Imagined that her feelings slept, or froze.
You may have seen a cunning florist tie

A thread about a bud, which never blows,
But with shut chalice from the sun and rain,
Hoards up the morn-and such was Lady Jane.

Some stanzas back we left the ladies going
At six to dress for dinner. Time to dine
I always give in poetry, well knowing

That to jump over it in half a line,

Looks (let us be sincere, dear Muse) like showing
Contempt we do not feel for meat and wine.
Dinner! ye gods!—What is there more respectable?
For eating, who, save Byron, ever checked a belle ?"

We have read this poem through, consisting of two or three hundred verses in the Boccaccian or Don Juan stanza, but with the exception of an occasional play upon words, we do not recognise any of those strokes of humor and unexpected contrasts which render Byron so charming. Still there are a pleasant banter and gentlemanly quizzing about many of the best stanzas, which enable a reader to get through it. There are, however, few passages which will repay a second perusal.

We do not charge this upon Mr. Willis as a fault, because his forte is evidently prose, where his vivacity and polished style serve him admirably. His want of earnestness is fatal to him as a poet, but helps him in those lighter sketches where he seems quite at home.

We have no space to consider Mr. Willis as a dramatist; we must therefore content ourselves by remarking that, as his plays have not retained possession of the stage, he adds

one more to that long list of writers who have been seduced by the temptation of popular applause to over-estimate their powers. We may be permitted to add, that the total absence of dramatic power in his writings is so marked, that we should have been more astonished at success than failure: we consequently merely chronicle his attempt rather as a biographical fact than as a poetical feat.

There are few things more anomalous in the history of literature than the present position of the American stage. Out of eight theatres in the metropolis of the western world seven are owned by foreigners, the only exception being the small and somewhat inferior one called the National, in Chatham street, under the control of Mr. Chanfrau. We are informed that it is almost impossible for an American to get a play produced, however adapted it may be for popular representation. We are perfectly aware that many will allege the want of dramatic genius as a sufficient and conclusive reason for this singular state of things; but we may be allowed to observe that so long as this excluding or prohibiting system exists, there never will be any genius shown in this branch of poetry encouragement is essentially necessary for every product, and for none more than for intellectual variety.

There is, perhaps, nothing more indicative of a healthy national state than a legitimate drama, and the greatest critics in England have thought that to this species of excellence England owes more than to her victorious fleets. It certainly reflects more of a country's glory than any other shape of mind, and a glance at the past will confirm this view.

The victories of Greece have died away.

Marathon is only

a barren and desolate plain, but the papyrus on which Aschylus inscribed his Prometheus is peopled still with his undying characters. How transient are the mightiest triumphs of forcehow everlasting the poet's thought; every year deadens the shout of the warrior, but the voice of the poet rolls down the corridors of the Future, awakening on its passage, like so many echoes, the sympathies of the unborn millions-nations yet to be; England will always be immortal in the world's esteem as the land of Shakspeare, when her colonies and her commerce have perished.

As we shall have a fitter place to discuss the want of an American Drama, we shall reserve what we have to say on this subject for that opportunity.

It frequently occurs that men run against difficulties which they have no occasion to meet; this is the case with Mr. Willis. In the intoxication of his vanity he believed he could drive his Pegasus to its dramatic Parnassus, but he found obstacles in the way he littled dreamed of.

This reminds us of an accident a lively novelist related one evening, as having happened to himself. Having occasion to dine with a friend, he jumped into a cab, and told the man to drive as fast as he could to Russell square. He had not been long in the conveyance before he felt assured the man was drunk; now he drove against a cart-then he went into an oyster stall. He extricated himself from this dilemma by rushing upon a heavy wagon; unable to overcome this obstacle, he violated the proprieties of driving by disorganizing a funeral procession; his efforts reached a climax by mistaking the footpath for the road, and, immediately after, a sharp shock, and then a dead

stand-still, convinced the rider inside that the cab was inextricably fixed. Springing out, our friend observed that the man was in the middle of the footpath, and that the wheel was locked in a lamp-post. Indignantly demanding what the fellow meant, he received the following reply:-" Who the devil would have thought of finding a post in the middle of the road?" We fear this will be our author's apology for writing plays he had no idea he should find any obstacles in his way!

We must now consider the prose writings of Mr. Willis, and we are glad to say that although he displays the self-same peculiarities we have condemned in his poetic musings, yet the less condensed style of composition renders them less apparent, from the greater diffusion of the fault. Once for all, we must here make the remark that he has very little self-reliance, and, indeed, not a particle of dignity; there is a total want of independence about him, which at times becomes absurdly deferential. He seems to have made Polonius his study, but, unlike that wise old man, he has not the same excuse. The Danish Minister believed he had a madman to humor, and not a rational being to converse with; and we have always considered this as one of Shakspeare's most wonderful touches of Nature. "Very like a whale" was a perfectly accountable expression from Polonius to a prince whom he believed to be crazy, but when Mr. Willis expects that we shall coincide with his dittoes to London dilettanti, he is wofully mistaken. He seems delighted with everything he saw and heard in the British capital; he never bares the hideous mass of suffering under that velvet pall of aristocracy. Our space warns us that we

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