CHARGING THE FOWLING-PIECE.

[5]As shot is numbered differently by different manufacturers, we give the number to the ounce of the sizes to which we have referred:A. A.about40A.—50B. B.—60B.—751.—802.—1103.—1304.—1805.—2206.—2707.—3508.—6009.—100010.—1700

[5]

As shot is numbered differently by different manufacturers, we give the number to the ounce of the sizes to which we have referred:

——

It is not usual to charge the gun until arriving at the shooting ground. When there, however advisable on the score of caution it may be, flashing off a quantity of powder to clear out, dry, and warm the gun before loading, has certainly a cockney appearance; the more sportsman-like practice is,—the party having reliance on the person who cleans his gun,—merely to permit the ramrod to fall lightly to the bottom of each barrel. The barrels are then held as perpendicularly as possible while the powder is poured in, so that nearly the whole charge may reach home, and not adhere in its descent. The barrel is then tapped with the ramrod, or the gun slightly shook against the foot, that powder may find its way into the pivots,—that is the more necessary when coarse-grained powder is used. A wadding is then gently pressed down. The shot is next poured in, and a slight shake of the gun in an upward direction causes it to lie evenly;—a wadding is pressed upon it. The shooter next removes the remains of the caps, and looks whether the powder has found its way to the orifice of the pivots, and if it has, he places fresh caps on; if powder is not visible at the orifice of the pivots, he removes any obstacle with a pricker, and contrives to push down a few grains of powder. It is very material to attend to this point, to prevent miss-fires.

——

The wire-cartridge was invented, in 1828, by Mr. Jenour. It consists of a cylindrical case or network of wire, the meshes of which are somewhat more than an eighth of an inch square; at the lower end the wire partially closes; the wire case is then enveloped in fine paper, and at the upper end a cork wadding, cut so as to fit the gauge of the gun, is affixed, the case is then filled with shot and bone dust. The first cartridges made, though ingenious in construction, were defective in operation. It was a matter of no ordinary difficulty to fabricate them in such a manner that the shot should leave the case at the precise distance required. This at first could not be done so that they might be trusted in every instance; every alternate cartridge might fire well, but the rest would fire irregularly, being liable to ball,—that is, the shot would not leave the case until fifty or sixty yards from the gun, and such cartridges were, of course, not only useless but dangerous. They have been from time to time improved, and almost every difficulty has been overcome. The sporting cartridges now made never ball, they act with a considerable degree of precision and certainty, and that they may be safely trusted may be inferred from the fact that they are often preferred by persons engaged in pigeon matches. Various materials were used experimentally to fill up the interstices between the pellets, but nothing seems to answer so well as the material now used. Another difficulty in their construction presented itself. It was requisite to accommodate them to the various methods of boring used by different gunmakers, and the unequal length of barrels, the object in view being to produce a cartridge that would suit all barrels of the same gauge, and this has been in a great measure, if not wholly, accomplished. The liability to ball, notwithstanding various improvements made in them, was not effectually obviated for many years, during which they were tried, and in many instances prematurely condemned, either from real defects, or from the parties not knowing how to use them. They were not brought to perfection until the year 1837.

The wire-cartridges possess two principal advantages over loose shot; they are propelled with greater velocity, and thrown more evenly. A loose charge is always thrown in patches; the shots of a cartridge, as seen on a target, are comparatively equi-distant from each other.

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

Guy Fawkes; or The Gunpowder Treason. An Historical Romance. ByWilliam Harrison Ainsworth,Author of “The Tower of London,” “Jack Sheppard,” &c. Philadelphia. Lea and Blanchard.

What Mr. William Harrison Ainsworth had been doing before he wrote “Rookwood” is uncertain; but it seems to us that he made his literarydébutwith that work. It was generally commended; but we found no opportunity of perusing it. “Crichton” followed, and this we read; for our curiosity was much excited in regard to it by certain discrepancies of critical opinion. In one or two instances it was unequivocally condemned as “flat, stale and unprofitable,” although, to be sure, the critics, in these one or two instances, were men of little note. The more prevalent idea appeared to be that the book was a miracle of wit and wisdom, and that Ainsworth who wrote “Crichton,” was in fact Crichtonredivivus. We have now before us a number of a Philadelphia Magazine for the month of April, 1840, in which the learned editor thus speaks of the work in question—“Mr. Ainsworth is a powerful writer; his ‘Crichton’stands at the head of the long list of English novels—unapproachable and alone. . . . This great glory is fairly Mr. Ainsworth’s due, and in our humble opinion,the fact is incontrovertible.” Upon a perusal of the novel so belauded, we found it a somewhat ingenious admixture of pedantry, bombast, and rigmarole. No man ever read “Crichton” through twice. From beginning to end it is one continued abortive effort at effect. The writer keeps us in a perpetual state of preparation for something magnificent; but the something magnificent never arrives. He is always saying to the reader, directly or indirectly, “now, in averybrief time, you shall see what you shall see!” The reader turns over the page in expectation, and meets with nothing beyond the same everlasting assurance:—another page and the same result—another and still the same—and so on to the end of the performance. One cannot help fancying the novelist in some perplexing dream—one of those frequently recurring visions, half night-mare half asphyxia, in which the sufferer, although making the most strenuous efforts torun, finds a walk or a crawl thene plus ultraof his success in locomotion.

The plot is monstrously improbable, and yet not so much improbable as inconsequential. A German critic would say that the whole is excessivelyill-motivert. No one action follows necessarily upon any one other. There is, at all times, the greatest parade ofmeasures, but measures that have no comprehensible result. The author works busily for a chapter or two with a view of bringing matters in train for a certain end; and then suffers this end to be either omitted—unaccomplished—or brought to pass by accidental and irrelevant circumstances. The reader of taste very soon perceives this defect in the conduct of the story, and, ceasing to feel any interest in marches and countermarches that promise no furtherance of any object, abandons himself to the investigation of the page only which is immediately before him. Despairing of all amusement from theconstructionof the book, he falls back upon its immediate descriptions. But, alas, what is there here to excite any emotion in the bosom of a well-read man, beyond that of contempt? If an occasional interest is aroused, he feels it due, not to the novelist, but to the historical reminiscences which even that novelist’s inanity cannot render altogether insipid. The turgid pretension of the style annoys, and the elaborately-interwoven pedantry irritates, insults, and disgusts. He must be blind, indeed, who cannot understand the great pains taken by Mr. Ainsworth to interlard the book in question with second-hand hits of classical and miscellaneous erudition; and he must be equally blind who cannot perceive thatthisis the chicanery which has so impressed the judgment, and dazzled the imagination of such critics as he of the aforesaid Magazine. We know nothing at all of Mr. Ainsworth’s scholarship. There are some very equivocal blunders in “Crichton,” to be sure; butAinsworthis a classical name, and we must makeverygreat allowances for the usual errors of press. We say, however, that, from all that appears in the novel in question, he may be as really ignorant as a bear. True erudition—by which term we here mean only to imply much diversified reading—is certainly discoverable—is positively indicated only in its ultimate and totalresults. We have observed elsewhere, that the mere grouping together of fine things from the greatest multiplicity of the rarest works, or even the apparently natural inweaving into any composition of the sentiments and manner of these works, is an attainment within the reach of every moderately-informed, ingenious, and not indolent man, having access to any ordinary collection of good books. Of all vanities the vanity of the unlettered pedant is the most sickening, and the most transparent.

Mr. Ainsworth having thus earned for himself the kind of renown which “Crichton” could establish with the rabble, made his next appearance before that rabble with “Jack Sheppard.” Seeing what we have just seen, we should by no means think it wonderful that this romance threw into the greatest astonishment the little critics who so belauded the one preceding. They could not understand it at all. They would not believe that the same author had written both. Thus they condemned it in loud terms. The Magazine before alluded to, styles it, in round terms, “the most corrupt, flat, and vulgar fabrication in the English language . . . a disgrace to the literature of the day.” Corrupt and vulgar it undoubtedly is, but it is by no means soflat(if we understand the critic’s idea of the term) as the “Crichton” to which it is considered so terribly inferior. By “flat” we presume “uninteresting” is intended. To us, at least, no novel was lessinterestingthan “Crichton,” and the only interest which itcouldhave had for any reader must have arisen from admiration excited by the apparently miraculouslearningof the plagiarist, and from the air of owlish profundity which he contrives to throw over the work. The interest, if any, must have had regard to the author and not to his book. Viewed as a work of art, and without reference to any supposed moral or immoral tendencies, (things with which the critic has nothing to do) “Jack Sheppard” is by no means theverywretched composition which some gentlemen would have us believe. Its condemnation has been brought about by the revulsion consequent upon the exaggerated estimate of “Crichton.” It is altogether a much better book than “Crichton.” Although its incidents are improbable—(the frequent miraculous escapes of the hero, for instance, without competent means) still they are not, as in “Crichton,” at the same time inconsequential. Admitting the facts, these facts hang together sufficiently well. Nor is there any bombast of style; this negative merit, to be sure, being no merit of the author’s, but an enforced one resulting from the subject. The chief defect of the work is a radical one, the nature and effect of which we were at some pains to point out in a late notice of Captain Marryatt’s “Poacher.” The story being, no doubt, written to order, for Magazine purposes, and in a violent hurry, has been scrambled through by means ofincidentsolely. It is totally wanting in theautorial comment. The writer never pauses to speak, in his own person, of what is going on. It is possible to have too much of this comment; but it is far easier to have too little. The most tedious books,ceteris paribus, are those which have none at all. “Sir Charles Grandison,” “Clarissa Harlowe,” and the “Ernest Maltravers” of Bulwer embody instances of its superabundance. The genius of the author of “Pelham” is in nothing more evident than in the interest which he has infused into some of his late worksin spiteof their ultra-didacticism. The “Poacher” just mentioned, and “The Arabian Nights” are examples of deficiency in the commenting principle, and are both intolerably tediousin spiteof their rich variety of incident. Thejuste milieuwas never more admirably attained than in De Foe’s “Robinson Crusoe” and in the “Caleb Williams” of Godwin. This latter work, from the character of its incidents, affords a fine opportunity of contrast with “Jack Sheppard.” In both novels the hero escapes repeatedly from prison. In the work of Ainsworth the escapes are merely narrated. In that of Godwin they arediscussed. With the latter we become at once absorbed in those details which so manifestly absorb his own soul. We read with the most breathless attention. We close the book with a real regret. The former puts us out of all patience. His marvels have a nakedness which repels. Nothing he relates seems either probable or possible, or of the slightest interest, whether the one or the other. His hero impresses us as a mere chimæra with whom we have no earthly concern, and when he makes his final escape and comes to the gallows, we would feel a very sensible relief, but for the impracticability of hanging up Mr. Ainsworth in his stead. But if “Jack Sheppard” is a miserably inartistical book, still it is by no means so utterly contemptible and silly as the tawdry stuff which has been pronounced “the best of English novels, standing at the head of the long list unapproachable and alone!”

Of “The Tower of London” we have read only some detached passages—enough to assure us, however, that the “work,” like Yankee razors, has been manufactured merely “to sell.” “Guy Fawkes,” the book now lying before us, and the last completed production of its author, is positively beneath criticism and beneath contempt. The design of Mr. Ainsworth has been to fill, for a certain sum of money, a stipulated number of pages. There existed a necessity ofengagingthe readers whom especially he now addresses—that is to say the lowest order of the lettered mob—a necessity of enticing them into the commencement of a perusal. For this end the title “Guy Fawkes or The Gunpowder Plot” was all sufficient, at least within the regions of Cockaigne. As for fulfilling any reasonable expectations, derived either from thead captandumtitle, or from his own notoriety (we dare not say reputation) as a novelist—as for exerting himself for the permanent or continuous amusement of the poor flies whom he had inveigled into his trap—all this, with him, has been a consideration of no moment. He had ataskto perform, and not a duty. What were his readers to Mr. Ainsworth?—“What Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba?” The result of such a state of affairs is self-evident. With hisbestexertions, in his earliest efforts, with all the goadings of a sickening vanity which stood him well instead of nobler ambition—with all this, hecoulddo—hehas done—but little; and without them he has now accomplished exactly nothing at all. If ever, indeed, a novel werelessthan nothing, then that novel is “Guy Fawkes.” To say a word about it in the way of serious criticism, would be to prove ourselves as great a blockhead as its author.Macte virtute, my dear sir—proceed and flourish. In the meantime we bid you a final farewell. Your next volume, which will have some such appellation as “The Ghost of Cock-Lane,” we shall take the liberty of throwing unopened out of the window. Our pigs are not all of the description called learned, but they will have more leisure for its examination than we.

The Gift: A Christmas and New-Year’s Present for 1842. Carey and Hart: Philadelphia.

This volume of “The Gift” is superior to any yet published. Mrs. Embury has an entertaining story, and Miss Leslie’s account of a “Family that Didn’t take Boarders” is also quite amusing. Mr. Simms has a well narrated tale—Mr. Seba Smith has another—Professor Frost another—Mrs. Ellet, also, and the author of “A New Home.” We ourselves have one which is not ended so well as it might be—a good subject spoiled by hurry in the handling. The poetry, in general, is insipid. Mrs. Sigourney has not done herself justice. Lieut. G. W. Patten, U. S. A. has three effusions, neither of which do credit to the Annual. This gentleman, who writes frequently, and should therefore write well, is singularly remiss in his metaphors, and often grievously deficient in his grammar. What does he mean, at page 309, by

As sleep the brave so thoushouldsleep (?)

or, at page 165, by

The storm is on the sea—I hear itswingsInthunder frettingo’er the lifted wave (?)

The storm is on the sea—I hear itswings

Inthunder frettingo’er the lifted wave (?)

This is surely a most singular instance of metaphor run mad! Here are three conflicting images at one time in the brain of the poet. By the word “wings” the reader is made to understand the prosopopeia of the storm as abird; by “thunder” (anaturalaccompaniment of tempests) he is brought back to the impersonified storm; by “fretting” he is left in no doubt that the writer’s ideas are running upon ahorse—and all this in the compass of one line and a half!

The “Stanzas” by Park Benjamin have a rich simplicity which of all literary qualities is the most difficult of attainment, and of all merits the most uncertain of appreciation; but we are sorry to say that they are theonlygood verses in the volume.

The engravings are very fine. We will speak of them briefly one by one.

The “Country Girl,” by Cheney from Sully, is atruthfulpicture. The design is perfect. The only fault of the execution lies in the undue breadth of the face; this defect would be remedied by deepening the shade beneath the left ear. The work of the engraver is well done.

“Vignette Head,” by Cheney from Sully—one of the latter’s favorite heads—the face that of a pouting hoyden. The hair is beautifullymassed. Thevignettingis carried too low as regards the bosom, from which half an inch should be taken off at bottom, or otherwise some lines of shading introduced to relieve it of its blank appearance. The arm is execrable—the hand worse—both are too massive and sinewy.

“Dulcinea,” by Cheney from Leslie. No fault can be found with this picture, which is admirable in every respect. The right arm, in especial, is exquisitely rounded and foreshortened.

“The Tough Story” by J. J. Pease, from W. S. Mount. Mr. Mount’s merits are those of acute observation and fidelity. These merits, although not of the highest order, have the advantage of being universally appreciable. This is an advantage which he secures—clinches—by dealing only in homely subjects. If he has ideality (a question which as yet we have had no means of deciding) and would employ his peculiar talents upon loftier themes, he might attain a very desirable eminence indeed.

Nothing could be more true to nature than the picture before us; but the painter has sacrificed to this truth (at some points) artistical effects of superior value. What can be more displeasing, for example, than the unrelieved nakedness of the wall in the back ground, or the situation of the group precisely in the centre of the design, or, especially, than the tall regular stove pipe, running up parallel with the back of the standing figure, and dividing the apartment exactly in two?

“The Gipsy,” by Cheney from Sully, is altogether out of drawing as regards the face, which is, again, too broad to the left. This is a very usual error in side faces. The fingers are badly engraved, particularly those of the right hand, which look as if covered with a net or pic-nic glove. The foliage in this picture is not very well executed.

“The Sled” by W. E. Tucker, from Chapman, is a most effective design, evincing the well-educated artist. The idea of rapid motion is skilfully embodied in the countenance of the boy, in the peculiar falling curve of the hill, and exquisitelycorroboratedin the whirl of the clouds. This is the true artistical keeping. The limbs of the boy are too small for his head and body, and the left hand appears to have been cut from a turnip. This latter defect is chargeable to the engraver.

“The Raffle” by A. Lawson from Mount. This is another of Mr. Mount’s idiosyncrasies, and is absolute perfectionin its way. The defects of the work (considered as a mere picture) which we pointed out in the “Tough Story,” are not observable here. The grouping of the figures and the arrangement of the design generally, are as admirable as the varied expression of the Yankee faces. The light, however, is too equally disposed about the room, and, in especial, upon the three middle personages. It is difficult, moreover, to imagine these three persons so illumined, and the back of the foreground figure at the same time so fully in shade. These are petty objections—but it is right they should be made.

“Portia,” by Forrest from Sully, is an engraving in which the mere mechanism is excellent; and, in fact, the work is, upon the whole, highly creditable to Mr. Forrest. The hands, however, are badly done; the left especially. Some knowledge of drawing is absolutely essential in one who copies. This knowledge cannot be supplied by even Chinese fidelity in depicting dot for dot and line for line. The picture, altogether, we prefer to any in the book. Were we in the habit of purchasing paintings this “Portia” by Sully is the only one here which we would purchase.

The paper of “The Gift” for 1842 does not seem to us sufficiently good. The binding is certainly magnificent, but would have been vastly improved by the use of a thicker board.

Amenities of Literature, consisting of Sketches and Characters of English Literature. ByJ. D’Israeli,D.C.L. F. S. A. 2 vols. I. & H. G. Langley: New York.

The reputation of the elder D’Israeli as scholar and philosopher is at least as well founded as that of any man of his age. He has given to the world a series ofpeculiarbooks—books in which the richest variety ofrecherchédetail and anecdote about literary affairs, is made subservient to the most comprehensive survey and analysis of letters themselves, considered in respect to their important spiritual uses. He is the onlysavantupon record who has busied himself, without pedantry, among theminutiæof classical lore. His works will last as long as the language in which they are written. The “Curiosities of Literature,” the “Literary Character,” the “Miscellanies of Literature,” the “Calamities of Authors,” and all but the present “Amenities of Literature” are, however, but incidental labors arising from a more extensive design—a “History of English Literature”—of which he thus speaks. “It was my intention not to furnish an arid narrative of books and of authors, but, following the steps of the human mind through the wide track of time, to trace from their beginnings the progress and the decline of public opinions, and to illustrate, as the objects presented themselves, the great incidents in our national annals.” In this magnificent project the philosopher was arrested by blindness. The “Amenities of Literature” is a portion and in fact the beginning of the great scheme which can now never be completed. We need say no more to recommend it to the reader. The two volumes before us are issued in the customary careful and tasteful style of the Langleys.

The Critical and Miscellaneous Writings of Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer, author of “Pelham,” &c. 2 vols. Lea and Blanchard: Philadelphia.

We have read these volumes with the highest pleasure. They embrace all of the known minor writings of Bulwer, with the exception of his shorter fictions; and we recognize in the collection several very excellent articles which had arrested our attention and excited our curiosity while their authorship was undivulged.

Mr. Bulwer isneverlucid, and seldom profound. His intellect seems to be rather well balanced than lofty—rather comprehensive than penetrative. His taste is exquisite. His style, in its involution and obscurity, partakes of the involution of his thoughts. Apart from his mere intellect, however,—or rather as a portion of that intellect—we recognize in his every written word the keenest appreciation of the right, the beautiful, and the true. Thus he is a man worthy of all reverence, and we do not hesitate to say that we look upon the charges of immoral tendency which have been so pertinaciously adduced against his fictions, as absurdlylittleand untenable, in the mass.

The volumes now before us are plain evidence of the noble spirit which has constantly actuated him. The papers here published were written at various epochs of his life. We look through them in vain for anything false, as a whole, or unchivalrous, or impure, or weak, or tasteless, or ignoble. Were we addictedjurare in verba magistri, there lives no man upon whose faith we would more confidently rely than upon that of Bulwer—no man whose opinion upon any point involving a question of truth, or justice, or taste, we would be more willing to adopt unexamined.

We have been especially pleased with an article (in the volumes now before us) entitled “Literature Considered as a Profession,” and with another “Upon the Spirit of True Criticism.” Some remarks in the latter paper are quite as applicable to our own country as to Great Britain.

“ ‘To say this is good and that is bad,’ says La Bruyère, ‘is not morality.’ Very true, neither is it criticism. There is no criticism in this country—considering that word as the name of a science. A book comes out—it is capital, says one—it is detestable, says another. Its characters are unnatural—its characters are nature itself. On both sides there is affirmation, on neither proof. In fact no science requires such elaborate study as criticism. It is the most analytical of our mental operations—to pause—to examine—to saywhythat passage is a sin against nature, or that plot a violation of art—to bring deep knowledge of life in all its guises—of the heart in all its mysteries to bear upon a sentence of approval or disapprobation—to have cultivated the feeling of beauty until its sense of harmony has grown as fine as the ear of a musician—equally sensitive to discord—or alive to new combinations:—these are no light qualities, and these are not qualities, it may be answered, to be lightly lavished away. Every new book, it may be said, does not deserve that we should so honor it. We need not invoke the Past, and summon all Nature to hear us praise a butterfly, or crush a bug. We may on slight works arrogate the censor—yes, but we must first have been chosen the censor, by the acumen we have testified on great ones. Now, when an author who has risen into eminence, who begins to produce an effect upon his age, whose faults it becomes necessary to indicate as a warning, whose beauties we should illustrate as an example—when such a man produces a new work, what is the cant cry of the critics? ‘The peculiar merits and failings of Mr. So and So are too well known for us at this time of day to repeat them. The present work has all the characteristics of the last—if it does not increase, it will not diminish the well-earned reputation of the author.’ Then come the extracts, and a word or two at the end as precise and lucid as those at the beginning, and——there’sTHE CRITICISM!“For my part, I please myself sometimes with drawing the ideal picture of a good critic, as Bolingbroke drew that of a patriot king. What a crowd of accomplishments, not easily seen by the superficial, belong to that character! Literature and morality are so entwined that you rarely find the real critic unless he is also the moralist. The union is almost necessary. In Quinctilian how beautifully the deduction closes the dogma! and even in Johnson the habit of moralizing gives dignity to his criticisms. In both sciences the study of mankind, of the metaphysical nature within us, alone insures a sound judgment: in both, without a delicate yet profound perception of the harmonious, the beautiful, the august, no commanding excellency is obtained. The goodness of a man and the goodness of a book are not such different qualities as people suppose. A person, however,maybe, though he is not often, a good moralist without being a good man: to preach and practice are faculties not inseparable. But I doubt if a man can be a great critic who has not, at least, the elementary qualities of a good man. I consider that he must keep the intellectual sight clear from envy, and malice, and personal dislikes. He must examine the work above and remote from all the petty considerations that attach to the man. He must be on the alert for genius, ready to encourage even a rival to himself. Where this largeness of mind is not visible, there is always something petty and crippled in the mind of the professional critic. He may make one great criticism, but he cannot criticise with greatness habitually. Perhaps he reviews some dead author—for the dead interfere not with the living; or he wastes a world of generosity, like Southey, in praising some rhymester of the pantry, who is little enough while he attracts honor to the praiser to plunge into forgetfulness the praise. The good critic—that rare ideal, must have in him courage to blame boldly, magnanimity to eschew envy, benevolence to search for obscure merit. He must have genius to appreciate, and learning to compare: he must have an eye for beauty, an ear for music, a heart for feeling, a mind for reason. ‘We are conscious of excellency,’ says some author, ‘in proportion to the excellence within ourselves.’ ”

“For my part, I please myself sometimes with drawing the ideal picture of a good critic, as Bolingbroke drew that of a patriot king. What a crowd of accomplishments, not easily seen by the superficial, belong to that character! Literature and morality are so entwined that you rarely find the real critic unless he is also the moralist. The union is almost necessary. In Quinctilian how beautifully the deduction closes the dogma! and even in Johnson the habit of moralizing gives dignity to his criticisms. In both sciences the study of mankind, of the metaphysical nature within us, alone insures a sound judgment: in both, without a delicate yet profound perception of the harmonious, the beautiful, the august, no commanding excellency is obtained. The goodness of a man and the goodness of a book are not such different qualities as people suppose. A person, however,maybe, though he is not often, a good moralist without being a good man: to preach and practice are faculties not inseparable. But I doubt if a man can be a great critic who has not, at least, the elementary qualities of a good man. I consider that he must keep the intellectual sight clear from envy, and malice, and personal dislikes. He must examine the work above and remote from all the petty considerations that attach to the man. He must be on the alert for genius, ready to encourage even a rival to himself. Where this largeness of mind is not visible, there is always something petty and crippled in the mind of the professional critic. He may make one great criticism, but he cannot criticise with greatness habitually. Perhaps he reviews some dead author—for the dead interfere not with the living; or he wastes a world of generosity, like Southey, in praising some rhymester of the pantry, who is little enough while he attracts honor to the praiser to plunge into forgetfulness the praise. The good critic—that rare ideal, must have in him courage to blame boldly, magnanimity to eschew envy, benevolence to search for obscure merit. He must have genius to appreciate, and learning to compare: he must have an eye for beauty, an ear for music, a heart for feeling, a mind for reason. ‘We are conscious of excellency,’ says some author, ‘in proportion to the excellence within ourselves.’ ”

We wish also to call attention to a very excellent article on the subject of “International Copyright.” The only paper in the collection which we could have wished omitted is one entitled “A Letter to the Quarterly Review,”—an attempt at vindictive retaliation upon Lockhart. We admire this gentleman quite as little as Mr. Bulwer can possibly do, but we grieve to see an attack which has neither vigor nor wit, and which proves nothing beyond the writer’s wrath and utter incapacity for satire.

The Pic Nic Papers. By various Hands. Edited byCharles Dickens, Esq.author of “The Pickwick Papers,” &c. 2 vols. Lea and Blanchard: Philadelphia.

The “Introduction” to this work gives us its history. “The premature death of a young publisher (Mr. Macrone) inspired some of those who had known him personally, or had been connected with him in business, with an earnest desire to render some assistance to his widow and orphans. They produced among themselves this work.” In the English edition there were three volumes; the third consisting of the “Charcoal Sketches” of Mr. Joseph C. Neal, of Philadelphia. This edition we have not seen; but have been astonished to hear that the London publisher has been so discourteous as to print Mr. Neal’s compositions, and the engravings which accompanied them, without thenameof the writer, or any farther acknowledgment than a few words speaking of the whole as “from an American source.” Comment upon such meanness seems altogether a work of supererogation; but, in truth, we are in the habit of setting our brethren across the water very bad examples in matters of a somewhat similar kind. That Mr. Dickens had any thing to do with the wrong now perpetrated, we will not, however, believe for a moment.

The contributors to the two volumes reprinted in Philadelphia are among the most celebratedliteratiof England. We have, for example, articles from Dickens, from Leigh Ritchie, Allan Cunningham, Thomas Moore, W. H. Ainsworth, G. P. R. James, Agnes Strickland and several others. It might be supposed, of course, that the collection would be one of high interest: but we are forced to say that itis not. In a case like this, authors (who for the most part are unburthened with pecuniary means) are called upon to furnishgratuitouspapers. It is not surprising that, under such circumstances, they content themselves with bestowing whatever MS. they may have at hand, of least value. Scraps from memorandum-books; effusions of early years kept only as mementos and never destined for publication; fragments of tales or essays definitely abandoned by the author, who has become dissatisfied with his subject or the mode in which it was progressing—matters such as these form invariably the staple of compilations such as this. There is, moreover, another important consideration—one involving a very remarkable truth. Therefuselabor of a man of genius is usually inferior, and greatly so, to that of the man of common-place talent:—very much as the dregs of theCôtes du Rhoneare more viscid than those of Sherry orDe Grâve. It is only necessary to suggest this idea to have it at once fully appreciated and understood. The man of talent pursues “the even tenor of his way.” He is at all timeshimself. With the all-prevalent law of action and reaction he has nothing to do. Never excited into wild enthusiasm, he never experiences its consequent and inevitable depression. Never boldly soaring, he never sadly sinks. To write well, the man of genius must write in obedience to his impulses. When forced to disobey them—when constrained, by the fetters of a methodical duty, to compose atallhours—it is but a portion of his nature—it is but a condition of his intellect—that he should occasionally grovel in platitudes of the most pitiable description. And this fact will go farther than any one hitherto adduced, to explain the character of a fatality which has so constantly attended genius as to have become a sure index of its existence:—we mean the fatality of alternate high eulogium and virulent invective. Few men are conversant with thewholeworks of an author. Now, in the case of two critics of equal ability, it may happen (and we know itdoesfrequently so happen) that the opinion of one may be based solely upon the author’s best efforts, while that of the other is deduced from some mere task-work labored out in hours of the most utter inappetency and exhaustion. The dissent of the latter (a dissent just if we regard only the means of judgment) will, of course, be extravagant in denunciation, precisely in the ratio of his astonishment and indignation at what he supposes the corrupt panegyric of the former.

Therefore, it should not be a matter for surprise that these “Pic Nic Papers” are very great trash, although written by very clever men. Their general merit, in our opinion, is below that of the meremake-weightof our commonest newspapers and magazines. One or two of the articles are notverybad:—Leigh Ritchie’s “Marcus Bell,” for example; a tale entitled “Aunt Honor;” and “The Lamplighter’s Story,” by Mr. Dickens. This last, however, is only tolerable through the manner in which it is told. There is not a single paper ofrealvalue; and more consummate nonsense than the greater portion of the collection we never encountered in any respectable-looking book.

We cannot conclude our notice without a protest against the title-page. To call this paltry publication the “Pic Nic Papers,” and affirm it to beeditedby Mr. Dickens—thus inducing ideas of the popular Pickwick, is a piece of chicanery which not even the end in view can sanction. No body of men are justified in making capital of the public’s gullibility for purposes of charity, public or private—for any purposes under the sun. We do not hesitate to state the present caseplainly. The title affixed to this work has been designedly so affixed, that purchasers, hastily glancing at it, may suppose it a book upon the same plan as the “Pickwick Papers,” andwritten, as they were, by Mr. Dickens. No one who reflects an instant can suppose the intention to have been anything else. Now what is this but the worst species offorgery?

History of the War in the Peninsula, and in the South of France, from the year 1807 to the year 1814. ByW. F. Napier, C. B., Colonel,&c. From the Fourth Edition. Complete in Four Volumes. With Numerous Engravings. Carey and Hart: Philadelphia.

Colonel Napier’s “History of the Peninsula War” is a work whose general features are sufficiently well understood. In the thoroughness of its survey and in the minute and exact particularity of its details, if not in more important and comprehensive regards, it is equalled certainly by no other book on the subject discussed, and perhaps by few histories of any kind. The author’s extensive political acquaintance with the events agitating all Europe at the period investigated, and especially the part he bore in some of these events, with his obvious enthusiasm for military affairs, rendered him as fitting for the task which he has undertaken as any individual of his age. It may be said, indeed, and not altogether paradoxically, that he was somewhattoowell qualified for this task. The agitating incidentsquorum pars magna fuithave so forcibly impressed his imagination as to mislead his understanding in respect to therelativeimportance of these incidents. He discourses of the “Peninsular Campaign” (pretty much, by the way, as all Englishmen discourse of it) as ifit alonewere the proper subject of all human deliberation. No one will be willing to deny the interest which appertains to it, nor the magnitude of the results to which it led. We mean to say, however, that, except to Colonel Napier and the Duke of Wellington, it is not the only important topic in the universe.

Hitherto the American reader of history has been able to procure this work only from our public libraries, and the enterprize of Messieurs Carey and Hart in placing it within reach, is worthy of all commendation. They must have been at unusual expense in this undertaking. The volumes are thick octavos, and are illustrated by no less than fifty-five lithographed plans, (which, by the way, are not very well executed.) At the same time these publishers can scarcely expect remuneration from a very extensive sale. By public institutions and military men the work will be valued and purchased. But beyond these, with few exceptions, the public will content itself with the means already in its power of referring to the history in our libraries. The gentlemen in question are, of course, the best judges of their own affairs; but it does seem to us that they have erred in permitting theforeignvalue and reputation of the work to influence them in making an American reprint.

Ten Thousand a Year. By the Author of The Diary of a London Physician. Carey and Hart: Philadelphia.

There are several circumstances connected with this book which render it an important topic for the critic. We mean its unusual length—the previous reputation of its author—the peculiarity of its subject—the apparent under-current ofdesignwhich has been attributed to it—the wide difference of opinion existing in regard to its merit—and, especially, the fact of its being, if not precisely the first, yet certainly the chief of the class ofperiodicalnovels—the peculiar advantages and disadvantages of which it will afford a good opportunity for discussing. We much regret, therefore, that we have left ourselves no room, in the present number of the Magazine, for an extended analysis of the work. This we may possibly undertake in December; contenting ourselves, in the meantime, with a few observations at random.

It appears to us that a main source of the interest which this book possesses for the mass, is to be referred to thepecuniarynature of its theme. From beginning to end it is an affair of pounds, shillings, and pence—a topic which comes home at leastasimmediately to the bosoms and business of mankind, as any which could be selected. The samecharacterin the choice of subject was displayed by Doctor Warren in his “Passages from the Diary of a London Physician.” Thebodily healthis a point of absolutely universal interest, and was made the basis of all the excitement in that very popular but shamefully ill-written publication.

“Ten Thousand a Year” is also “shamefully ill-written.” Its mere English is disgraceful to an L.L.D.—would be disgraceful to the simplest tyro in rhetoric. At every page we meet with sentences thus involved—“In order, however, to do this effectually I must go back to an earlier period in history than has yet been called to his attention. If it [what?—attention?—history?] shall have been unfortunate enough to attract the hasty eye of the superficial and impatient novel-reader, I make no doubt that by such a one certain portions of what has gone before, and which [which what?] could not fail of attracting the attention of long-headed people as being not thrown in for nothing (and therefore to be borne in mind with a view to subsequent explanation) have been entirely overlooked or forgotten.” The book is full too of the grossest misusages of language—the most offensive vulgarities of speech and violations of grammar. The wholetoneis in the last degree mawkish and inflated. What can be more ridiculous that the frequent apostrophising after this fashion—“My glorious Kate, how my heart goes forth towards you! And thou, her brother! who art of kindred spirit, who art supported by philosophy and exalted by religion, so that thy constancy cannot be shaken or overthrown by the black and ominous swell of trouble which is increasing around thee—I know that thou wilt outlive the storm—and yet it rocks thee! What indeed is to become of you all? Whither will you go? And your suffering mother, should she survive so long, is her precious form to be borne away from Yatton?” &c. &c.

There is no attempt at plot—but some of the incidents are wofully ill adapted and improbable. The moralising, throughout, is tedious in the extreme. Two-thirds of the whole novel might have been omitted with advantage. The character of Aubrey is a ridiculous piece of overdone sentimentality—and in character generally the writer fails. One of the worst features of the whole is the transparent puerile attempt to throw ridicule upon the ministerial party by dubbing them with silly names, supposed to be indicative of peculiarities of person or character. While the oppositionists, for example, rejoice in the euphonious appellations of Aubrey, Delamere, and the like, their foes are called Quirk, Gammon, Snap, Bloodsuck, Rotgut, Silly-Punctilio, and other more stupid and beastly indecencies.

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