Of brick I'd have it, far more broad than high, My grounds should not be large; I like to go Besides, my thoughts fly far; and when at rest, As we are writing a rambling, gossiping essay, we will give the wishes of a few more poets that we think the reader will be pleased with. The next is from Green's "Spleen," a poem that has been eulogized by Aiken, Hunt, Hazlitt and Sir Egerton Brydges. Green was a man of tried probity, sweetness of temper and refined manners. Thus he models his desire: "Two hundred pounds half-yearly paid, A farm some twenty miles from town, Where odorous plants in evening fair Now follows Bryan Waller Proctor, a true poet and man. "Now give me but a cot that's good, So may some friends, whose social talk And may I own a quiet room, Here Phidian Jove, or the face of thought Or Adrian's boy Antinous, Or the winged Mercurius, Or some that conquest lately brought Where cows may cool and geese may swim; From the land Italian. Behind, a green, like velvet neat, And one I'd have, whose heaving breast By holy chains bound fast to me, I'd have her thoughts fair, and her skin Of Cowley's poetry, we like his Anacreontics the best; they are full of animation and spirit, and run along "with wanton heed and giddy cunning," and appeal both to the fancy and the heart. He rivals the poets of antiquity in ease and elegance. "The Chronicle" is unique in its kind, for it is said of Cowley that he was in reality never in love but once, and then had not confidence enough to declare his passion. "Margarita first possest, If I remember well, my breast, But when a while the wanton maid To the beauteous Catherine. Mary then and gentle Anne Both to reign at once began, And sometimes Mary was the fair, And sometimes Anne the crown did wear, Long, alas! should I have been Under that iron-sceptered queen, Had not Rebecca set me free. When fair Rebecca set me free, One month, three days and half an hour And so Susanna took her place. But when Isabella came, She beat out Susan by the bye. Black-eyed Bess, her viceroy maid, Gentle Henrietta then, And a third Mary next began, And then a long " et cetera." But should I now to you relate The strength and riches of their state, The powder, patches, and the pins, The ribbons, jewels, and the rings, The lace, the paint and warlike things That make up all their magazines. If I should tell the politic arts To take and keep men's hearts; Numberless, nameless mysteries; And all the little lime-twigs laid But I will briefer with them be, Since few of them were long with me. A higher and a nobler strain My present emperess does claim, Heleonora, first o' the name, Whom God grant long to reign." Johnson, for a wonder, appreciated the flavor of "The Chronicle," and has expressed his admiration in nervous and sparkling language. He says that it is a composition unrivalled and alone; such gaiety of fancy, such facility of expression, such varied similitude, such a succession of images, such a dance of words, it is vain to expect except from Cowley. His strength always appears in his agility. His volatility is not the flutter of a light, but the bound of an elastic mind. His levity never leaves his learning behind it; the moralist, the politician and the critic mingle their influences even in this airy frolic of genius. To such a performance Suckling could have brought the gaiety, but not the knowledge; Dryden could have supplied the knowledge, but not the gaiety. Sir Egerton Brydges preferred Cowley's prose style to that of Addison, and thought that there was nothing more beautiful in the English language, both in matter and style, than his Essays; and Leigh Hunt thinks that there is not a more companionable thing of the sort for a lounge on the grass. Hazlitt, among Cowley's serious poems, liked "The Complaint" best, and praises the Odes to Vandyke, the Royal Society, and to the latter Brutus, and thought that his Essays were among the most agreeable prose compositions in the language, being equally recommended by sense, wit, learning, and interesting personal history; and that his portrait of Cromwell, for truth of outline and force of coloring, might,vie with the masterpieces of the Greek and Latin historians. It was the opinion of Campbell, that, had Cowley written nothing but prose, it would have stamped him a man of genius and an improver of the language. Cowley's character appears to us to be as delightful as his writings. His intercourse with the world-and that principally carried on in courts-never impaired the sweetness, simplicity, and clear-sightedness of his nature. He had for his daily companions a cheerful heart, an innocent conscience, and "the lineaments of gospel books." His integrity and independence never left him. The friends he made in youth were his friends to his premature death (for such we cannot help calling it), at the age of forty-nine, although he had accomplished much and enjoyed much.* His Essays have the impress of an enlightened, observing intellect; and the child-like affection and implicit faith with which he displays his inmost thoughts, make him worthy to be read and admired with Horace, Montaigne and Rousseau. "With flowers, fit emblems of his fame With flowers of every fragrant name Compass your poet round; Be his warm ashes crowned !" ΟΜΟΟ. Ir was in an unguarded moment that the writer of these lines was drawn into promising an article for the issue of sultry midsummer. A lovely afternoon in the middle of June, he was walking alone in a grove, meditating and breathing the sweet air, when the Editorial Power met him, and from that hour to this his soul has not known peace. Had we reflected that all the days of the interim were to be equally inviting-that the fields were to be as green and fragrant as the valleys of Tahiti, and more refreshing in their fragrance, since the odors of our own country summers are wafted from the Sabean shore of childhood-had we bethought ourselves that we must take from our afternoons so many hours out of the prime of the year-we could hardly have been so rash, to oblige any Editorial or other Power, ever so pen-compellingnot even stern Necessity. But Omoo seemed so easy-the fancy so naturally loves to wander away to those fair islands whither the romance of nature has been gradually banished-that it appeared the lightest task that could be, torun off a few pages giving a common He was the friend of, and beloved by, Evelyn, Sir Kenelm Digby, Sir Henry Wooton, Harvey, Vandyke, and Hobbes. Omoo. place estimate of its merits, and selecting Here, again, we deceived ourselves; Perhaps it is from this feeling that we have a difficulty in arranging our thoughts into order, and so beginning what we would say in the regular manner. In general, and at first, we can barely observe that we have read Omoo with interest, and yet with a perpetual L recoil. We were ready to acknowledge that it was written with much power; that the style, though loose in sentences and paragraphs, was not without character, and the pictures it presented vividly drawn; yet we were ready to say, in the words of the old epigram "I do not like thee, Doctor Fell," &c. The reckless spirit which betrays itself on every page of the book-the cool, sneering wit, and the perfect want of heart everywhere manifested in it, make it repel, almost as much as its voluptuous Scenery painting and it sketchy outlines of stories attract. It is curious to observe how much difficulty the newspapers have had in getting at these causes of dislike. They are evidently not pleased with the book; but-as most writers would, sitting down to write a hasty notice of it immediately after running it through-the daily critics find nothing worse to say respecting it than that they do not believe it. Generally, all over the country, in most of the newspapers which we have seen, (and our opportunities are quite as extensive as any one could desire,) this has been the burden of the short notices of the press, where intended to be at all critical. And, generally, too, the reason for not believing in the truth of Typee's and Omoo's stories is not 37 given; but the writers content themselves with manifesting their incredulity in some amusing. They disbelieve, not so much naif or querulous manner that is often statements, as from the manner in which on the account of improbability of the the statements are made. East, where every one fond of adventure Even in the has heard, time out of mind, whaling captains and retired boat-steerers tell just after them so particularly marvellous in such adventures-and there is nothing these books-we doubt if there are many readers of good perceptions who have They lack_vraisemblance, and though more than a general belief in their truth. they are such adventures as might have the minor points of the narratives, and been true, so much is out of keeping in they are "reeled off" in such an abanThe writer does not seem to care to be doned spirit, that we cannot believe them. true; he constantly defies the reader's faith by his cool superciliousness; and though his preface and the first part of toned, the reader does not reach the the first volume are somewhat better second without ceasing to care how soon he parts company with him. of keeping in the details of his narratives, To show what we mean by the want let us reach out a hand and open the first volume we touch, at the first page that comes. Here it is-page 202, vol. 2d. The author is describing a sail to a ship in the harbor of Tahiti, which he and his took to make in a canoe, so small that it companion, "Doctor Long-Ghost," underother sailors. was christened the "Pill-Box," by the "Assuming the command of the expedition," he says, "upon the strength of tor, with a paddle, in the bow, and then my being a sailor, I packed the long docshoving off, leaped into the stern; thus leaving him to do all the work, and reserving to myself the dignified sinecure of steering. All would have gone well, were it not that my paddler made such clumsy work that the water spattered and showered down upon us without ceasing. Continuing to ply his tool, however, quite energetically, I thought he would improve after a while, and so let him alone. But by and by, getting wet through with this little of its clearing off, I conjured him, in merstorm we were raising, and seeing no signs cy's name, to stop short and let me wring myself out. Upon this he suddenly turned round, when the canoe gave a roll, the outrigger flew overhead, and the next moment came rap on the doctor's skull, and we Long-Ghost" is introduced, it is said "he were both in the water." Now, if ever the reader has seen a rattling young fellow come on the stage, in a low comedy or farce, and dash off a soliloquy in the riant style, about his feats at racing, boxing, &c., we think, if he calls to mind the impression, it will strike him as no bad parallel to the spirit of this paragraph. Whoever, for instance, has seen Mrs. Hunt, at the Park Theatre, play in the Eton Boy, or any of the successors of Tyrone Power in their favorite dashing Irish characters, will not, we fancy, be at a loss to discover the likeness. We seem, as we read the sentences, to hear the tone of Sir Patrick O'Plenipo or Morgan Rattler. Every sentence is so smart, and comes off with such a tang; the easy yet impetuous impudence takes the reader by surprise, and for a moment he cannot help joining in the laugh with a capital good fellow who enjoys himself so much. Hence, on the stage, all this overflowing exhiliration passes off very well; once or twice we like it, in a new piece, for its own sake; all afterwards is the mere secondary critical enjoyment of estimating the merit of the actor-the same with that of a wine-connoisseur, who sips champagne only to exercise his judgment. But when it is continued through two volumes, and appears on almost every page, one begins to weary of it even at the first, and before the end to lose his respect for a writer who can play the buffoon so deliberately. Hence, we could never read those long modern Irish novels and sketches, Charles O'Malley, and the rest. Every sentence goes off with a pop, which with many readers renders such writing very popular; but for our own part, we soon become tired of so much firing of blank cartridges. The liveliest wit, the quickest humor, the most biting satire, are those which are used with an earnest purpose, and we like not that a man should give himself to the work of writing a whole book, in whatever manner, with out showing us some such earnestness in his own character. It will not do for ships that carry a great cloud of canvas to go too light; even Punch would soon found er if he were not so hearty a radical. But it is not in its spirit alone that this paragraph is a fair sample of the carelessness which every page of Omoo exhibits. If we turn back to the 27th page of the first volume, where this "Doctor quoted Virgil, and talked of Hobbes of Malmesbury, beside repeating poetry by the canto, especially Hudibras. He was moreover a man who had seen the world." He had more anecdotes than I can tell of-then such mellow old songs as he sung-upon the whole Long-Ghost was as entertaining a companion as one could wish; and to me in the Julia, an absolute god-send." We fear the Doctor himself could scarcely return the compliment paid him in the last sentence. His cool young friend whom he enter tained so much, afterwards gets home and writes a book in which he contrives to represent him as playing Pantalon to his own Harlequin, whenever he mentions him. Is it likely that the Doctor, as he is here described, could have been so simple as he is sometimes shown, and so shrewd as he is seen at others? A man of the world, a good story-teller, full of jest, a jolly companion, is one half the time depicted as a sort of Dominie Sampson, or mere foil to set off the author's smartness, while the other half he appears in his original shape. Take him for all in all, he is an impossible monster, a battered wooden Soldan, whom our Sir Oliver Proudfute has set up in the garden of his fancy to breathe himself upon. He has no keeping, and is no more a character than those singular creations of the melodrama, who are formed by the necessities of the story, who have nothing to do but to conform to the exigencies which gave them birth to be tragic or comic, natural or extravagant, as occasion requires. This same want of keeping appears not more in our author's character drawing, and in the course of his book taken at large, than in the minute particulars of his narratives. He makes always a striking picture, and, as we skim rapidly over one after another, it does not always occur to us at first to question the truth of the details. But when we come to look at them through a second reading, these details are seen to be thrown in with such a bold disregard of naturalness and congruity as one could never put on who was painting from the actual. For example the story of the upsetting the canoe continues thus: "Fortunately we were just over a ledge of coral, not half a fathom under the surface. Depressing one end of the filled canoe and letting go of it quickly, it bounded up, and discharged a great part of its con |