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ranks beyond all its contemporaries for the soundness of its views, and the certainty and fulness of its statements. The rest of the books of travels or notes of stunted observation might be dismissed, without any great loss of enjoyment, as the magicians on the stage sometimes dismiss their imps, by a significant wave of the rod, and an ominous darkling of the features. But we must, in courtesy, venture a little into particulars. Mrs. Trollope's "Paris and the Parisians," a book like a flamingo blazing upon us as if it would set us on fire, full of a false brilliancy, affected, and impudent in proportion: Mr. Power's "Recollections of America," a very pleasant, superficial, and descriptive book, with hardly any real life in it: Cooper's "Excursions in Switzerland," quite unworthy of his name, and little better than a series of exhausted landscapes and worn-out ruminations: Mr. Willis's "Inklings of Adventure," all vanity and gossip: Mr. M'Gregor's "Note Book," light, trivial, and common-place, but enlivened by a very agreeable tone of individuality: Lieutenant Slidell's “American in England," which may be useful to anybody who is deficient in a knowledge of such facts as that the streets of London are lighted with gas, and that English hotels are remarkably comfortable, but monstrously expensive: the "Spain Revisited," by the same author, is something better, the mere externals having been worn out in the first visit, and soberer matters forming the contents of the second: Mr. Rankin's "White Man's Grave," a veritable attempt to prove that Sierra Leone is a most salubrious spot; perhaps one of the most incomprehensible statements on record, except that of the Blind Traveller, who assures us in his voyage of circumnavigation, that he actually went to Sierra Leone for the benefit of his health! Madrid in 1835, exhibiting a variety of details concerning the social life of the Spaniards, but written in a very loose way, and betraying a spirit of book-making: "Greece," by Sir Granville Temple, just the sort of book that might be anticipated from a gentleman travelling at his ease, and going back, at his ease also, upon his classical recollections: "Baptists in America," a work dedicated chiefly to an account of a mission that had for its object a union between the English and American Baptists, and explaining the particulars of a schism on the Slave question: "A Saunter in Belgium," traversing ground as familiar as

Regent Street: "The Continent in 1835," by Professor Hoppus, fragmentary, desultory and valueless, except for scraps of opinion on religious subjects: "A Summer in Spain," a very light affair: and "Evenings Abroad," written in a poetical spirit, by a Lady. From these average and indifferent publications, must be exempted Mr. King's very clever and picturesque "Account of Captain Back's Expedition to the Arctic Ocean," to which expedition he was surgeon and naturalist. This is one of the most satisfactory works of the kind we have ever read. But, perhaps, the most useful book, after all, connected with the subject of travels, which the year produced, is the "Hand Book for the Continent," the fullest, most correct, most explanatory, and most tasteful guide-book extant.

A variety of works that belong to no distinct class, but that may be safely indicated in the aggregate by the irresponsible designation of the Miscellaneous, found their way into print during the year; how much farther they got, must be determined by a journey to the Moon. For example, there was Mr. Bulwer's "Monarchy of the Middle Classes," a book that takes great pains to go round and round an obvious truth that might be exemplified and established in a single page of plain reason; "The Tamar and Tavy," by Mrs. Bray, a description of the scenery and antiquities of the neighbourhood where she lives, with a very wife-like account of her husband ; "Random Recollections of the House of Lords," and "The Great Metropolis,” both written by a Mr. Grant, a reporter, full of the most unaccountable mistakes, feeble in style, and distinguished by compound fractures of truth and the English language; "The Court and Camp of Don Carlos," by Mr. Honan, a strong partisan view of the war in Spain; "The Correspondence of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu," edited by Lord Wharncliffe, but throwing scarcely any new light upon the biography or character of her Ladyship; and two or three Confessions of the Lives of Ministers, both High Church and Dissenting, produced by the discussions on the Church question and the Voluntary principle. Throughout the whole of these there is not a single book of pure literature. The only work that will carry the reader out of the turmoil of the world is that satirical, philosophical "Journey to the Moon," to which we have alluded. It is evidently written by one

whose mind teems with the lore and the impressions of other times. Our rapid glance, condensed as it is, affords sufficient justification of a doubt whether our increase in quantity has brought with it equivalent advantages of a substantial kind. We suspect that three or four books of the reign of the first George would weigh down the whole of our miscellaneous gathering for the year.

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In a period so replete with publications, we look for works which relate to literary history; for it is a natural inference that an age which patronises books so largely should manifest a proportionate curiosity to acquire some information about authors. We are not so rich, however, in this respect as might be anticipated. The Memoirs of Mirabeau, of Don Manuel de Godoy, of Talleyrand (translations), of Sir William Temple, of Shaftesbury, Davy, Mrs. Hemans, and Lucien Buonaparte, are the principal biographies of the year. Amongst the minor, Dr. Dibdin's Re.. miniscences" and "Sir Nathaniel Wraxall's Memoirs" are entitled to be remembered, although they are more of a gossiping than a solid character. In "Lardner's Cyclopædia," some biographies of no great merit have appeared: those of Alfred, St. Columba, and John Heywood, are the most striking. The "Lives of Strafford and Eliot," by Mr. Forster, are too much overspread by the temperament of the writer to take a permanent hold on attention. Mr. Benson Hill's "Reminiscences" is the only repertory of mere personal anecdote and broad fun in the collection.

But the region of Poetry is the least successfully occupied of all. The few brief snatches of verse that have appeared accomplish no higher destiny than that of filling a niche in the newspapers of the day, and being dismissed for ever to the shades. Gleams of a good spirit and regenerated power break upon us now and then, but there is no sustained enthusiasm, no vigour, no originality. The predominant characteristic of these pieces is grace of expression, which, for verse of a fugitive description, is admitted, by good-natured convention, as an acceptable substitute for loftier attributes. Indeed the public are so little accustomed to see the dead level of modern poetry disturbed by a high order of genius, that even criticism itself has fallen into a habit of being content with mediocrity, because, we suppose, nothing better can be

found. It has long been a question of some difficulty with people who take a pleasure in speculating upon causes and effects in productions of the imagination, whether the Annuals have been serviceable or injurious to the interests of true taste and the cultivation of literature. Putting aside the general question, which would tempt us considerably out of our way, we think that there can be no hesitation in deciding the point in so far as poetry is concerned. The kind of verse which is demanded by the Annuals, and which alone would be adapted to their pages, must, of necessity, be brief and obvious, and dedicated to subjects of a temporary nature. The chief requisites for such verse are elegance and sweetness, brilliant fancy, and a sort of picturesque use of words, incommunicable in description; requisites that lie on the surface, and that in themselves evince little more than a certain degree of tact in the choice of materials, and skill in their treatment. The extensive circulation of the Annuals, which not only afforded a ready vent for this agreeable trifling, but encouraged its production beyond all former precedent, may be said to have given a transient popularity to a species of poetry, which, however felicitous it might appear in private circles, ought never to have been admitted to that universal influence which may be said to give its impress to the age. To its continuous issue in the Annuals this result may be attributed; and, to take the past year as an exemplar, the effects have been as general as they have been decisive. Throughout the whole twelve months we cannot recal a single poem that is likely to be remembered in twelve months hence; nor can we imagine by what process the majority of them obtained, an audience, if, indeed, they were read beyond the immediate coterie of friends. "Tales in Verse," by Mary Howitt, is a sweet, moral volume with very slight pretensions in the way of poetry; "The Althorp Picture Gallery," by a Lady, and "Hella," by Mrs. George Lenox Conyngham, betray desire without power; "Geoffrey Rudel, or the Pilgrim of Love," by John Graham, contains some passages of great beauty, but it is exceedingly unequal; "The Schoolboy," by Thomas Maude, is a work exhibiting natural feelings thrown into very unaffected verse; "The Birth-day," by Caroline Bowles, a very charming and inartificial production; and "The Vale of Lanherne," by Henry

Sewell Stokes, more ambitious than the rest, is written in the Spenserian stanza with remarkable purity, and developes a truth of sentiment, and unlaboured felicity of style, that is very rare in these days. But beyond these what is there left? The names of poems-inscriptions of what has been, hanging up like the banners of buried knights over their vacant stalls. We will give the names of a few of them :—

"The Polish Struggle;" by M. G. Kennedy. "Christianity;" by the late William Burt, Esq. "Songs of Granada and the Alhambra;" by Lydia B. Smith.

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Do any of our readers recollect any of these pieces? or, recollecting them, have they carried away a single stanza to be treasured up as words of price? There are some amongst these poems not wanting in prettiness, sprightliness, and dexterity of diction; but where is the exquisite and bounding versification, the deep current of thought, the rich imagination, the outpouring of the heart, the fertility of invention, the breadth, freedom, and energy of the creating mind? We know it is quite as easy to say, in the figurative language of " Boxiana," that they are no where," as to say, as it is often said by the critics, that they are profusely scattered every where." But, of a truth, these productions cannot shuffle off the mortal coil of dulness and imitation so easily as they can be sentenced to oblivion or immortality by their commentators, according to the motives which prompt the criticism. When the friendly and lenient, but, nevertheless, very corrupt arbitrator between the public and the poet pronounces a poem to be of the highest order of excellence, it would put him to his wits' end to be asked to point out the excellence.

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You may

"call spirits from the vasty deep," but will they come when you call?

Turning from this almost barren retrospect, we enter a pleasanter and better cultivated field-that of Prose Fiction. Here contemporary talent has been industriously employed, transcending, upon the whole, at least in variety, any former era in our literature. It is not to be contended that any single writer now existing is comVOL. X.-NO. I.—JANUARY 1837.

parable with Fielding, Richardson, Defoe, Smollett, or Goldsmith: but they were solitary luminaries, shining at distant intervals, and deriving increased depth of lustre

from the darkness that surrounded them. But unquestionably a greater quantity of mind, a wider development of modes of thinking, and a more extensive observation of society in its various grades, have been brought to bear upon the department of Prose Fiction within the last few years than during the most brilliant periods of English literature. It is a poor species of critical affectation, that denies a fact so apparent even upon cursory examination. What are the English novels of past times that have descended to us? Defoe's? Who has read them? Is there amongst the reading and inquiring section of the public, not to speak of the multitude who take everything upon hearsay and by guess-work, one in every five hundred who has read the harrowing story of Roxalana? We conjecture not. What novel can be named earlier than "Tom Jones," or "The Vicar of Wakefield," with which the public are familiar, or in the slightest degree acquainted? Not one. We know that Horace Walpole's "Castle of Otranto,” was the first English Romance. The date is so recent, that it may almost be said to belong to the last generation. Yet it is a current cant in criticism, to refer the innocent reader, with a mysterious air of authority, but with great vagueness of reference, to some time or times in our annals when Fiction of this kind flourished in a degree of perfection that shames the degeneracy of our living novelists. The two grand errors of superficial criticism would appear to consist in elevating the intellectual labours of our predecessors to the total prejudice of contemporary merit, and in blindly extolling, against the very grain of reason and truth, the productions of our own age above those of any other. It is plain that both systems of procedure must be wrong to a certain extent; and that there must be some points in which the comparison will tell in favour of one side, as there are undeniably other points on which judgment will take the contrary direction. English Fiction, such as it is now before us, teeming with fresh creations, and reflecting with more or less fidelity the shifting conventions of artificial life, and the passions of man, is, in fact, of modern growth. It requires no comparison with the past. It cannot be employed

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as a foil to set off the genuine brilliant, nor can it be enhanced by any demonstration of its superiority over our preceding literature. Whatever be its influence for good or for evil, it belongs to our own times having no precursor, except, indeed, the faded tinsel of such writers as Maria Regina Roche, (who, we are happy to say, par parenthèse, has survived her own Childrenof the Abbey) Charlotte Smith, and Anne of Swansea. The last-mentioned lady, we believe, still lives. Honoured be the blood of the Kembles which courses in her veins! We will not venture to speculate upon the number of works of fiction that were published within the last year; but we know we should be under the calculation if we estimated them at seventy. In that estimate we include no other kind of fiction than novels, or works that belong by the manner of treatment to that class. Amongst the authors of these publications are some of our most popular writers; but there are a few who have been drawn out in these fictions for the first time, and who promise to contribute with success hereafter to the difficult department of literature in which they have chosen to appear. One of the most memorable works of the year is Mr. Washington Irving's Astoria," which could not properly be considered under this head, were it not that the subject is bathed in such an atmosphere of romance, that although it is from first to last a narrative of actual occurrences, it has the air, the spirit, and the relief of fiction. It contains the history of a commercial enterprise, undertaken by a fur merchant, to establish a settlement at the mouth of the Columbia river, on the western coast of North America. The settlement was at first called Astoria, in honour of the founder, but, having since fallen into the hands of the British, it is now known by the name of Fort George. The picturesque descriptions of scenery, the exciting nature of the adventures, the perils of the people who engaged in them, and the succession of dramatic incidents that supply the materials of these volumes, place them at once amongst the most interesting publications of the kind we pos

sess.

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phatically designated" a love story," by Mr. D'Israeli the younger, is of a different character. Written with that affectation of pomp in which Mr. D'Israeli delights, and with that mixture of real ability and supercilious pretension which spoil each other in all his works, it is distinguished by some traits of unquestionable power, and by just so much absurdity as is sufficient to make the reader mourn over the waste of the author's capabilities. The moral of the story is, that "first love" is the only true and abiding passion of the heart; and the way in which it is proved affords a very satisfactory development of the weakness of the proposition, since the persons by whom it is tested are by no means as clear in their consciences, or as upright in their conduct, as they ought to be; and are the most improper description of persons that could be selected for the practical illustration of so fine a poetical theory. But "when Sir Oracle speaks-let no dog bark!" Mr. D'Israeli's researches into human nature sometimes lead him to strange conclusions: and it is not a little remarkable, that nearly about the same time when he was endeavouring to establish the immutability of first impressions, Lady Blessington, who ought to know something about the matter, was publishing a book in which she seeks to show that the impressions of love are as rapidly effaced as they are received. In her "Confessions of an Elderly Gentleman," she describes a very susceptible individual, who runs the gauntlet through no less than six successive attachments, flying with equal ardour (we beg of our gentle readers to shut their eyes at this passage) from the spinster to the wife, from the wife to the widow, and from the mother to the daughter! This incongruous progress of the master-passion is painted in such a tone of simplicity by her Ladyship, that one is really compelled to suppose that it was actually copied from the life, or that, at all events, it exhibits different features caught from the experiences of different individuals, and concentrated upon a single head. The contradiction between these theories does not, however, involve any contradiction in reference to human nature, which is varied by even a greater multitude of contrasts than may be supposed to exist in that long interval of which Lady Blessington and Mr. D'Israeli form the extremities. But it is curious that they should both assume the possibility

The peculiar and graceful talents of Mr. Washington Irving were never more pleasurably employed; even in the gorgeous halls of the "Alhambra," he is not more attractive, than in the vast prairies, jungles, and forests of the far west.

The novel of "Henrietta Temple,” em

of dispatching so intricate a problem by Howard, cast in the very mould of Captain such summary processes.

Two very agreeable works, "Wood Leighton," by Mary Howitt, and "Löwenstein," by Miss Roberts, take us out of the track of fashionable life: the one introducing us, a little too much after the manner of Miss Mitford by the way, to a rural village with its masquerade of characters; and the other inducting us into a forest settlement, where pastoral and simple people follow the habits of primitive life, after having been wearied by the false parade, hypocrisy, and selfishness of society. These books are feeble, but pretty, picturesque, and well-intentioned. To this division, a part of a work called "Tales of the Woods and Fields," may be added. This publication is by the author of "The Two Old Men's Tales"- —a memorable and powerful book, which raised expectation so highly, that it is hardly surprising the public should have been disappointed by the stories which followed it, and which are in no single particular equal to their predecessors. A charming collection of tales, called "The Gossip's Week," full of beauty of expression, matured thought, and deep feeling, ought to outlive half the books of its kind of its own or any former day. We cannot say so much for the stories and sketches collected from the Magazines and Annuals in which they were originally published by Mr. James, and re-issued under the title of "The Desultory Man." The stories are desultory enough, and the man who runs through them like a thread, is as commonplace a person as might be selected by a young lady to thread her beads. "A Day in the Woods," by Miller, the poetical basket-maker, brought to light (we believe) by Mr. Southey, who is a fancier of that class of individuals ridiculously called "uneducated poets," is a sorry re-union of scraps of little value except to the owner.

Novels of the sea have increased in number, and are rapidly aspiring to a permanent place in our literary annals. In the last year, Captain Marryatt produced the stories of "The Pirate and Two Cutters," splendidly illustrated, and given to the world in a shape of marvellous costliness; "Japhet in search of a Father," which, although not exactly a naval story, is nevertheless tinged with naval life; and "Mr. Midshipman Easy," certainly one of the cleverest of its author's works. In addition to these, we have had "Rattlin the Reefer," by Mr.

Marryatt's mind; "Ben Brace,” an overdrawn and coarse specimen of nautical existence, by Captain Chamier; and "The Cruise of the Midge," imputed, we suspect erroneously, to Professor Wilson, and reprinted from Blackwood's Magazine.

Romances are said to be out of fashion : but facts are stubborn things. Romances are published constantly, notwithstanding the alleged indifference of the reading world towards such inventions. But it must be observed, that the romances of our time are not vehicles of the impossible; that they do not deal in magic; and that they neither call up ghosts from the grave, nor invest humanity with supernatural powers. They claim to be considered as romances merely by the extravagance of the colouring, the unexpectedness of the situations, the mystery that hangs like a cloud over the action, and the impassioned and tragical tone of the persona who move through them. The historical romances-or, in plainer language, the imitations of Scott's novels-which have latterly appeared, may be fairly embraced in this description; for however they bear a semblance to truth, and include events that really took place, and people who actually lived, they are written in such a vein of exaggeration, that they cannot escape from the generic title. The best of these that we have seen is "Edith of Glammis :" it is a reflection, true to the syllable, of Walter Scott, and is so clever, that it might be imposed upon half the town as the offspring of our northern Ariosto.

"Lord Roldan," by Allan Cunningham, belongs to the same genus, but it is so overrun with that wild-fire of the imagination, unchecked by true taste, which is displayed in all his prose fiction, that it is very unlikely to be recalled from its present slumbers. "The Magician," by Leitch Ritchie, is another, replete with dramatic tableaux, bold, picturesque, and exciting. But it is a mere romance after all. "The Mascarenhas," an Indian romance, a crowded scene, perplexing from the multitude of its characters, and the confusion of its action: "Edrick the Saxon," by Mr. Bird, a tale of the eleventh century, which puts forward no other pretensions than the bustling character of the times, the remoteness of the events, and the strangeness of the costume: "Berkeley Castle," which may be placed any where, and may be called a romance, a novel, or a gallery of family

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