And on it there were young flowers growing, The fish swam by the castle wall, As then to me he seem'd to fly." lieve that long ages have passed since he inhabited the cell. We see him seated at the foot of one of these pillars -not in seething darkness—but in the broad cold glare of day, which shows him more clearly how completely he is isolated from all society. These are no common dungeons. Tyranny hath lavished all her pomp upon them, as if to make them a temple wherein the victims to her pride might be worthily immolated. Yet does not the illustrious captive droop, or "'bate one jot of heart." He thinks only of the cause for which he suffers, and the thought strengthens him. He sits proud and un Were it not for the localities, the Chillon of Byron has as little likeness to the Chillon of reality, as Monmouth to Macedon. The poet took the hint of a dungeon and a martyr to his faith from Chillon, but this was all. Both prison and prisoner are the creatures of his own imagina-bending—an innocent Marius upon the ruins of despotism, tion. It is Bonnivard who is the spirit of Chillon, and he is as little like the sentimentalist of Byron's fancy as may well be. Indeed, such a creature as the latter never existed save in the brain of a deeply-read, passionate, and imaginative poet, too young to have an accurate perception of charac ter. He is neither a robust and gigantic son of Uri, nor a sturdy burgher of Berne, nor an acute and fickle citizen of Geneva. He is an amplification of the story extant in our schoolbooks of the old Chinese, who, upon being liberated at the death of an Emperor, and finding all with whom he could claim kindred dead, begged to be shut up again; and he is as inferior to our old friend in simple and intense pathos, as he is superior in imaginative sentiment. Bonnivard was a character of a different stamp-a scholar, and a man of the world. He was not one who adhered to a faith merely because it was his father's-he burst the bonds of old superstition-he stood up against the feudal tyrants of the day, He suffered a long and dreary imprisonment, but he did not come forth from it with a crippled heart and alienated understanding. He came forth as able and willing as ever to do battle for civil liberty and the reformed religion. Nor was he one of those who contend for liberty with a blind faithsturdy souls, such as in all ages have striven to shake off oppression, merely because it sat uncomfortably heavy upon their shoulders--good and useful private soldiers in the armies of freedom. Bonnivard was one of those superior minds who love liberty much for itself, but more for the blessings it brings-increase of intellectual power and moral worth. And, accordingly, we find him, when safely seated among his fellow-freemen of Geneva, under his own vine and his own fig-tree, doing all in his power to promote science and pure tolerating Christianity. There is a touch of romance, too, in the adventures of Bonnivard. Of a noble and privileged family, early taught to feel the advantages of rank-for he was appointed to the priory of St Victor at the early age of fourteenhe boldly espoused the cause of the republicans of Geneva, when their liberties were threatened by their bishop and the Duke of Savoy. For this he was cast into a dungeon when no more than twenty-three, and detained a prisoner for two years. Afterwards, while crossing Mount Jura, in 1530, he was encountered by robbers, who first plundered and then delivered him into the hands of his inveterate enemy the Duke of Savoy. He remained in the dungeon of Chillon till 1536, when he was delivered by the invading army of Berne. triumphantly received by the enfranchised Genevese, who adopted him as a citizen, presented him with a house, and allotted him a pension, his own estates having been confiscated. He was It is the memory of this champion of humanity that hallows the dungeons of Chillon, attracts us thither as pilgrims, or makes us rejoice in the possession of their counterfeit. There needs no material gloom to add to the horror with which we regard the walls which confined the generous, the brave, the devoted. Puling lamentations over the rending of human ties are an impertinence they break in upon the intellectual majesty of his sufferings. We look upon the traces which his steps have left in the rocky floor, till we can scarcely be which he has overthrown by raising his soul above its petty malice. How much more worthy of such a scene is Byron's Sonnet on, than his Prisoner of, Chillon! "Eternal spirit of the chainless mind! Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art, To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, And thy sad floor an altar-for 'twas trod, Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, LITERARY CRITICISM. The Characters of Theophrastus; illustrated by Physiognomical Sketches. To which are subjoined Hints on the Individual Varieties of Human Nature, and General Remarks. (Being Vol. XIV. of the Family Classical Library.) London. Printed by A. J. Valpy. 1831. In the ancient world, Greece alone (perhaps we might even restrict the assertion to Athens) produced a body of ethical philosophy. The prophets, the teachers of the "chosen seed," restricted themselves to the occasional enunciation of moral axioms-deeply felt, comprehensive, embodied in glowing poetry; they sought to establish no systematic digest of moral truth. Other Oriental nations wasted their time in twisting what moral precepts they elaborated into fantastic enigmas. The Romans hung festoons of beautiful illustration around the temple reared by the Greeks, but added neither to its compass nor its solidity. They traced out with greater accuracy some minute fibres of the moral frame, but they took no commanding view of its circumference, or the bearing of its parts. In Athens, however—a city against which it has pleased certain elegant scholars of the day to discharge all their narrow stock of small envenomed sarcasms—a succession of philosophers laid broad and deep the foundations of a system of moral philosophy,―nay, carried the building to a height which has not, even to this day, been much overtopped. First came Socrates-the practical philosopher. Of the doctrines which he propounded, and the peculiar bent of his investigations, we know nothing directly. What accounts we have of them are contained in the writings of his disciples, and more or less tinged and modified by their peculiar habits of thought. As far, however, as we can judge, he studied with an acute discernment the characters of men, and the relations in which human beings stand to each other and to the physical universe, in order to discover precepts for the regulation of their actions, by an adherence to which the sum of happiness might be increased. He seems to have disregarded mere speculative knowledge, to have pursued such enquiries alone as could be turned to a practical use. If we can trust Xenophon-and the simple, unambitious "His soul was as a star, and dwelt apart: He had a voice whose sound was like the sea, Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free." To him succeeded Aristotle, without the everyday practical wisdom of Socrates, and without the wrapt poetic grandeur and beauty of Plato, but with a subtlety of apprehension, and a grasp of intellect, which has never been equalled. Socrates taught practical morality as far as it regulates our outward conduct to others. Plato taught practical morality as far as it regulates the in ward man. Aristotle did neither the one nor the other. portment in society. Aristotle arranged the results of their investigations in scientific form, and made a bold How much has since been offer at a theory of morals. added to what they have achieved, we may enquire upon some other occasion. Ous object in making this recapitulation at present, is to show the progress made in moral science at the time Theophrastus commenced his career, as the only fair method of estimating the value of his works. The original name of this philosopher was Tyrtamus. He was born in Lesbos, about 395 years before the Christian era. He studied under Plato. At the recommendation of Aristotle, he assumed the name of Euphrastus, (the good speaker,) for which he substituted, at a later period that of Theophrastus, (the divine speaker.) He succeeded Aristotle in the Lyceum. Diogenes Laertius enumerates the titles of above two hundred treatises which he is said to have composed. The work of which an able and elegant translation is now offered to the public, is apparently only a fragment. He thus describes its object in a prefatory epistle : "You know, my friend, that I have long been an attenI am now in the ninetytive observer of human nature: ninth year of my age; and during the whole course of my life I have conversed familiarly with men of all classes, and of various climes; nor have I neglected closely to watch the actions of individuals, -as well the profligate as the virtuous. With these qualifications, I have thought myself fitted for the task of describing those habitual peculiarities by which the manners of every one are distinguished. I shall therefore present to your view, in succession, the domestic conduct, and, what may be termed, the besetting practices of various characters. I am willing, my friend Polycles, to believe that a work of this kind may be beneficial to the succeeding generation, who, by consulting these patterns of good and of evil, may learn at once to avoid what is base, and to assimilate their sentiments and their habits to what is noble; and thus become not unworthy of their virtuous ancestors. I now turn to my task; it will be your part to follow my steps, and to judge of the correctness of my observations. Omitting, therefore, any farther prefatory matter, I commence by describing the Dissembler; and in conformity with the plan which I propose to pursue throughout the work, I shall first briefly define the term; and then portray the manners of the supposed individual to whom the character is attributed. It is in this way that I shall endeavour to exhibit, according to their specific differences, the several dispositions incident to human nature." "Adulation is the base converse of an inferior with one from whom he seeks some sordid advantage. The Adula tor, walking with his patron, says, Mark you not how the eyes of all are turned towards you? There is not another man in the city who attracts so much attention. It was but yesterday that the estimation in which you are held was publicly acknowledged in the portico: there were more He looked upon the whole matter as a great philosophi-than thirty persons sitting together; and, in the course of cal problem, and he demonstrated it. The scholar of Socrates who acts up to his master's precepts, will be an agreeable and safe companion, but it is possible that he may not command our love. The scholar of Plato may be a dangerous friend, but not from predetermination, and he will be the object of deep and reverential devotion. The scholar of Aristotle will indubitably know all about the matter, but it does not follow that he will be either trust-worthy or estimable. From this review it appears that these three masterspirits succeeded in accumulating a great mass of materials for an exhaustive system of ethics. Plato elucidated those principles of our nature which constitute the Socrates taught what ought to be his de moral man. conversation, it was enquired who merited to be called the most worthy citizen of the state; when one and all agreed that you were the man.' While he proceeds with discourse of this sort, he employs himself in picking some particle of down from the great man's cloak; or, if a gust of wind has lodged an atom of straw in his curls, he carefully removes it; and, smiling, adds, See, now, because these two days I have not been with you, your beard is filled with grey hairs; and yet, to say truth, no man of your years has a head of hair so black.' "When his patron is about to speak, the parasite imposes silence on all present; and he himself, while he listens, gives signals of applause; and at every pause exclaims, Well said! well said!' If the speaker is pleased to be facetious, he forces a grin; or puts his cloak to his mouth, as if striving to suppress a burst of laughter. He commands those whom they may meet in a narrow way to give place, while his friend passes on. He provides himself with apples and pears, which he presents to the children of the family in the presence of the father; and, kissing them, exclaims, Worthy offspring of a noble stock!' The foot,' says the humble companion, when the great man would fit himself with a pair of shoes, the foot is of a handsomer make than the pair you are trying.' He runs before his patron when he visits his friends, to give notice of his approach; saying, He comes to thee:' then he returns with some such formality as, I have announced you.'" 6 From what has come down to us of Theophrastus, we can only regard him as one who, leaving the scientific department of the study of man where he found it, applied himself to the prosecution of its natural history. This is a branch of knowledge which has ever since been pursued in such a desultory way, that we are inclined to attribute a higher value, on account of their rarity, even to the inimitable delineations of this author. making wild music as its long branches waved in the wind, and the eagle, describing wide circles far above him, were present to his view. Nature was not to be repressed. For twenty years he ransacked the woods, lakes, and prairies of America. And all this he did simply from an engrossing love of nature. The thought of turning his pursuits to account, and increasing by their means the circle of human knowledge, never once seems to have struck him, until he accidentally formed the acquaintance of the Prince of Musignano at Philadelphia. Unable to find in America engravers who would undertake to do justice to his drawings, he embarked for England. It was in Edinburgh that he commenced the publication of his engravings. Unexpected difficulties came in the way, and the work was transferred to London, and put into the hands of Robert Havell, jun. Four years have now elapsed since the commencement of this stupendous work; and one volume of the illustrations, containing a hundred plates-in which every bird is represented as large as life is now before the public. The work now on our table is intended to describe these The translation now before us is (as we have already observed) ably executed, except in the titles of some of the sketches, which do not exactly correspond to the characters contemplated by the author. The work is illus-illustrations. trated by spirited engravings, and richly deserves the public patronage. Ornithological Biography; or, an Account of the Habits of the Birds of the United States of America; accompanied by Descriptions of the objects represented in the work entitled, the Birds of America, and interspersed with Delineations of American Scenery and Manners, By John James Audubon. Royal 8vo. Pp. 512. Edinburgh: Adam Black. London: Longman and Co. 1831. THIS is the work of an enthusiast in his calling-of a true enthusiast, for the contagion of his feelings extends to the reader. We sit with Mr Audubon, day after day, amid the fog, and the wind, and the rain, upon the bleak and barren rock, waiting for the approach of some unknown species of eagle, a transient glance of which has chained him to the spot. We track the deer, with patient assiduity, through the long and tangled herbage, over the mouldering stems of trees, and beneath the verdant canopy of the forest. We are not only, as he expresses himself in his introductory address, “brought into contact with an American woodsman," we assume the character for the time. Never, since we read Robinson Crusoe, have we felt such a hankering to enact the part of any one whose adventures we were reading. It contains the descriptions of ninety-nine specimens of American birds, many of them entirely new, all of them presented to us with unprecedented fidelity, feeling, and intimate knowledge of their habits. With the assistance of Mr Macgillivray, Mr Audubon lays before us excellent scientific descriptions of every species. But the great charm of the work consists in his own narratives of the habits of the different birds, the manner in which he became acquainted with them, and his long and painful searches after them. Interspersed are twenty essays illustrative of American scenery and manners, which convey to the reader a more correct and pleasing idea of the backsettlements than any thing we have met with. We know not whether we most admire the author's sketches of character or of inanimate nature. His Colonel Boon, Eccentric Naturalist, and Original Painter, are valuable additions to our knowledge of human nature. His hurricane is a splendid and powerful piece of poetry-his earthquake, if possible, still more grand. We could expatiate for ever on the charms of this work, but one extract will serve better to give our readers a just notion of it. Two of these essays have already graced our columns-the Flood on the Mississippi, and the Improvements of its Navigation-we now add another : THE PRAIRIE. "On my return from the Upper Mississippi, I found myself obliged to cross one of the wide prairies, which, in that portion of the United States, vary the appearance of the country. The weather was fine, all around me was as refreshing and blooming as if it had just issued from the bosom of nature. My knapsack, my gun, and my dog, were all I had for baggage and company. But, although well moccassined, I moved slowly along, attracted by the brilliancy of the flowers, and the gambols of the fawns around their dams, to all appearance as thoughtless of danger as I felt myself. Audubon is an American by birth. The productions of nature were objects of intense interest to him before he could render to himself a reason for his emotions. His father encouraged the propensity, by accompanying him on his rambles, procuring for him birds and flowers, pointing out their peculiarities, and describing their habits. Young Audubon strove to preserve the specimens of natural history which fell into his hands, but found, to his mortification, that death instantly dulled and sullied the "My march was of long duration; I saw the sun sinking brightness of their vesture. The father came again to beneath the horizon long before I could perceive any aphis assistance, by putting into his hands a book of illus-pearance of woodland, and nothing in the shape of man had trations. From that moment he became a painter, as well as a collector, of specimens of natural history. With a true feeling of art, however, he could not satisfy himself; and the productions of the preceding year were regularly made bonfires in celebration of his birthday. Being sent to France for the rudiments of his education, he there formed his hand and eye under the guidance of David. But his love of art was subordinate to his love of nature, and on his return to his native forests, he resumed his old pursuits with fresh vigour. Audubon has tried, in his time, various branches of commerce, but ever without profit. His soul was in the woods: the din, smoke, and bustle of the city might surround him, but the cataract of the rock, the lofty pine, I met with that day. The track which I followed was only an old Indian trace, and as darkness overshaded the prairie, I felt some desire to reach at least a copse, in which I might lie down to rest. The night-hawks were skimming over and around me, attracted by the buzzing wings of the beetles which form their food, and the distant howling of wolves gave me some hope that I should soon arrive at the skirts of some woodland. "I did so, and almost at the same instant a fire-light attracting my eye, I moved towards it, full of confidence that it proceeded from the camp of some wandering Indians. from the hearth of a small log cabin, and that a tall figure I was mistaken: -I discovered by its glare that it was, passed and repassed between it and me, as if busily engaged in household arrangements. “I reached the spot, and presenting myself at the door asked the tall figure, which proved to be a woman, if I might take shelter under her roof for the night. Her voice was gruff, and her attire negligently thrown about her. She answered in the affirmative. I walked in, took a wooden stool, and quietly seated myself by the fire. The next object that attracted my notice, was a finely formed young Indian, resting his head between his hands, with his elbows on his knees. A long bow rested against the log wall near him, while a quantity of arrows and two or three raccoon skins lay at his feet. He moved not; he apparently breathed not. Accustomed to the habits of the Indians, and knowing that they pay little attention to the approach of civilized strangers-a circumstance which in some countries is considered as evincing the apathy of their character-1 addressed him in French-a language not unfrequently partially known to the people in that neighbourhood. He raised his head, pointed to one of his eyes with his finger, and gave me a significant glance with the other. His face was covered with blood. The fact was, that an hour before this, as he was in the act of discharging an arrow at a raccoon in the top of a tree, the arrow had split upon the cord, and sprung back with such violence into his right eye as to destroy it for ever. corner. "Feeling hungry, I enquired what sort of fare I might expect. Such a thing as a bed was not to be seen, but many large untanned bear and buffalo hides lay piled in a I drew a fine timepiece from my breast, and told the woman that it was late, and that I was fatigued. She had espied my watch, the richness of which seemed to operate upon her feelings with electric quickness. She told me that there was plenty of venison and jerked buffalo meat, and that on removing the ashes I should find a cake. But my watch had struck her fancy, and her curiosity had to be gratified by an immediate sight of it. I took off the gold chain that secured it from around my neck, and presented it to her. She was all ecstasy, spoke of its beauty, asked me its value, and put the chain round her brawny neck, saying how happy the possession of such a watch should make her. Thoughtless, and, as I fancied myself, in so retired a spot, secure, I paid little attention to her talk or her movements. I helped my dog to a good supper of venison, and was not long in satisfying the demands of my own appetite. "The Indian rose from his seat, as if in extreme suffering. He passed and repassed me several times, and once pinched me on the side so violently, that the pain nearly brought forth an exclamation of anger. I looked at him. His eye met mine; but his look was so forbidding, that it struck a chill into the more nervous part of my system. He again seated himself, drew his butcher-knife from its greasy scabbard, examined its edge, as I would do that of a razor suspected dull, replaced it, and again taking his tomahawk from his back, filled the pipe of it with tobacco, and sent me expressive glances whenever our hostess chanced to have her back towards us. "Never until that moment had my senses been awakened to the danger which I now suspected to be about me. I returned glance for glance to my companion, and rested well assured that, whatever enemies I might have, he was not of their number. "I asked the woman for my watch, wound it up, and, under pretence of wishing to see how the weather might probably be on the morrow, took up my gun, and walked out of the cabin. I slipped a ball into each barrel, scraped the edges of my flints, renewed the primings, and, returning to the hut, gave a favourable account of my observations. I took a few bear-skins, made a pallet of them, and, calling my faithful dog to my side, lay down, with my gun close to my body, and in a few minutes was, to all appearance, fast asleep. "A short time had elapsed, when some voices were heard, and from the corner of my eyes I saw two athletic youths making their entrance, bearing a dead stag on a pole. They disposed of their burden, and, asking for whisky, helped themselves freely to it. Observing me and the wounded Indian, they asked who I was, and why the devil that rascal (meaning the Indian, who, they knew, understood not a word of English) was in the house. The motherfor so she proved to be, bade them speak less loudly, made mention of my watch, and took them to a corner, where a Conversation took place, the purport of which it required little shrewdness in me to guess. I tapped my dog gently. He moved his tail, and with indescribable pleasure I saw his fine eyes alternately fixed on me, and raised towards the trio in the corner. I felt that he perceived danger in my situation. The Indian exchanged a last glance with me. "The lads had eaten and drunk themselves into such condition, that I already looked upon them as hors de combat; and the frequent visits of the whisky bottle to the ugly mouth of their dam, I hoped would soon reduce her to a like state. Judge of my astonishment, reader, when I saw this incarnate fiend take a large carving-knife, and go to the grindstone to whet its edge. I saw her pour the water on the turning machine, and watched her working away with the dangerous instrument, until the cold sweat covered every part of my body, in despite of my determination to defend myself to the last. Her task finished, she walked to her reeling sons, and said, There, that'll soon settle him! Boys, kill yon - and then for the watch.' "I turned, cocked my gun-locks silently, touched my faithful companion, and lay ready to start up and shoot the first who might attempt my life. The moment was fast approaching, and that night might have been my last in this world, had not Providence made preparations for my rescue. All was ready. The infernal hag was advancing slowly, probably contemplating the best way of dispatching me, whilst her sons should be engaged with the Indian. was several times on the eve of rising, and shooting her on the spot;-but she was not to be punished thus. The door was suddenly opened, and there entered two stout travellers, each with a long rifle on his shoulder. I bounced up on my feet, and making them most heartily welcome, told them how well it was for me that they should have arrived at that moment. The tale was told in a minute. The drunken sons were secured, and the woman, in spite of her defence and vociferations, shared the same fate. The Indian fairly danced with joy, and gave us to understand that, as he could not sleep for pain, he would watch over us. You may suppose we slept much less than we talked. The two strangers gave me an account of their once having been themselves in a somewhat similar situation. Day came, fair and rosy, and with it the punishment of our captives. "They were now quite sobered. Their feet were unbound, but their arms were still securely tied. We marched them into the woods off the road, and having used them as Regulators were wont to use such delinquents, we set fire to the cabin, gave all the skins and implements to the young Indian warrior, and proceeded, well pleased, towards the settlements. "During upwards of twenty-five years, when my wanderings extended to all parts of our country, this was the only time at which my life was in danger from my fellowcreatures. Indeed, so little risk do travellers run in the United States, that no one born there ever dreams of any to be encountered on the road; and I can only account for this occurrence by supposing that the inhabitants of the cabin were not Americans. "Will you believe, good-natured reader, that not many miles from the place where this adventure happened, and where fifteen years ago no habitation belonging to civilized man was expected, and very few ever seen, large roads are now laid out, cultivation has converted the woods into fertile fields, taverns have been erected, and much of what we Americans call comfort is to be met with. So fast does improvement proceed in our abundant and free country." Mr Audubon has done much to silence a set of critics who affect to despise America; and we know, that when he returns from the journey upon which he is now setting out, he will do more. Laugh at the young republic indeed! Where is the state of the old world that can show any results of private and unaided enterprise to stand in competition with what has been effected by three men beyond the Atlantic-Wilson, Charles Bonaparte, and Audubon ? The giant is awake, and though he may dally a while before he select his task, it is neither from want of will, nor of power to work. Epitome of English Literature; or, a Concentration of the Matter of Standard English Authors. Edited under the Superintendence of A. J. Valpy, M. A. Philosophical Series-Paley's Moral Philosophy. London. Printed by A. J. Valpy. 1831. THIS is the most presumptuous, impertinent, ridiculous, contemptible, and disgusting publication of the nineteenth century. By the time the reader has perused the advertisement prefixed to this volume, he will cease to be and the irruptions of barbarians. startled by these unceremonious epithets. immortality. 督 "Much as we owe to the invention of printing, its good is not entirely without alloy. From the facilities it presents to the rapid march of mind, books are multiplied as if by magic; but, at the same time, the sterling works of each successive age are thus, from the want of leisure to read them, rapidly displaced by literature of a lighter cast, whose aim it is to play round the heart, but never reach the head." This is not true. It is the "sterling works" which remain, while the lighter impertinences—such as the work we are now reviewing-are swept away. "To divert in part the interest felt for such productions, it is intended to publish, in a concentrated form, a Series of STANDARD ENGLISH AUTHORS; of whose works the present generation know little, and the rising youth must know less; although the names, at least, of such writers are familiar in our mouths as household words,' and the information they convey, suited to all times, places, and con ditions of men, is clothed in language, which has of necessity remained stationary, whilst modes of thinking and writing have insensibly changed." It has been said by some gifted authors of the day, less read, we confess, than they deserve, that the public of the nineteenth century are engrossed with light and frivolous reading. They imagined, because the public had not discernment to appreciate them, that it must be blind to all excellency. The cry has been taken up by raw schoolboys and empty pedagogues, who never heard of our old English authors until they met with their names in the pages of the writers we allude to-who know them yet only by name-and who think all the world as silly and ignorant as themselves. We can pardon this in a schoolboy-nay, we can regard it as an augury of good. But, when we hear a man come to what are called the years of discretion use such language, we regard it as a sure sign that he has not power to comprehend or penetrate the workings of the age. "But though powerful in mind and rich in matter are the writers of England's proudest period, still they are all deficient in the one thing needful-brevity; and thus the very points, on which they plumed themselves in their own days, have led to their present partial neglect. Ever more afraid of saying too little than too much, they have imposed on posterity the task of pruning luxuriances and removing blemishes, by the rejection of what is superfluous in matter and quaint in style; but not without the double advantage on our part of retaining all that is useful, and of imparting a new interest to it by the system of CONCENTRATION." Was ever such a coxcomb! Bacon, Locke, Hooker, Milton, Taylor, and others, were "pretty men" in their day. But they are too long for the notions of our modern Procrustes, Mr A. J. Valpy, and they must be cut shorter to fit his standard. We are to read and admire, not the standard authors of England, but those portions of them to which A. J. Valpy, editor and printer of sundry questionable editions of the classics, and unused schoolbooks, affixes his imprimatur. The goose is not aware that he may give the conclusions, and even the arguments of one of these writers, and yet, by lopping off his peculiar imagery and illustration, strike at the vitality of the whole. Αντ ̓ ἀσπίδων ἁπασῶν, Αντ ̓ ἐγχέων ἁπάντων Νικῷ δὲ καὶ σιδήρου, Brevity alone secures any book that is short enough. And yet Homer has stood the shock as well as Anacreon. All ancient authors, too, agree, according to Mr Valpy, in giving “the maximum of information in the minimum of space." Did he ever hear of a writer called Cicero, who was at one time-we adapt our language to the notions of this Cockney-Lord Mayor of Rome? "The series will be confined to the popular productions of writers in prose, and the following authors will be first selected : Historical. BURNET. Philosophical BACON. Miscellaneous. ADDISON. GOLDSMITH. JOHNSON. MILTON, SWIFT. &c." Valpy, and his nameless editor, intend to publish AbridgeWhich being interpreted, means,-That Mr A. J. ments of our Historians, Indexes to our Philosophers, and elegant Extracts from our Poets and Miscellaneous Authors. And this they are childish and ignorant enough to call "creating a new era in literature." Seriously, our standard authors are national property, and the creature which dares thus presumptuously to defile and nibble at them, must be extinguished instantly. This system of CONCENTRATION is as bad as the system of CONTRACTION practised by the magistrates of Glasgow upon the plans of architects, and more dangerous. For Mr Valpy does not merely suppress what he deems superfluous-" whenever," says he, "a link has been found deficient or defective in the author's chain of rea soning, we have endeavoured to supply the one, and repair the other." We shall next hear of some stonemason proposing to CONCENTRATE Stonehenge into a dwelling-house. It is our intention to publish a list of all who shall purchase one copy of this work, as traitors to English literature. The editor we intend to boil alive as soon as we can lay hold of him. Roasting is too lenient a punishment for his atrocities. At Home and Abroad. 3 vols. By the Author of "Rome in the Nineteenth Century," &c. London. John Murray. 1831. We feel particularly delighted when, in the discharge of our critical duties, we happen to meet with an old We do not deny that there is literary acquaintance. something pleasant enough in beating about the bushes of Parnassus, starting fresh game, and running them down, or scattering among the newly-fledged covies a few random shots; but the old ones, after all, furnish the best sport, as every true sportsman knows; and accordingly, we are never so much pleased as when one of the marked game, whose strength of wing or fleetness of foot we have formerly had occasion to admire, strikes across our path. To leave metaphor, we are always happy to see a new work from the pen of an author whose former productions have given us pleasure; and in this class we are most assuredly disposed to place the fair author of " Rome in the Nineteenth Century." At Home and Abroad does not properly belong to either class of our modern novels. It owns allegiance neither to Waverley nor to Pelham. It reminds us more of Miss Edgeworth's manner, and evidently pertains to her school. The author even thinks it necessary to vindicate herself from the anticipated charge of feloniously appropriating part of the story and some of the characters of Patronage. We are satisfied with her justification- |