Vathek is, indeed, without reference to the time of life when the author penned it, a very remarkable performance; but, like most of the works of the great poet who has thus eloquently praised it, it is stained with some poison-spots--its inspiration is too often such as might have been inhaled in the "Hall of Eblis." We do not allude so much to its audacious licentiousness, as to the diabolical levity of its contempt for mankind. The boy-author appears already to have rubbed all the bloom off his heart; and, in the midst of his dazzling genius, one trembles to think that a strippling of years so tender, should have attained the cool cynicism of a _Candide_. How different is the effect of that Eastern tale of our own days, which Lord Byron ought not to have forgotten when he was criticising his favorite romance. How perfectly does _Thalaba_ realize the idea demanded in the Welsh Triad of "fulness of erudition, simplicity of language, and purity of manners." But the critic was repelled by the purity of that delicious creation, more than attracted by the erudition which he must have respected, and the diction which he could not but admire:-- "The low sweet voice so musical, That with such deep and undefined delight Fills the surrender'd soul." It would argue a great decline in the moral feeling of our country, and a most adulterated literary taste, if such works as "Vathek" could be generally admired. * * * * * SCRAPS, by John Collins McCabe. Richmond: J. C. Walker. 1835. This little volume from the Richmond press, consists of various poems and half a dozen tales and legends in prose. The pieces, though of unequal merit, are upon the whole decidedly creditable to the author; who is not only a young man, but as we are informed, has been denied the advantages of a liberal education. His productions are vastly superior to those of many a college dunce, upon whose vacant cranium the heritage of wealth has been expended; and their author holds a much higher grade in the scale of intellect than many of that snarling tribe, who can discern neither talent nor genius, unless allied with some ideal advantage or accidental distinction. We nevertheless hope that Mr. McCabe will continue to look ahead, and contemplate the highest standards of excellence in composition. The most acute observation of men and things, or the most delicate perception of poetical imagery, will avail but little without profound mental labor, and the assiduous cultivation of taste. We select the following as a favorable specimen of his poetry. LINES On hearing the song "Sweet Home," and reflections during the same. O breathe again, that touching strain Which comes like winds o'er waters stealing; Its fall, its swell, like vesper bell, Its full rich notes in rapture pealing, Bids the lone heart, rejoice again In music's all subduing strain.