopes, after his arrival home, that his misfortunes, and the popular names of "Timbertoes," "Oneeyed Slaughterer," and Bloody Birdofredum," may elevate him to the Presidency, and so nominates himself, but his hopes are wofully dashed by the following mis adventure:

"Wy, into Bellers's we notched the votes down on three sticks

Twuz Budofredum one, Cass aught, an' Taylor twenty-six.

An' bein' the on'y canderdate thet wuz upon the ground,

They said 'twas no more'n right thet I should pay the drinks all round;

Ef I'd expected sech a trick, I wouldn't cut my foot

By goin' an' votin' for myself like a consumed coot;

It didn't make no diff'rence though; I wish I may be cust,

Ef Bellers wasn't slim enough to say he wouldn't trust!"

Mr. Wilbur has contributed to the papers, in his capacity as editor, an ingenious and really valuable essay on the Yankee dialect, which those to whom the subject is new would do well to peruse. The niceties of the pronunciation are minutely followed; as, "cal'late" for calculate," nimepunce" for ninepence. He has also furnished a Glossary and an Index, which constitute not the least amusing part of the work. His notes are furnished wherever there is a chance, and, in fact, he has omitted nothing which the most diligent editor could do.

The first edition of the book appeared with copious burlesque "Notices of an Independent Press," which are admirable specimens of the comments to which new books are subjected at the hands of the newspapers. "From the Bungtown Copper -'Altogether an admirable work. Full of humor, boisterous but delicate," " etc. "From the Salt River Flag of FreedomA volume in bad grammar and worse taste. The Reverend Homer Wilbur is a disgrace to his cloth."" The best of all is from "The World-Harmonic-ÆolianAttachment;" but to quote from it would lead us too far.

We have said nothing derogatory to "The Biglow Papers," because we have nothing to say. The design was a happy one, and it has been completely carried out. There is nothing in it we could wish to see omitted, which is more than we have been able to say of any other one of his volumes. As Parson Wilbur might say, O, si sic omnia!

In this way we have noticed the several styles of Mr. Lowell's composition in the volumes which he has from time to time issued. This we have done with reference to our notion of his course of life and study, and the progress of his ideas. But we should fail to satisfy ourselves without going back to glean from his writings some passages which could not be introduced before consistently with our plan. Otherwise the reader would not gather from what has been said an adequate idea of his merits. Foremost among those we wish to notice, stands "The Vision of Sir Launfal." A knight in quest of the Holy

Grail furnishes the slight groundwork of the story. From this is evolved a beautiful moral, beautifully told. But it is not for its moral only, but for the exquisite passages scattered through it, that it is to be read. The imagery is taken directly from nature, and the summer and winter scenes are not surpassed in their way for minuteness and delicacy of description. The introduction, together with the glorious description of organ music in "The Legend of Brittany" which we have quoted, shows a decided penchant in our poet for that magnificent instrument-no unfit accompaniment for some of his loftier strains, and at least indicating the ambition of their author.

"Over his keys the musing organist,

Beginning doubtfully and far away, First lets his fingers wander as they list,

And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay: Then, as the touch of his loved instrument

Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme, First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent

Along the wavering vista of his dream." Mr. Lowell seems to have taken no images from natural objects, except those which he has seen and with which he is familiar. As a proof that he goes to Nature herself, we observe that no nightingale is introduced, that stranger to New-England which he probably never heard-and no daisies, for which our white weed is so poor a substitute-instead of them we have bobolinks and dandelions

"Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold." This is a negative merit, to be sure; but an important one. Mr. Longfellow gives us a slave in a rice field whose

-"matted hair

Was buried in the sand."

Buried in the mud, would be nearer the truth; but it wouldn't rhyme with "hand" and "land." Again, in "Kavanagh," he gives us a dove pursued by a kingfisher. But in Mr. Lowell's poetry, we are satisfied of the genuineness of all the illustrations from nature which he sees fit to introduce. We might refer the reader of Sir Launfal to the description of the day in June, in the first part, or the delicate ice work of the winter brook in the second, or the Christmas fire

"Through the deep gulf of the chimney wide
Wallows the Yule-log's roaring tide."

In illustration of the bare simplicity of Mr. Lowell's language, and its effectiveness in the expression of a beautiful and natural thought, we extract two verses from the allegory of "The Shepherd of King Admetus," vindicating the dignity and usefulness of the poet :

"They knew not how he learned at all,
For, long hour after hour,

He sat and watched the dead leaves fall,
Or mused upon a common flower.