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must finish what we have to say without further loss of time. We have not judged him without the very best available evidence in his favor, by his own works; we say this on the presumption that he would subpoena these witnesses to speak his character in case of a literary trial.

Having just completed the perusal of Mr. Willis's collected works, our impression is this:-He is a lively, entertaining writer, full of conceits, quips, and cranks, but destitute of that breadth and vigor of mind which give vitality to a writer; he is content, swallow-like, to skim on the surface, and never feels power or inclination to turn up the hidden beauties of nature or thought. He is content with chatting in the Muses' boudoir, at a morning call, and leaves without producing any impression. He is, therefore, only an occasional visitor, and not their intimate and friend. He is sometimes employed to carry a message, but is never treated as their interpreter or ambassador. We close our notice of Mr. Willis with a very characteristic anecdote of Bulwer, as related to us by an eyewitness:

Having been invited, at some three weeks' notice, by the author of Pelham to a grand dejeuner, or Fête Champêtre, at his Villa near Fulham, Mr. upon the afternoon in question found himself driving towards the scene of action. On his arrival there, about two in the afternoon, he joined a large and fashionable company there assembled. Various groups were scattered about, occupied in different ways; a party here were engaged in archery-a party there were listening to some manuscript verses by some unpublished genius, who had basely

taken advantage of that courteous forbearance so nearly allied to martyrdom to inflict his undeveloped poems. At a little distance, pacing up and down, were a brace of political economists, busily engaged in paying off the national debt, and very properly inattentive to their own tailors' claims. On the bank of the river was the celebrated novelist himself, chatting to a small party of ladies, one of whom was occupied in fishing with so elegant a rod that Sappho herself need not have despised to use it. Of a sudden there was a faint and highly lady-like scream. "A bite, a bite, Sir Edward," was the fascinating ejaculation of the fair angler. With that presence of mind so eminently characteristic of the beautiful part of creation, she pulled the rod from the water, and there, sure enough, was a monstrous fish, almost as large as a perch. While the poor little thing kicked violently about, the ladies cried with one accord for Sir Edward to secure the struggling prisoner by unhooking it. The baronet looked imploringly first at the ladies, then at the fish, and still more pathetically at his flesh-colored kid gloves, innocent of a stain. Sir Edward's alarm was apparent; he would have shrunk from brushing the down from off a butterfly's wing, lest he should soil the virgin purity of his kids, but a fish -it was too horrible. The ladies, who seemed to take a fiendish delight in torturing their fastidious host, insisted upon his releasing the poor captive, and appealed loudly to his romantic sympathies. At length one of them more lively and mischievous than the rest, seized the rod and actually waved it close to Sir Edward's face; throwing his hand out to protect himself, his fingers came in contact with the scaly

phenomenon ;-then nerving himself for the deed, he resolutely seized the dangerous animal, and, extricating it from the hook, threw it into its native element. Lamb has in one of his essays observed, how would men like if some superior being were to go out manning, and, letting down a hook through the air towards the earth, baited with a beefsteak, draw a man up to heaven, roaring like a bull, with a hook in his gills.

Our friend was cordially welcomed by the fish releaser, and finding several of his old friends, rambled about the grounds, chatting first with one, and then another, until he felt all the vulgar sensations of hunger. It was now five o'clock, and no symptoms of the dejeuner; he had unfortunately breakfasted early, and had purposely abstained from lunching, his knowledge of fashionable French being so limited as to translate erroneously the word "dejeuner," to mean a meal of that kind. At eight o'clock in the evening the lunch bell rang, and a nonchalant rush was made towards the house. The blaze of light ushered them to the room where all was laid out in the perfection of Gunter's best manner; but judge our famished friend's dismay, when a rapid survey, like a Napoleon's glance, discovered only the elegances of eating, the ornaments of the appetite, and not its substantialities. Jellies in the shape of crystal mounds; cakes battlemented like the baronial dwellings of feudal tyrants. Trifles light as air, swelling over Chinese dwellings, crimson flushed with vermilion sweets; piles of bon-bons and scented crackers, gorgeously gilded and rainbow colored. At each side were flesh-colored masses of ice creams, flanked by a regiment of infinitesimal mince pies, raspberry tarts, and triangular cheese-cakes. At solemn intervals

were Maraschino, Curaçoa, Noyau, and other liqueurs, confined in small decanters, about the size of Eau de Cologne phials, while scattered around were goblets to drink out of, about the size of overgrown thimbles. It was a diabolical improvement (so far as starvation went) on the feast of Tantalus. A glass of water would have had a gigantic look in our friend's eyes perfectly titanic. A narrower scrutiny discovered to his longing sight two dishes, one a tureen of palish, green-looking water, where there were a few diminutive new potatoes, swimming for their lives, and trying to escape, which they did with ease, from the abortive efforts of our friend, who, with a ladle, was doing his best to capture one, to satisfy the cravings of his appetite.

The other dish was one of fritters, and presented the appearance of having been made out of Sir Edward's kid gloves dipped in batter, and then elaborately fried. We must draw a veil over our friend's sufferings. After securing a spoonful of jelly-one of the afore-named small forced-meat ballsa portion of truffle, evanescent and shadowy as mist-(not half so substantial as a good wholesome London November fog, which at times is so thick that it can be easily cut clinging to the knife)-and a glass-thimbleful of maraschino-our friend drove home in his gig through the chill evening air, with his teeth chattering to themselves, and trying to console his importunate gastric juice and empty stomach.

He astonished his wife and household on his return home by eating seriatim everything in the house in the way of flesh, from a haunch of mutton down to a ham bone, and from the new bread down to the stale crust.

Mr. Willis's productions very much resemble Sir Edward's

déjeûner: elegant, tasteful, and unsubstantial, they offer but poor satisfaction to the wholesome appetite of a healthy guest.

Mr. Willis leaves on us the impression that he is not in earnest; that he has no fixed principles, except a fastidious, but very artificial taste. There is a want of healthiness about his mind, which leaves robustness altogether out of the question. The color on the cheeks of his muse is not the rosy freshness of health, but the carmine of the dressing-room; her attitudes are the result of the dancing-master, and not of native grace; there is more of the Aspasia than the Vestal in her manners and discourse, always deducting the wit of the celebrated Grecian beauty. It has always appeared to us that foreign travel, which steadies and consolidates the true poet, has a deteriorating influence on the mere man of elegant susceptibilities. To be sure, every true poet has a taste, but it is a natural relish for truth, and not a craving for excitement. The palate of health can derive delight and sustenance from a crust and a draught from the crystal spring, and does not require its appetite to be provoked by the ragouts of Paris or the curries of the Indies. In short, the attraction of Mr. Willis's muse proceeds rather from the hectic of consumption and disease, than from the blushing glow and grace of buxom health: its energy is the effect of stimulants, and not the result of symmetrical elasticity and genuine cheerfulness.

To produce an effect by contrast let us create the opposite of the being personified by Collins, and we have the female Frankenstein muse of Mr. Willis.

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