Review. The Liberator. 1 (1 Jan 1831): 4, col 1. Edited by William Lloyd Garrison and Isaac Knapp.

This is the severest, in some passages the most equitable, satire that has issued from the American press. Something of the kind has long been wanting; for the frequency of panegyric upon worthless writers has destroyed its legitimate effect. It is evident that there exists a combination of puffers in our land, who mutually laud each other to the skies; and if one receive a merited castigation, the rest are sure to come in to his rescue. This is an unholy alliance against good taste, genius and merit, which it were serviceable in any man to overthrow. Still, we are sorry to say, the anonymous author of this work exhibits more courage than discrimination therein; that the coarseness of some of his strictures blunts the keenness of the rest; that, though necessity was laid upon him to identify authors, there is evidence of some personal hostility; that, in treading out of existence, with just contempt for their insignificance, the poetical grubs and butterflies which swarm in our literary domain, he has in the plenitude of his anger assailed geniuses of extraordinary size and worth. Pierpont, for instance, is described as ‘howling Airs of Palestine,’ and otherwise contemptuously treated. Edward Everett is broken upon the wheel, as a poet, for his ‘Dirge of Alaric,’ though he does not pretend to write poetry. Percival does not get his due. The attack upon Whittier is certainly unmerited. It is not for him to be ashamed of his former mechanical pursuit; but for his friends—and not them only, but for the public—to boast of a genius which has thus early raised him to so conspicuous a station. Our author justly satirizes the propensity of mechanics to repudiate their useful trades for the poor vanity of wielding a quill; but he should remember, that some of the most eminent astronomers, mathematicians, statesmen, critics, &c. &c. have been originally mechanics, or have risen from the humblest walks of life. Genius is not created, though it may be fostered and adorned, by wealth and learning: it breaks through, with a giant’s force, all the artificial distinctions of society; and it is never so honorable, as when it has ascended to a great height through the briers and pit-falls of adverse fate.

We are sorry, we repeat, that our author has been so lavish and indiscriminate in his censure, because it endangers the usefulness, as well as the popularity, of his satire. We have no doubts of its equity or efficacy, in the lump; it will do good, in despite of its many blemishes; but greater good might have been accomplished by a more judicious and just course. To be sure, there is an attempt at justification. ‘I attack none in a personal manner,’ he declares, ‘who have not themselves offended in the same sort.’ But are they worth imitating?

There is one remark, in his Preface, which is big with truth, and worthy of deep consideration:—‘I verily believe,’ says the writer, ‘that the itch of rhyme has withdrawn more persons from the useful pursuits of life than the doctrine of rotation in office, which is a bold word.’

Prentice, Neal and Willis are tomahawked and scalped. Bryant, Halleck and Brainard are eulogised in handsome terms.

extract. The Liberator 1 (8 January 1831): 8, col 3.

The following excellent tribute to the memory of the lamented Brainard is extracted from ‘Truth,’ a satirical poem which was briefly reviewed in our first number.

Review. New England Magazine. 2 (March 1832): 266-268. Edited by Joseph T. & Edwin Buckingham

Truth, a Gift for Scribblers: Second Edition, with Additions and Emendations, by William J. Snelling.

The author of this work very boldly and fairly avowed his object in the preface to the first edition of his Poem, which appeared about the beginning of the year 1831: he was disgusted with

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newspaper puffs of would-be poets: he wished they would write better or not write at all. The conductors of newspapers had been in the habit of flattering the young aspirants; and he really believed that the itch of rhyme had withdrawn more persons from the useful pursuits of life, than the doctrine of rotation in office; and he therefore considered it his bounden duty to sacrifice some of these young cocks of Bantom to Esculapius, in hopes of retrieving the sanity of the rest. Wherever he found ability at all above mediocrity, (so he declared) he acknowledge it, though obscured by a thousand blots: “Where talent does not exist, (he adds) the literary hopes of the writer ought to be blasted, even for his own welfare; and it will give me pleasure to perform the service.”

The whole of the first edition being “out of print,” the writer has made some additions and emendations, and sent out a second, in the preface to which we find the same fearless and independent strain of censure. “Nothing is farther from his intention, (he says) than to offer aught like apology for any part of the contents of his first edition. He has had abuse enough to satisfy a moderate appetite already, and he expects more. It is the privilege of the beaten to rail, and he is willing that those who find themselves aggrieved by him, should exercise it at his expense.”

The additions to this second edition consist of a “Prologue” of nine pages, written in the form of a dialogue between the Author and a Friend, (in which he handles some of the poets of the day with as little mercy as he had shown for the same individuals in the original poem;) of several passages incorporated with the text, and of a few notes. The emendations we have not been careful to note, and, perceiving no relaxation of severity in tone, (severer it could not well be) we apprehend they are neither numerous nor important.

We are not disposed to doubt the sincerity of Mr. Snelling’s declaration, that he has no personal quarrel with the subjects of his criticism, and that he could not be prompted by hatred; indeed, we have other reasons than his assertion for believing that he had no personal acquaintance with many of them; but there are others whom it will be difficult to convince that they are thus coarsely treated merely from a regard to “Truth.” There are some men so sensitive, and at the same time so dull, that they cannot conceive what other motive than malice or hatred can prompt a criticism on the productions of their intellect, that differs from their own notions upon the subject. The critic who denies the omnipotence of a young poet runs a “smart chance,” (to borrow a phrase from our sister states in the West) of being set down as a fool or a villain.

It must be admitted that there is much of truth, in the Poem before us. We would not be understood as admitting the accuracy of all the writer’s propositions, nor the legitimacy of all his criticisms; if we were so inclined, we think we could point out a few instances in which he has shown more wit than justice; but we cannot withhold our approbation from the purpose of the Poem, even if we be compelled to turn away from beholding the execution. There is sometimes a coarseness in the language that seems to be unmannerly,—unnecessarily or carelessly indecorous,—which is more offensive to good taste and to the subject on which the castigation is inflicted, than all the wounds it makes. The author will doubtless plead, by way of apology, that his dunces could not feel the polished instrument, and that he was obliged to select his weapons with reference to the degree of susceptibility in his subjects. But we fear he has followed too literally the example of the cruel barber, who threatened to lather his stubborn boy with aqua fortis, and shave him with a hand-saw.

We should have been better pleased with Mr. Snelling’s Poem, if he had treated that class of writers whom he calls his “cleric friends” with a little more kindness. It grieves us that he cannot see anything to commend in the “Airs of Palestine,” but more that he should find no better epithet by which to designate the profession of its author than “prime parson,”—a low word, and now used universally as a term of reproach. The manner, in which other writers of the same profession are emphatically pointed out, is not less objectionable. The author of the “Vision of Liberty,”—admitting that that poem may be obnoxious to the critic’s reproof,—is also the author of some pieces that might have atoned for many faults. We should rather be the author of his beautiful little poem “To the Ursa Major,” than all that we have seen of the productions of him who “finds favor” in Mr. Snelling’s eyes on account of his “modesty,” or of some whom he has placed upon Time’s “world-broad shoulders,” to be borne “down to fu-

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ture years.” But it is true now, as in all by-gone time, that there is no disputing about taste.

It appears to us that the author of “Truth” does not make all his decisions upon uniform principles, and we see no reason why the court of criticism should not be guided by impartiality in the administration of justice as well as all other courts. Sprague is reprimanded in no very gentle terms for the “smell of oil,” which marks “each and every distich;” but Halleck’s carelessness and neglect of study are not only set down as “trifling faults,” but are commended as beauties, for which the critic “loves him better.” The smoothness of Sprague’s versification, and his accuracy in counting his numbers, are “marks of toil,”—“tainted plague-spots on his hide.” The “faults in Halleck’s glowing measure,” are “spots that obscure the surface of the sun.” The criticism on Sprague seems to be hardly consistent with itself. But let the reader judge. Here are the sentences passed upon him and Halleck.

There were two or three poets, if we recollect aright, that figured conspicuously in the first edition of “Truth,” now among the missing in this second edition. Were they annihilated by the first lash, or does the author’s bowels of compassion yearn over the suffering? Two or three new subjects are also introduced,—one of them a “bilious critic” from the south, is not rebuked for his “scurril coarseness,” but for “the sputtering spite that fills his pin’s-head heart.”

We dismiss this “Gift for Scribblers,” with the expression of a sincere and benevolent wish that it may be the happy means of converting many young sinners from the error of their way. If the author could, by his good advice, save about two hundred young men from the martyrdom to which they aspire, and who are striving to snatch the crowns of Keats and Kirk White, he would deserve the fame of the greatest philanthropist of the age.

Review. American Monthly Review. 1 (May 1832): 408-413. Edited by Sidney Willard

Art. XII.—Truth, a Gift for Scribblers. Second Edition, with additons and Emendations. By W. J. Snelling. Boston. B. B. Mussey. 1832. 18mo. pp. 72.

This work is intended as a satire upon American poets, with the exception of a few, of whom it contains what are meant for panegyrics. Mr. Snelling has been “disgusted by newspaper puffs of would-be poets,” and has resolved to extirpate the race.

The author evidently thinks that he has written a very smart poem. He shows nothing of the timidity of one who entertains any doubt of his powers as a poet and a satirist. He speaks of using the weapons of satire, in full confidence that he is to make most deadly havoc in the ranks of the worshippers of the Muses; he seems to have an amiable consciousness of being most sarcastically severe; talks of acknowledging ability where he finds it, with a modest reliance on his power of allotting to each his just measure of talent; and of blasting the literary hopes of a writer, as if this must be the certain effect of the breath of his sarcasm. “Now have I shot my shafts”—“Many have suffered”—“I’ve driven the scalpel deeply”—and the like.

Mr. Snelling evidently has at command the whole vocabulary of vituperation. “Dunce—vermin—booby—stupid—paltry—jackdaw—blackguard—twaddling”—are some of the epithets which he showers upon the objects of his satire. The application of terms like these to gentlemen whose greatest fault is the having published verses which do not suit his pure and classical taste, is no mark either of good sense or of good manners. Any body can call names.

We find little in Mr. Snelling’s book which shows him to be a good judge of poetry, and much that proves the contrary. Some of the noblest of our poets he praises; all the meanest he satirizes; but it required no great acuteness to do this; he has simply followed the voice of public opinion.

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Upon the greater part of those who occupy the middle place—the debatable ground of Parnassus, he has poured a torrent of promiscuous, undistinguishing abuse; thus showing a want of discrimination, which is the great defect in the book considered as a work of criticism, and which convinces us that he has little taste and judgment in the affairs of the Muses. Of about fifty authors mentioned by name, four-fifths are made the objects of sarcasm. Hardly any distinction is made between them; as poets, all are censured; the only difference in their treatment consists in the application of personally offensive language to some, and not to others. Thus we can see little difference between the sentence of condemnation passed upon the poetry of Dana, Willis, Pierpont, and Ware, and that pronounced upon the verses of Fairfield, Morris, Finn, and Dawes.

This want of discrimination is so palpable throughout, that it would be a tedious and useless task to point out the particular cases in which gross injustice has been done. We will confine ourselves to a single instance. After some verses in rdicule of Allston’s “Sylphs of the Seasons,” Mr. Snelling says, in a note, “It would be hard to speak as ill of it as it deserves.” Can he have read the poem? If he have not, we lament his want of honesty; if he have, we pity his want of taste. The “Sylphs” is a poem less known than it deserves to be; it is full of poetic richness and purity and beauty. We will venture, in proof of our assertion, to quote a short passage from it, though but an imperfect specimen of the poem.

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And these are verses of which “it would be hard to speak as ill as they deserve.”

In the Notes to “Truth,” we meet with occasional quotations from Juvenal and Horace. They have somewhat of the air of being looked out for the occasion; but they are generally so ill applied, that we cannot put a more charitable construction upon their use, than to suppose them introduced for the purpose of showing that the author has read the Roman satirists. We would recommend to him a little more intimate acquaintance with the spirit of those masters of invective. He will learn from them that vulgarity is a poor substitute for wit, and that scurrility is not synonymous with satire.

From one who takes it upon himself to censure others, we

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feel that we have some right to expect a degree of freedom from faults; a certain portion of excellence. But we cannot allow Mr. Snelling much poetical merit. We find little harmony in his versification, little beauty in his expressions, much affectation in his style. There is a sort of rawness in his numbers, and the current of his verse seems to “flow muddily along.” If we add to this the coarseness of the raillery, and the entire want of delicacy in the strains of compliment, we shall find but little reason to place this poem high among the productions of the satiric muse.

Let us look at a few examples, which will show the general tone and character of the whole.

To the author of some poetical pieces of great beauty, a man of pure and correct taste in poetry, are applied the following elegant couplets.

Against one who is regarded by some as the first, by all as among the first of American poets, is directed this keen and exquisite raillery:

We may take the following remarks on Willis, as a favorable specimen of the melodious versification, refined wit, and energetic sarcasm which prevail throughout the poem.

On page 37, we have some verses upon the late [J]. G. C. Brainard. We would call the attention of our readers to the modesty displayed in these lines;

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and to the harmony and finish of the following;

Indeed, the author’s grace in panegyric is upon the same level with his delicacy in satire. How much originality and beauty in this compliment to Bryant!

How much force is given to the following tribute of praise, by the artful and poetical repetition of the negative!

We do not refuse to Mr. Snelling all credit for ability as a writer. We deny him not the merit of having said a few smart things. He has, perhaps justly, a reputation for considerable talent. We are sorry that he should have prostituted it by so weak an attempt at satire. We think he will yet regret having rudely wounded the feelings of some, and unjustly denied their due merit to others. “Truth” may have a temporary notoriety, but will soon be forgotten. It is an ephemeral production, without strength to support a long existence. It will be a literal refutation of the ancient motto, “Magna est veritas et prævalebit.”

We are led by reading this book, to make a single remark upon the state of poetry among us. We do not wish to deny that it is a fair subject of satire. It is lamentable to behold the quantities of rubbish which are scattered from the press under the name of poetry. In all other pursuits it is thought necessary that a man should have some shadow of a pretension to a slight knowledge of what he attempts to do. Poetry alone seems to be an exception to this rule. But if satire is to be employed against the aspirants to the name of poet, let it be satire of a generous kind; let it be just and discriminating; let not the satirist think himself freed from the common obligations to civility and decency; let him not condescend to petty scurrility and personal abuse; let his shafts fall upon the writer, and not upon the man; let his weapons be sharp and bright and pointed, but tempered by courteousness, and guided by good taste.

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But if we are ever to have a literature of which we may be proud, it will not be by encouraging mediocrity, or by sparing the feelings of sensitive incapacity. If men will write poetry, they should know that they must write well, in order to escape with impunity, and that those only should be suffered to enjoy the sacred name of poets now, whom posterity wll save from oblivion.

Review. Boston Literary Magazine. 1 (October 1832): 286-296.

Truth, a Gift for Scribblers. Second Edition, with Additions and Emendations. By William J. Snelling. Boston: published by B. B. Mussey. 1832.

We should not have called this work from the merited oblivion, or rather obscurity, into which it has fallen, were it not for the purpose of exposing the audacity, self-complacency, and hardihood, with which its author has impugned some of our most distinguished and interesting living writers.

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We do not recollect having seen this performance noticed in a single journal, or periodical, since its first appearance. The profound silence on all sides with regard to it, probably originated in the supreme contempt in which all have held it—in consideration both of its want of literary merit and the ungentlemanly and abusive manner in which the author has indiscriminately treated the subjects of his notice.

It is an unsuccessful and shambling attempt at an imitation of Lord Byron’s English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, without one spark of its talent and poetic fire; yet containing all the acrimony and bitterness of this famed production of the illustrious Bard.

The author seems to have mistaken, like many other small geniuses, the faults and weaknesses of this immortal poet for beauties, and has used much apparent effort to imitate them; but, as might be expected, entirely without success. We will not even dignify this puny performance with the appellation of ‘A parody on Byron,’ and thus disgrace the immortal author of Childe Harold.

We observe, by the title-page, that its author has got out a second edition; but we are totally at a loss to know what he could have done with his first.

This distinguished writer of ‘Truth,’ (of which, by the way, there is not a particle in the book,) informs us, in the Preface to his last edition, with prodigious non-chalance, that ‘Nothing is farther from his intention than to offer aught like apology for any part of the contents of his first edition.’ This surely looks like the ‘genuine independence’ of some mighty genius. He further tells us that ‘he had no acquaintance with any of the subjects of his criticism,’ as he is pleased to term his performance. This we have no reason to doubt, as coming from the man of ‘Truth,’ and considering the persons he has abused. He also asserts that he ‘never quarreled with any of them;’ and this is doubtless for the plainest reason imaginable, simply because they would not condescend to ‘quarrel’ with him. He says, further, ‘he has had no reason to complain of criticisms.’ We think in this respect he is also right, since few have condescended to notice his low scurrility and pitiful abuse.

Had this talented ‘author of “Truth” ’ ever been honored with the acquaintance (which he assures us upon his veracity he has not) of those distinguished and talented gentlemen whom he has seen fit so unreservedly to assail and ridicule, he most certainly would have found vent for his bitterness in some other

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channel. He would not have attempted thus to hold up to public scorn such names as those of Sprague, Everett, Pierpont, Doane, Walsh, Percival, Thompson, Mellen, Barker, Dana, Neal, Ware, Peabody, Dawes, Prentice, Whittier, Leggett, Paulding, and others, whom we all esteem as able and talented writers; nor would he have handled thus cavalierly those of Clark, Smith, Pickering, Wetmore, McHenry, McCall, Bayley, Croswell, Thacher, Wills, Lunt, Longfellow, Woodworth, Holmes, Stone, Lewis, Morris, Miss Gould, and a long list of others. Of this numerous train, whom our satiric poet, our modern Horace—this Aristarchus of small wits—has ‘condescended to immortalize’ by noticing in his ‘Gift;’ and of whose works he says, with the most profound humility,

there probably is not one of them all whose literary talents are not infinitely superior to those of the subject of our remarks. Even Fairfield, whom he affects to heartily to despise, would undoubtedly feel highly offended to be compared with our author in this respect.

We do not wish Mr. Snelling to imagine we are speaking of any other than his literary talents, or to suppose we have anything to do with his character as a man. Our remarks are designed to apply to the production before us, and to this only.

After setting at defiance all criticism (which many, undoubtedly, who have seen this performance think he has done), he says—

and then advises them, in order to do this, to show to him the same courtesy which he has shown them. Few indeed have been found, among those he has assailed, who would deign a reply to this king of dunces; nor should we ourselves have thus condescended, had we not thought his effrontery deserving public censure, and that it ought to be held up to public scorn.—But to our task, which is certainly not a very agreeable one.

After his famous Prefaces to the first and second editions, he introduces to his readers, in a Prologue, the illustrious author himself (scene, the author’s garret), conversing very sublimely and philosophically with a friend (strange he should have had one); where he informs us, with his characteristic spirit and dignity, that

and says—

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What sublimity! What bathos! He then goes on with this sublime dialogue between the author and his friend, and talks against Mellen and Paulding—of their ‘dribblings for the Token.’ After ‘cudgeling’ Whittier, Webb, and Clark, he brings on his ‘defiance’ of Willis, and says, referring to himself—

This passage is characteristic of our author’s delicacy, and is most truly sublime, or rather pathetic. It is in every way worthy of its author. ‘All the boobies in the land’! This reminds us of the Indian squaw, who on returning from the city where she drank to intoxication, declared that all the people in the city were drunk except herself. But we cannot here notice our author’s Prologue as much as we would wish. We can only say, that after ‘thumping’ Willis, John Neal, Finn, and the ‘calf Lunt,’ as he very courteously terms Mr. Lunt; and treating Morris, Whittier, Pierpont, Lewis, and some others, with scarce less indecorum, he comes abruptly, like a true poet, to the beginning of his ‘Truth.’

The first few stanzas of our author’s ‘Gift’ are probably unequaled by anything of a like nature, either ancient or modern. The far-famed commencement of the Iliad of Homer, or of the Ænead of Virgil, is nothing to it. The Arma, virumque cano, Trojæ qui primus ab oris, of Virgil, is tame and flat compared with his beginning; as are also the lofty lines of ‘him who sang beleaguered Ilion’s evil star,’ Homer himself, at the commencement of his famed Odyssey or Iliad. Here we have it:

We wonder he had not—like his paragon, Pope, of the Dunciad-invoked the god of Dulness. He would undoubtedly have been more propitious to his strains than it appears ‘far-darting Phœbus’ has been. But we must continue our quotation.

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Thus endeth the invocation. Thus the glowing and sublime address to Phœbus, who is to ‘lend his strain its sting’! and the Muses, the Nine, the long-enduring Nine, have nothing to do in this wonderful affair but to screw up the cat-gut of his fiddle! Heaven preserve us from its sounds!

Next follows an episode to Faust, the inventor of printing, and the one who held familiar intercourse with the Devil. Here it comes:

What sublimity! what profound wisdom! what philanthropy! Our modern Juvenal would, it seems, annihilate this modern invention for the diffusion of knowledge, if it lay in his power. We are not sure we should not all wish it annihilated, were we to be refreshed and enlightened only by such Gifts of Truth, from such brilliant minds. But we must give our readers the remainder of this sublime episode. The Descensus averni of Virgil’s Æneas is nothing to it.

But enough of this. Now comes ‘the thumping.’ Reader, prepare thyself for some great and mighty effort. Our hero here informs us he intends to give no quarter. He tells us—

This warfare, in giving no quarter, is most truly ‘savage.’ It is certainly characteristic of ‘our American savages.’

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But let us pause for a moment, and take breath. Let us, ere we trace this mighty genius through his ‘depth profound’—through his ‘bathos’—turn and look back. Here we behold this hero (of his own story) drawing his sword and cutting about him, to war with ‘moths, millers, and gnats.’ This is very like taking the club of Hercules to kill a flea. It reminds us of the heroic knight of La Mancha’s war with the windmills. Our author is certainly a hero of not less courage. It very much resembles ‘chopping at ghosts in the dark;’ for he meets with no opposer or antagonist in this terrific strife, as he tells us in his Preface. Now let us see how he uses his victims. Here we have it:

Here follows some more of our author’s satiric wit—his sal Attica. Speaking of Boston clergymen and churches, he says:

What an astonishing genius! What an intellectual wonder! Had he lived in the days of the Salem witchcraft, he most assuredly would have been ‘hung for a witch.’ Let us hear what he says of Mr. Pierpont:—

Where shall we place the accent in ‘Palestine,’ according to Mr. Snelling’s beautiful versification? But we cannot dwell on the musically flowing measure of his heroics. We must go on with our quotation of his chaste compliments to Mr. Pierpont:

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We are sorry we cannot give the rest of them. After our hero has ‘lain the whip’ to the back of ‘stupid Croswell,’ as he chastely terms Mr. Croswell; and accused him of stealing his lines, ‘word for word,’ from Wordsworth, he makes a ‘cut tremendous’ at Edward Everett, and leaves him prostrate, ‘to bite the dust.’ He says—

Mr. Snelling has here quoted very classically an old saying of his prototype, Horace, to prove that Mr. Everett is not a poet. Were we to judge from the production before us, we should say this classic quotation should be altered to adapt it to our author’s own circumstances, and read thus—Poeta fit non nascitur;’ for Mr. Snelling most certainly was never born a poet.

But we will go on with our quotations from this our Literary Censor. Speaking of the Rev. Mr. Doane, he says—

After a few lines more of equally chaste and elegant compliments to Mr. D, he comes to ‘Mister Ware,’ as he terms him.

He goes on to ‘immortalize’ ‘Mister Ware,’ until at length hecomes to a noble episode to Death.

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Next comes Mr. Mellen. Hear what he has to say of him.

Dismissing Mr. Mellen ‘to the state of mist,’ he next makes a ‘lunge’ at Paulding. He tells him—

and says of his ‘Lion of the West,’ his ‘Nimrod Wildfire,’ and it is ‘a libel on the land he represents,’ and is made up of

Thus he slays this insignificant author of ‘Brother Jonathan,’ and the assistant writer of ‘Salmagundi.’ Thus falls before his ‘sword’ the early friend and coadjutor of Irving. ‘Requiescet in pace.’

Now comes Wetmore, Alonzo Lewis, and Willis ‘with his Monthly Magazine.’ Hear what he says of Willis:

What forbearance! What charity! We should have sup-

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posed Mr. Snelling a downright cannibal had he devoured ‘poor Natty,’ as he terms him. But ‘our author,’ though a savage in his mode of warfare in giving no quarter, nevertheless is not so much like the New Zealanders as to eat his victims.

Well, then, we will leave poor Natty to his fate, till ‘Time’ (according to Mr. Snelling’s elegant manner of expressing it) ‘brings us back our butt again.’

Now comes Mr. George Lunt.

He next d[es]patches Mr. Dana, wth equal adroitness, and winds up with the salutary piece of advice to him we might expect from our author’s characteristic sweetness of temper. He says to him:

Next comes Mr. Sprague, for his remarks on whom we have place for but a few lines. He begins thus sublimely:

And so on till he comes to John Neal; of whom he says—

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Of Mr. Neal’s poems, he says—

Mr. Whittier is despatched in the same short-hand manner. He says this ‘ne sutor ultra’ pronounces, ‘ex cathedra,’ on the worth of poems, novels, annuals, &c., ‘instructs his elders, and expounds the law.’ This our critic does not seem to like.

He next takes up Finn for his ‘obtrusive wit,’ and his Comic Annual. He finds his ‘Attic salt,’ by every test, to be base ‘Glauber,’ or at best but ‘Epsom.’—Then comes Pickering, of Salem. Our poet gravely informs us that Mr. P. ‘is no wizard.’—He then hangs the ‘bard of Lynn,’ Alonzo Lewis, after saying to him—

Next in order, he ‘bangs’ Mr. Stone, for getting five hundred dollars for his play; after which, ‘Mirror Morris,’ as he calls Mr. Morris, and Barker, are brought upon the carpet. He accuses Morris, Prentice, and ‘the blackguard Clark,’ as he very poetically and politely terms him, of making a league—of forming an ‘unholy alliance;’ so that if either of this ‘trebly-curst triumvirate’ are assailed, the others, ‘like poachers’ dogs, in yelping concert, bark at honest men.’ We will trouble our readers with but one quotation more. Speaking of Prentice, he says:

We fear we have already inflicted too much of our author’s poetry on our readers. They have seen enough at least to judge of its beauties. Of its ‘Truth’ we will not say another word. Were we permitted to judge of the parent by the offspring, we should be induced to believe the author of the ‘Gift’ to be endwed with a charmingly sweet temper. We have not

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the honor, however, of a personal acquaintance wth him, by which we can judge of his suavity and urbanity. A man’s temper is not always known by his writings.

Our poetical writers are not perfect, nor is it t be expected they should be. They have their faults as well as their beauties. But Mr. Snelling should remember, that it requires not half the talent to pull down a beautiful structure, that it does to rear one; and true criticism is not indiscriminately to condemn. The business of the satirist is to chastise the weaknesses and follies of the age, and not to level and raze, without distinction, both good and bad. Satire is useful when it chastises vice, or ridicules folly; but appears to be out of its province when it is only made use of to gratify a cacoethes scribendi, or when the satirist rails against vanity to gratify his own ‘vain love of praise.’ Besides, it is seldom the case but that he who employs this instrument gets the worst of the bargain himself. No one ought to envy the ‘Literary Censor’ the honor of finding faults in the productions of others.—Mr. Snelling, among all his trash, certainly has one or two fine passages. The compliment paid to Brainard is very handsome, and his comparisons in this glowing passage are beautiful. His compliments to Bryant, though less beautifully expressed, are not less merited. He has justly praised Hillhouse and Halleck. The productions of the latter we have always admired.

It is due to Mr. Snelling’s reputation as an author, to say, that in attempting satire he has altogether mistaken his forte. He has succeeded much better where he has attempted to praise, than where he has labored to censure. Should he write another book, we advise him to change his subject and court the Muses a little more—the ‘long-neglected Nine’—since he cannot propitiate Apollo.

We think Mr. Snelling, could he forget his bitterness, capable, with a little attention, of producing a poem that might in some respects equal the productions of those he has so liberally and unreservedly chastised.