anything of the same kind in Irving. Dana has a deeper as well as a more original genius: yet the exquisite comic pictures of Irving are quite out of the reach of the more serious writer. Hawthorne is a true poet and admirable writer-what fancy, what deep melancholy, what invention, what pure, cheerful gladness, what pictures, in his delightful tales. He can excite almost terror, and almost mirth: hovering ever between the two. And his style! a mountain-spring is not more limpid and transparent: his genuine Faith, his manly Love, his true Religion, are not to be forgotten. Why does not this choicest of our writers give us more twice-told tales, or a new series of charming historical sketches for children, which all ages may read with pleasure? Who but he can give us the true history of Salem witchcraft, half legend, half sad reality? What stores of romance yet unworked, lie hidden in the early history of New England?

XI.

SINGLE-SPEECH POETS,

A REMARK of Horace Walpole (that most acute judge of the niceties of literature) is set down in the Walpoliana, on this very topic, and which, indeed, had suggested the following illustrations of his criticism. He speaks of writers, who, like certain plants, flower but once-whose poetic genius bloomed early, for a single time, and never again put forth a bud. These writers, in poetry, resemble singlespeech Hamilton in oratory (the coincidence furnishes the excuse of the caption), and ever remain a source of literary curiosity—a problem not to be readily solved on ordinary premises. It is one of the most curious of all literary curiosities, and yet we do not remember that D'Israeli has devoted a paper to the subject, nor even made any reference to it—an omission quite unaccountable in him, as it falls naturally within his province.

A beautiful Anthology might be collected from the writings of poets, who have exhausted themselves, as it were, in a single effort; caught but a single glance of the divinity; but once felt "the god." In a supplement to this exquisite bouquet, richer than that of Ellis or Longfellow, though they come very near to the ideal we speak of, might be included the few fine short poems, of those who have

written long works of mediocre or perhaps even doubtful standing. A few delicate morceaux of Southey will be preserved by an affectionate race of readers, whose benevolence even cannot prevent the utter oblivion of his unwieldy epical attempts. Even Gay, who wrote well always, has been immortalized by his Ballads and Fables, rather than by his Trivia.

Another class, still, beside the writers of one or more choice short poems, and the writers of long and dull insipid productions, is that of the great writers who have written. much, and of whose works, even when equally fine, the shortest are the best known, merely because they are brief. Thus, Dryden's Alexander's Feast is known to many, from being met with in all the ordinary selections and elegant extracts, while his no less admirable romantic tales from Boccaccio and Chaucer, his delightful Fables, Epistles to Oldham, and Congreve, and Kneller (on which Pope could only refine), Secular Masque, and his vigorous political satires, are comparatively unknown. Thousands have

read, or sung, or heard sung, Young Lochinvar, for the hundreds who have read Marmion. And Moore is the poet of the parlor, for the Melodies he has written, while his Lalla Rookh is read as a critical duty, and by way of task.

According to a classification like the above, many pleasing versifiers would rank very high among the minor Poets, whose standing is low among the master Bards.

As to the philosophy of the matter, we confess it inexplicable. Why one who has once succeeded should not do equally well again, many causes may be assigned; yet not one of them carries sufficient weight to settle the question determinately. The various reasons are sufficiently

plausible, yet may be easily set aside on further reflection. Sheer indolence! cries one; timidity, exclaims another: want of leisure, reasons a third; rather, want of power, adds a fourth; perhaps, all together, liberally concludes a fifth.

Some persons seem to regard these writers-as some old dogmatist called Goldsmith-inspired idiots, who have, by chance, hit upon a new thought or view, which they want skill and training to follow up-as delicious harmonies may float into the mind of one who is ignorant of the science of sweet sounds.

In truth, the fact is as wonderful as that would be (of which we are ignorant, if it has ever happened) of a painter who had finished but one good picture in the course of his life-who had caught for a single time the cordial and kindly aspect of nature—who, once only, had gained power to interpret the soul, speaking in the face. Who ever heard, or read of, or saw, the single celebrated production of a sculptor, or musical composer, or architect, who had anything of a desirable reputation? We do not speak of the clever things done by ingenious amateurs, but of single Works (not Plays, as Ben Jonson used to distinguish), executed by professional artists.

Yet as matters of literary and personal history, that was really the case of the authors of the Burial of Sir John Moore and the Ode to the Cuckoo. Wolfe wrote two or three other fine things in verse and prose, yet nothing comparable to this master-piece. Logan is known only by the ode we refer to. The Braes of Yarrow enshrine the memory of Hamilton of Bangour, and have led greater bards to the scene, to offer up their tributes, still inferior to the first. Why is this all we have of these delicate poets? With such

fancy, such feeling, a taste so refined, a versification so graceful, how happens it we hear no more strains from these nightingales of a night? Not wholly so besotted as to be careless of fame; rather, so far from that, as, in the case of Wolfe, to be sensitively alive to generous praise and to noble action; and, as to Logan, we believe he, too, was a clergyman, a retired scholar, and man of pure taste. Both were (if we recollect aright) invalids, constitutionally feeble, and hence incapable of long flights of fancy or close study. They had leisure-poetic impulses could not have been wanting, for subjects and occasions never wholly fail the Muse; the admiration of friends, we may conclude, was theirs. A single obstacle only remains, and that furnishes, probably, the occasion or reason of their silencea fastidious taste, like Campbell's, who was said to be frightened by the shadow of his fame, that could not be satisfied with anything short of perfection, which it failed to realize. Genuine modesty, and a sensitive temperament, were leading traits (we presume, of course) of the writers. These held their hand, and restrained the otherwise willing pen. The same reasons will not seem to excuse the short poems of Raleigh and Wotton, who feared no critical tribunals; whose minds were braced by manly action; who united all characters and talents and accomplishments; who, with learning and (at some period) leisure, and fancy, and power, have left a very few and very brief copies of verse, worthy of being printed in letters of gold. They were not men, like their later brother bards, to entertain a feeling of despair at ever again equalling the fine things they had accomplished early in life. In them, therefore, it is but fair to suppose, that the poetic bore a