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A JUDICIAL ANTHOLOGY. II. AMERICAN SPECIMENS. By HENRY A. CHANEY.

THE scientific observer upon a compara tive basis cannot fail to be interested in the conspicuous proof which these speci mens present in demonstration of the theo rem that the inheritance of genius is not a question of hemispheres. If England has her Coleridges, father and son, not only judges but poets, so has the United States her Durfees, filling the same high post in succession and possessed of the same divine gift. As other comparisons are inevitable, it is not out of place to suggest that, on the whole, the American judge seems to be taken more fully into the confidence of his Muse than his English brother. The tributes which Tenterden and Eldon pay to their wives do full credit to their hearts, but otherwise they are rather commonplace; Chief-Justice Chase's melancholy meditations and Gibson's solitary effort show feeling as deep and greater felicity of expression. Hardwick's jolly doggerel is far surpassed by Parsons's letter to his little girl; and as for Durfee's oriole sonnet, is it not fully equal to Thurlow's Harvest Homeland is not Chipman's Ana creontic as faithful to the spirit of the ori ginal as Denman's Horatian ode? Blackstone and Story are both a little humdrum, but both are smooth and clear and easy. In the matter of sacred poetry, however, much the stronger showing is made by the English. The most recent psalmodies are enriched by Lord Chief-Justice Coleridge's hymn. It is doubtless the finest specimen of British verse in this collection, though Bacon's grand para phrase of the Ninetieth Psalm, in which, of course, the thoughts are the Psalmist's, has an almost Shakspearian freshness and vigor. But the best original poem here is found in Chief-Justice Fuller's noble lines on

Grant; how good they are one may judge by placing them side by side with Milton's re sounding sonnet to Cromwell; the last is stately and magnificent enough, but it alto gether lacks the tender pathos with which the Chief-Justice interweaves a persona! tribute fully as superb. This little collection makes no pretence to completeness. All that it contains has been published here and there, and is more or less easily accessible. Much more, prob ably, might have been added. There is nothing here, for instance, of Chief-Justice Bleckley's; but previous numbers of this magazine have contained specimens of his verse.1

WHEN I AM DEAD.

SHOW no vain pomp nor mockery of woe, Let my pale corpse no slow procession lead. For me put on no senseless weeds of show, When I am dead. My tomb let no grand mausoleum tell, Lay not a single stone to mark my bed; I would that none should know my narrow cell, When I am dead. But silent bear me to my last abode. On its cold pillow gently lay my head : For worms my dust; my soul, oh, take it, God, When I am dead. Horace P. Biddle. 1 " Toombs," The Green Няд. vol. i. p. 185: and see vol. vi. pp. 51. 74.