“Thus it appeared I say, but was not. It was Wilson, who then stood before me in the agonies of dissolution. Not a line in all the marked and singular lineaments of that face which was not even identically mine own. _His mask and cloak lay where he had thrown them, upon the floor._”—Vol. 2. p. 57. Here it will be observed that, not only are the two general conceptions identical, but there are various _points_ of similarity. In each case the figure seen is the wraith or duplication of the beholder. In each case the scene is a masquerade. In each case the figure is cloaked. In each, there is a quarrel—that is to say, angry words pass between the parties. In each the beholder is enraged. In each the cloak and sword fall upon the floor. The “villain, unmuffle yourself,” of Mr. H. is precisely paralleled by a passage at page 56 of “William Wilson.” In the way of objection we have scarcely a word to say of these tales. There is, perhaps, a somewhat too general or prevalent _tone_—a tone of melancholy and mysticism. The subjects are insufficiently varied. There is not so much of _versatility_ evinced as we might well be warranted in expecting from the high powers of Mr. Hawthorne. But beyond these trivial exceptions we have really none to make. The style is purity itself. Force abounds. High imagination gleams from every page. Mr. Hawthorne is a man of the truest genius. We only regret that the limits of our Magazine will not permit us to pay him that full tribute of commendation, which, under other circumstances, we should be so eager to pay. * * * * * _The Vigil of Faith, and Other Poems. By C. F. Hoffman, Author of “Greyslaer,” &c. S. Coleman: New York._ Mr. Charles Fenno Hoffman is well known as the author of several popular novels, and as the quondam editor of the “American Monthly Magazine;” but his poetical abilities have not as yet attracted that attention which is indubitably their due. “The Vigil of Faith,” a poem of fifty-two irregular stanzas, embodies a deeply interesting narrative supposed to be related by an Indian encountered by the author in a hunting excursion amid the Highlands of the Hudson. It bears the impress of the true spirit upon every line; but appears to be carelessly written. The occasional Poems are scarcely more beautiful, but, in general, are more complete and polished. Now and then, however, we observe, even in these, an inaccurate rhythm. Here, for example, in “Moonlight on the Hudson,” page 63, we note a foot too much— “Or cradle-freighted Ganges, the reproach of mothers.”