he surest specifics in the
case is, the specific of working just a little more,--of working for
the work's sake, whether at poem or history, or in the prosecution of
some science, or in some antiquarian pursuit. There is an exquisite
passage in one of the essays of Washington Irving, in which he
compares the great authors--Shakespeare, for instance--who seem
proof against the mutability of language, to 'gigantic trees, that we
see sometimes on the banks of a stream, which, by their vast and deep
roots, penetrating through the mere surface, and laying hold on
the very foundations of the earth, preserve the soil around them from
being swept away by the ever-flowing current, and hold up many a
neighbouring plant to perpetuity.' And such is the service rendered by
some pervading pursuit of an intellectual character, prosecuted for
its own sake, to the intellect of the journalist. It is the
necessity imposed upon him of taking up subject after subject in the
desultory, disconnected form in which they chance to arise, and
then, after throwing together a few hastily collected thoughts upon
each, of dismissing them from his mind, that induces first a habit
of superficiality, and finally leaves him exhausted; and the
counteractive course open to him is just to take up some subject
on which the thinking of to-day may assist him in the thinking of
to-morrow, and on which he may be as well informed and profound as
his native capacity permits. All our really superior newspaper
editors have pursued this course--more, however, we are disposed to
think, from the bent of their nature than from the necessities of
their profession; and the poetical volume of Mr. Smibert shows
that he too has his engrossing pursuit. We recommend his little work
to our readers, as one in which they will find much to interest and
amuse. We have left ourselves little room for quotation; but the
following stanzas, striking, both from their beauty and from the
curious fact which they embody, may be regarded as no unfair specimen
of the whole:--

THE VOICE OF WOE.

'The language of passion, and more peculiarly that of grief,
is ever nearly the same.'

An Indian chief went forth to fight,
And bravely met the foe:
His eye was keen--his step was light--
His arm was unsurpassed in might;
But on him fell the gloom of night--
An arrow laid him low.
His widow sang with simple tongue,
When none could