We have next, a “Sketch of the Character of Powhatan,” which is exceedingly interesting and commendable, and which is taken from Burk’s “History of Virginia:"—four pages more. Then comes a _Poem_—four pages more—forty-eight lines—twelve lines to a page—in which all that we can understand, is something about the name of “Powhatan” “Descending to a distant age, Embodied forth on the deathless page” of the author—that is to say, of Jack Downing, Esquire. We have now, one after the other, Cantos one, two, three, four, five, six, and seven—each subdivided into Parts, by means of Roman numerals—some of these Parts comprehending as many as six lines—upon the principle, we presume, of packing up precious commodities in small bundles. The volume then winds up with _Notes_, in proportion of three to one, as regards the amount of text, and taken, the most of them, from Burk’s Virginia, as before. It is very difficult to keep one’s countenance when reviewing such a _work_ as this; but we will do our best, for the truth’s sake, and put on as serious a face as the case will admit. The leading fault of “Powhatan,” then, is precisely what its author supposes to be its principal merit. “It would be difficult,” he says, in that pitiable preface, in which he has so exposed himself, “to find a poem that embodies more truly the spirit of history, or indeed that follows out more faithfully many of its details.” It would, indeed; and we are very sorry to say it. The truth is, Mr. Downing has never dreamed of any artistic _arrangement_ of his facts. He has gone straight forward, like a blind horse, and turned neither to the one side nor to the other, for fear of stumbling. But he gets them all in—every one of them—the facts we mean. Powhatan never did anything in his life, we are sure, that Mr. Downing has not got in his poem. He begins at the beginning, and goes on steadily to the end—painting away at his story, just as a sign-painter at a sign; beginning at the left hand side of his board, and plastering through to the right. But he has omitted one very ingenious trick of the sign-painter. He has forgotten to write under his portrait—“_this is a pig_,” and thus there is some danger of mistaking it for an opossum. But we are growing scurrilous, in spite of our promise, and must put on a sober visage once more. It _is_ a hard thing, however, when we have to read and write about such doggerel as this: