Hannah
Moore--from the pure and classic taste of the eloquent Robert Hall--from
the fervid and poetic imagination of James Montgomery--and many an elegant
and beauteous production, communicated by our superior and ingenious
writers. It was deeply interesting to mark the specimens of penmanship
which the various contributors furnished: the bold hand of one--the neat
style of another--the careless and dashing strokes of another--and the
stiff, awkward, and almost illegible writing of another. I was much struck,
also, with the variety of mind which the album exhibited: on one page,
there was the comic strain of Hood; on another, the pure and exquisite
taste of Campbell; on another, the fire and vividness of Scott; on another,
the minute and graphic painting of Crabbe; and on another, the bold,
condensed, and impassioned style, in which Byron so peculiarly excelled.
Now, if all albums could be of this character, their value would be
intrinsic and superior, and they would be permanently interesting, because
to them we could frequently recur with refreshing and peculiar enjoyment. I
regret, however, to say, that the majority of albums are comparatively
valueless: they are written with so much negligence; many of the pieces are
of so light and frivolous a character; there is so much childish and
mawkish sentimentality in numbers of the effusions poured forth; and there
is so great a destitution of solid, original, and striking thought, that,
in my unpretending, yet honest estimation, the majority of albums are worth
comparatively nothing.
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