Some few months since, we had occasion to speak of “The Biography and Poetical Remains of the late Margaret Miller Davidson”—a work given to the public by Washington Irving. In common with all who read, we had been deeply interested in the narrative set forth. The portrait of the young and beautiful enthusiast, simply yet most effectively painted by one who touches nothing which he does not adorn, could not have failed to excite our warmest sympathies; and we dwelt upon the pleasing yet melancholy theme with a lingering delight. Of the biographical portion of the book we said, indeed, what every one says, and most justly—that nothing could be more intensely pathetic. In respect, however, to the “Poetical Remains,” the _tone_ of our observations was not fully in accordance with that of the mass of our contemporaries. Without calling in question the extreme _precocity_ of the child—a precocity truly wonderful—we were forced, in some slight measure, to dissent from that extravagant eulogium, which had its origin, beyond doubt, in a confounding of the interest felt in the poetess and her sad fortunes, with a legitimate admiration of her works. We did not, in truth, conceive it to be either honest or necessary, to mislead in any degree the public taste or opinion, by styling “Lenore,” as it exists, a fine poem, merely because its author _might_ have written a fine poem had she lived. We emphasize the “might”; for the history of all intellect demonstrates that the point is a questionable one indeed. The analogies of Nature are universal; and just as the most rapidly growing herbage is the most speedy in its decay—just as the ephemera struggles to perfection in a day only to perish in that day’s decline—so the mind is early matured only to be early in its decadence; and when we behold in the eye of infancy the soul of the adult, it is but indulging in a day dream to hope for any farther proportionate development. Should the prodigy survive to ripe age, a mental imbecility, not far removed from idiocy itself, is too frequently the result. From this rule the exceptions are rare indeed; but it should be observed that, when the exception does occur, the intellect is of a Titan cast even to the days of its extreme senility, and acquires renown not in one, but in all the wide fields of fancy and of reason.