very sharply with that of those morbidly melancholy "albino-poets," as he terms them, "whose refrain is 'I shall die and be forgotten, and the world will go on just as if I had never been ;— yet how I have loved! how I have longed! how I have aspired!'" 1

There is, perhaps, no commoner-and at the same time there is no more dangerous form of criticism than that which attempts to forecast the view which the Future (capitalised) will take of a given piece of work, or the works of a given author. The criticism which consists in saying, "This will live when Homer is forgotten "and not till then," as a wit is reported to have added— is of course sweeping, but it is-if one may be permitted the apparent Hibernianism-sweepingly inconclusive; it is given with an air of assurance which is begotten of the fact that the critic knows that until the Future has become the Present-in other words until " Homer is forgotten "—his judgment though it may be called in question cannot be refuted. It is true that the work so welcomed may be forgotten during the lifetime of both critic and author," 'tis nothing," says the critic-the author, of course, saying "Ditto, to Mr. Burke " while triumphantly pointing to great works which Fame, the jilt, has studiously neglected for long

periods and then welcomed with a smile of recognition and taken into her favour. The work hailed with delight and ranked with the greatest is perchance soon forgotten, it becomes that nine-days' wonder, that thing for which the writer for cash must pray day and night, and for which the true literary artist must as earnestly pray may not be his "the book of the season." Such as a topical song is to music, as a daily illustrated paper is to art, so is, most often, the book of the season to literature-it is for a season and not for all time. Another book, published it may be at the very same time, has fallen foul of the critics, or has fallen, apparently, stillborn from the press, and is yet destined to be one of the books of the world.

I will not say of Holmes that he will be remembered when Homer is forgotten; we may, however, consider the position which he occupies among his contemporaries-the leading men of letters of America. "Who "-asked Sydney Smith, in a famous review--"Who in all the four Continents reads an American book?" The century has seen great changes, and to-day we ask, "What English publisher does not profit by pirating American books for British readers?" Holmes's works alone are procurable from half a dozen publishers other than the firm which issues his authorised collected edition. As a poet, the position which rightfully belongs to Holmes is immediately after Long

fellow in point of fame, while in point of popularity he is probably to-day the very first. It may yet be true, as has been suggested, that his work is less likely to live-through being scattered over so many short pieces-through there being no one great poem to remember him by-and through so much of it being written for certain stated occasions.

III.

THE NOVELIST.

FILLING AN ORDER.

(Read at the Holmes' Breakfast, December 3rd, 1879.)

BY J. T. TROWBRIDGE.

To Nature, in her shop one day, at work compounding simples,

Studying fresh tints for Beauty's cheeks, or new effects in dimples,

An order came: she wiped in haste her fingers and un

folded

The scribbled scrap, put on her specs, and read it while she scolded.

"From Miss Columbia! I declare! of all the upstart misses!

What will the jade be asking next? Now what an order this is!

Where's Boston? Oh, that one-horse town out there beside the ocean!

She wants-of course, she always wants-another little notion !

"This time, three geniuses, Al! to grace her favourite

city:

The first, a bard; the second, wise; the third, supremely

witty ;

62

None of the staid and hackneyed sort, but some peculiar

flavour,

Something unique and fresh for each will be esteemed a favour!

Modest demands! as if my hands had but to turn and

toss over

A Poet veined with dew and fire, a Wit, and a Philosopher!

"But now, let's see!" She put aside her old, outworn expedients,

And in a quite unusual way began to mix ingredients,— Some in the fierce retort distilled, some pounded by the

pestle,

And set the simmering souls to steep, each in its glowing vessel.

In each, by turns, she poured, she stirred, she skimmed the shining liquor,

Threw laughter in to make it thin, or thought, to make it thicker.

But when she came to choose the clay, she found, to her vexation,

That, with a stock on hand to fill an order for a nation,
Of that more finely tempered stuff, electric and ethereal,
Of which a genius must be formed, she had but scant
material-

For three? For one! What should be done? A bright idea struck her;

Her old witch-eyes began to shine, her mouth began to pucker.

Says she, "The fault, I'm well aware, with genius is the

presence

Of altogether too much clay, with quite too little

essence,

And sluggish atoms that obstruct the spiritual solution; So now, instead of spoiling these by over much dilution,