THIS delightful story, the favorite of the child's library about a century ago, has now fallen into almost entire obscurity, from which we trust a late London republication of the book may revive it. It is a designed and palpable imitation of Robinson Crusoe, the popularity of which led to a swarm of imitations, amongst which the above and the Adventures of Peter Wilkins are by far the most ingenious, and so full of freshness and invention as to deserve to pass for originals.

"The Adventures of the English Hermit" were first published, in chapters, in a weekly newspaper, called the Public Intelligencer, shortly after the appearance of Robinson Crusoe, which in like manner had been printed in a paper with which Defoe was connected. So we see our supposed modern fashion of continuing a work of fiction through successive numbers of a periodical is by no means so original a plan as we had supposed in the hands of Hook, Dickens, Marryatt, and a host of their copyists. Our own impression had led us to believe that Launcelot Greaves, Smollett's least admirable work, was the first English novel that had appeared in the pages of a periodical, but here we have a precedent an hundred years previous. Like Peter Wilkins, and Gaudentio di Lucca, the author of Philip Quarll is unknown. One who signs himself Edward Dorrington, a nom du guerre, we suppose, is the apparent compiler of the book; but we have, now-adays, seen revealed all the arts of publication, and know very well that Editor often means an author who palms off his own writings as the lucubrations of other people. These scanty facts we glean from the preface to the late edition, and they afford all the actual information we have been able to collect on

the subject. Dunlop is entirely silent, in his history of Fiction, as to the very existence of Philip Quarll, though he mentions Peter Wilkins with praise; in which said history he has finished the department of English fiction with comparative indifference and in the briefest manner.

To confess the truth, we have ourselves only a short time since met with the Adventures, and feel that we have, by so late a reading, been deprived of the pleasant retrospections to which the reperusal of a book of this sort always gives rise. There are classic works which, if not read in early childhood, lose their principal charm, which consists of a pleasure connected with early associations, such as are peculiar in themselves, and which no other period of our life may afford us. In this class of books we place all the fairy tales and voyages imaginaire, as Gulliver's Travels, Robinson Crusoe, Peter Wilkins, and Philip Quarll, (Gaudentio di Lucca is the single book of the kind above a mere childish imagination, but worth a textbook on ethics for the boyish youth; pure allegory is best relished then). We read Pilgrim's Progress with constant delight before the age of ten years, but have never been able to get through five pages since; and the Holy War we give up in despair, being quite past relishing the glories of that mortal combat between the Flesh and the Devil. Oriental tales, as the Arabian Nights and Persian Tales, are very captivating to a fancy delighted with gaudy pictures, and a taste adulterated by the crudities of ignorance; so too, for a different reason, are startling matter-of-fact relations - as the adventures of Munchausen, or Baron Trenck. All of these are really beneficial to young minds; but the

class of books we consider most useful for children, are combinations of books of adventures and matter-of-fact relations, as Quarll's adventures, where a child is not only impressed with generous sentiments and taught to follow a manly model of character, but also learns, and in the pleasantest manner, something of geography and of natural history. A book like this is better than a sermon or a moral lecture, for with delight it instils truth, and gives an impulse to the affections, while it stimulates the perceptions of the understanding.

To instruct children to advantage, we must charm their imaginations and touch their hearts; through these avenues we excite the natural piety instinct in the most fallible of human creatures, and awaken the dormant love of virtue, which (and not that accursed doctrine of natural depravity,) is the true birthright of man. By these means too, we invigorate and enlighten the reason, the master faculty, and thus in effect gain far more, and in a more pleasing manner, than if we had gone directly to work and frightened or stupefied our little pupils into the practice of a decorous behavior and the acquisition of the mere signs of knowledge. We are sorry to see the present race of writers of books for children adopting the unwise course of pragmatically insisting upon a didactic manner in works of fiction. In the midst of all the cants of the day, we are in danger of being surfeited with the cant of useful knowledge, and the cant of human perfectibility. Certainly all knowledge (even of the worst sort,) has its uses; but for the love of variety, my masters, let us have a little (so called) useless knowledge. It will at least serve as a relief to the mind; and of goodness, though we cannot have too much, we beg there may be less talking and more performance. We did not wonder that Harriet Martineau could ding children with tirades upon frugality and the circle of domestic virtues, but we are sorry to see even Miss Sedgwick and charming Mary Howitt getting to be too moral by half; and to crown our surprise, Captain Marryatt is overriding the useful knowledge hobby at such a pace, that we fear he will soon be found floundering in the dirt. In the midst of all this, we are gratified to bring into notice an old work with a new interest, to present our juvenile acquaintance with a new treasure to their former literary store, an accession they will not readily renounce.

Our first acquaintance with Philip Quarll arose out of the encomiums we met upon it in two or three passages of Leigh Hunt's writings, and the favor with which it was received by that glorious circle which met at Lamb's Monday evening parties. What fascinated three generations of children might, we logically inferred, attract a fourth; and

so we took up the work with the intention of saying something about it, if we were so fortunate as to catch the spirit of it. This intention was confirmed and excused (for we foolishly enough imagined the readers of the Boston Miscellany might consider a notice of an old child's book too trifling for their regard,) by the article of Hunt* on Peter Wilkins, a work of similar character, and of which we have something to say, before we stop. Of Philip Quarll, beyond a couple of sentences or so, we have seen a criticism nowhere, and have the ground, a virgin soil, entirely to ourselves.

and

Let us premise, that in our critical capacity we write to the parents, genius alone can write up to the purity of the innocent child. We may have our say, and talk learnedly enough, but it is Mr. Hawthorne, who can present his Fancy's Show-box, fix the roving eye of childhood as by a magic spell. As we love children, however, we shall be glad to act even as subordinate to their best teachers, the father and mother, they to whom they owe life and the fostering care of it, gratitude inferior only to that we all owe to the Father of our fathers, and the merciful protector of their offspring.

To make an end of what seems to be getting interminable, we come at once to our new acquaintance. The Adventures of Philip Quarll, are prefaced by a long, and very agreeable account of the discovery of the same Philip Quarll, by the aforesaid Mr. Dorrington. Our present notice might be entitled a discovery of the discovery of Philip Quarll, to which is added the adventures, &c. Mr. Dorrington, we are told, was a British merchant, who on his return to England, from a voyage of mercantile adventure, by accident made the discovery of an island in the South Sea, which had been supposed uninhabited, and even unapproachable for landing, on account of the difficulties of access to it; but on which was found an English hermit, who had lived there solitary and alone, (as Mr. Benton might add,) not only conveniently, and with comfort, but perfectly resigned and happy, for the space of fifty years. The account of the discovery includes a description of the dress, habitation, and utensils of Quarll, and a long report of the conversation held with him. Of the dress, manner of life, &c., we will only remark a close similarity to the minuteness, and particularity of the descriptions, and narrative of Robinson Crusoe. This, and the internal evidence of the story, and its conduct, induces us to suspect Defoe, himself, of the authorship of the book; a supposition highly probable, when we consider the demand for that class of writings, excited by the Crusoe of the same author, his wonderful copious

*The Seer, xxxi. Part First.

ness, and his natural desire to enhance the value of the first book, by an imitation of it. This is a mere supposition of our own; yet analogous circumstances, a repetition of incidents even, lead us to suspect that by chance we may have hit upon the real author. The very concealment of the author's name might be employed as an argument on our side of the question. Defoe had nothing to gain after writing Robinson Crusoe, by copying himself; and, then the similarity is so strong in all points, down to the very homeliness, and yet expressiveness of the style, that we cannot think it a mere copy, since, at the same time, it discovers so much internal force and naturalness, which a mere copyist could not be likely to possess. Be that as it may, Quarll is Crusoe slightly altered. He is older, naturally more devout, and a greater lover of solitude; but equally a lover of animals, and of nature, equally expert as a mechanic, and planter; like Robinson Crusoe, cast by a shipwreck on a desert island, like him recovering the most necessary articles from the wreck. There are a few points of dissimilarity. Crusoe is transported at the thought of returning home, while Quarl will not leave his beloved retreat. The former hermit is continually in dread of the Anthropophagi, while the latter is only once visited by two thievish Indians, who fly at his approach. Quarll has no man Friday, but a favorite monkey, Beaufidelle. The coincidences are much more numerous; Quarll finds a turtle, like Crusoe, turns it on its back to keep it, uses the shell for a dish, and a kettle, combined, preserves his fresh fish, flesh, and fowl, in the salt water. His building, and furnishing, are of a piece with Robinson Crusoe's; so too his daily rounds, his devotional exercises. These last were somewhat particular; Quarll was a man of a religious turn, never forgot to ask a blessing, return thanks, at his meals, nor his daily devotions. His evening exercises are picturesquely described; he regularly resorted to a place where echoes were wonderfully multiplied and prolonged, and being gifted with a noble voice, which had been highly cultivated, he filled the valley or cavern with a thousand melodious airs. In this book, as in its prototype, we find the same ceaseless requisitions and provisions for the appetite. Quarll is always getting in his fish and chestnuts, and pickling his mushrooms, and entrapping a hare or a duck. We get a little tired of this, when reading on a full stomach, or in a large town; but on a deserted island the three meals must be the chief objects of worldly thoughts. Quarll's monkeys play an important part in the narrative, and fill a large place in his benevolent affections. His long beard is as characteristic, as Robinson's fur cap, which made us regard him as a grenadier, in our childish days; the old man,

though eighty-eight when discovered, could sneeze like a man of thirty: had a powerful voice, and an uncommonly vigorous frame. He was almost a giant in his muscular power, yet mild as an humble christian. The only defects about Quarll, are those of clothing; from his waist up he is naked; he has no sort of covering for his head, and his feet are bare of shoes and stockings. We think the author ought to have furnished him, at least, with an umbrella, and a pair of buckskin slippers; he might have sent them ashore on a wave from the wreck, or have prevailed on the voyagers to leave them for future use. As it is, our venerable friend looks as if a severe winter would give him a bad cold, from wet feet, and in summer there was imminent danger of a sun stroke. leave this trifling, and add to the force of our former argument, we annex a short passage from an account of Mr. Dorrington's voyage home, which is as like Defoe's style, as Moll Flanders is like the History of the Plague, in point of manner, or as any one work of the same author is like any other.

To

"Having refreshed ourselves very well on this island, (Juan Fernandez,) we resolved to steer for Cape Verde in Chili. On the 12th, we made the Island of St. Jago, where we anchored, and sent our boat on shore. Here we bought some hogs and black cattle, for our voyage round Cape Horn to the Brazils, as also some corn and maize.

"We weighed anchor on the 20th, and sailed from hence, round Cape Horn. Round the Cape the weather favored us extremely; and nothing happened that was material, only that we were chased by a pirate ship, for about twelve hours on the 29th; but the night coming on, it favored us, so that we lost her. On the 4th of September, we made Falkland's Islands, and Cape St. Antonio, near the mouth of the River de la Plata, in Paraguay, on the 25th; when we stood out to sea, and made the island of Grande, on the coast of Brazil, on the 29th. We here received a letter from our owners, commanding us home, and not to sail for New England, as designed. Here we got beef, mutton, hogs, fowls, sugar, rum, oranges, and lemons, so that now we did not want for good punch.'

Does not this read like a page out of a veritable log book, from the hand of Daniel Defoe?

The account of Quarl is written in the third person, instead of being an autobiography. For this reason, we conceive that it loses a portion of its spirit. It is a work no less curious than interesting, and contains much valuable matter of a miscellaneous character. It is interspersed with judicious reflection, and enlivened by agreeable pictures. It relates singular facts. It is withal highly characteristic of the subject of it, and full of a personal interest. To confirm

this criticism, we must not delay giving the reader specimens under each head. Previously to doing this, we will extract a longer passage than the preceding, to give the reader a better taste of our author's general manner. It is all over Defoe. It relates a passage in the solitary existence of Quarll.

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"About forty paces farther, he found a chest in a cleft of the rock, which had been washed up there by the violence of the storm. After thanking heaven for its mercy in sending this gift, he tried to lift it, but could not; he was therefore obliged to fetch his hatchet to break it open, that he might take away what was in it by degrees. Having taken as much of the sail cloth as he could conveniently carry, with the few oysters he had got, he went home and fetched the tool, wherewith he wrenched open the chest, from which he took a suit of clothes, and some fine linen. These,' said he, neither the owner nor I want; so laid them down. The next thing he took out was a roll of parchment, being blank indentures and leases; these,' said he, are instruments of law, and are often applied to injustice; but I'll alter their mischievous properties, and make them records of heaven's mercies, and Providence's wonderful liberality to me; instead of being the ruin of some, they may chance to be the reclaiming of others.' At the bottom of the chest lay a runlet of brandy, a Cheshire cheese, a leather bottle full of ink, with a parcel of pens, and a penknife; as for these,' said he, they are of use; the pens, ink, and parchment, have equipped me to keep a journal, which will divert and pass away a few anxious hours. By degrees he took home the chest, and its contents; and now having materials to begin his journal, he immediately fell to work; that for want of other books, he might at his leisure, peruse his past transactions, and the many mercies he had received from heaven; and, that after his decease, whoever might be directed hither by Providence, upon reading his wonderful escapes in the greatest of dangers; his miraculous living, when remote from human assistance, in the like extremity he should not despair. Thus he began from his being eight years old, to the day of his being cast away, being then twenty-eight years of age, resolving to continue it to his death."

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It can hardly be expected, that we should attempt the barest outline of incidents in a magazine article. We can only touch a few points in a very cursory manner.

The hero of the adventures is a philosopher by nature and from circumstances: he has got a habit of reflection, and is perpetually moralizing on the most familiar aspects of nature and the most ordinary occurrences of life. Thus, walking along the sea shore, he perceives at the foot of a rock, "an extraordinary large whale, which, cast there by the

late high wind, had died for want of water. There were shoals of small fishes swimming about it in the shallow water wherein it lay, as rejoicing at its death." Upon this he remarks, " Thus the oppressed rejoice at a tyrant's fall. Well, happy are they who, like me, are under Heaven's government only." He then with his knife cut several slices of the whale and threw them to the small fishes, saying, "It is just ye should, at last, feed on that which so long fed on you;" a homily which admits of a political construction. Here recurs another instance of his philosophic turn. "One day, having walked the island over and over, he proceeded to view the sea, whose fluid element being ever in motion, affords new objects of admiration. The day being very fair, and the weather as calm, he sat down upon the rock, taking pleasure in seeing the waves roll, and, as it were, chase one another; the second pursuing the first, and being itself overtaken by a succeeding until they sunk altogether. This,' said he, is a true emblem of ambition; men striving to outdo one another are often undone.'

As he was making reflections on the emptiness of vanity and pride, and returning Heaven thanks that he was separated from the world, which abounds in nothing so much, a ship appeared at a great distance, a sight he had not seen since his shipwreck. "Most unlucky invention," said he, "that ever came into a man's thoughts. The ark, which gave the first notion of a floating habitation, was ordered for the preservation of man; but its fatal copies daily expose him to destruction." Notwithstanding his philosophy, Quarll is thrown into deep distress by the failure of an attempt to reach the island, on the part of the sailors. This was, however, brief. Again, he misses an opportu nity of escape. On a third occasion, an endeavor is made to carry him off by force, for exhibition. This was unsuccessful. fourth chance of release is repulsed by him, having determined to spend the remnant of his life in his (now) beloved retreat.

A

Our hermit has a lively talent for coloring, an agreeable, descriptive fancy. The following present a few examples:

Antelopes. "Having a majestic presence, body and limbs representing a stag, and the noble march of a horse."

A beautiful unknown bird. "He contemplated with delight on the inexpressible beauty of the feathers, which on the back were after the nature of a drake's, every one distinguished from the other by a rim round the edge, about the breadth of a large thread, and being of a changeable color, from red to aurora and green; the ribs were of a delightful blue, and the feathers pearl-color, speckled with a bright yellow; the breast and belly, if they might be said to be of any