powers and
wide repute only as "a young Irishman."

But there are many things which Mr. White seems not to know, and he has
but a poor memory for names, and in his despair he writes _anonymous_
against the title of every third poem. We might have expected a
gentleman interested in the poetry of the war to attend the lectures of
Dr. Holmes, who has been reading in New York and elsewhere "The Old
Sergeant," as the production of Mr. Forcythe Willson of Kentucky. By
turning to the index of that volume of the Atlantic from which the
verses were taken, Mr. White could have learned that "Spring at the
Capital" was written by Mrs. Akers; and with quite as little trouble
could have informed himself of the authorship of a half-score of other
poems we might name. We have already noted the defectiveness of the
collection, in which we are told "no conspicuous poem elicited by the
war is omitted"; and we note it again in Mr. White's failure to print
Mr. Bryant's pathetic and beautiful poem, "My Autumn Walk," and in his
choosing from Mr. Aldrich not one of the fine sonnets he has written on
the war, but a _jeu d'esprit_ which in no wise represents him. Indeed,
Mr. White's book seems to have been compiled after the editor had
collected a certain number of clippings from the magazines and
newspapers: if by the blessing of Heaven these had the names of their
authors attached, and happened to be the best things the poets had done,
it was a fortunate circumstance; but if the reverse was the fact, Mr.
White seems to have felt no responsibility in the matter. We are
disposed to hold him to stricter account, and to blame him for
temporarily blocking, with a book and a reputation, the way to a work of
real industry, taste, and accuracy on the poetry of the war. It was our
right that a man whose scholarly fame would carry his volume beyond our
own shores should do his best for our heroic Muse, robing her in all
possible splendor; and it is our wrong that he has chosen instead to
present the poor soul in attire so very indifferently selected from her
limited wardrobe.

_The Story of Kennett._ By BAYARD TAYLOR. New York: G. P. Putnam; Hurd
and Houghton.

In this novel Mr. Taylor has so far surpassed his former efforts in
extended fiction, as to approach the excellence attained in his briefer
stories. He has of course some obvious advantages in recounting "The
Story of Kennett" which were denied him in "Hannah Thurston" and "John
Godfrey's F