Chinese, why these ladies and gentlemen are not responsible. If French people, itching for notoriety, clear a ring and get up dancing matches in the dog-days, why these ladies and gentlemen have no earthly objection. If ladies, by hard dancing, and elaborate dressing, and conspicuous airs, strive to earn a questionable paragraph in a questionable newspaper, these ladies and gentlemen are only surprised at their taste.

I am happy to say that Miss Blanton left all her jewelry at home. It seems that she had it all packed and ready for transportation with the rest of her artillery, for this famous battle-field, and that Therese, by a delightful ruse, defrauded her of it. Miss Blanton was bemoaning the emerald-eyed serpents, and other rare and curious specimens, at intervals during her sojourn at the Springs. Our party were spared some terrible be-jewelings by this adroit manoeuvre of Mrs. Blanton's, and nobody knows how thankful Robert was for this happy deliverance.

Mr. Blanton walked the gay assemblies like some unhappy, unknelled ghost. The water was of no earthly benefit to this unhappy man; neither were the famous baths conducive of any good. Still stark and still stiff, he gulped his morning draught, and still desperate, he plunged with frisky fellows up to his very chin in medicinal waters. Jaundiced man, he knew not what pleasure, or what comfort was! Victim of the green-eyed monster, butt of Cupid, dispeller of all sociability and ease, Stork in human apparel, terror and scatterer of Juveniles, wonder and inexhaustible source of inquiry and solicitude to all who saw him; silent, speechless, and stiff he came, and silent, speechless, and stiff he was likely to go away.

In the course of time Miss Willianna caught a beau. This was the greatest feat of the season, and the most remarkable event I have to chronicle. I say she caught him, because the man was suddenly caught up, unsuspicious and unconscious of danger, much to his own surprise and much to the surprise of his friends, and all those who had his interests at heart. It happened in this wise. That dissatisfied ghost, Mr. Blanton, while going his mighty rounds, encountered a large man, closely resembling a frog, sitting in a very warm, badly ventilated, spinster-phalanxed corner. We understand that when the man in the badly ventilated, spinster-phalanxed corner saw Mr. Blanton, who, void of all purpose, and innocent of all damage, was bearing down in that direction, he suddenly exclaimed, "Why, Blanton!"

And that Mr. Blanton, though gene

rally speechless found utterance in the words,

"Surely it isn't Dandy!"

"The very man," exclaimed the man in the corner, sincerely hoping that supernatural aid had been sent to his relief. After this, Mr. Blanton shook him warmly by the hand, rescued him from the phalanx of spinsters and badly ventilated corner; and, seeing that the man, thankful for his deliverance, was likely to follow him on his nightly rounds, he brought him straight to me, presented him and walked off, thinking that he had done a first-rate thing, and conferred a lasting favor upon me. "Now I, who am, particularly in gay assemblies, the most taciturn of mortals, had nothing very cheering to say to Mr. George Dandy. He, however, seemed anxious to undertake a conversation, and turning to me in a conciliatory manner, remarked that it was

"A very close evening."

"Very," I responded laconically, and the conversation seemed about to give up the ghost. Just at this highly interesting crisis, Miss Blanton, who was perfectly disengaged, tapped me with her fan, and smiled so sweetly, that I immediately presented Mr. George Dandy to her, and was really happy to see that Miss Blanton appreciated that interesting conversationist. Mr. Dandy, supremely happy to find himself so warmly welcomed, lingered near Miss Willianna the whole evening. All I know after this, is, that Dandy was caught, and very soon found himself engaged, and was further informed that he must look forward to matrimony at no distant day. During all this time, Mrs. Blanton so worried my brother, and so tantalized and harassed him, that he pronounced the Black Mountain Springs a bore.

And

Therese was very celebrated at the South; and Robert, who flattered himself that he alone had discovered and admired this jewel of a woman, was pained to learn that she had been toasted and idolized at many Southern watering-places, and what was worse, that Therese revelled in this admiration. There was no coquetry ever so beautiful as hers. she certainly excelled in the art of retaining the affections of those fond hearts which she lacerated at every turn. No lover could think her wilfully cruel, and no man of any susceptibility could fail to be enticed by such an array of charms. Grave and reverend seigneurs would cluster around this beautiful, naïve, sincerehearted woman; men, blasé and woman hating, would be attracted by her purity, freshness, and amiability. Many a sad heart has she cheered by her woman's

tact and instinctive knowledge, of what the sad heart required. People overlooked her coquetry, and were lenient to her pretty faults, which all leaned so beautifully to virtue's side. And there was never a frown upon her open brow, never a sarcasm on her untiring little tongue, never a cut for friend or foe, never a severe retort, never a word of malice or ill-will; all was harmony and good nature in her charmed presence, and this fairy creature floated in an atmosphere of love and admiration.

Mr. Blanton, who had turned his back upon all mankind, seemed determined to let Therese run her course, and surfeit on flattery and adulation, while he prowled about a perfect wreck. He hadn't a word to throw at a dog, as the saying is. He walked to the spring three times a day-he went to his meals when the bell rang-he invaded the ball-room twice a week-and thus he passed his time.

Robert lost his fine airs and equanimity. He grew almost morose, and could have stabbed a certain fairy-limbed Frenchman with great pleasure. Not a flirtation had he to amuse himself with; Therese absorbing his eyes and ears and innermost thoughts.

In the midst of heart-burnings, and fancy dances, that enemy to crowds at watering-places, Jack Frost, appeared. Every night he nipped belated buds, and spread himself out upon the green-sward, and gave people to understand in his way, that it was time to be off. We bade farewell to the Black Mountain, and its health-giving fountain, about the latter part of September; Miss Blanton having captured Dandy, Mrs. Blanton having done great damage, and Mr. Blanton looking forward to a quiet winter at home, with some faint feeling of comfort. Robert and Therese were evidently at loggerheads. Nothing that little woman could say at table, or elsewhere, was received with the least show of interest by my brother. The yellow bonne, and Adolphe, failed to entice his rigid eye, and Therese returned to Mr. Blanton's guardianship, and was borne home, without a kind look, or a flattering word from her whilome adorer.

We returned to dear Fairy Hill, renewed in health and spirits. Robert was rather quiet and subdued, and somewhat given to heavy sighing, solitary rambles, and reverie. We missed Dashwood more and more, as the seasons rolled around. He had been the life of our home circle so long, that even Grandma declared she missed Mr. Chatterbox. His place was ill supplied by Tom Farren, who came in regularly to tea, and sat erect for hours, talking about the crops, horizontal ditches, politics, guano, subsoiling, the convention, Mr. Webster's speech, the rise in cotton, the fall in breadstuffs, the prospects for tobacco, the crevasse, non-intervention, the new candidate, and the missing steamer. It was enough to put us all asleep, to hear Papa and our exemplary neighbor talking over these profound matters. Robert, whenever he wrote to Dashwood, dated from the land of Nod. Alas-Tom Farren had none of the easy variableness, the brilliant flashes of poetry and pathos, and the inexhaustible humor of his gifted rivals. He had no songs, no hearty outburts of laughter, no high-toned chivalry, no glorious lights and sombre shadows, no merry twinkle of the eye, no moments of sadness, no softened melancholy, nothing, actually nothing, which made our Dashwood eminent among men, and charming among women. Did he, correct Tom Farren, think to woo my delicate sister with horizontal ditches? Did he think to soften her by sub-soiling, or to make her more genial with his eternal guano? Had Dashwood seen all this, he would have laughed. He would have outtalked Tom Farren on horizontal ditches, and had a sly blink of the eye for Louise into the bargain.

Louise, to the horror of Grandma, was deaf and dumb in Mr. Farren's company. Occasionally, he would make a deferential remark to her, to which she would deign a cool monosyllable if she felt inclined. Sometimes she would see him when he called, and sometimes she would not. Sometimes she chose to be a statue, and sometimes a woman. In all her moods and tenses though, she was ever respectfully regarded, and deferentially approached, by that model man, Mr. Farren.

To Letters, as well as in the despotHERE are fashions in the "Republic

ism of social life; and a rage for inflated, wordy, and florid title-pages, distinguished the era of the establishment of the "Month

ly Review," (1749.) Swift tried to scold, and Arbuthnot to laugh them out of countenance; but in vain. Johnny Barber had taken strong grounds in the premises; and woe to that unlucky scribe who brought to his shop, for sale, a manuscript prefaced by a title-page of "learned length, and thundering sound!"

Cicero was contented to let the text speak for itself; and gratified his friendship, by prefixing the name of "BRUTUS" to his treatise on ORATORS, "LELIUS" to that on FRIENDSHIP, and "CATO" to the discourse on OLD AGE. To be sure, he confesses to Atticus, that he had a volume of prefaces, or introductions, always ready by him, to be used as occasion required. Herodotus and Eschines, the one in his nine books, the other in his epistles, gracefully prefixed the name of a Muse to each of these divisions; and the latter calls his three orations, respectively, by the names of the Graces.

How then would these modest worthies have opened their eyes at such titles as, "Matches Lighted by the Divine Fire;" "The Ocean macro-micro-cosmick of one Sachs ;""Some fine Baskets, baked in the Oven of Charity, carefully conserved for the Chickens of the Church, the Sparrows of the Spirit, and the sweet Swallows of Salvation!" Griffiths had observed this extravagance with no little concern; and it has been supposed that a desire to correct it, first gave him the idea of the "Monthly Review!" He thus adverts to the evil, in his first advertisement: "The abuse of title-pages, is obviously come to such a pass, that few readers care to take in a book, any more than a servant, without a character." His example conforms to his precept; for his own preface to so important a work, hardly contains twenty lines; the first two of which take the ground, that "undertakings which, in their execution, carry the designation of their use, need very little preface."

The projector met with but little success, at first; and, indeed, several times declared to his friends, that he would abandon the undertaking, but he persevered; and his energy and patience secured their usual reward, and established his journal in a profitable circulation, if not in general favor.

The able criticisms of Dr. Rose, were the foundation of this prosperity. The Dr. has the credit of having written the first article in the Review, viz.: "An Account and Abstract of the first Volume of Mr. Grove's Posthumous Work, entitled, A system of Moral Philosophy." Dr. Rose kept an Academy at Chiswick; he was author of a translation of Sallust, and editor of several compilations, in Latin, French, and English. He died in 1786; and Arthur Murphy has recorded his virtues in some of the most touching lines which ever constituted the "storied urn" a witness of the dead, and a teacher of the living—

"Whoo'er thou art, with silent footsteps tread

The hallow'd mound where Rose reclines his head.
Ah! let not folly one kind tear deny,
But pensive pause where truth and honor lie.
His, the gay wit that fond affection drew;
Oft heard, and oft admired, yet ever new;
The heart that melted at another's grief;
The hand in secret that bestowed relief;
Science untinctur'd with the pride of schools,
And native goodness free from formal rules;
With zeal through life he toiled in Learning's cause,
But more, fair Virtue, to promote thy laws:
His every action sought the noblest end;
The tender husband, father, brother, friend.
Perhaps e'en now from yonder realins of day,
To his lov'd relatives he sends a ray;
Pleas'd to behold affections like his own
With filial duty raise the votive stone."

To suppose that a "Review," under the most favorable circumstances, can ever secure general popularity among literary men, is as unreasonable as to anticipate a Newgate enthusiasm for an executioner, or for a judge, during criminal sessions. Many must be sentenced, some decapitated; all must be tried, and he who escapes to-day, may be turned off to-morrow. All who are condemned, rebel at their sentence; and those who are honorably cleared, consider that they have received nothing but justice; and are apt to grumble that unreserved praise, and florid commendation, are so scarce, where they are so richly deserved. It is very much with authors and Reviews, as with lawyers and their clients. We were congratulating an able advocate upon the gratitude which must reward successful professional zeal. "Nay, sir," replied he "if we fail to gain a cause, we are blamed for our stupidity; if we succeed, the client considers his case so plain a one, that we could not help succeeding."

We decline reviewing the fifty-four years of editorial labor which Dr. Griffiths bestowed upon the child of his youth, the companion of his meridian, and the solace of his old age, "The Monthly Review." He who supposes that the purity

We

of the ermine was preserved without spot or blemish,-that the sceptre was always wielded for the punishment of error, and establishment of truth,-for this long reign of half a century, must have derived his theory of human nature from the precepts of revelation, rather than from the practice of men; he estimates frail man, as he ought to be, not as he is. Indeed, Griffiths may be blamed for more than ordinary literary turpitude, in one memorable case at least, which we do not care to enlarge upon; and for which sore punishment visited the delinquent in his lifetime, and his memory, since his death. We have seen in the first number of this review, that Dr. Johnson had but little respect for the moral and religious opinions of the "Monthly Reviewers." cannot give our readers a better idea of the style of these "Reviewers," than by some extracts from a few of their two hundred and odd volumes, which are now peaceably arranged upon our shelves, surrounded by the works of those who once courted their smile, and trembled at their frown. Is it not an instructive themethis solemn calm, which succeeds the storm of passion and the war of words? Around us are arrayed the depositories of those minds which were busy in their generations, in striving for the applause of their own age, and the esteem of posterity. Combatants, rivals, once, they are at peace now! The Reviewer and the Reviewed, the Satirist and his victim, know no more the voice of strife, and the jarring of angry dispute! Theobald dreads not the lash of Warburton; and Cibber has forgotten the unenviable distinction assigned him by Pope! Were it not that Cicero has called the library, "the Soul of the house," surely we should denominate it the city of the dead; or rather, the battle field, where the victor and the vanquished, together, have "bit the dust!" But we digress. We were about to submit some specimens of the manner in which the "Monthly Review" led the unhappy culprits, who received an adverse sentence, to execution.

"The Adventures of William B―ds-u, commonly called DEVIL DICK."

tainly be deeply read in the Newgate memoirs or Tyburn history: a collection of these he has jumbled together, and published to plague us, in the form of DEVIL DICK."

"The Adventures of DICK HAZARD."

"We have here the history of the gaming table, and its consequence-a prison. The chief merit of this performance is, that it exceeds not one volume." (Monthly Review, Vol. XI., page 470; 1754.)

“An Enquiry into the Occasional and Standing Similitudes, &c."

"This mild Hutchinsonian is very angry with his humble servants, the Reviewers, whom he calls Infidels and Scorpions; but as he treats the worthy Archdeacon of Northumberland as a mere jesuit, page 76, we could not expect better words from

him.

"To such as read his book, it may not be improper to offer this advice, viz., that they pay not too much regard to his representation of things; but that they rather have recourse to the Holy Scriptures; and for assistance herein, to the writings of the above-mentioned Archdeacon, for our Hutchinsonian Enquirer hath as little candor as good manners." (Vol. XV., page 516; 1756.)

What an unkind cut! Verily, the "Reviewer" handles a two-edged sword! As if it were not enough to immolate the unlucky Hutchinsonian, he builds over his grave, a triumphal arch in honor of the libelled Archdeacon! In the following introduction to a critique upon "The Life and Opinions of Tristam Shandy " (since so celebrated), the Reviewers give the public a piece of their mind; and plainly tell all authors what they may look for at their hands:

"The Authors of the Monthly Review being determined never to lose sight of truth and candor, are neither to be misled by favor nor irritated by reproach; neither perverted by prejudice, nor borne down with the current of popular opinion. The books that come under their cognizance will be considered with the same impartiality, whether the Authors be their friends or their foes, in plain clothes or prunella, in power or in prison. They would willingly indeed have their censure fall upon books only, without any regard to their authors; but it is certain that a man may be immoral in his writings as well as in his actions, and in that respect he will always be liable to the censure of those who consider themselves not only as judges in the Republic of Letters, but as members of society, and the servants of their country." Then follows a very

proper reprimand to a very guilty author. (Vol. XXVI., page 31; 1762.) Anon, the Reviewer" bewails the hardships of his

lot:

"The office of a literary Reviewer is perhaps one of the most ungrateful upon earth; for, whether he find occasion for approbation or blame; or whether he thinks it incumbent on him, in case of mediocrity, and in justice to the public, to bestow neither; he is himself morally certain of becoming the object of the severest censure. It were indeed a stale subject of complaint to mention the vanity of Authors, the partiality of their friends or the malice of their enemies: we shall not take up our Reader's time, therefore, with remarks on either of these topics. There is a very serious and plausible objection, however, that hath been of late repeatedly made to the conduct of literary journalists; and particularly to the English Reviewers. They are said to be much too severe and sarcastical in their treatment of those Authors, whose Writings are submitted to their consideration as a proof of which are brought the more candid and favourable examples of those ingenious and learned foreigners who first engaged in works of this kind. Le Clerc and S. Gravesande, we are told, pointed out the errors of mistaken writers with candour, reprehended even the petulant with tenderness, and spoke of all with politeness and urbanity. We shall not enter into a strict examination of the truth of this assertion; there were doubtless among the primitive Reviewers many gentlemen of the most candid and amiable dispositions: but we cannot help thinking that their tenderness for individuals much too often clashed with that justice and impar tiality they owed to the public." (Vol. XXXIII., page 447; 1765.)

The "Reviewer" proceeds to prove that a great revolution has occurred in the world of letters since the first institution of "Reviews;" and that this castigation of which the smarting authors complained, was very wholesome, and most beneficial in its tendency. Whether the sufferers were as easily satisfied with these arguments, as school-boys are reconciled to the application of the "birch,” by the assurance that it is for their own good,-we are not informed. The "Reviewers" complain that, some are so unreasonable, as always to expect reasons for the opinions given of the works reviewed. Our brethren on the continent, do not admit all publications into their Reviews; they have, therefore, more room to expatiate; and their attention is chiefly bestowed on works of some importance, whose merits they may try and determine,

by the established laws of criticism. We, on the other hand, are obliged by our plan, to take notice of every new book and pamphlet that appears in the British dominions; and to separate the corn from the tares, and the sheep from the goats: but, in doing this, were we always to give 'our reasons' for pronouncing a tare a tare, or a goat a goat, we should find our work swell most enormously under our hands, and far exceed the bounds of a literary journal." So far, very well; but the poor authors must not expect to escape thus lightly: the Reviewers proceed, "Besides, ** we often meet with publications which are so much beneath all criticism (and which, yet, must be noticed) that it would be the vilest prostitution of the noble art we profess, were we formally to apply its rules to the investigation of such rubbish." (Vol. LV., p. 300, 301; 1776.)

Our "Reviewers" were good-natured fellows, notwithstanding these savage onslaughts upon stupidity, or mediocrity, as they deemed them. Witness their lenient handling of the author of "The Final Farewell, a Poem, written on retiring from London." The Poet thus addresses the critics:

"Ye sage Reviewers! ye, whose monthly toll
Spreads twilight knowledge over all the islet
Who, Luna-like, your borrowed beams bestow
On those that seldom to the fountain go:
Ye sage Reviewers! who with skill condense
In narrow limits every author's sense,
Who bring all Europe's learning in a page:
And all the wit of all this witty age;
Who bind huge quartos in a little cell,
Like Homer's Iliad in a walnut-shell;
Who strip the goose-quill hero of renown,
By putting purchased of a tasteless town;
Ye who as literary monarchs sit,

Waving your sceptres o'er the realms of wit;
Who show each obvious and each latent fault,
Each venial error, and each brilliant thought,
Forbear! forbear! nor your dread wrath dispense,
On this my first, and this my last offence!

Nor let me find myself for this Adieu, Hung, drawn and quarter'd in the next Review." To this rather satirical invocation, the "Reviewers" thus pleasantly respond: Yes, gentle bard, thou shalt be spared! not for thy prayer, but for thy worth; and in the hope that thou hast not bade the world a Final Farewell."" (Vol. LXXVII. page 375, 1787.) With that apparent inconsistency which sometimes surprises us in despots, the "Reviewers" extended more clemency to a bold claimant, than to a cringing suppliant; as a proof of which, see the unfeeling manner in which they despatch the unlucky, though doubtless truly amiable, Miss Eliza Thompson. "Poems on Various Subjects. BY MISS ELIZA THOMPSON."

ADDRESS TO THE REVIEWERS. To wait her doom as fixed by your decree, Lo! at your bar, a trembling maiden see;