This handsomely printed volume fills a long-regretted hiatus in our poetical literature, and we are much indebted to Mr. James the publisher; and to Mr. William D. Gallagher, who has superintended the compilation. We are told, in the Preface by Mr. G. that the book “is not sent forth as by any means the whole of the ‘Poetical Literature of the West,’ but that it is believed it will represent its character pretty faithfully, as it certainly contains samples of its greatest excellences, its mediocre qualities, and its worst defects.” It may be questioned, indeed, how far we are to thank the editor for troubling us with the “defects,” or, what in poesy is still worse, with the “mediocre qualities” of any literature whatever. It is no apology to say that the design was to represent “character”—for who cares for the character of that man or of that poem which has no character at all?
By these observations we mean merely to insinuate, as delicately as possible, that Mr. Gallagher has admitted into this volume a great deal of trash with which the public could well have dispensed. On the other hand we recognise many poems of a high order of excellence; among which we may mention an “Ode to the Press” by G. G. Foster, of the St. Louis Pennant; several sweet pieces by our friend F. W. Thomas, of “Clinton Bradshaw” memory; “The Flight of Years” by George D. Prentice; “To the Star Lyra,” by William Wallace; and the “Miami Woods,” by Mr. Gallagher.
We have spoken of this latter gentleman as the editor of the volume—but presume that in so speaking we have been in error. It is probable that, the volume having been compiled by some other hand, he was requested by Mr. James to write the Preface merely. We are forced into this conclusion by observing that the poems of William D. Gallagher occupy more room in the book than those of any other author, and that the “Miami Woods” just mentioned—lines written by himself—form the opening article of the work. We cannot believe that Mr. G. would have been so wanting in modesty as to perpetrate these improprieties as editor of the “Poetical Literature of the West.”
“The Quadroone.” A Novel. By the Author of “Lafitte,” &c. Harper & Brothers, New York.
We see no good reason for differing with that general sentence of condemnation which has been pronounced upon this book, both at home and abroad—and less for attempting anything in the way of an extended review of its contents. This was our design upon hearing the novel announced; but an inspection of its pages assures us that the labor would be misplaced. Nothing that we could say—had we even the disposition to say it—would convince any sensible man that “The Quadroone” is not a very bad book—such a book as Professor Ingraham (for whom we have a high personal respect) ought to be ashamed of. We are ashamed of it.
