the offence against the plainest laws of morality and truth;' and that he was 'full of talents, worldly prudence, management, false principles, insincerity, mystification and moral fraud.'

It is always in bad taste for an author to set about that Sir Walter Scott was often influenced by 'motives decrying the character and productions of a fellow- that are never admitted by the upright, and never author, laboring in the same field of literature as him- avowed by the sensitive;' that, 'in a moral sense, he self. Especially where a writer has acquired a brilliant owed his extraordinary exaltation to some of the most reputation; when his name " has gone out into all the barefaced violations of the laws of rectitude, that ever earth," has been embalmed in perpetual remembrance; | distinguished the charlatanism of literature;' that his and when, after being the long acknowledged leader of name should be involved in obloquy, in consequence of an illustrious host, he has departed in the freshness of his glory, it is unseemly, for one who has humbly rivalled, while appearing but to follow him, to seek, as if determined that death should not have anticipated the chance of dishonor, to cast reproach upon his memory, and desecrate his fame. We cannot help suspecting that such an one is moved by feelings of envy, to whatever motives he may pretend. But there is still stronger ground for suspicion of unworthy motive in the case of Mr. Cooper. He has before manifested a malevolent spirit against Scott, nurtured by wounded pride; and, still more, is well known to have long felt a gnawing grudge against Mr. Lockhart, the author of Scott's memoirs, and editor of the London Quarterly Review, another object of his particular hatred. In "Home as Found" he has devoted page upon page to the demonstration of these latter kindly traits of disposition. And, besides, and more than all this, when we turn from these grounds of presumption, to the examination of the article in question itself—an article, be it remembered, written by Mr. Cooper under the galling consciousness of his own literary wane-we find internal evidence, palpable and strong, of malice, disguised but awkwardly under the pretence of a sacred regard to truth, and "those old and venerable principles which have been transmitted to us from God himself."

We do not intend to attempt here any defence of Mr. Lockhart indeed we were never impressed with a high idea of his character for honesty and fairness, at least considering him as a critic. Nor yet do we purpose any systematic apology for Sir Walter Scott, our chief aim being to expose Mr. Cooper's motives and spirit in writing this review. But we may say in regard to the former individual, that the charge of his being a very improper person for the task of biographer to his father-in-law, is hardly sustained by the proof, that he has admitted into his work some things derogatory from the character of Scott, and the unfair inference drawn from this fact, that "he has been totally unconscious himself of the conclusions to which all rightthinking men must arrive" in regard to these admissions. Our limits forbid us to go into a full examination of the review under notice, which extends through near twenty closely printed pages: a very general discussion of some of its most important topics must suffice. We do not pretend to say that it contains no truth. It certainly does; but truth so distorted by ill-feeling, and mixed up with so large a proportion of artful or heedless misrepresentations, as to be more likely to mislead than even falsehood itself. The author sets out with the extraordinary and sweeping assertions, which he makes in the sacred name of "truth and human rights," that Sir Walter Scott, whom all the world, before Mr. Cooper made these grand discoveries, had believed to be, in a moral point of view, though by no means perfect, or without stain, a rather good sort of man, one whose faults were owing more to the state of society in which he lived, than to any uncommon badness of heart;

Let us first compare these accusations, which, in the beginning, the writer promises to make good, with the ultimate conclusions at which he arrives, after the exhibition of all his evidence, and the endeavor to palm off upon his readers, numerous hints, and conjectures, and remote presumptions, and inferences, for proof. In summing up the matter, he says, "The personal character of Scott, as is only too often the case, strikes us as having been a union of good and bad qualities." 'As is only too often the case! Pray, is it ever not the case? Can Mr. Cooper's motto, "Thou art perfect," be applied, else than in irony, to any human being? Again, he remarks, "There are no apparent reasons to doubt Scott's courage, his liberality, his philanthropy, in the ordinary meaning of the term, his probity in every day transactions, or his neighborly propensities; while there is no proof, but phrases, to show that he possessed either quality in an unusual degree. * * On the other hand, it is not easy to suppose, after the proof that has been here furnished, and much more that might be adduced, had we room, that Scott was a man of nice moral sensibilities; of lively perceptions of right and wrong, except as right and wrong are subjected to the comments of the world; of even common sincerity; of a proper degree of frankness; of true simplicity of character; of a just manliness in matters touching his own interests; or of due independence of thought, or conduct." The result of this comparison we need not formally state.

*

Two capital errors are visible throughout the review in hand, and it is better, in the outset, to place them in their proper light. First, Mr. Cooper appears to imagine that, if any stain upon Scott's moral character can be detected, it must appear doubly dark on account of his literary fame. Literary men, he seems to think-but how his opinion has been formed, the reader will be at a loss to divine-are usually so much superior to others, in point of moral worth and probity, that, like angels, if they slip, they must fall into the deepest hell of infamy. Perhaps the reader will feel the same difficulty that we do, in understanding why a literary man is more culpable than any other of equally good moral training, both having committed the same offence. The second mistake into which he falls is, that of making no allowance for the state of society in which Scott lived, but considering virtue and vice, probity and dishonesty, as abstract things. The reader will not understand us to mean, that there are not any fixed and universal principles of moral conduct; that there are no acts which would be morally wrong under all circumstances, or in any state of society. We contend only, that with changes in external relations, is often varied the guilt incurred in the commission of an act, in itself immoral; and that acts, under some circum

stances immoral, become, under others, almost indiffe- By far the most reprehensible action, on which Mr. rent, or even praiseworthy. No one will pretend that Cooper comments, was Scott's reviewing himself. This theft, in a Spartan youth, was as criminal as it is under species of reviewing is said to be, at present, very comour institutions; or, to take a more familiar illustration, mon in Great Britain. If so, Scott's example has, proand one more apt to the subject in hand, no one will bably, done mischief; for we doubt whether the pracpretend, that to conclude a letter to a man whom the tice was as common, at the time when he committed writer despises, or with whom he is at enmity, with the sin. As some extenuation, however, of this and the customary words of respect, "yours, &c.," or "your his other Quarterly offences, the reader should rememobedient servant," is as reprehensible, if reprehensible ber the very lax notions prevalent among British liteat all, as saying "not at home" to an unwelcome visit-rati, in regard to periodical criticism. And even if all or, in a community where, from custom, this falsehood that Mr. Cooper charges, in this respect, were made has acquired a sort of technical meaning, different from good, we do not think it would be sufficient to destroy its real one; or that the latter is as criminal as any utterly Sir Walter's general character for probity, much other equally inoffensive lie. But it would seem useless less to prove all the other specific accusations which he to seek for further illustration of this point: Mr. Cooper prefers. himself seems to take a proper view of it, though he does not give Scott's character the benefit of that view.

The practice which Scott recommends to his brother Thomas, in regard to letters of introduction, is too severely criticised by the reviewer, though we agree with him in considering it an inexcusable deceit. So great, however, is the difficulty in regard to letters of introduc tion in a country, where such an artificial state of society, as that of England, exists, that there may be a much more plausible apology for a practice of this kind, than merely the fear of losing a supporter."

The chief, and almost the only well supported charges, which the reviewer brings against Sir Walter, are founded on his connection with the London Quarterly Review: and having, as he supposes, fixed a deep stain of guilt upon his character, by proofs in regard to this point, whenever he fails of establishing any other crime, by direct evidence, he has only to call to mind Scott's dishonesty as a reviewer, to feel perfectly satisfied, that As we before remarked, our main purpose is merely he might have been, and, therefore, certainly was guilty to place, in a true light, the spirit and feelings which of such other sin. We do not pretend to justify Scott's have actuated Mr. Cooper, in the preparation of this conduct, either as an original projector of the Quarterly review, not to defend the character of Scott. We shall Review, or subsequently as a contributor to its pages not, therefore, enter into an examination of all the rewhen established, or as a self-reviewer. We cannot maining allegations, most of which are founded on mere well doubt that he was influenced by some unworthy conjecture, or, if admitted, show no dishonesty or want motives, in advocating and assisting in its establish- of virtue; but, before concluding, shall advert to a few ment, and that he advised a species of deception in its of them. We are at a loss to see any inconsistency in commencement; yet Mr. Cooper makes much more out Scott's approving of an aristocracy, and advocating its of a few passages of a letter on this subject, than he claims, while he despised many of the individuals of can do with any fairness. The only point which they which it was composed, for their vices; or, in his putting prove is, that Scott counselled Gifford, not to give his a low estimate on the personal character of George IV., publication a professed political character at the outset, and yet being ready to serve him, as his sovereign, “by but to introduce politics afterwards, under cover of an word, and pen, and sword," as a loyal British subject, established literary reputation. Such a concealment of and to ask favors, which he alone, as king, could bethe real object of the review was certainly a deceit, but stow. What a monstrous assumption against the novela deceit, under all the circumstances, so slightly objec-ist's character, is that grounded on Viscount Melville's tionable, so little different from proper worldly prudence, being his patron, or "the architect of his little fortune !" that Mr. Cooper saw that something more must be tor-Because that noble "has the reputation of having emtured out of the letter, in order to accumulate upon that ployed more corruption in discharging his trust, than offence, deeper marks of dishonesty. But, to accom- any man of modern times," and because Scott says that plish his purpose, he is driven, in the end, to the pal- his patronage was not due to his love of literature, but pable sophisms, that Scott must have been insincere in to "circumstances of personal regard merely," Mr. his approval of high Tory principles, because he did not Cooper takes for granted that Scott was bought by think all of the royal family and nobility, immaculate; lord Melville, and considers his explanation of the matand that this insincerity proves his criminal intent, inter, an admission "confirmatory of an accusation of the advocating the establishment of the Quarterly Review, Scottish Whigs, who charge him with having been, in to defend those principles! From other evidence, how-secret, one of the most ruthless political writers of their ever, we believe it may be shown, that Scott probably country!" This alone is sufficient evidence of the wridid consider strict impartiality, in reviewing, rather a ter's malicious spirit. matter of policy than of conscience. All that Mr. Cooper says, in regard to the letter to Ellis, which is without date, is so entirely conjectural, that it is not worthy of a serious remark. Indeed, the evidence that he adduces on that point, resolves itself at last into this assertion that Scott probably did what he is charged with doing, because, after the other disclosures in regard to the Review, he cannot "now come before the world with any pretensions to be superior to suspicions of this nature!"

Here we must conclude: but before bidding Mr. Cooper adieu, must be permitted to say, that though we may have said some things harshly, we have never felt any but kindly feelings towards him personally, so far as we have been able to separate him from his works. None have ever felt more proud of him as an American author, than did we some years back; and still we feel proud of many of his works, as American productions. None would rejoice more heartily than ourselves, at the redemption of his fame-none to do him honor,

VOL. V.-23

Loin de toi fausse politique
Cabale, interêt, faction,
Sois fort de la force publique,
Sois jaloux de ton Union.

Laisse à l'Europe corrompue,
L'art des êtres insidieux;
La vertu n'est bien defendue,
Que par des moyens vertueux.
L'ambition insatiable

Veut vaincre, envahir, enchainer;
Toi peuple ne sois redoutable
Qu'a ceux qui voudront t'opprimer.

Tu recouvras par ton courage
L'inestimable liberté,

Fais en toujours un noble usage,
Sois l'honneur de l'humanité.

Enflamme nous par tes exemples-
Suffiroit-il de t'admirer?
L'univers te devroit des temples-
S'il pouvoit un jour l'imiter!
Americains! ce foible hommage,
Fut dicté par le sentiment,
Chez-vous sans les glaces de l'age
J'irais en faire le serment!

becile, without the capacity or the inclination for active
exertion. I question, whether the confessions of an
opium-eater exhibit more striking evidences of the per-
nicious influence of that stimulating drug on the physi-
cal system, than the experience of an habitual novel
reader can furnish of the injurious effects, produced on
his mental organization by the constant perusal of
works of fiction. By the results of my own experience,
I desire to warn my young cotemporaries of the danger
of yielding too much to the fascination of these seduc-
tive works. In this age, when the press groans under
the multitude of these productions, when every depart-
ment of literature is stuffed and spiced with the effu-
sions of fancy, that it may cater to the prevailing taste,
it might be a profitable speculation to inquire, whether
we are not feeding the imagination at the expense of
the other faculties,-whether this stimulating regimen
has not produced a kind of intellectual dyspepsia, whose
discased appetite relishes only the exaggerations of
fable, while it rejects and loathes the wholesome nour-
ishment supplied by works of practical usefulness.
But let me not be understood as advising entire absti-
nence from this kind of reading, though that is the
favorite panacea
in all those gratifications which have
a proneness to excess; a proclivity proper to all plea-
surable emotions. Religion and philosophy have not
disdained to invoke the aid of fiction, and to employ its
allurements in the dissemination of truth; and it must
be confessed, that many of our cotemporary novels
evince talents of a high order, taste, imagination, fer-
tility of invention, and a deep knowledge of human

CONFESSIONS OF A NOVEL READER. nature. Such works, if read with a critical eye, and as

a relaxation from severer studies, must conduce to the cultivation of the taste, and to the formation of sober views of life. Yet I question, whether even these are not read by most people, rather for the interest of the narrative, than for the beauty of style, the ingenuity of plot, or the lessons of moral wisdom, which they exhibit. But I have been insensibly led from my purpose by this disquisition. I hate long preambles, and have always thought the introductions, prefixed by Scott to his novels, the greatest blemishes in those delightful fictions. I like a writer or speaker who enters at once in medias res without the formality of an exordium.

Disappointed in my prospects, dissatisfied with my self, and soured with the world, I have resolved, at the age of sixty-five, to record the history, not so much of my adventures, as of my mind, and to trace, in the errors of my education, the causes of those disasters that have embittered my past life. I cannot hope, at this late period, to repair those errors, or to reform the defects of my mind and character; yet I shall not have lived in vain, if, by recalling the accidents of an idle and unprofitable life, I may reclaim one human being from the indulgence of that fatal propensity, which has reduced me to the condition of a miserable drone, unfit To proceed then with my tale; I was born of respecfor any steady occupation. Philosophy teaches by table parentage, in a part of Virginia not necessary to examples to be shunned, as well as to be imitated. In be mentioned. Neither do I think it essential to the reviewing my career, I have not to reproach myself purposes of my story to impart my name, more espewith any gross vices; but time misspent, talents mis- cially as I have some private reasons for withholding applied, opportunities neglected, have entailed on me that piece of information. This departure from estabthe calamities, if not the guilt, of dissipation. At an lished rules will, doubtless, expose me to the censure of early age I acquired a taste for novel reading, and in- those who are curious in such matters, and who hold it dulged it to such an excess, that my mind was enervated, indispensable, in the construction of a tale, to assign and its relish destroyed for higher and more solid attain the hero a "local habitation and a name." But, as I ments. I feel that I had a capacity for better things; acknowledge no allegiance to their canons of criticism, but, under the ascendancy of this idle habit, it sunk I conceive myself entitled, in revealing the private transinto a fatal lethargy, from which neither shame nor actions of my life, to limit the extent of the disclosure. ambition could awaken it. The drunkard, in the inter- The circumstances of my family, though moderate, were vals of sobriety, feels most keenly the evils of intoxica-sufficient to supply the means of giving me a liberal tion, and, if self love allowed him to be candid, could a tale unfold of disease, of mental and bodily suffering, that would do more for the cause of temperance than all the societies in the world have ever accomplished. The excitement of novel reading is akin to intoxication. When it subsides, it leaves the mind collapsed and im

education. My father, with very limited opportunities, had qualified himself for the practice of the law, and, by his success in that profession, had amassed an honorable independence. He designed to prepare me for the same calling, and hoped, by affording me every facility of improvement, to remove from my path the impedi

contribute to the instruction of children. These authors displayed no deep knowledge of the metaphysics of education, and proceeded upon the hypothesis, that the only aim was to arrest the attention, without regarding the objects to which it should be directed. For this purpose, they relied upon their pictures, and on fictions, that set all nature and probability at defiance. Crude, however, as these works were, and barren of invention, they vanquished my abhorrence of books, and, falling

ments which retarded his own progress in early life. | more probably the desire of profit, has prompted to The imperfect education, which he possessed, had been acquired, for the most part, by his own unaided exertions; and those efforts, the fruit of necessity, had imparted to his mind habits of application and self-reliance, the certain passports to distinction in every pursuit. It is this constant struggle with difficulties, this training as it were in an intellectual gymnasium, this confidence in his own powers derived from the sense of obstacles subdued, that give to the self-taught man a vigor and an energy, seldom displayed by those who have en-in with my original turn for romance, furnished new joyed greater advantages. My father was no exception to this remark; but, conscious how much he had benefitted by his own slight opportunities of education, he resolved that I should want no means of mental cultivation within the reach of his resources. He fondly expected, that with a mind thus stored with information and disciplined by study, I should be fitted for any station to which my ambition might aspire. How far his hopes were verified will be seen in the sequel.

materials for my solitary ruminations. In my holidays, I was often observed with some of these tales, rambling through the fields, or resorting to my favorite retreat. My parents were charmed with this apparent fondness for reading. Little did they think, that, while my eyes seemingly wandered over the pages before me, I was chewing the cud of my own fancy, and conjuring up shadows far more enchanting to my mind, than the meagre incidents which they recorded.

The natural bias of my mind to these visionary contemplations, scarcely suspended by the discipline of school, now returned with renovated vigor. My father

pannels, and all the apparatus of horror and crime. My father, though a man of business and with little leisure for such amusements, had a predilection for books of this description; and, like most ladies of her time, my mother was passionately fond of them. On some occasion, I accidentally glanced at one of these novels. My attention was at once arrested. I devoured it with an eagerness and assiduity, which was thought surprising in a child, and a proof of the precocity of my genius. Such was my anxiety to reach the denoue

I was naturally imaginative. From my earliest childhood I was addicted to that visionary propensity of the mind called castle-building. Though not averse to the usual pastimes of my age, I delighted to with-had in his library many of the old-fashioned novels, draw from my companions, to repose under some tree tales of love-sick damsels, whose fortune or imprudence in a dreamy abstracted state of mind, lulled by the hum involved them in situations, from which no female in of insects and the song of birds, while bright scenes and real life could escape without a cracked reputation, and forms of loveliness, dim and shadowy like the recollec- whose beauty, while it exposed them, on one side, to tions of a by-gone existence, flitted before my imagina- the violence of unbridled desire, on the other, raised tion. I would sometimes remain for hours, entranced them up protectors in some highborn and accomplished in these fantasies, and peopling the surrounding soli- nobleman, ready to sacrifice the dignity of his rank to tudes with beings of my own creation. Near my the ardor of his love. Some, in the style of the Castle father's house meandered a small rivulet, whose banks of Otranto, harrowed the soul with supernatural apwere embowered with copsewood. This was my fa-pearances, with bravoes, banditti, trap-doors, slidingvorite haunt, and there would I linger, listening to the ripple of the water, and watching the small fishes that played under the banks, till the fears of the family recalled me from my seclusion. In that chosen retreat I could ruminate at pleasure, and without interruption, upon the visions with which my fancy was teeming. Seldom could I be seduced from the enjoyment of these fantastic day-dreams even by the amusements so fascinating to the elastic spirit of childhood. I had then no knowledge of books, and shrunk with repugnance from any occupation which might debar me from these deli-ment, that I could scarcely be persuaded to eat or sleep. cious reveries. The idea of going to school, of being The abstraction of Hogarth's newsmonger, whose hat imprisoned for hours in a noisy school room, compelled is unconsciously consumed by the candle, while he is to pore over books which offered nothing to engage my absorbed in the pages of some public journal, was surimagination, was most distasteful to me. Against a passed by mine. To confirm my new-born taste for bondage so irksome, my spirit revolted, and with way. reading, my parents made my uncommon fondness for ward pertinacity, I resisted every effort to instruct my books the constant theme of remark and commendainfant mind. Books and pedagogues became my utter tion. Once formed, they vainly imagined it would renaversion. I acquired the character of an idle, perverse der the acquisition of knowledge easy and delightful; boy, and my parents almost despaired of overcoming not reflecting, that the intoxication of the fancy differs my obstinacy. Still, with a natural partiality, they from the vigorous exercise of the higher faculties of inclung to the belief, that I did not want capacity, and tellect, as much as the sports of childhood from the lathat, if my love of knowledge were once kindled, I bors of regular industry. I read, in succession and would realize their most sanguine hopes. By dint of with increased avidity, every novel in my father's perseverance, I was instructed in the art and mystery library, and all that I could procure elsewhere. When of reading, and, to confirm me in the practise of it, II had exhausted the whole stock, my only resource was was supplied with story books, garnished with cuts, according to the most approved plan of modern education. These works were miserable catchpennies, compiled, rather than composed, by that numerous class of writers, whom benevolence, or the itch of scribbling, or

to read them again, till my memory became a vast storehouse of fiction. My mind was so replete with these fables, that I could not refrain from recounting them, in my childish dialect, to my school-companions and the servants, who regarded me as a second