We repeat that we are glad to see this book of Mr. Wilmer's;
first, because it is something new under the sun; secondly, because,
in many respects, it is well executed; and thirdly, because, in the
universal corruption and rigmarole, amid which we gasp for breath,
it is really a pleasant thing to get even one accidental whiff of
the unadulterated air of truth.
"The Quacks of Helicon," as a poem and otherwise, has many
defects, and these we shall have no scruple in pointing out-
although Mr. Wilmer is a personal friend of our own, and we are
happy and proud to say so- but it has also many remarkable merits-
merits which it will be quite useless for those aggrieved by the
satire- quite useless for any clique, or set of cliques, to attempt to
frown down, or to affect not to see, or to feel, or to understand.
Its prevalent blemishes are referable chiefly to the leading sin
of imitation. Had the work been composed professedly in paraphrase
of the whole manner of the sarcastic epistles of the times of Dryden
and Pope, we should have pronounced it the most ingenious and truthful
thing of the kind upon record. So close is the copy that it extends to
the most trivial points- for example, to the old forms of punctuation.
The turns of phraseology, the tricks of rhythm, the arrangement of the
paragraphs, the general conduct of the satire- everything- all- are
Dryden's.
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