The present estimate of Willis as a literary man is so slight that it seems almost like impaling a butterfly to apply critical tests to his writings.  Professor Beers has nevertheless made it a profitable and interesting study to follow him through his career, which was, upon the whole, singularly fortunate.  Few authors have possessed so happy a knack of making the present moment both enjoyable and profitable.  His personal endowments were all in his favor, and no sooner was he launched in Europe than he gained a great social success.  England, in particular, opened some of its pleasantest circles to him.  Not only did Lady Blessington take him up, but he became a favorite with many of the most lofty and exclusive members of the aristocracy.  Never was opportunity more auspicious, for Willis was a born worshipper of refinements and luxuries.  He had starved in America for beauty and color, and dear to him were all these adjuncts of a highly-civilized life.  It was his mission to reproduce for Americans lively impressions in letters to newspapers at home, and in stories and sketches, in which he drew freely not only upon his own experiences, but upon all the hints and suggestions he could pick up.  His industry and ingenious expedients were well rewarded:  in fact, one is a little surprised to find that in 1842 he was writing four articles monthly for four magazines, and receiving one hundred dollars for each, which makes a sum total of almost five thousand a year.  He was, besides, handsomely paid for his books both in England and at home, and had generally on hand some writing for illustrated volumes of travel, so that for many years he may easily be said to have made seven or eight thousand a year.

No greater contrast to Willis—­the man of the world, who knew how to turn every habit, talent, and instinct to account—­could be found than poor Poe, all whose opportunities were wasted, spoiled, or flung away.  It is the most difficult thing in the world to arrive at anything like a complete idea of the identity of so fantastic a man as the author of the “Raven.”  The faults, inconsistencies, and contradictions of his character perplex and dismay one the more closely one looks into his letters and the minor incidents of his career.  Mr. Woodbury has, however, acquitted himself well in this difficult task, and has in many cases separated truth from long-accepted fiction and given us a clear picture of what has hitherto been blurred and distorted by unfaithful friends and foes.  The story is a most hopeless and pitiful one, its gloom brightened and its bitterness sweetened by but few of the consolations which belong to average human lives.  The causes of this are apparent enough:  they were constituents of Poe’s brain and heart; but for him to have been otherwise organized would have been for his unique work to have had no existence.

Recent Fiction.

“Troubled Waters:  A Problem of To-Day.”  By Beverley Ellison Warner.  Philadelphia:  J.B.  Lippincott Company.