the subject farther, and we fear we shall rather be accused of having been already ridiculously prolix in the process of "breaking these butterflies upon the wheel." No one, certainly, can form a more contemptuous estimate of them than ourselves, but we may be allowed to question whether there can be anything too contemptible to be disgraceful. We are well aware that these literary locusts were merely intended to flutter their day or month amongst the circulating libraries, but "when every day and month sends forth a new one,” can it be expected that our literary constitution, however strong, can be proof for ever against these incessant incursions? Besides, can it really be a matter of such utter indifference to any one who has the slightest regard for the honor of our literature, that a department of it which has been consecrated by the cultivation of such masters as Fielding, Richardson, and Goldsmith, and (in our own day) has been chosen by one, throughout the world second only to Shakspeare, should have fallen into the hands of fools?-that Fiction, which has hitherto been held sacred as the shrine of our feelings and the mirror of our hearts"to shew virtue her own feature and scorn her own image"-should have drivelled into a mere vehicle for the tracasseries of a ball-room or the airs of a petit maitre? We must confess that in looking over the cotemporary trash poured forth from the press of Paris, our national pride has reason to be anything but exalted at the comparison. The works of our neighbours are, indeed, low enough-mean enough -foul enough, perhaps but their ho mage, however depraved or senseless, is still addressed to the human heart. Like the heathens of old, indeed, they appear to have been personifying alike all the propensities of our nature-the basest as well as the noblest--and, with undiscriminating allegiance, erecting an altar to each; but, to do them justice, they have not, like the mindless savage, and-must we add it?-the countrymen of Shakspeare-they have not yet begun to make for themselves idols of silver and gold. We must say, moreover, that we cannot but feel that these novels reflect disgrace not merely upon our literature, but upon our national character in every way. As for the noble and honorable blockheads who have thus condescended to make fools of themselves for the amusement and edification of the would-be fashionables of the village-who, for this magnanimous purpose, have not disdained even to turn hacks to the circulating libraries or bookmakers to Mr. Colburn-we would ask them, for their own sakes, do they call this patrician? As far as they are themselves concerned, however, it is their own affair; but on the part of the public, we would take the liberty of asking them for whom do 'they take themselves, or for what do they take us, that they have thus the impudence to exhibit their niaiseries for our admiration—to put their very yawns into print and offer them to us to purchase? Or rather let us ask, in a spirit of more becoming humility, for what ought they to take us that we have not long ago taught them better? There is one point connected with this subject which we cannot pass hommes de génie, ayant à moissonner dans un champ tout nouveau, out su se rendre illustres, malgré les difficultés qu'ils avoient à vaincre; mais la cessation des progrés de l'art, depuis eux, n' est-elle pas une preuve qu'il y a trop de barrières dans la route qu'ils ont suivie?"—De L'Allemagne, t. 1, p. 2, c. 15. In fact, fatal as is the natural incapacity of Mrs. Gore and her class of writers, it would be unfair to deny that some of the most ludicrous of her absurdities originate in the difficulties of her position. In undertaking to give us a portrait of the manners of high life, she incessantly vibrates between her inclination to make what she looks upon as an interesting view, and her contract to furnish us with a true one. She, doubtless, thought the rape with which she embellished Lord Forreston's adventures would contribute to make a good picture at the expense of the fidelity of the painter. That a good likeness would be good for nothing she appears to be innately conscious; and, indeed, how far she is right in that conviction will never be matter of doubt to any one who looks over her "Sketch-book of Fashion," where the interest of one of the stories turns entirely upon the efforts which are made (by several members of the coteries of the pavilion at Brighton) to prejudice George the Fourth against the tournure and fashion of a certain foreign Ambassadress. Whether Mrs. Gore was right or not in imagining that incidents, such as she has introduced, were agreeable substitutes for such cabals, she was not far wrong in supposing that she could hardly hit upon anything less likely to attract the attention or excite the interest of the people outside of the Pavilion, than the betrayal of such very petty tales out of school. unnoticed. It so happens that all the authors of these works belong to the party of the Destructives. We need not say that we are proud and happy to observe it. The vulgarspirited vanity which gives birth to such productions, and the disgraceful servility which delights in them, are equally in place in a jacobinical dandy or a democratical lackey-to whose base and grovelling vision it is natural enough that rank and station should appear, not in the lofty and ennobled light of a solemn trust, loaded with important duties, and charged with awful responsibilities, but under the more congenial aspect of a paltry accidental advantage, valuable only as conferring upon its inheritors the poor privilege of narrow-minded arrogance and low-lived insolence. In the mouths of such beings, whether they call themselves tories or radicals (extremes well met), such vanity and such servility have a peculiar fitness-a poetical propriety but let every true Englishman, whatever be his political name (for on such a subject we should scorn to appeal to party feelings), spurn them with becoming contempt. and which must therefore continue to pass current-and would laugh at him who should propose to him to squabble about it. He is not servile; it is ambition that makes your true slave. Not, indeed, the ambition of a Milton or a Napoleon--not the aspirations of the eagles, but of the reptiles of society of those who, not having wings to soar, when they would rise-must crawl. These are they who, however loudly they may mouth it about tyranny and liberty, yet know not even the meaning of the very name of Independence; but, being well aware that their metal is base, would purchase, at any cost, the counterfeit stamp which they depend upon to force them into currency. These are they who are to be met with at the circulating libraries, scrambling for the earliest glimpse of the last three-volume foolery sent forth to announce the latest whirl of the weathercock of Fashion-angling for their second-hand airs and gaping for their cast-off graces; and thus proving, by their actions, too plainly for their assertions to disprove, that however bitterly they may harangue against the excesses of those who are bidden to the banquet, they are themselves hungering for the very crumbs that fall from the table. They would fain persuade themselves-these philoso Now, without for an instant touching upon the question of republicanism without going to work to prove that, until it shall please God to make all men equal both in mind and body-phers of the counter-these sages of the abolition of our present social institutions, and the distinctions depending upon them, would be the establishment, not of a general liberty, but of a general scramble for tyranny, in which, while all parties would suffer, the weaker would be trampled into dust-leaving, we say, this point undefended to the mercy of our spoutingclub sages and political-union philosophers of those wiseacres who have not yet come, and those who (as Mr. Hardcastle says) never will come to years of discretion-we shall content ourselves with remarking on the wide difference which distinguishes a healthy and manly loyalty to established institutions from the slavish and dirty sycophancy evinced by the success of these novels. He is not servile who can be content to remain in the station to which he was born, however humble, if unconscious-aye, or even if conscious of talents which would qualify him for a higher. He who is truly and proudly conscious that "the man's the gold" can well afford to look upon "the guinea-stamp" in its true lightas that for which society has its uses, Cockaigne-that they look with supreme contempt, as they speak with utter profanity of the mysteries which encompass the shrine of Rank and Fashion. Be it so. We have no wish to press the matter further.Bigoted as they may deem us, we wish for no more satisfactory guarantee than they have already afforded us, that while they are blaspheming the idol with their tongues, in their hearts they are bowing down in homage before its very shadow. We are no political hypochondriacs, disposed to magnify every temporary and trifling inflammation of the public mind into the harbinger of a hopeless gangrene, or the forerunner of an utter disorganization of the system; nor are we any of the political empirics who would play upon the terrors of such; but while cheerfully admitting that the moral and political constitution of the British people is still sound at heart, we certainly are convinced that the last fever has been characterised by a degree of delirium far exceeding any previously manifested by the periodical convulsions of John Bull. The shadow, however, is fast passing from his soul; and when it shall please him to come altogether to his senses again, and examine into the pathology of his recent paroxysms with all the cool discrimination of convalescence, it may perhaps be esteemed a diagnostic not altogether unworthy of notice, that the Earl of Mulgrave and the author of Pelham were radicals -that Mrs. Gore and others of the. 'silver fork' school were puffed by the Westminster Review-and, generally speaking, that the æra which obliged our senate to endure the presence of the scum of our madhouses and the offscouring of our gaols, was the period also which humbled our literature with the insolent imbecility, the drivelling arrogance of the "Fashionable Novels." We have already, perhaps, devoted too large a space to a subject which the greater part of our readers will doubtless consider of minor importance. Yet we cannot abandon it without begging leave to add a few lines upon a point which is eminently forced upon our notice, by a survey of the works with whose titles we have headed the present article. We mean the striking degeneracy of the belles lettres of our day. The laudatores temporis acti have, indeed, been deservedly laughed at for their absurd lamentations over the increasing depravity of mankind, from the atas parentum pejor avis of Horace down to the Wisdom-of-our-ancestors' vendors of the present day. But without adopting the supposition of any deteriorating principle in our intellectual, any more than in our moral character, we think there are obvious reasons to account for the fact (the existence of which we presume no one will venture to deny) that the trashy part of our literature at the present day is not only greater than at any previous æra, but also bears a much larger relative proportion to the whole mass. In the first place, the universal extension of education has had the effect of calling into existence a herd of scribblers who, in a former age, would have been as unable to write as they still are to think; for it must be recollected that the tuition which supplies them with the mechanical power, leaves them still as destitute as ever of the materials of composition -we mean the products of those subtler processes of thought which must be perfected before all that art can offer us has anything to exercise itself ирон. But we consider the influence which the present state of society has exerted upon men of real genius to be a matter of infinitely more importance than the craziness of all Mr. Colburn's bookmakers put together. We might put up with the generation of an infinity of trash, but it is impossible to help mourning over the evident and daily perversion of minds that were intended by nature for the production of far nobler fruit. It has been, however, the inevitable effect of the present spread of superficial information to substitute for the "fit audience though few" (to whose applause the candidate of former days appealed for the earnest of his immortality), the great body of the public. The constitution of the kingdom of literature having thus in fact been rendered too democratic, it is hardly to be wondered at that even the proudest patricians of its realms, while compelled to court the favour of the mob, have been induced to waver sadly in their allegiance to "Prince Posterity;" and that their works should bear evident traces of having been written rather to please the purchasing marry than the discerning few. Genius having, moreover, become of late so profitable an article of merchandize, can scarcely be expected to remain emancipated from the general laws of traffic; and, accordingly, the irresistible temptations of immediate remuneration arising from the rapidity of circulation, have naturally, in most instances, overpowered the vague and visionary yearnings after that nobler but less palpable inheritance which is to be purchased from eternity only by the utter sacrifice of the present. We have discovered, in short, that the ground upon which, in less scientifically moneymaking days, would have been planted an oak to be reverenced by our children's children, may be rendered much more available for lucrative purposes by crops which will ripen in six months and be forgotten in twelve; and the intellectual treasures which our ancestors would have lavished upon the construction of the cloudcapt tower or the gorgeous palace, to be dissolved only with the great globe itself, the wealthy of our own day expend in the erection of innumerable gingerbread fabrics, only intended and only worthy to last for their nine days' lease. As we cannot help feeling convinced that the abuse of the modern practice of anonymous criticism has tended, in a great measure, to aggravate these evils, under the influence of which literature appears to be fast drivelling from the rank of even a mere trade into that of a dirty scramble, which men of honor can be anxious only to escape from, we shall close this article with a few remarks upon that subject. Anonymous criticism is, perhaps, the necessary production of the present state of society and literature. The immense and incessant accumulation of literary matter has rendered absolutely indispensable to the majority of the public an institution of professional sifters to separate the grain from the chaff; and society appears to have tacitly given in its acquiescence to the dominion of these aristocratic tribunals, whose edict under their vague and impersonal mask incorporates, as it were, the suffrages of the public, and on the one hand makes known to the author those plain but salutary truths which from his friends he would not hear, and from his enemies he would not heedand, on the other, stands between him and the mob to furnish him with his passport if he be deserving of it, and not unfrequently to plead his cause and point out in his works those fine strokes of art which are "caviare to the general." In the long run, indeed, it is pretty certain that the author of talent has nothing to fear from the vast and apparently irresponsible power thus insensibly vested in his judges. A dishonest system of depreciation, at least, can never be kept up in the face of the public for any length of time but we are not quite so sure that the leniency which has of late been so universally extended to the wretched scribblers of the hour has not been altogether at the expense of the really meritorious author. We are not now arguing against puffing in general. We are well enough aware that so long as it is in the nature of things for the majority of the public to be ignorant, the success of imposture will always be sufficient to ensure an extensive supply of literary as well as of medical or political quacks. We should as soon think of attempting to put down "the Balm of Gilead" or " The Elixir of Life" by reasoning, as to check the circulation (amongst a certain class) of these " decidedly best novels of the day" by rational criticism. But is it not too bad to have the highest authorities in the court turning volunteer liars in their behalf, and swearing along with those who are paid for swearing? Have they not the Literary Gazette and the New Monthly Magazine?-and can they not beg their daily praise from the newspapers? The quarterly journals were wont to glory in their severity; and we confess we are sorry to see them degenerating in that respect; for even when pushed to a fault, it is an excellent fault. We know that it is or was the fashion to talk a vast deal of common-place cant about nipping genius in the bud and soforth; but we have no reverence for common-places, and care not a brass farthing for cant. Genius-real genius needs no guardian that -might not, beteem the winds of Heaven, Visit its cheek too roughly. It is It is a plant of a firmer texture and a hardier growth; and, as more than Byron's instance might prove, is not to be whistled down by the shrillest bluster of even the Northern blast.' the shameless puffer whose pestilential breath poisons the very atmosphere of literature; while the swarms of locusts which he calls into existence, fall like a mildew upon the hopes of saplings which would have gathered only strength from the pelting of the storm. It isnot men of genius-no, nor men of sterling talent of any denomination-who are benefited by a system of imposture which forces every spurious counterfeit into equal circulation. An unflinching --an unsparing severity is what they ought to cry out for in their own defence. The tempest is the best test of the real stamina of the shrub; and the -. best nurse of all that are worthy to survive it; and the few withered and worthless leaves which it may tear from the exuberant foliage of the oak, will be a cheap price to pay for the inestimable advantage of having the ground around its roots cleared from the weeds and brambles that entangle and exhaust it. Ought not the leaders of every party to unite in the preservation of some tribunal (secure from the intrigues of literary charlatans and critical impostors) where men of honor may appeal for justice, though it be to the code of Draco,-and even those who despair of surviving the ordeal, may at least cry out with the despairing Greek δεν δε φάει και όλεσσο The subject is of too great importance to be adequately discussed in the limited space we have here left ourselves; and indeed we should rather wish to see it taken in hand by journals of higher authority and more lofty of their own unhallowed traffic, daring to blaspheme the names and insult the shrines of the very prophets by whose memories it has been consecrated, pretensions. We ought perhaps to apologize for having thus presumed to lay our hand upon the ark, were it not that the apathy of its more able and appropriate guardians fur--though the anathema, indeed, should nishes the best excuse for our interfe- come from the high priests, yet even Besides, when we see these the hewers of wood and the drawers shameless swindlers, not contented with of water must be permitted to join intruding into the temple the practice their voices in the response. rence. THE KEG OF POTTEEN. A TALE. Well, not a farden more I'll abate you, Tim; it's too chape you'll be after having it already." “Come, thin, I suppose I need say no more about it, Larry; so here's the money." "And here's the receipt, Tim; and here's towards your good health! and I pray that THE STILL may have as good look with you as it had with me; and, troth! if it has you'll have small raison to repint your bargain. I'm working that still now, Tim-let me see-going hard on seven years, and not so much as a grasshopper, let alone a gauger, ever thwarted me oncet. It's a mighty looky consarn entirely, Tim." "Ough! thin, sure it's myself 'ill be satisfied if it only thrives half as well with me as it did with you, Larry," auswered his companion, "but somehow or other you were fort'nate beyant all I ever seen or heerd tell of." By dad! you may say that, and no lie, Tim; and thankful for it I am; I did make a purty little penny in it sure enough. And now, may be, I wont stock my farm with my hard honest airnings, and live dacent and respietable for the rest of my born days wid my poor wife, and my thirteen little childher: and is n't that a comfort to think of? and sure wont you yourself, Tim, have the same comfort one of these days?" "Certainly, Larry, I may, at laste I hope so; and sure! your words revives me here's your health! come, fill your glass!" "No more for me jist now, Tim, I'll bid you good bye a vich, for I must hurry on to the HALL with the little keg that you see here." Sure thin, Larry, it was just about that same keg that I was going to spake. Now I put it to yourself, as it's the last keg of all on hands of your own running, tundher-an'-ounties! dont you think now, that in all conscience, the laste you can do is to throw it into the bargain to me?" "Hoot! toot! toot! asy, Tim, asy, Tim, darlint! asy, why a vich ma chree, it id be as much as my life is worth to disappoint the 'squire, down at Ballyshindy Hall, of it, now that he has set his heart upon it. For, you see, as it was he that tuk my very first keg of all, Larry,' says he to me only last Sunday, and we coming out of the chapel afther mass, Larry, your soul!' says he, you're giving up business now,' says he, and if you dont bring me the very last keg of all, bad seran to me,' says he, if I wont be the death of you! Besides, Tim, he's a gentleman, and he's my foster brother, and he was always a good friend to me, and I've no doubt he'll be a good friend to you too, or a good customer at laste, for he can't do a-thout the dhrink. I'm certain sure he's able to take more potcheen whisky, at a sitting, nor any other two I ever laid eyes 'pon. And it's he that likes it. Disappoint him! talk's chape! I dar'nt, Tim, so no more about the keg." the Why, in that case of coorse But, harkee! Larry, I heard accidint ly from one of the boys, that Mac Ullage, gauger, intended to pay a visit to Ballyshindy-town and parish-this day, ware-hawk! that's enough! good bye!" Good bye, Tim, and success, ma bouhil!" said Larry as he shook his friend's hand, “never fear for me-not a gauger ever peeled a pratie that Larry O'Leary is not able to do." “Then look out sharp to-day," said his friend, Tim Moran, as he departed to take possession of his newly purchased distillery: while Larry, placing the precious keg in a little ass's dray (the occupant of whose shafts had been quietly browsing beside them, during the whole of their debate,) proceeded |