Bell, Jonathan A. on the Relics of Gothic Architecture in Professional Society's Concert 62 180 AUTHORS of the ODD VOLUME, 67, 194, 260, 305. AUTHOR of the TALES of a PILGRIM, 35. CHAMBERS. (RÓBERT) 10, 57, 159, 142, 169, 250, 265, 293, 294, 307, 379, 415. GILLESPIE, (PROFESSOR) 90, 377. GBANT, (Mrs, of Laggan) 127, 385. HOGG, (JAMES) 9, 12, 87, 109, 113, 141, 258, 337, 352, 374. KENNEDY, (WILLIAM) 112, 322, 386. Institution, Royal, Eighth Exhibition of Pictures 197, 208, 223 Sculpture, Painting, and Architecture, by Dr Memes, Re- WILSON, (PROFESSOR) The Harebells The Vale of Peace WATTS, (ALARIC A.) The Melody of Youth Adeline Sonnet 84 Poetry of Gonzalo di Berceo 237 The Elf King 386 Progress of Society 220 LITERARY CHIT-CHAT AND VARIETIES. Pages 14, 25, 41, 56, 70, 84, 100, 111, 128, 142, 157, 170, 184 199, 213, 226, 240, 251, 258, 281, 296, 309, 323, 338, 552, 366, 387, 402, 419.-App. 17, 19. LITERARY ADVERTISEMENTS, Appendix, 1, et seq. EDINBURGH LITERARY JOURNAL; OR, WEEKLY REGISTER OF CRITICISM AND BELLES LETTRES. No. 1. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 1828. GENERAL INTRODUCTORY REMARKS. THE literature of this country has undergone, since the commencement of the present century, one of those periodical changes, which, in the revolution of years, seem inseparably to connect themselves with all the intellectual pursuits to which the genius and talents of man are directed. It is not to the great ebbs and flows of mind -to the golden or iron ages, which have alternately illuminated and darkened the world, that we mean to allude. We refer to changes of a more limited description; but scarcely less interesting to the philosophical inquirer into the nature of mind, and the various phenomena attendant on its developement. To such a one it must be apparent, that even when the higher powers of man's nature seem to be in equal states of activity, the leading features of those productions by which that activity is made apparent, are widely different at different periods. The fluctuation of taste the alteration in the spirit of the times the commanding influence of one or two bold PRICE 6d. ever been done before. The mere laborious student who for ever quarries on the lore of nations and tongues that are extinct, is known by the depreciating titles of the pedant and bookworm;-the abstracted reveller among theories which exclude all human sympathies, and relate only to the mysterious laws that govern thought and mental perceptions, is distinguished by the equivocal appellation of metaphysician, which, in the lips of many, is meant to imply, that in devoting himself to the investigation of an essence he cannot comprehend, he has overlooked the only part of human nature towards the improvement of which his wisdom might have been usefully expended. Yet, whilst we perceive the errors into which the over-enthusiastic scholar, or the too ardent worshipper of German philosophy, have fallen, it becomes us not to point at them the finger of derision, or to turn away with the self-satisfied conviction of superiority. Without the scholar, the wisdom of the past would have been buried under the ruins of fallen empires; and without the metaphysician, glimpses of a remoter world, and peculiarly constituted minds-are, in general, vague-—of a higher origin,—and of a far nobler destiny, might ly and unsatisfactorily set down, as the causes why a new order of things should arise in the world of intellect, and all the old canons of criticism, by which the value of mental labour used to be ascertained, rendered unstable or swept away altogether. We enter not at present upon any investigation which might lead to more accurate conclusions upon this subject; we wish only to point out the fact, and to direct attention to the influence it is but too apt imperceptibly to exercise over all our judgments. And most especially ought they to be aware of its power, who take upon themselves the important task of attempting to guide, in any degree, the public mind. Whether there be in reality a definable and essential standard of taste-although, like the precious stone sought for by the enthusiasm of early science, it may have hitherto baffled discovery-it is at all events certain, that every age has had its own standard, to which an appeal was made, and by which its decisions were regulated. Different as these standards have commonly been from each other, it is impossible that they can all have been correct; yet, with much error, there may have been much truth in each. That man possesses but a shallow and bigoted discernment who pins his faith upon the predominant mode and fashion, or literary and scientific creed of any one country, or any isolated portion of time. By all reflecting minds this is a truth which is generally admitted; yet in the practice of every day it is but too frequently forgotten. We are all too apt to look only to what is going on around us, and in the pride of our hearts to believe, that what we and our contemporaries are doing is better than what has to some have never been revealed. The same observations which apply to different classes of men, may with propriety be extended to different periods in the history of this or any other country. There was a time when knightly daring and deeds of bold emprize went hand in hand with intellectual culture; and he therefore stood the most conspicuous, whose sword was seen to flash in every word, and whose resounding verse seemed but an echo to the trampling of his warsteed; there was a time when theological research and polemical controversy gave the leading tone and colour to the mind, and when its efforts were estimated only in reference to that engrossing subject;-there was a time when the quiet happiness of an agricultural and astoral state of society took a strong hold of the imagination, and, as in the Arcadia of Greece, or of Sir Philip Sidney, the whole population "babbled of green fields," and limpid rivulets murmured through a thousand eclogues;-there was a time when quaint conceits, and strong antithesis, and startling paradox, and all the untrodden paths of thought, however abstract and refined, or however dependent upon the mere play and jingle of conventional sounds, constituted what was denominated wit, when wit meant something more than mere quickness of fancy or readiness of repartee, and when, for the reputation of possessing that wit, all the dictates of a more sober, and perhaps sounder, taste, were willingly sacrificed ;-there was a time when the nation once more reverted to the chaste and classical models of antiquity,-when their productions, if more subdued in tone, were more sustained in executionwhen the feelings were never violently overwrought, nor the imagination taxed to give birth to all grotesque and fantastic combinations,-when the natural passions of the human breast were thought to possess sufficient interest in themselves, without being distorted into hideous convulsions, or microscopically magnified into impossible proportions,—when beauty was not considered less beautiful because it was simple, or sorrow less deep because it was unpretending ;-and last of all, there was a time, and it commenced with the commencement of the nineteenth century, when this order of things was entirely reversed,-when mere classical correctness was pronounced tame and spiritless, and fast producing that apathetic monotony which would never be roused into animation, startled into energy, or surprised into delight then came the restless longing after novelty, however perplexing, the never-ceasing anxiety to explore regions of thought-of sentiment-of passion-of sensation, hitherto undiscovered, the dangerous craving after strong and stimulating intellectual food, intent only on the present excitement, and altogether regardless of the consequent languor; innumerable delineations followed, not of what human nature was, but of what it was possible it might become; genius was deified, genius was called upon to create, and judgment and knowledge were taken from their thrones, and made to bow the knee before the idols which genius erected. supported'; but let us always remember, that wherever there is thought, there is an exertion of the most god. like attribute which belongs to man-of all his possessions the most valuable; and that in exact proportion to its value is the importance of the use to which it may be put, and the deep responsibility of those who undertake to superintend its progress, and advise regarding its management. We hope that we feel as we ought the weight of this responsibility; we hope we are sufficiently aware that it is no light sin to send forth to the world crude and hastily formed opinions upon works which it took long time and much labour to produce. It is our most earnest desire never to attempt to influence our readers by ill-digested speculations, in which a certain sparkling facility of diction might occupy the place of those solid conclusions to be alone deduced from careful and accurate inquiry. Never may we be led to speak of the books which come before us, until we have bestowed upon them that sufficient and impartial examination, which will satisfy even the authors themselves of our candour, and prove to our readers that we are actuated only by an honourable anxiety to lay before them their true merits. Steadily guided by these principles, we may proceed boldly, and whatever worldly success may crown our labours, we shall ever carry along with us the abiding happiness of a clear conscience. LITERARY CRITICISM. THE ANNUALS FOR 1829. In every country there have been intellectual changes such as these ; and the comprehensive mind, without allowing itself to be stamped with the features of any one era, may find much profit in all. The gay wild songs of the Troubadour need not be despised, because Milton, lifted on the wings of religion, soared a far higher unknown to our ancestors, and of very recent and rapid IT is the peculiar feature of Annuals-a class of books flight; the rural felicities in which Sidney delighted growth-that they embody in their pages all the miscelneed not be turned from as weak and girlish, because laneous, minor, and fugitive pieces of most living authors Donne and Cowley thought more intensely, if not with of celebrity. The plan, in theory at least, is a good one. a sounder estimation of the beauty of creation's works; If the shorter productions of a Sir Walter Scott, a Wordsnor should Addison be left unread, and Pope pronounced worth, or a Coleridge, would be eagerly purchased when uninspired, because the author of " Waverley" sprung volume will be greatly increased in interest that contains published separately, it is but fair to calculate that the into existence, and Byron conceived "Childe Harold." within itself joint effusions from the pens of those and The peculiar character which distinguishes any pass- many other master-spirits of the day. But in this, as ing generation must be interesting to it, and may afford in all terrestrial undertakings, theory is one thing and matter for much useful discourse; but the peculiar cha-execution another. There are moments when the very racter of man, and of the mind of man-for ever active, yet for ever varying-is a theme of more permanent utility and sublimer interest. Let us not then rashly join with those who, with a flippant cleverness, the very common endowment of inferior minds, either maintain that the present infinitely surpasses all past ages, or, falling into an opposite extreme, affect to undervalue every thing that does not agree with their own ideal standard of excellence, and to discover nothing in the unwearying exertion of mental activity which this country exhibits but extreme unprofitableness,—a mere gilding of the external surface of thought, or vain and unjustifiable attempts to penetrate into the hidden arcana of the material and immaterial universe. Let us rejoice, rather, fair reader. Milton, we suspect, would have made but that whatever may be the imperfections attendant upon Locke, Bacon, and Jeremy Taylor, would in all proKeepsake;" and the mode of its dissemination, the light of knowledge, bability have ranked among the rejected writers to the and the softening influence of the litteræ humaniores," Forget-me-Not." Byron failed in his attempt to esta now rest, as a sunbeam, alike upon the palace of the prince and the cabin of the peasant. Much may we have to say, ere the labours which we now commence be concluded, concerning the errors or excellencies of many systems and schools, as well as of the merits or imperfections of those by whom they are mon-place, and in those moments, pressed as they alablest men are little more inspired than the most comto commit their thoughts to paper. It is natural to most always are for time, they are frequently tempted suppose that, in looking over their manuscripts to select scraps for the Annuals, they do not always reject things of this sort, which might never otherwise have seen the light. "Aliquando dormitat bonus Homerus ;" but sleep are eagerly pounced on by the whole host of even the broken mutterings that fall from him in his Annual Editors. Besides, it by no means follows, that, because an author is a great novelist or poet, he is on that account better fitted than any body else to write a short love-tale, or an harmonious copy of verses, cal. culated to kindie the smiles or draw forth the tears of a an indifferent contributor to the " blish a periodical; and Southey's articles in the Annuals are in general among the very worst they contain. The truth seems to be, that they who, at the promptings of views of all subjects, find it extremely difficult to connature, have accustomed their minds to take enlarged tract their thoughts into a narrower compass, and to content themselves with a more microscopic range of vision. A much humbler degree of talent accomplishes this task with far greater facility. It is upon these principles that we are inclined to account for the disappointment we commonly experience in looking over an Annual. For weeks before, our expectations have been raised by advertisements of all kinds, and announcements of the splendid preparations which the editor and publishers are making;-long lists of names are circulated; and every name is a household word in our lips, and seems in itself a host. But when at length the expected volume is put into our hands, and we anxiously turn over leaf after leaf, till we come to the end, our exclamation, with the countryman in the fable, is one of mingled regret and surprise,-Quale caput! cerebrum non habet!—There is, at the same time, an elegance and grace about these little books-a lucky choice in the time of their appearance-and a pleasant feeling in their intended appropriation,-all of which are apt to soften the critic's heart, and to "Win the wise, who frown'd before, To smile at last." When there were only one or two of these New-Year's Gifts, it was perhaps right to treat them thus leniently; but now that their numbers have so amazingly increased, -that so much money is expended on them, and that so much time is occupied in preparing and in reading them, we are far from thinking that this over-indulgence should be continued. Wherever there is competition to so great an extent, it becomes the duty of the public to ascertain which of the parties are most entitled to support, and instead of scattering their unprofitable favours among the whole, bestow upon the really deserving a liberal and steady patronage. We cannot, therefore, in the present instance, join with those who repeat the hackneyed proverb, that "comparisons are odious," and refuse to point out any distinctions, because all possess a greater or less degree of merit. We think that more Annuals have been published this year than will ever be again; and as some must perish, we consider it our duty to assign to each its comparative rank, and thus give those that deserve it the best chance of remunerating their respective proprietors, both now and afterwards. We shall say a few words upon each, and shall endeavour to point out all the substantially good articles it contains ;-of the inferior pieces, we shall either be silent, or express in passing our disapprobation. We shall take them up not in any particular order; but after reviewing the whole, we shall class them as their merits seem to deserve. The Keepsake, edited by F. M. Reynolds. Hurst, disagreeably felt, although want of experience might 64 It is to the admirable artist, Charles Heath, that it is chiefly indebted for its exquisite embellishments. Line engraving was undoubtedly never before carried to the perfection it has attained in this country within the last few years. We do not mean to assert that finer specimens of the art have been recently produced upon that larger scale, which till lately was rarely deviated from by engravers of celebrity. But the rapidly-increasing taste for combining pictorial embellishment with literary productions, and the lucrative employment thus afforded to artists, have induced an attention to minuteness of detail and inimitable delicacy of execution, which have not hitherto been paralleled. The largest picture is reduced to the size of a duodecimo page, with a degree of accuracy so complete, that the smallest leaf does not disappear from a landscape,-nor is the slightest shade of difference in the expression of the individual features of a magnificent portrait ever perceived. There is here a very great triumph of human ingenuity; and it is impossible to avoid feeling obligation to the artist who thus not only gives to perpetuity, but sends into our own closet bound up with the books we read, all the most brilliant creations of painting. Judging by the numerous engravings in the Annuals before us, the persons to whom England is most indebted for their successful exertions in this way are, Charles Heath, Charles Rolls, E. and W. Finden, E. Goodall, J. H. Robinson, H. Le Keux, F. Engleheart, F. and E. Portbury, J. Romney, R. Graves, J. Goodyear, and one or two others who, we doubt not, deserve to be named, though we have not had the same opportunities of discovering their abilities. There are nineteen embellishments in the " Keepsake," of which Heath himself has supplied ten, and on the whole the best,-if we except "Anne Page and Slender," by Rolls, who is an artist of first-rate talent. It is unnecessary to particularize the engravings which please us most-they are all beautiful. "Lucy and her Bird" is probably the most commonplace, both in subject and execution; whilst the portraits of the Duchess of Bedford and Mrs Peel are of that sort which set criticism at defiance. Though we have dwelt thus long on the embellish THIS Annual is of a larger size, and sold at a higher price, than any of the rest, with the exception of the "Anniversary." All that it is in the power of typography, paper, binding, and engraving, to do for a book, has been done for the "Keepsake," of which one of the earliest copies that has been sent to Scotland is now before us. When we give the "Keepsake" this praise, we say a good deal more than some of our read-ments, we are happy to have it in our power to say, that ers may be inclined at first sight to suspect. It is no easy matter either for editor or publisher, and implies no trifling degree of taste and judgment, to get up a work which, in so far as external beauty is concerned, will, in all respects, do honour to the drawing-room of the fairest and the noblest of the land. This is a talent of itself, which ought not to go unnoticed. Printers, however excellent, may, to the cultivated eye, destroy the appearance of a whole page, by making the margin too long or too short by a single line, too broad or too narrow by a single letter, by misarranging a title, by using capitals instead of italics, by inserting a single space more or a single space less, by a thousand minute errors of judgment, the general effect of which would be the literary contents of the "Keepsake" are in many respects little less deserving of notice. None of the Annuals exhibits so strong a list of names, though several of them contain a greater number of articles. There is scarcely a contribution in the "Keepsake" to which a well-known signature is not attached. Sir Walter Scott comes first. He has contributed four pieces of prose,— two of which are little more than anecdotes; the third is only a new edition of a story he heard many years ago from Miss Seward; but the fourth is a very powerful and highly graphic sketch, occupying the first forty-four pages of the book, and entitled "My Aunt Margaret's Mirror." It is a tale of necromancy; and the scene is laid in Edinburgh, about the beginning of the eighteenth century. It is one of those productions which, however hurriedly the Author of Waverley may occasionally write, are continually presenting themselves to convince us that no man living possesses the same graphic and extraordinary powers. The three other pieces are of a much inferior kind. That called the "Death of the Laird's Jock," which was written to furnish a subject for the pencil, does not, we think, supply very successfully what was wanted; and accordingly, we perceive by Heath's engraving after Corbould, that the attempt to make a fine picture out of it has entirely failed, the effect produced is overstrained, disagreeable, and unnatural. Sir Walter Scott is not altogether to blame for this: the incident, as he relates it, is poetical, but not resting on any known historical foundation, it does not possess any point sufficiently striking to merit its being embodied on canvass. -Some posthumous fragments of Percy Bysshe Shelley next attract our attention. The few remarks, in prose, "On Love," are pregnant with thought, as indeed is all that Shelley has ever written. Yet the remarks will not be popular, for the thoughts do not lie at the surface, and ordinary readers will not give themselves the trouble to penetrate deeper in search of them. There are three scraps of poetry, too, by the same author, which we perused with interest; for all that remains of Shelley tends to throw some light upon the peculiar idiosyncrasy of one of the most remarkable and original minds that this country ever produced. Our readers will be glad to see one of those effusions, which, though on a lighter subject, bears the strong impress of Shelley's usual current of thought :— THE AZIOLA. "Do you not hear the Aziola cry? Methinks she must be nigh," Said Mary, as we sate In dusk, ere stars were lit or candles brought; This Aziola was some tedious woman, I felt to know that it was nothing human, And Mary saw my soul, And laugh'd, and said, "Disquiet yourself not 'Tis nothing but a little downy owl." Sad Aziola! many an eventide Thy music I had heard By wood and stream, meadow and mountain side, Such as nor voice, nor lute, nor wind, nor bird Unlike and far sweeter than them all. From Shelley the transition is easy to his widowone of the daughters of Godwin-and well known as the author of "Frankenstein," and "The Last Man." She has furnished two tales to the "Keepsake," written in a less wild and gloomy style than that in which she usually indulges, and bearing evident indications of a well-cultivated and masculine mind, with here and there some touches of a softer description, which do as much credit to the heart as the rest does to the head. There is a good deal of poetry from Wordsworth, but we have seen the bard (as his more enthusiastic admirers have christened him) to greater advantage. There are some fine thoughts, sprinkled here and there like flowers over a meadow, in the pieces alluded to; but between these thoughts there is too much of the bare sod-or, to talk less metaphorically, a little of the prolixity and feebleness of advancing life." The Triad," in particular, is rather a long poem, and is meant to contain a highly poetical description of three beautiful nymphs; but to us we confess it is, on the whole, exceedingly mystical and unintelligible, and, moreover, considerably fuller of words than of ideas. There are two sonnets, however, by the same author, which possess much simple beauty and force.-Lord Nugent's " Apropos of Bread" is clever, but not quite so good as we had hoped.L. E. L. (Miss Landon) has this year wisely written much less in the Annuals, and consequently what she has written is better, and has a more vigorous tone. She has two copies of verses in the "Keepsake," both of which are good.-Moore is the only living author who seems resolutely to have held out against the temptations offered by the Editors of Annuals. We do not remember ever to have seen a single line of his in any of these books. There is a trifle entitled "Extempore" by him in the "Keepsake," but we are informed in the preface it was obtained from a friend, in whose possession it happened to be-not from the author himself. We are not sure that Moore's conduct is not more dignified, and evinces higher self-respect, than that of those who, from motives either of gain or vanity, allow their name and productions to be continually bound up with so much that is trifling and ephemeral. But this is matter of opinion, upon which we would not too dogmatically insist. If we did, a strong argument would start up against us in Coleridge. He has several contributions in the "Keepsake," and one of these, “The Garden of Boccaccio," is out of all sight the finest poem in the book,-indeed, we regard it as one of the finest minor pieces which even Coleridge himself, with all his variety of imagery, and fine flow of strong and original thought, has ever written. We cannot deny ourselves the pleasure of quoting at least a part of it : THE GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO. Of late, in one of those most weary hours, I sate and cower'd o'er my own vacancy! Like flocks adown a newly-bathed steep, The brightness of the world, O thou once free, O Florence! with the Tuscan fields and hills, |