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By Root 15826 0

” especially in the points of boldness and vigor. The “Confessions,” however, far surpassed any production of Mr. Neal’s in a certain air of cultivation (if not exactly of scholarship) which pervaded it, as well as in the management of its construction — a particular in which the author of “The Battle of Niagara” invariably fails; there is no precision, no finish, about anything he does — always an excessive force but little of refined art. Mr. N. seems to be deficient in a sense of completeness. He begins well, vigorously, startlingly, and proceeds by fits, quite at random, now prosing, now exciting vivid interest, but his conclusions are sure to be hurried and indistinct, so that the reader perceives a falling off, and closes the book with dissatisfaction. He has done nothing which, as a whole, is even respectable, and “The Confessions” are quite remarkable for their artistic unity and perfection. But in higher regards they are to be commended. I do not think, indeed, that a better book of its kind has been written in America. To be sure, it is not precisely the work to place in the hands of a lady, but its scenes of passion are intensely wrought, its incidents are striking and original, its sentiments audacious and suggestive at least, if not at all times tenable. In a word, it is that rare thing, a fiction of power without rudeness. Its spirit, in general, resembles that of “Miserrimus” and “Martin Faber.”

Partly on account of what most persons would term their licentiousness, partly, also, on account of the prevalent idea that Mr. Neal (who was never very popular with the press) had written them, “The Confessions,” by the newspapers, were most unscrupulously misrepresented and abused. The “Commercial Advertiser” of New York was, it appears, foremost in condemnation, and Mr. Osborn thought proper to avenge his wrongs by the publication ­of a bulky satirical poem, levelled at the critics in general, but more especially at Colonel Stone, the editor of the “Commercial.” This satire (which was published in exquisite style as regards print and paper,) was entitled “The Vision of Rubeta.” Owing to the high price necessarily set upon the book, no great many copies were sold, but the few that got into circulation made quite a hubbub, and with reason, for the satire was not only bitter but personal in the last degree. It was, moreover, very censurably indecent — filthy is, perhaps, the more appropriate word. The press, without exception, or nearly so, condemned it in loud terms, without taking the trouble to investigate its pretensions as a literary work. But as “The Confessions of a Poet “ was one of the best novels of its kind ever written in this country, so “The Vision of Rubeta “ was decidedly the best satire. For its vulgarity and gross personality there is no defence, but its mordacity cannot be gainsaid. In calling it, however, the best American satire, I do not intend any excessive commendation — for it is, in fact, the only satire composed by an American. Trumbull’s clumsy work is nothing at all, and then we have Halleck’s “Croakers,” which is very feeble — but what is there besides? “The Vision” is our best satire, and still a sadly deficient one. It was bold enough and bitter enough, and well constructed and decently versified, but it failed in sarcasm because its malignity was permitted to render itself evident. The author is never very severe because he is never sufficiently cool. We laugh not so much at the objects of his satire as we do at himself for getting into so great a passion. But, perhaps, under no circumstances is wit the forte of Mr. Osborn. He has few equals at downright invective.

The “Vision “ was succeeded by “Arthur Carryl and other Poems,” including an additional canto of the satire, and several happy although not in all cases accurate or comprehensive imitations in English of the Greek and Roman metres. “Arthur Carryl” is a fragment, in the manner of “Don Juan.” I do not think it especially meritorious. It has, however, a truth-telling and discriminative preface, and its notes are well worthy