but a hireling, you must be aware, in the pay of Longman and Colburne: by the bye, it is somewhat paradoxical that the Literary Gazette has so immense a circulation; between six and seven thousand, I hear. I suppose the interesting extracts give it a zest, aye?

MEVIUS.---Heaven forbid that it should be the criticisms! What is your opinion of L. E. L's. outpourings in this weekly oracle? the snug little quantums of verse from the Improvatrice, Jerdan's protegée you know?

BAVIUS.---Why, it cannot be denied, that she has written many most beautiful gems, some of them breathing a Sappho-like strain; but then we have had from the same pen, innumerable prosy and sickly pieces, replete with palling traits, and amorous feeling disgusting by the frequency of its introduction. She certainly is indebted to Jerdan for her fame; he brought her forward, and now all that is requisite to preserve her fame, is to sport an "L. E. L." occasionally in his Gazette. If you can once obtain a rank in public estimation, however baseless it may be, if scrutinously reviewed, a little exertion will maintain it; repeated failures will scarcely overthrow it.

MAVIUS.---It has often vastly astonished me, to observe how exactly the country newspaper scribblers follow the Literary Gazette. These miserable bipeds appear afraid to advance any dogma of their own, and therefore contentedly remain slavish copiers. Such is the prevalence the Literary Gazette has obtained in its critical statements, that to insure his success, an author had need throw a sop to the Cerberus: two nice columns in the Literary Gazette, well larded with Jerdan's praiseful deductions, will amazingly influence the sale of his book, and never fail to give him a consequence in the eyes of the smaller critical fry. Jerdan we may denominate the leading trumpeter; a good, wholesome, roaring triumph from him on Saturday, will procure you an echo throughout the kingdom for the next week.

BAVIUS.--The Literary Gazette is not indebted to the soundness and depth of its criticisms for popularity: compare the best of the critiques that has ever appeared there, and see if it bear the slightest comparison with those in Johnson's Lives of the Poets?--They are meagre introductions to the book, with a brief synopsis of its plan, written with that satirical facility which practice easily acquires. The copious extracts, and the early notice of new publications, are the basis of its popularity. The Gazette is interesting and useful to criticism; it has but poor pretensions, and perhaps if it were critical in the real sense, its sale would not increase; for the custom of prostituting venality has so palled the public taste, that it is now almost incapable of admiring criticism. Of course you are aware the Literary Gazette is the complete literary servant of certain publications?

MÆVIUS.---Oh, yes!--How is it that the Literary Chronicle lags so much? Its appearance is not so respectable as its rival's; but the principles are more liberal, and the critiques less biassed.

BAVIUS.---There is no paradox here; it is too liberal and fair to succeed :---so much now depends on the booksellers, that unless a periodical uniformly puffs forth their particular publications, they rather prevent than encourage it. We want a new periodical, "A Review of the Reviewers; or, the Critics Criticised."---To review the reviewers, and expose their venal practices, would be no arduous undertaking: the system of puffing prevails now from the Quarterly down to Limbird's two-penny miscellany. If those who reside far from town, and who are accustomed to venerate the denunciations of a metropolitan critic, were to mix awhile in a London literary circle, he would soon learn to estimate "notices" and "critiques" in their proper light. More than one-half are procured by the same method that Charles Wright puffs his be-rhymed "Champaigne”--by money. A favorable critique is generally obtained by interest or money---a mangling one is more frequently the result of a private pique, than the actual opinion on the book reviewed.

MÆVIUS.---Ours may be denominated the "Augustan Age of Periodicals: "---wen have them in every style and shape. There is Ackerman's "Belle Assemblée," to teach the ladies vanity, and the changeful absurdities of dress ;---a " Lady's Magazine," replete with puling tales and pilferd bits of poesy.---The Monthly, the New Monthly, &c. &c. &c.. Magazines, and innumerable minor dirty sheets, sewed up into a periodical form to enlighten tavern-boys, and assist the forthcoming erudite prodigies from the "Mechanics' Institutions."

BAVIUS.-Now we are on the Magazine topic, let us just exchange sentiments on the leading ones. Of all, I prefer Blackwood for strength, originality, wit, and caustic style. There is a manliness in the diction, and a fearless vigor in the articles, which give a smart relish to the opinions they are intended to convey. I own Master

Blackwood occasionally degenerates into the vulgarities of the John Bull newspaper; but considering the spirit of parties, it is tolerably decorous. Many extol the New Monthly above all its compeers; what say you?

MEVIUS.-Why, I confess that I am dissatisfied with all: there is not one that displays the talent the London Magazine did, when Scott edited it; but on the whole, perhaps Blackwood's may be said to be the most solid and valuable Magazine, as they now stand. The New Monthly, through the bookselling efforts of Henry Colburn, Esq. New Burlington Street, the acknowledged prince of publishers, and puff-master-general, bas rapidly increased its sale within these four years. It always abounds with piquant articles, teeming with flashy dialect and gayful allusions, exactly calculated to pamper the appetites of people of ton, who for the most part read the books, as they empty their coffee cups,---just swallow their contents, and think no more about them. The New Monthly, assuredly, excepting an occasional essay by that Antidiluvian, Elia, is too often futile, flimsy, flippant, and excessively prurient. There is little substance in its best articles, and were it not for the timely succour of flashy anecdotes, and fashionable allusions, even these would not be above mediocrity.

BAVIUS.---The London Magazine, I regret to find, has lamentably degenerated; it will not bear comparison with its original appearance in Scott's time. Like the New Monthly, it inserts the traveller's memorandum books, and fills a number of its pages with jokes and anecdotes filched from the newspapers---this won't do. We have no longer any of Hazlitt's Table-Talk, or Elia's Researches.

MÆVIUS.---The Monthly and European is passable, and generally contains at least one article of considerable merit---the rest are of the ordinary cast. In fact, there seems to be a universal degeneracy in Magazine Literature: whether this arises from the bad taste of the age which must be tickled, or that the too great prevalence of Magazines, impedes the advantage of selected articles, I leave for others to determine.

BAVIUS.---We have omitted to mention two more---Urban's Gentleman's Magazine, and Alaric Watts' Literary Magnet. I still maintain a literary reverence for Urban's Miscellany, from considering what it once was, when Johnson and other great scholars were wont to enrich it---not for its present success. The sale has decreased within these

late years.

MAVIUS.---The editor of the Literary Magnet is a bad copiest of Jerdan in his Criticisms, &c. and is by far too splenetic and envious for a liberal editor. Besides, what does he mean by printing "Original" at the head of many of his poetical articles, when half the world has read them in other publications? this is, methinks, but a sorry method of enhancing the publication. In the prose articles, there is rarely any thing very meritorious; and the "Chit-Chat" at the end of the number, has made Mr. Watts very unpopular among the booksellers. There is such pitiful cutting and slashing, such paltry insinuations and spiteful observations, that none but a little-minded reader can applaud the editor, or his bootless attempt. A poet ought to be above such man-millinery.

BAVIUS.---There was a time when I was wont to believe the critiques inserted in these different Magazines: but "experientia docet,"---they are rarely impartial. The New Monthly is at Colburn's service; the Eclectic, &c. &c. at Longman's; the Monthly at Whittaker's; and the London at Hunt and Clarke's, and so on throughout the whole tirade. These Magazines are most convenient machines for giving an impetus to new publications. When the publisher's influence is unconnected with a new book, it stands a poor chance, unless private influence supplies its place. The Monthly Review, I believe, remains tolerably candid.

MEVIUS.--The critiques which appear in the New Monthly, many imagine to be written by Campbell, but 'tis not so: some young man is employed for the purpose, and the common-place observations, and weak arguments, denote the novice, rather than the judicious and erudite critic. I wanted to have touched on the newspapers, but I perceive a visitor is waiting for me, so excuse me ; when next you see me, I trust, I shall have recovered from Jerdan's criticism. Sylvanus Urban bas promised me a cordial.

Review.

Honor O'Hara. A Novel, in three volumes, by Miss A. M. Porter, Author of the " Hungarian Brothers," "Recluse of Norway," &c. &c. &c. London, 1826. Longman and Co.

Would that the world was half so alluring as it is represented in novels! Would that it possessed half those refined characters and enlightened beings we too often read of, and so fondly remember! But that cannot be the cold realities of life, the rugged duties of business, duty, want, and ambitious pride-all conspire to harden and dissipate the endearing plausibilities which characterize the novel of sense and sentiment. How often, after perusing some soul-breathing speech, some unbosomed confession of love or friendship, have we turned away with disappointment from the selfish annoyments of real life! Having the fancy replete with the softest images, and retaining in the eye of imagination all the delectable scenes and personages we have read of, with a melting ardor of thought and a cherished sensibility, an hour spent in the mingled rivalries of the active world, disgusts the mellowed temperament of the mind, dissolves the all-imagined perfections by moving contrasts, and leaves melancholy to pine over disappointed expectations. Such, at least, is the case with ourselves, on rising from the perusal of an agreeable novel; and however removed it may be from the airy nothings of romance and enthusiasm, still we cannot forsake its pages to look for the portraits described, without feeling an inward depression for their absence-they are not in the pages of life. And what has this to do with a review of Miss Porter's novel? nothing at all, reader.

Former success is always an amiable pleader for the like in future; and even a degeneracy in this case is not keenly observed: superiority was anticipated, and our pride sternly endeavours to secure it. The various, amiable, and sensible productions of Miss Porter, have long since entitled her to a high rank in the list of our admired female writers, and were it possible for her to write nonsense in future, an old respect would unwillingly make the detection. Her present production is a novel, intended to "pourtray ordinary life." Our opinion, to effect this without being monotonous, is a more difficult task than the penning of a romance. What is ordinary, is not naturally so apt to interest, as the enchanting fictions of romance, or the tales of enthusiasm; and therefore in the power of creating an interest, consists the talent of a writer, whose intention it is to pourtray ordinary life. The style and language of the novel before us, is of a superior cast, and frequently reminds us of the sound and meaning phraseology in the best pages of the Great Unknown. Unalloyed by the piquant flippancies and refined corruptions which pervade the flimsy novel of ton and fashion, it is masculine and expressive; never dilated into lengthy nothingness, but nervous, elegant, and always applicable to the subject. The work is entitled with the name of the heroine,

Honor O'Hara; and includes so many characters, that our circumscribed review forbids us analyzing all; we must therefore content ourselves with a general survey, and a brief examination of the principal acting personages.

The first chapter opens with a description" of an old tumbledown rectory at the upper end of a straggling village, hanging on a steep hill's side, in the North of England." Within this antiquated dwelling, reside a Rev. Mr. Meredith, his wife, Miss Honor O'Hara, her Irish nurse Betty, with other domestics. Mrs. Meredith is admirably in character throughout; an absurd mass of vulgar ignorance, and coarse intellect: one of those beings so abundant in the world, who sprung from the dust of plebeian obscurity, love to keep down those whom circumstances have depressed, and yet the meanest fawner for the smirk of patronage; ---but we will copy the author here."

"Miss Meredith was in truth a most formidable personage: being a lady, without either temper, sense, or breeding. For eighteen years, it had been her laudable practice to pass through the whole of her house twenty times every day, carrying all before her like a whirlwind; scaring men, women, children, dogs and cats, through the whole of the ordinary day this hurricane blew with the constancy of a trade wind, during which time Mrs. Meredith went slopping about in a dingy gown, and flap-eared cap, but on the signal of a visitor by the evening, the fierce drab changed into a smart woman, all smiles and servility; seated at the card table of a bettermost neighbour, or presiding over her own tea and toast, surrounded by Misses in muslin, and spinsters in scoured satin."

Mr. Meredith, the rector, is a man who "passed his time in his study, meekly submissive to the dominion of the petticoat;" of a "tender heart, a yielding temper, tolerable talents, and much better principles." Disappointed of his first beloved, he was weak enough to admire Miss Simpson, an humble shipowner's daughter; and after his marriage, quietly submitted to the torments of an outrageous scold and tampering temper. Before we come to the hero and the heroine, we can just afford time to glance at the other characters. There is an old baronet, inhabiting of course an old mansion, and displaying all that is generally found in the old Sirs in the pages of a novel. He is nominated Sir Everard Fitz-Arthur; is of a jolly temperament, very hospitable, keeps good ale, and has the family arms quartered, over the stately portico" leading to Arthur Court." Mrs. Preston comes next, having little more originality about her, and if it be possible to image the authoress in her novel, we apprehend she bears a resemblance to herself. Mrs. Shafto is an envious servile wretch, match-contriving, conceited creature, with three conceited husband-hunting daughters. A worthy dean, called Mulcaster, with a delightful family, consisting of a trio of beautiful daughters and most active, buoyant, and jocose son, form a conspicuous feature in the work: there are a great number of minor characters, but we cannot stay to analyze them, and at once proceed to a consideration of the leading two, Honor O'Hara, and Delaval Fitz-Arthur. From these two characters we draw the moral of the volume, viz. that the dreaming fancies of a young, inexperienced, and romantic heart, picturing perfection as necessary to attract and deserve her love, are not safe to be encouraged; they unfit the mind for more strengthening and solid attachments, and make

love to abide in the pride of a heated imagination, instead of being enshrined in the humble affection of a docile and diligent heart. Honor O'Hara is not so perfectly drawn as her lover, Fitz-Arthur: the wavering principles often appear too forced, and rather exhibited for the sake of a moral lesson than the development of character. Fitz-Arthur is exquisitely pictured, proud with meekness, lofty minded without a taint of disdain, warm yet prudent, and though properly estimating the glories of the hero, and the god-like energies of genius, is endowed with a taste for the serene usefulness of domestic life. But, much as we admire the many beautiful descriptions, the deep discernment and research exhibited through each volume,we could not escape a feeling of ennui after the first volume. The incidents are too little varied; every chapter is replete with meetings and partings, sighs and groans, and all the branching transactions of love's dalliance; we are aware, love must be the essence of a novel, but it is possible to develope it in a variety of transactions. We repeat it, the two last volumes are at times exceedingly monotonous; there is nothing bad in style, or trifling in thought; but repeated allusions to a like subject, and tame calloquies, create the fatigue of dullness, instead of the delight of sympathy.

The following is the description of Honor O'Hara.

"Honoria really was charming, and being then at that childish age which privileges men in telling her she is so, the young red and blue coats were not slow in availing themselves of this privilege; and the fond nurse and admiring foster-sister was perpetually repeating what was said of the beautiful Miss Honoria's flower of a face.” Honoria was singularly graceful, possibly from the very freedom of dress and movement. She never thought how she was looking, when met in a fresh morning running over the hills with her hat half blown off her head, all her locks scattered, and her cloak escaping from her laughing struggle to keep it folded round her. She never thought it might look inelegant, when she sat down on some three-legged stool at the foot of a village Goody, her elbow on her knees, her hand crushing half the ringlets of her hair over one side of her glowing face; and while loosening the knotted handkerchief from her throat, getting up in the face of her companion, asking some favorite legend of the Cheviots. By some craft or mystery known only to herself, our heroine had the extraordinary power of giving new expressions to old clothes. If she had a certain large straw hat closely drawn down with a silk handkerchief, she might have gone to a masquerade as a gipsy; if she allowed the same hat to stand wide, with streamers of ribbon, and a few wild flowers twined round its low crown, she was a shepherdess; cast the hat off, and she was a Quaker in her close lawn cap; put that away, and twist the long ringlets of her forehead with the rest of her hair, and the finely shaped head, the expressive brow, and the large lifted eye, made her a Sappho.

"Honoria had a genius for drawing, that is, she sketched rapidly and freely the form of trees, old buildings, cattle, children, in short whatever picturesque group or object caught her attention; but she knew nothing of working them up into a lady-like or workman-like drawings, fit for display. She sang as woodlarks do, sweetly, wildly : her taste was born of her sensibility, her tones were rich and downy, and had a certain pathos in them, which deepened the tender sadness of Scottish melodies, and those of her native land. She could also accompany herself, in a self-taught way, upon the Irish harp. Beyond this accomplishment, Honoria went out. She could, however, work like Arachne, arrange nosegays like Glycerium, make cakes and comfits like Mrs. Glasse, and dress herself at an instant's warning for a ball, out of a few ribbons. She told ghost stories better than any body: she had always some little comic touching anecdote to tell after her tour among the cotters, or some amusing sally ready to answer the bantering of a lovely companion. She was always in good humor, though not always in good spirits. She gossipped with the aged poor, played with their grandchildren, patted their curs,