ly as my language and talents will permit me--and of reading as nonsensically as my disposition bids. There is, however, a sort of chronological difference in these studies. To read deeply I must go back-to read lightly I may read the productions of my contemporaries. The day of folio is gone -even of quarto, except in the case of first editions of books for which a feverish excitement exists, and even in their case the quarto is but an avant courier fora duodecimo, the natural shape for the composition. Look at Medwin. I am sick of periodicals. They squabble too much for me. I wonder that their conductors do not see that the public in general do not care three straws about their quarrels. I have just read one periodical, now tolerably free from this nuisance, the Classical Journal-yet I remember the day when even it was foaming at the mouth against the Museum Criticum, and showing its teeth against Bloomfield. But, after all, the quarrels of the Viri Clarissimi are pleasant to the initiated. It is quite comical to see the anger, the wit, for it is fact, that there were few wittier men than those whom the vulgar voice puts down as word-hunters and verbal critics, the research, the reading wasted on refuting the erroneous opinion of another "Vir eruditissimus, sed in hâc re parum doctus," concerning the force of a paulopostfuturum-the proper construction of av-the fit foot for a Dochmiach, &c. What remains of it now is but a weapon-shawing. The combats of the Scioppii, &c. were gladiatorial battles without quarter. Politeness is at present the order of the day, even in this bear-garden of litera ture.. I suppose the Classical Journal must have but a limited sale. It evidently does not make much headway in the literature of the country, and yet it is far from being ill executed. The opening article of the No. 61, is of a class which could be rendered very attractive. It is a view of the Epistles of Philelphus, a Latin writer, born in 1398, and dead in 1480. There were some remarkable men among these modern Latin writers, and their merits are pretty well appreciated in this paper. Even in point of Latin style, there were some great writers among them, some far superior to the real Roman writers of the silver and brazen ages. Among these will be found the raw materials of our present modes of thought, society, manners, politics, to an extent scarcely credible by those who have not examined them. As for criticism, our reviews, and all that series of works, are but rifacciamenti of what was said by Scaliger, Muretus, Lipsius, &c. The Greek and Latin writers were, in their days, new books, and treated accordingly. It is quite amusing to see Scaliger cutting up Homer, as Jeffrey would Wordsworth, -ay, and pretty much in the same sensible style. When we contrast them with their contemporaries who employed the vernacular languages, we feel as if we were going from the company of civilized men to barbarians. Philelphus, however, is not a favourable specimen. He was a good, easy, elegant-minded man, of no pith or energy; and the journalist does not appear to have made the best selection possible from his Epistles. The next he chooses, I hope, will be more piquant. The centre piece of all these men are the Scaligers. A life of these great men (for, in spite of all their vanity they were great men) would be a gift to our literature. It would take no ordinary scholar, however, to do it properly. As I am wishing for literary biographies, I may as well wish that some one would write a life of a leading schoolman-say Thomas Aquinas.-They formed a curious chapter in the history of Human Mind. If I knew Valpy, I should certainly expostulate with him for allowing Taylor the Platonist to write in his journal. The man is an ass, in the first place; secondly, he knows nothing of the religion of which he is so great a fool as to profess himself a votary. And, thirdly, he knows less than nothing of the language about which he is continually writing. I think I remember seeing it proved somewhere* that he did not even know a line of Homer. And just think of the following trash being given us as an adequate representation of Platonic language or reasoning. "Let Providence not have a subsistence, again there will follow to itself with respect to itself, the imperfect, the improlific, the inefficacious, a subsistence for itself alone. There will not follow, the unenvying, * Our correspondent ought to have known that it was in this Magazine. VOL. XVII. 5 C the transcendantly full, the sufficient, the assiduous. There will follow, and not follow the unsolicitous and the undisturbed!!" What idiocy! The remaining papers in this Number are tolerable. What long-lived dogs its contributors are! Here we have an Inquiry into Versification, &c. No. 4, continued from No. XXVI. thirty-five numbers, that is nine years back. This is taking Horace's advice with a vengeance.-Nonumque prema tur in annum. Another refers to this paper in No. XXII., ten years off. These are most antediluvian magaziners. I cannot approve of the translation of Milton's exordium. *Ανδρός υπερ βασιην πρωτοχθονός, is not what Milton means, for he does not sing the disobedience of the first man (quâ first) but the first disobedience of man. Had Adam been sinless, and the crime committed by Cain, it would equally have been Milton's theme. "And chiefly thou, O spirit," is sadly amplified into Παμπρῶτον δὲ σύ μοι, θεῖον μένος, ἄν τε καὶ ἱρὸν Πνεῦμα βροτὸ φάσκουσιν. But it is readable; not, however, Homeric verse, nor even Homer's language. (Ex. gr. HTI XOY OL for words or prose.) Milton, on the whole, is queerly treated in this Number of the Classical Journal; for another contributor, who is a pleasant writer, (and decidedly a little, but agreeably, insane,) finds out that Paradise Lost is a remnant of the Egyptian mysteries, and somehow connected with the pyramids. (p. 176.) There is a bit of Chinese here from Menz Tseu. A whim has seized me to translate it. By referring to Julien's lithograph, I copy the original characters. I must premise that Wang, or Ouang, was a Chinese king. "Quang tsai ling yeou While standing in the sacred court, Wang cast his eyes around, It is, I think, a pretty picture, enough. May 1st. I have been looking over the last I believe novel of the Transatlantic imitator of the author of Waverley, Lionel Lincoln. In general I may remark, that America does not yet afford materials for a striking historical novel. The only great event which the States have been engaged in, is the War of the Revolution of 1776, and, however important in a historical point of view, it wants some of the grand elements of romance. It is, in the first place, too near our own times. Even the Author of Waverley cuts no great figure in the days of George the III. Some of the actors in it are alive, most of them are remembered by men of the present generation. We therefore cannot take the liberties with their characters and exploits, which we feel no scruple in doing with heroes of more distant date. Few care whether the picture of Claverhouse, in Old Mortality, is correct or not in its minute parts, for few have any opportunity of knowing anything about it—and any knowledge on the subject must necessarily be drawn from books. The contrary holds with respect to Cornwallis or Washington. We cannot make these men do anything contrary to what we all know. The Annual Register, or the Newspaper, is a sad spoiler of fancy, and will not allow us to soften or strengthen any heart for the sake of poetizing. In consequence, as here in this novel of Lionel Lincoln, the agents in the book must be men of no name, men fictitious, and in that too we are reminded that history is against us. This of course is a considerable drawback on the beauty and power of romance. Again, the political heats are scarcely subsided yet. Nobody cares about the Pretender, and therefore there is no danger of hurting any man's political views by depicting him or his cause in any colours, favourable or unfavourable. But in the case of the American War, it is not to be expected that We unfortunately have no Chinese blocks. We suppose our correspondent's version of the words will do.-ED. 1825. Note-Book of a Literary Idler. No. 1. the Americans can write calmly on the political events of the day. We do not want them to be tame on a subject so interesting to their country; but it makes it impossible for them to write impartial characters of the opposite side. Mr Cooper, we own, is very fair-nay, very complimentary -but he would be blind who did not see of what country the author of Lionel Lincoln was, before reading twenty pages. Nor should we complain of these political biases, but that they are perpetually liable to lead the writer into discussions on things no doubt important in the contest, and consecutive by association of ideas in American minds; but which the reading public out of America regard with perfect indifference. This leads me to our third reason for thinking the American war unfitted for romance. It was, no doubt, a great political struggle, the consequences of which will endure while the world lasts, but it was undertaken for objects almost unmanageable in the hands of a novelist. No art (said the late facetious Eaton Stannard Barrett, the author of the Heroine, All the Talents, &c.) can make a cocked hat harmonize with horror. So, say I, no art can make stamp-acts or tea-duties romantic. It is even hard enough to bring in acts of Parliament, decrees of Congress, resolutions of States-and the difficulty is increased when the military actions are so trivial, and even paltry, as the military affairs of the American war were. Then the theme, after all, is colonial. We have no kings or nobles before us. We sympathize not with the fall of lofty houses, or are not called on to mourn over the decadence of the last of an illustrious line. The attempt made at it in Lionel Lincoln is a failure, nor are the localities consecrated by any recollections, or connected with any superstitions. An American ghost would hardly appal the nerves of a boarding-school miss. These are very good things in the political, but sore defects in the romantic world. The Westminster Reviewers may call cathedrals and castles strongholds of tyranny and superstition as long as they please, but they are sorely mistaken if they think they will bring novel-writers or novel-readers to believe in their creed. Such is a hasty glance at the inherent difficulty of writing an American novel on the Waverley plan. The 739 States possess materials out of which to build fictions of a different kind. The wars, lives, and intrigues of the first settlers with their red neighbours, would, for instance, afford copious materials. The primitive Indian hunter, in contact with the formal Quaker, would be a fine contrast. A picturesque writer would revel in the glorious scenery of the yet unsubdued woods, and the bays, rivers, and headlands, still beautiful, though art has done what it can to diminish their beauty. We do not remember that this has ever been adequately done. Philip of Pokannoket, by Washington Irving, is not worth much, nor has Irving the power to do a first class novel. I do not think that Mr Cooper would succeed in this department, but I hope that some American will be found to take the hint which I have thus thrown out. Let us, however, come from the consideration of American novels in general, to this before us in particular. It is an agreeable book, written in a pleasant style, with a light sketchy manner. The novel part of the story is puzzled, and not very clever. There is an attempt at a sort of Davie Gellatly, in the person of an idiot of the name of Job Pray, which cannot be commended, after remembering its original. An eating, drinking, goodhearted, good-humoured English officer, is pretty well done but after Dalgetty he is not wanted. One great absurdity pervades the book. A man escaped from an English madhouse, is, in fact, the hero-he manages the private meetings of the discontented colonists-he takes a great share in the military actions of Lexington and Bunker's Hill-he passes in and out of the beleaguered city of Boston, as easily as fairies are said to get through key-holes-is present in the councils of the military officers opposed to the colonists, and in the very inmost mysteries of their antagonists. Now this is more revolting, critically speaking, more improbable than a ghost. Let me turn to something better. The whole account of the battle of Bunker's, or rather Breed's Hill, is capitally done. There are some sketches of country American manners too, so well executed, that I could wish for more of the same kind, and on the same key. I allude to the little episode of the old man, who drives Lionel and his wife on the cart, and that of the woman, whose sons were named after the old King. There is a newness about these, which, to me at least, is very agreeable. One part, in which General Lee is introduced, I know from the relation of various persons who were acquainted with that singular, but good-for-nothing character, is very well written. The story about his fondling his dogs, and his occasionally attempting to shoot them, is a fact; he might have added, but I suppose he recoiled from committing the impiety, the names which Lee had given these animals. With a contemptible, but yet terrible blasphemy, the most sacred names were those which he had chosen, and the effect was partly ludicrous, partly distressing. On the whole, Lionel Lincoln is a pleasant and graphic novel. It is, I perceive, translated into Frenchvery poorly, I understand—as badly, I suppose, as the Waverley novels; it could not be worse. I remember, among other specimens of the French translators' acquaintance with our tongue, that one of them rendered the verse of Bessy Bell and Mary Gray, (quoted in the Pirate) They built a house on yonder brac, And theek'd it o'er wi' RASHES, into "Elles se sont baties un maison sur la colline, et elles en ont chassé LES IMPRUDENS."-" L'homme verd et tranquille," for "the green man and still," is nothing to this. May 8th. Here's a spread of pamphlets. Are these compositions read? I understand that they succeed but about one in five hundred. Booksellers, of course, pay nothing for the copyright; and, in many cases, the author has the glory of propagating (or rather of thinking he propagates) his opinions au bout de bourse. The Pamphleteer is a sort of hospital, into which the most thriving patients are taken, the incurables being left to perish in the open air. The only use they serve, I am told, is to distribute among a particular body-say-the House of Commons, when a question is to be carried in that body. The gullibility of mankind is magnificent. It is a fact, that an honourable M.P.will swallow the dicta ofa pamphlet adopt its words-believe in its reasonings always excepting that he has a preconceived idea on the other side-while he would set no value on the same statements, written by the same person, and for the same pur pose, in a newspaper. Even a magazine or review will not, I understand, carry so much weight with the majority of the eminent statesmen whom we meet on committees. Huskisson said a pretty fair thing the other day to a gentleman (no matter who), that stifly maintained some point in argument against him, and wound up his ratiocination, by saying, in a voice of authority,-"Why, sir, I assure you, I read it this very morning in a pamphlet on the subject."-" If that be all," said Huskisson," I have the advantage over you; for I read the same nonsense in a quarto twenty years ago, and yet it is not a bit the truer." Some of these before me are decidedly clever. Croly's pamphlet on Popery, though rather fierce, is eloquent, as Croly indeed always is, when he pleases, and occasionally witty. The account of the arrival and conduct of the Irish Roman Catholic deputation in London is admirable. In truth, that was about the most laughable of all the deputations that ever invaded us. They came full of the idea that they should be lions of the first magnitude, and were very much amazed to find themselves considered as quadrupeds of a different station in society. In some magazine of this month-I forget which-there is an account of their progress, in which this feeling is most prominently exposed in all its soreness. The writer, (who, I suppose, is Shiels,) is filled with profound admiration at the quisquis society, Brougham, and other lawyer-people, into which he, evidently for the first time, had been introduced, but casts, nevertheless, many a furtive glance of longing aspiration after what, in his own country, he would call "the quality," who most mercilessly took no notice whatever of these wailing patients. The poor old Duke of Norfolk, of course, from a community of creed, was obliged to tolerate them, and Lord Holland, as patriarch of Whiggery, equally, of course, was compelled to admit them, with a suppressed groan, inside the antique brick-work of his Kensington residence, there to afford matter of laughter to the metropolitan servants by their provincial gaucheries at table. As for their higher dreams of distinction, their hopes that they were coming here to enact the part of Franklin and the Americans of the days of Lord North, they met with a still ruder dissipation, and in utter despair they were compelled to throw themselves, in one direction, under Cobbett, and in another under Hunt. All this, I own, does not at all affect the great national question with which they have connected themselves their being ridiculous or imprudent should merely be visited, as it has been, on their own heads. I wish Croly, in his pamphlet, would not call these people Papists. I admit the force of his argument as to the absurdity of their claim to the title of Catholics, in the sense in which they wish it to be understood; but as their sense is not the sense of the English language, I do not think we are called upon to adopt it. I call the followers of John Wesley Methodists, though I do not acknowledge that their church or discipline has more method in it than my own-I do not scruple to address the Calvinistic portion of our own church by the title of Evangelical, though I bow not to their arrogation of superior gospel purity-and so on. What is the meaning of Whig and Tory? Something ridiculous-and yet the two great parties of the state voluntarily adopt them. A name, in fact, soon loses its real in its, conventional meaning. I am no more bound to acknowledge the universality of the Church of Rome, when I call its votaries Roman Catholics, than one of their controversialists is bound to consider the doctrines of Luther a reformation, when he calls the Protestant churches reformed. It strikes me, that it would "be fairer to call every party by the name which it acknowledges. You will lose nothing by it in argument. Two pamphlets on the mining projects are lying before me. One is by that young gentleman who has so agreeably cut up the absurd article on that subject in the Quarterly (written, proh pudor, by Barrow!) There is an immensity of cleverness in his "Lawyers and Legislators." He knocks to pieces Hobhouse's nonsensical statements in the House of Commons admirably. Is it not a strange thing that any gentleman, and he a gentleman who has written quartos, to boot, as dhick as dhis here cheese, should get up in the House and make a mistake of 26 degrees of latitude in a statement upon which he founded all his reasoning? It is really too bad. As for the mines themselves, there is every reason to think that they will be good speculations. We have done, in six months, more for the Mexican mines, than the Spaniards did for three centuries, in finding coal, quicksilver, &c. I cannot say that I think the young author's style has improved. He has grown insolent from success, and flippant with it. His remarks, for instance, on the Lord Chancellor, are very shallow, and generally very absurd. Sir William Rawson (like Sir W. Adams) is the author of the other pamphlet on the mining concern. I do not think he possesses the lucidus ordo in so great a degree, but he has gathered an immensity of facts. He sets the immense value of the South American Republics to our commerce, power, and general interests, in a very striking point of view. I shall extract one of his many tables. An Account of the Value of the Exports from Great Britain to South America, in each of the three years, ending 5th January, 1825. Value of Exports from Great Britain to South America, |
