There are, in Carey & Hart's splendid edition of Bryant--we mean splendid as to the typography and paper, and not inclusive of those ill-drawn sketches of Leutze, who has made the women all German and given Mr. William Tell of Switzerland a straddle as wide as the Dardanelles, to say nothing of the hideous face of Rizpah and that Monk so excessively huge as to stand some forty feet from the pillar against which he leans--this splendid edition, we say, contains just one hundred and thirty-two poems, all told, to which,--stand up and listen, to the sentence, Mr. Lowell!--more than seventy refer wholly to subjects of an exclusively human interest--man in his being and doing, while nine out of ten of the rest, though occupied primarily with some phase of external nature, are yet so managed as to weave a deep and beautiful human philosophy,--with the dull and dead proceedings of the mechanical world. Yes, Mr. Critic, we say that there is a very fine, a very rich, a very noble and very touching vein of human sentiment, which runs through all of Bryant's writings, whereby, even as much as Wordsworth, he makes these mountains and precipices a part of our human life, and whereby, too, he makes the whole of us, who read him lovingly, that is, who read him at all, much better men and women, in our several spheres. No human sympathies forsooth! Why there are hundreds, nay, thousands, of us, who have derived many of their tenderest and noblest humanities from this very cold-blooded He-Daphne; this fleshless marble Apollo,--this Ice-Palace and Alpine glacier,--far shining brilliant, but oh how frigid!