in the ranke of understanders, but by calumniating other men's industries."

Marlow, Greene, Decker, and Nash, might either, perhaps, have sat for the above flattering portrait; and poor Gabriel Harvey would testify to its likeness to, at least, two of the snarling quartette.

Among the early English critics, we find no less a person than the "British Solomon," James I.; who, realizing that there was no "royal road" to the favor of the Muses, modestly entitles his first work, "The Essayes of a Prentise in the Divine Art of Poesie." [Edinburgh, 1585.] He assigns "twa caussis" for appearing as an author; and informs us that "albeit sindrie hes written of poesie in English, quhilk is lykest to our language, zit we differ from thame in sindrie reulis of poesie, as ze will find be experience." We have only space to barely refer to the works of Webbe, Fraunce, Hake, Puttenham, Harrington, and the illustrious Sydney, as the chief exponents of the critical opinions of the time. This was the age of versifying; and, therefore, the reader will not be surprised to find "poesie the great topic of consideration. Those who desire to pursue a most interesting subject, will find ample materials in the pages of Drake, Brydges and Collier.

We have referred to Denis De Sallo, as the father of the modern school of Reviewing. Whether his magisterial labors as a member of the Parisian Parliament, excited a taste for bringing another description of culprits to a bar, from which there should be no appeal, we have no means of ascertaining. He certainly assumed (1665) his self deputed office of a public censor, not without misgivings; for he took out his privilege to publish, in the name of the Sieur de Hédouville. his footman! It was not long before the well-directed fire of the "Journal des Sçavans," created a fluttering among the "crowd of authors," who had heretofore, parrot-like, poured forth their alternate notes of inane repetition, or splenetic scolding, in the tired ears of a suffering, yet, defenceless, public. The story is well told by the biographer of De Sallo. "L'entreprise eut d'abord un grand sucsès; mais la critique, bien que décente et raisonnie, souleva la foule des auters. La nonce du pape près de la cour de France s' tant plaint d'un article sur l'inquisition. Sallo perdit son privilege," for he was a critic of mettle, "et refusa de reprendre son journal avec un censeur."

He was

succeeded by a reviewer of a very different stamp; for the Abbé Gallois confined himself, pretty much, to an enumeration

of the titles of books, with some extracts. But the public were as little satisfied with "King Log," as the authors had been with "King Stork." In the words of D'Israeli: "The public who had been so much amused by the raillery and severity of the founder of this dynasty of new critics, now murmured at the want of that salt and acidity by which they had relished the fugitive collation. They were not satisfied in having the most beautiful, or the most curious, parts of a new work brought together; they wished for the unreasonable entertainment of railing and raillery. At length, another objection was conjured up against the review: mathematicians complained they were neglected, to make room for experiments in natural history: the historian sickened over the works of natural history: the antiquarian would have nothing but discoveries of MSS., or fragments of antiquity. Medical works were called for by one party, and reprobated by another. In a word, each reader wished to have only accounts of books which were interesting to his profession or his taste.

66

Twenty-three years after the publication of the first number of the "Journal des Sçavans," that is in 1688, appeared the first British Review: viz., "An Historical Account of Books and Transactions of the Learned World, Edinburgh." From this date, until the establishment of the Monthly Review,” in 1749, a period of about sixty years, were born and died a number of publications of like character; of more, or less, merit, and of greater, or shorter, duration. We shall give a list of those which may, perhaps, be considered as of the most importance. The reader will bear in mind that, we take no notice in this essay, of mere Magazines.* They may form the subject of a future paper. We have now to do with REVIEWS, properly so called.

1688-9. "Weekly Memorials, or an Account of Books lately set forth, with other Accounts relating to Learning; by Authority."

This is the first specimen of an English Review.

1691. "The Works of the Learned," 4to. Superintended by J. La Crose, a late writer in the "Universal Bibliotheque." The U. B. was an English translation, published for a short time, of La Clerc's "Bibliotheque Universelle," begun at Amsterdam, in 1686. The Works of the Learned was soon discontinued.

1691. "The History of Learning, or an Abstract of several Books lately published, as well Abroad, as at Home."

1699. "The History of the Works of the Learned; or an impartial account of Books lately printed in all parts of Europe; with a particular relation of the State of Learning in each country; done by several Hands." The prospectus of this Review is very sensible. "The authors of The History of the Works of the Learned, have settled a correspondence beyond sea, to have all the foreign journals of learning, transmitted to them as they are published; and all other curious pieces that can be conveyed by post; and for larger volumes, they shall give such account of them as is transmitted by foreign journals. As to books printed in London, or in either of the universities, unless trifling, shall, as speedily as they can, give an impartial account of them; and, as far as may be, in the author's own terms; and that not as critics, but historians; unless in matters relating to an innovation in our established religion, and civil constitution. They shall observe a medium betwixt tedious extracts, and superficial catalogues; at the end insert an account of books in the press, here, and beyond sea; and if any gentleman will communicate to the booksellers concerned, an extract of his own work, &c., it shall be faithfully published."

Here are generous Reviewers, indeed! Such a privilege would hardly answer, in the present hydra-headed condition of the authorial body!

1701. "The New State of Europe, both as to public Transactions and Learning, with impartial observations thereon."

1709." Memorials of Literature;" continued to 1714; and then was published, in

1722. "Memorials of Literature," 8 vols., second edition.

1722. "The St. James Journal, with Memoirs of Literature, to be continued monthly."

1724-5. "New Memorials of Literature." Continued to Dec. 1727; in 6 vols., 8vo.

1724-5. "The Monthly Catalogue; being a general Register of Books, Sermons, Plays, and Pamphlets; printed and published in London, or the Universities."

1727-8. "Present State of the Republic of Letters." Continued till Dec., 1736, 18 vols., 8vo.

1728. "The Monthly Chronicle." Published until March, 1732; and succeeded by,

1732. "The London Magazine;" which was conducted with great reputation, until 1783, when it was discontinued.

1729. "The Grub St. Journal." This work comes more properly under the head of Criticism; but we introduce it

here, principally, because to it we are partially indebted for that invaluable periodical of Sylvanus Urban's, "The Gentleman's Magazine."

1730. "Historia Literaria; or an Exact and Early Account of the most Valuable Books published in the several Parts of Europe." 4 vols., 8vo.

1737. "The History of the Works of the Learned." This appears to have been a favourite title. The present work, first appeared in 1735, under the name of the "Literary Magazine, or Select British Librarian." It was continued under its new title, until 1743.

1747. "Bibliothèque Britannique."This can hardly be called an English Review; although it was a Review of English Books, by some literary Frenchmen, &c.; continued to the above year. Hague, 23 vols.

1749. "The Monthly Review. Giving An Account with proper abstracts of, and Extracts from, the New Books, Pamphlets, &c., as they come out." This valuable Review was projected by Ralph Griffiths, a bookseller in London, and edited by him for the long term of fiftyfour years. At one time, the proprietorship fell into the hands of Collins, of Salisbury, by the misfortunes of Griffiths; but the latter regained possession, in 1780. He was, latterly, very successful in business; was made a Doctor of Law, by a New England University, and died, at the advanced age of 86, in good circumstances. Dr. Johnson, in his celebrated conversation with Geo. III., let us know his opinion of the Review under notice. "The King then asked him if there were any other literary journals published in this kingdom, except the Monthly and Critical Reviews?" and on being answered there was no other, his Majesty asked, which of them was the best? Johnson answered that, the Monthly Review was done with most care, the Critical upon the best principles; adding that, the authors of the Monthly Review were enemies to the Church. This the King said he was sorry to hear." Boswell entertains us with another anecdote on this subject. "Talking of the Reviews, Johnson said: I think them very impartial; I do not know an instance of partiality. He mentioned what had passed upon the subject of the Monthly and Critical Reviews, in the conversation with which his Majesty had honored him. He expa

tiated a little more on them, this evening. The Monthly Reviewers, said he, are not Deists; but they are Christians, with as little Christianity as may be; and are for putting down all establishments. The

Critical Reviewers are for supporting the Constitution, both in Church and State. The Critical Reviewers, I believe, often review without reading the works through, but lay hold of a topic, and write chiefly from their own minds. The Monthly Reviewers are duller men, and are glad to read the books through."

But we have now carried our chronological "Review of Reviews" down to the time proposed :-the establishment of the "Monthly Review;" and must cut the subject short. In a future paper, we may resume the topic; which is certainly one of the most interesting in literary history.

I

WAS lately bold enough to visit Newport in winter.

It does not require much heroism to go there in summer. If you can patiently endure an Italian climate, gorgeous sunsets, and the sweet stillness of the sea, you will find Newport tolerable in August. If you do not chafe at pleasant society, and the most various afforded by the country; if you can resign yourself to the sparkling northern, and languid tropical manners; if you like to dance with belles fairer than Bayaderes, and to the most siren music; or if you prefer solitary rambling upon ocean cliffs, hearing the music far away over bare fields; if you are a fisher, or a poet, or a preuxchevalier, you will submit to Newport in

summer.

But when, in the most dogged of the dog-days, some friend, generously hospitable, cries "Come in the winter;" you smile incredulous assent. Is there any Newport in winter? Do roses blow in January; or is St. Valentine honored like May-day? No, I will go see Miss Cushman playing Romeo at fifty. I will suck my thumb at thirty, and con the primer. I will believe in Santa Claus. I will renew the eager vows of my youth to Jemima, who is now an elderly widow, with seven pledges of connubial affection. I will laugh at Fred's jokes. I will keep awake under Dr. Drowsy. Yes, I will listen to my aunt's gossip of bonnets and ladies. I will do all impossible things; but I won't go to Newport out of season. If "the season "" fell in winter, I could understand going when it was past: when it would be pleasant to loiter away long days in sweet summer idleness. Then

the air would whisper with ghostly robes, and eyes, brighter than the season saw, would look kindly upon the pilgrim, out of season; then, through the pensive silence, great thoughts would arise out of the sea, full of light and heat, like imperial summer days, or haply, fair images, and fleeting-like Venus, brighter than the foam. Then the musing pilgrim

and

might sit, without fear of freezing, upon the steps of the hotels, and extort their secrets from the long piazzas. Hark! how they echo; for it is winter now, the winds blow sharp and sadly, and wail turbulently about the building. If summer were out of season, he might recline upon the wooden bench over the beach, and watch the curving sweep of the surf. Then, gliding over the sea, his imagination would receive once more, like a conqueror, the freedom of foreign cities. He would be again a Roman, a Venetian, a Parisian. The roar of invisible towns would hush the sea, bellowing at his feet; memory would lay her chastening finger upon him; thought would be purified; vows renewed. Or pacing the solitary marge, something of the grandeur of the sea would pass into his mind, and mould his life in more majestic proportions.

It

But winter blots out this influence; it is an enemy. It stands ready at the door to buffet you as you step out. It springs upon you with a rush from behind corners. It is a stealthy savage, and stings you as you vainly hurry. It makes unpleasantly evident the processes of life, and the imperious wants of the body. It exalts that gross portion of us inordinately. I wish, for instance, to breathe invisibly and unconsciously; but winter taunts me, and beclouds me with my own breath. says impertinently, "Foolish child, that is what keeps you going." I wish to exchange thoughts with my friend, but as I walk home with him in the polar moonlight, winter strikes me with palsy, and I shake, or I chatter like an idiot. He is the only foe I cannot fight. Buried in blankets, he creeps in close to me, or he tweaks my poor exposed nose relentlessly. Encased in coats and furs he scoffs at me, and comes in at the button-holes and the sleeves. In the house, he catches me as I fly shrinking from parlor to chamber, or he forces me to seek the horrid help of a furnace-an inverted misery. He beats me and insults me, and judicious thin friends call it bracing. He pinches my

cheeks blue and red, and hot-blooded satirists call it the rosy hue of health. He clogs me with snow, or trips me up with ice, and men who never swerve from rectitude (my only consolation for aberration being the escape from their society), chuckle, that it makes one spry. Why should one be spry? Why not have an arrangement of things, that dispensed with spryness ? I was lately hurrying along, wrapped in my cloak, to meet Agrippina, to whom I am tenderly attached. Already the dawn of smiles had broken out upon my face, when I fearfully collapsed; I fell, heels upward, before my adored Agrippina. I lay ignominiously sprawling upon the pavement, and Agrippina, to whom I am tenderly attached, gave way to immoderate laughter. I pardoned her, and limped away without a single word. I pardoned her, but I have discontinued my visits to the adored Agrippina. This immortal foe, this mocking winter, has made me ridiculous to her; and, is it Bruyère or Confucius who says that love is extinguished by laughter?

Yet I will not deny the genius of my enemy, nor forget the Alps, upon whose peaks he sits. I know that he has done what Xerxes and Canute could never do. I know that the kings of Central Africa hear of his exploits, as we read fairy tales. I have seen the cunning with which, under cover of a dreary storm of sleet or bitter rain, he cases the great trees to their most delicate twigs in crystal, and holds them until the sun comes, and is dazzled by his own reflection. I know into what intense silence he hushes the various murmur of the landscape, which you knew not you heard, until you heard it no longer. He "freezes sound," as a poet told

me.

I know how quaintly he wreathes devices upon the window, so that the opening eye, as it falls upon them, dreams that it beholds its dreams. Then, more awakening, I lie awaiting the sun, who will melt that diamond filagree, and I needs must think it will drop away in music. Do I not know what an architect he is? Have I not seen the edifices of his rearing: so squarely quarried, so softly laid? Is Aladdin's palace any longer a mystery? Is not that romance of torrid deserts made real to me here, in bleak New England? Yes, I melt; I cherish a warmer feeling toward mine enemy. Is it not he, who, in midsummer, makes my glass to overflow, as with a melting glacier of champagne?

It was, therefore, not strange, that, after the first shock of surprise had passed, I was willing to contemplate his work in Newport. I will go see winter sitting in

the very throne of summer, I said: I will see those green trees, rifled and sere; those cliffs over-clipped with ice; those stones upon the beach, like debris of the Arctic zone; I will see those wide summer fields sowed with snow; I will behold that which was Sorrento in August. a strip of Greenland in December; I will dream that I follow Sir John Franklin; as I turn from the inhospitable doors of "the Ocean," and the "Bellevue," I will fancy that our provisions are failing; as the Maine Law annoys me, I will imagine our spirits have long since given out; as I watch the sea between snow-sheeted cliffs, they shall be icebergs, and the blue water, Baffin's Bay. If far away upon the ocean horizon I descry the single mast of a fishing smack, it shall be the North Pole; as I creep toward my cell in the towntavern, it shall settle the question of Symmes' hole.

Seriously, I was sure of grandeur in the winter coast of New England. Despite its barrenness, despite the rough shores and the abortive foliage, I said again to myself, those shores were southern in July, why not boreal in December?

It was in October that I finally resolved. One golden day nothing seemed impossible. Its persuading warmth melted me as Solomon was melted by the Queen of Sheba. The benign hand of grave old Autumn laid upon me, like the hands of a King upon a subject, and I rose a Knight, confirmed in heroism.

I met young Arthur, and told him I was going to Newport. His eyes blazed with enthusiasm. "Ah!" he said, "if only I could go! I have just been reading Parry's Voyages. Who makes your snowshoes?"

I met elderly Adoniram, father of young Arthur, and told him of my intention. The severity of his glance relaxed into paternal concern. "Well, my son," he said, "youth is the time for adventure. I have read of those regions; keep up a stout heart. What remedy do you take for the scurvy?"

It became known; I was pointed out as the man who was going to Newport in winter. In August hundreds of people went daily, and whoever could not go envied those who did. In December, Newport was a myth; to go thither was to be pitied, or derided as eccentric. Yet it was known that Newport has its winter denizens. Panting in August noons, one hears with delight from his friend, that he will "pass the winter in Newport;" of course he will, who wouldn't? It sounds, as I said, like a fable, but the mere mention of the intention is refreshing; it so ices the sherbet of the summer!

But

when there is no sherbet to your ice, the case is so different!

I made my preparations, and the day of departure was finally appointed. I fancied a greater kindliness in the manner of my friends as the day drew nigh, as gentle Lady Jane Grey must have been more than ever gentle to her young Lord Dudley on the fatal morning. They pressed my hand with silent sympathy; in the evening, at the club, they urged me to "one more punch," and after the fourth glass, little Lagrima threw his arms around my neck and burst into a quite uncontrollable weeping. Recovering, he fixed his eyes at intervals with a languid sorrow upon mine. He fitfully embraced me, and called all the room to witness his protestations of eternal fidelity. He declared in the most solemn manner, that he always had been my friend and had liked me from the first, "yes, Isaac, loved you,' " and then fell off into another violent fit of weeping. "By Heavens !" cried I, "to go to Newport in winter, is a serious business," and Lagrima responded with fresh tears and interjaculatory observations, somewhat thick and incoherent from grief.

Carissimo had been silent with sympathy and a cigar, in the corner of the room; "Well, Isaac," he commenced, and I adjusted my attention for a brief farewell-"let's have one more." We had it; we joined hands around the table, and sang Auld Lang Syne, Lagrima burst in during the chorus with two or three profuse gushes of tears; he went through a rapid pantomime of affection and despair, threw up his arms, and,-fell under the table.

It was upon a quiet December afternoon that two wheels might have been seen paddling the waters of Narragansett bay. Upon the deck of the steamer stood two youths gazing at the shore. "By my halidome," quoth the younger of the twain, "it is a town of a goodly aspect." "Yes, truly," returned the elder, "I would fain tarry there a while, and test the brew of mine host of the Bellevue.'

Even so, upon a still winter day, the steamer Perry glided gently into the harbor of Newport. The world was apparently emptied of atmosphere, so distinctly drawn upon the air were the remotest objects, and the horizon line of the sea was as sharply cut as if it had been a rim of lapis-lazuli. The bold breakwater, whose nervous young arm holds the sea at bay from the dozing old town; the long low lines of the embankments at the fort, the slim flag-staff, with the swelled top, suggesting that a flag was clinging around the pole, although too far to be distinctly visible; the brown shore of Conanicut feebly

undulating against the cold rosy green of the horizon; the few old vessels, mostly schooners, in the harbor, all facing the same way, and all as regularly placed, as if they had been toys arranged by a child; one or two comfortable old hulks, whose masts ending at the cross-trees leaned, like stumps, against some ancient store on the very edge of the dock, as if in the forlorn extremity of age, the two denizens of sea and shore had clubbed their neglect, and gossiped as they quietly decayed, of the stately days departed; the unnaturally white buildings of the town, with an occasional estray from vanished centuries, in the shape of a tumble-down old gableroofed house, trying to see its withered image in the water; the pediment of the "Atlantic"-the towers of the "Bellevue," just seen above the boughs of trees, the flaunting front of the "Ocean," impending over the town like the huge palace of a German Duke over his poor, little, frightened residenz, or capital; the modest spire of Bishop Berkeley's Trinity church, that points to heaven, whither he has led the way; and on the outskirts, the frequent houses of those who love summer, silence, and the sea. These were what I saw that December day, and had so often seen when the dog-star raged.

It

The sky was cloudless. It seemed burnished by the clear, colorless cold of the day. I suppose Newport was no stiller than it always is, but a preternatural tranquillity embosomed the town. was because I knew that the guests were all out of those houses, on shore, and the cushions out of those sail-boats in the harbor, that my feelings were changed. I had arrived in some distant land. I should meet Peter Wilkins, perhaps, or better than he, Youwarkee, skimming along Thames street, or poising for a flight upon Long Wharf. Or would it be General Washington who came to Newport, and danced a minuet-fair precedent for the polka-or the gay group of Frenchmen, Rochambeau, and L'Estaing, who taught these island maidens Parisian measures, and wrote with diamond rings upon the windows the names of the fairest belles? Would the good Bishop come to greet us, from his favorite seat upon the hanging rocks, proffer us tar-water for our better health, and insist that we were not material existences, but apparitions merely? If I had remembered, good Bishop, that I retreated to the cabin, upon the way down the bay, perceiving that if a ghost, the wind did not blow through me without a chill, I would have made you confess that, apparitions as we might be, heat was a very material element of comfort. But, looking at dear old Newport, evidently as