authorship, a sufficient reason why native authorship should be crushed forever. It is rather against this American Library that the publishers are not prepared to hold out any inducements to the home genius. What they get for their collection they must get at a trifle. The public demand will enable them to pay no large sums, and the risk of time, labor and talent, must be that of the author wholly. The motive to laborious authorship, to elaborate effort-exclusive devotion to a strong conception and a favorite scheme-is not easily supplied, by any of the existing relations between the author and his publisher. It will not be otherwise until the people, awakened to a just sense of what their liberties require, shall second the prayer of the former to be put on equal footing with his foreign competitor. We have scarcely left ourselves space to say of the two American books before us, belonging to this new series, that they are creditable to our literature, and would not be unworthy of companionship with the British collection. They are not great books, it is true. There is nothing wonderful about them, nothing very startling, very brilliant or very original. But they are useful and pleasant books, full of fresh matter, very well prepared, enlivened by an agreeable manner, and instinct with grateful sentiments, very happily brought together. The "Journal of an African Cruiser," is from an officer of the United States navy, who was sent to the African station, under that portion of the Ashburton treaty, by which we are required to keep up a certain force for the prevention of the slave trade-a very useless expenditure, as may be seen, by the exposition, and very clear statements, furnished by our author. His work is edited by Nathaniel Hawthorne, one of our most exquisite and original essayists, and is marked by neatness of utterance, and simplicity of arrangement. Many of its facts are new, and its details are sometimes highly interesting. The second number of this series is given to a collection of "Tales by Edgar A. Poe." This volume has not yet reached us;-but, from a previous knowledge of the writings of this gentleman, we venture to assert that his book possesses more sterling genius, more genuine imaginative power, more art, and more analysis, than can be found in fiveeighths of the tale writers of Great Britain put together. He is too original, perhaps, to be a highly successful writer. The people are not prepared for him yet. They do not look for his points, and do not perceive his objects. He too, perhaps, is something to blame for the occasional perversities of his genius--for his attempting too frequently at effect, at the expense of symmetry and proportion, and losing his hold upon the true, in the ideal, by grasping idly at its merest possibilities. But his errantries are not greater, we are inclined to think, than those of most writers, who are still young, and who struggle with the various forces of a wild and vigorous imagination. We Te may examine these tales, which are understood to be a selection from his writings, more fully, when they come before us. "Letters from Italy," by J. T. Headley, form the third volume in this series, and a very pleasant volume it is. With a lively nervous sensibility, always eager and on the alert—a taste which, if not the most rigidly classical, is, at all events, fresh, graceful, and gentle; a quick, keen eye for observation; ready instincts which are always suggestive; a good mind, and an admirable temper, at once playful and enthusiastic;-Mr. Headley is one of the very best companions that we could choose, in a ramble through a country such as Italy. He is so unaffected, so good humored, so considerate, so observing, and writes in such an easy vein of narrative, that he cannot fail to satisfy and charm the reader. We commend his volume to the summer rambler, with unscrupulous good humor. He is not much of the philosopher, it is true-has no plummet facility for the depths, in morals, or society, or politics-does not undertake any reforms, and meddles very little with those things which require one to go below the surface. But he belongs to that class of travellers, of whom Mr. Stephens and Mr. Willis are favorable specimens, who give animation to a narrative of life, as it presents itself in a bird's eye progress, and gather, at a glance, the delicate and the fanciful, leaving out of view those objects which might impair the landscape, or offend the vision Mr. Headley will rank favorably with either of these travellers, as a lively descriptive writer. Our space leaves us no room for extracts. We had marked several in both volumes. Let the reader look them up for himself, assured that he could do nothing better than to insist upon his Americanism in the proper way-by believing in the genius of his country, even if he possesses but little of his own, and buying all the American books that we commend to his attention. DANIEL BOONE.-JAMES MOSELEY. We have from a friendly correspondent, a brief note in relation to the description of the person of Danel Boone, as given in the article on that remarkable man, contained in our number for April last. In that article it is stated that he was a tall man of powerful frame. That description was drawn from various sources which have hitherto been acknowledged as adequate authorities on this subject. Still the point is one, which, whatever may be its importance, can scarcely be considered concluded. Our correspondent is not prepared, of his own knowledge, to say that the description is not correct; but he gives a pleasant account of one of his neighbors, on the banks of Pacolet River, in South Carolina-one James Moseley-an old man, truthful, honest and highly esteemed by all around him, who claimed to have known Boone well, to have frequently slept in his cabin, and been the companion of his wanderings. Mosely died in Union District at the mature term of eighty-four years. He came from the Yadkin to the Pacolet, and lived on the former river, in Boone's neighborhood, when he made his first trip to Kentucky. Describing him at that periodand he was then in the very fullness of his vigor-Moseley said that he weighed about one hundred and fifty-five, that he was not above five feet eight or nine inches high-was marked by a lively, spark ling blue eye, was very active, a tight, well-made fellow, athletic, and, as we may well suppose, capable of enduring any degree of fatigue within the compass of mortal muscle. We have no reason to suppose that a description so precise, is not in the main correct. Our correspondent answers for Moseley as a witness;-and there is no reason for surprise, when we learn that a great hunter is not a plethoric and over-fed person. Where the labors of the chase are taken on foot, it is but reasonable to suppose that the hunter is a lean man. Such is always the case with the Indians, and with our own people, where they attract our attention for their expertness in the woods. Little flesh, a frame rather slight than slender, broad shoulders, narrow hips, and a wiry muscle, are the usual marks of the keen and active hunter. "James Moseley," says our correspondent, "was himself something of a Leather Stocking. He had been a great huntsman in his time; had fought frequently with the Indians-as frequently with the Tories-lived forty years in the same log cabin, was received as a welcome guest by the wealthiest of our people, and died, as he began the world, in poverty, with an unblemished charac ter, and without an enemy. To the last hours of life, he lived upon his own labor, and was indebted for no obligations which he could not and did not recompense." He deserves this record. THE LAST HOUR AT THE HERMITAGE. THE manliness of Gen. Jackson's character was never more manifest than in the Christian fortitude of his last hour. Well, if thy summons to the final time, Brave heart and spotless patriot! comes at last, It is not with that dread, ill-omen'd blast, From lips that, still approving, bear thee on, With evident utterance of a sweet "well done!" And the meek conduct of a guiding hand! No dread beset thee in that awful hour, When the day, closing on the human eye, Opens the vistas of eternity Confronts the mortal with immortal power, And bids the soul, all conscious in its fears, Look back, with tremulous doubt, o'er all the vanishing years. EDITORIAL BUREAU. POEMS BY WILLIAM W. LORD. APPLETON & CO. NEW-YORK. "THE Booke ytte moste bee ytts own defense." Such is the motto of our author, taken from Chatterton. Nothing could be more fair. We take him at his word, and shall examine his volume upon its own merits. Frankly, then, we say that Mr. LORD does wrong to submit himself to any such test. The book does no justice to its author, whom we take to be a young beginner, and rather a clever one, who will in time—if he be industrious and modest, not believing too freely in himself, not relying too much upon the divine origin of that cal which he evidently persuades himself, just now, is from heaven-present himself, with a far more acceptable offering, at the altars of the muse. We assume that Mr. LORD is young, by the fragmentary and crude character of his performances. His verse is rude and inartistical, his thoughts but half-formed, incomplete, and deficient in homogeneousness;—his general conceptions are borrowed, and his imitations are very wretchedly concealed. These imitations are but too apparent. We can point, without difficulty, as we turn these pages, to the particular passages, from other poets, which were in the writer's mind when his own verses were written down. He has found his inspiration only in the provocations of their songs. His poems have seldom sprung from his own overflowings. This is unfortunate, but not unnatural. It is fatal to one who is disposed to build upon such performances-but natural enough to every young beginner. All poets are imitative when young-chiefly imitative. This is as necessary as it seems inevitable, It is the mechanical portions of their art which they acquire by this process. We need not dwell upon this point. It will suffice to say that our author has been chiefly imitative of Coleridge;-his poem called "Worship," and the "Hymn to Niagara," are full of Chamouni. Our author is very far from having attained a sufficient mastery of the arts of versification, to hope for any immediate or present triumphs of the poet. Let us quote a few lines, by way of specimen, from the very first, and, we suppose, the favorite piece in the collection-"Worship!" What are we to say to such heroics as these? "Yea, of the great earth that make an instrument." "Rise like the deep and quiet breathing of the earth." These are sufficient examples. They show our author's ear to be bad;—but let him take courage-the defect is not incurable. Diligence, patience, and study of the best masters-the true masters-will do much for him in this respect; and, if young, as we suppose him to be, he has sufficient time for immortality. Our author falls below, from too vainly striving to soar above, himself. His VOL. II.-NO. II. 12 themes are too ambitiously chosen. He toils too much in sight of his models. It is not given to a young beginner, not yet possessed of a perfect mastery of his tools, to attempt the most exacting labors of the art. The ambition is honorable, true, but very dangerous. Metaphysical poetry requires deep sedateness of mood, habitual contemplation, and much of that quieting sort of thought which a rare experience of the world alone can give. Wanting all this, the poems of Mr. LORD, which aim at this character, are vague, wordy, purposeless; without those leading views of his topic which alone can justify the author in attempting it. We see the fruits of his reading, not of his genius, in the poem called "Worship." Here is a little of Bryant, and here something more of Coleridge. Phrases from these and other poets are conspicuous upon every page-some of these strangely obtrusive, as at p. 8, the "temple-haunting martlets" of Shakspeare. The ode "To an American Statesman," strikes us as a very decided imitation of that to the American flag, by Drake, and faint efforts in the way of Tennyson, Poe and Longfellow, are evident as we turn his pages. Now, it so happens, that all of these poets are exquisite artists. It is really only as an artist that the latter claims our attention. As an original thinker, his verses are a blank. But, as an artist, he has few equals. By choosing these writers for his immediate models, and by taking such small pains to disguise his imitations, our author provokes unfriendly comparisons; and the critic, whose attention is thus immediately and forcibly drawn to the mere frame and structure of his verse, is in precisely the same degree regardless of its sentiment and thought. That Mr. LORD can think, and may, by severe training, and sometimes scourging, be made to think, we have proof in this little volume. We see here and there the head or tail of an idea, the wing or the pen-feathers of a fancy, which elaboration might have rendered legitimately his own. That he has a spiritual mood at work is apparent also. But there is no one piece in the collection, no, nor no one paragraph of any length which may be considered tolerably perfect, and fit for selection. The little ballad entitled "a Rime," is that which nearest approaches our standard, but the staple of this is slender, and the conceit had its birth when Methuselah was on his first courtship, and felt his earliest disappointments. There is some promise in the piece, intended as a satire, called the "New Castalia," but our author's will seems to have failed him, or his purpose wandered, for the satire is faint and ineffective. The beauty and success of the species of compositions which he undertakes to parody, consists chiefly in their novelty, and the unwonted combinations of their verse. They are not things to be repeated. They are sports, things of the moment, of its most capricious moods, and so designed to appear by their authors. That blockheads should start off, puffing and blowing, with their uncouth efforts to run riot along the same uncertain routes, is the misfortune of the public. It is as if an owl or a night hawk should undertake to pursue that path in air, which has been made by a nonpareil or humming bird, and which has been closed up again, sealed smooth as ever, the moment after it has given a maiden passage to the first adventurous wing. There are some good lines, brief scraps, and fragments of a verse, here and there, in this collection, which give us hopes of Mr. LORD, hereafter. "Ye winds That in the impalpable deep caves of air, Moving your silent plumes, in dreams of flight, |