But _à nos moutons_—to the “Quacks of Helicon.” This satire has many faults besides those upon which we have commented. The tide, for example, is not sufficiently distinctive, although otherwise good. It does not confine the subject to _American_ quacks, while the work does. The two concluding lines enfeeble instead of strengthening the _finale_, which would have been exceedingly pungent without them. The individual portions of the thesis are strung together too much at random—a natural sequence is not always preserved—so that although the lights of the picture are often forcible, the whole has what, in artistical parlance, is termed an accidental and spotty appearance. In truth, the parts of the poem have evidently been composed each by each, as separate themes, and afterwards fitted into the general satire, in the best manner possible. But a more reprehensible sin than any or than all of these is yet to be mentioned—the sin of indiscriminate censure. Even here Mr. Wilmer has erred through imitation. He has held in view the sweeping denunciations of the Dunciad, and of the later (abortive) satire of Byron. No one in his senses can deny the justice of the general charges of corruption in regard to which we have just spoken from the text of our author. But are there _no_ exceptions? We should indeed blush if there were not. And is there _no_ hope? Time will show. We cannot do everything in a day—_Non se gano Zamora en un ora_. Again, it cannot be gainsaid that the greater number of those who hold high places in our poetical literature are absolute nincompoops—fellows alike innocent of reason and of rhyme. But neither are we _all_ brainless, nor is the devil himself so black as he is painted. Mr. Wilmer must read the chapter in Rabelais’ _Gargantua_, “_de ce qu’ est signifié par les couleurs blanc et bleu_”—for there is _some_ difference after all. It will not do in a civilized land to run a-muck like a Malay. Mr. Morris _has_ written good songs. Mr. Bryant is not _all_ a fool. Mr. Willis is not _quite_ an ass. Mr. Longfellow _will_ steal, but perhaps he cannot help it, (for we have heard of such things,) and then it must not be denied that _nil tetigit quod non ornavit_. The fact is that our author, in the rank exuberance of his zeal, seems to think as little of discrimination as the Bishop of Autun[5] did of the Bible. Poetical “things in general” are the windmills at which he spurs his rozinante. He as often tilts at what is true as at what is false; and thus his lines are like the mirrors of the temples of Smirna, which represent the fairest images as deformed. But the talent, the fearlessness, and especially the _design_ of this book, will suffice to save it even from that dreadful damnation of “silent contempt” to which editors throughout the country, if we are not very much mistaken, will endeavor, one and all, to consign it. ----- [5] Talleyrand. * * * * *