contents in case the talk should take that could have said so much on chimney-sweepers. But he is often trivial and flimsy, and turn. We regret the change, because the very his impertinence sometimes borders very position of a critique is lowered by it. It closely on the abusive, which is as great a is impossible for a weekly paper to do just-fault in a judge as politeness. But while he ice to any book within the time and its own preserved his general style during the twenlimits, and the weekly papers tacitly confess ty-five years he wrote for the Edinburgh, he this by often continuing a critique from Sat- corrected these little errors from time to urday to Saturday. Again, a premium is time, and in 1827, the same humorous vein thus placed on bad writing. The anonymous, was more carefully and more correctly emwhich had so many advantages when the ployed than in 1802. quarterlies were really reviews, is now only a shield for indifferent performance. Your well-known man, who has something to say, and will not take the trouble to say it in a proper style, writes it off in a few nights, and "gets" it into a three-monthly review. But we have said more than enough on the character of reviews. Let us pass to consider their style. To count up Jeffrey's virtues as a reviewer would be to string a mere chain of truisms. Few people now deny him the critic's crown, and those of taste and sense agree with Lord Byron, when, in 1816, he called his own vulgar satire on the Scotch Reviewers, "a miserable record of misplaced anger and indiscriminate acrimony." But the excellence of Jeffrey's judgment has "None but men of fine parts deserve to made too many of us indifferent to the faults be hanged," said Sir Roger. If the rule had of his style. He is the very antipodes of been put in practice, the Edinburgh could Sydney Smith. The playful humour of the not have survived its second year. Never one was replaced by a somewhat bilious were more genius, talent, courage, reading sarcasm in the other, which scarcely rose to and general good taste brought together the dignity of satire, and was cool and cauthan in its pages in the first thirty years of tious rather than caustic and bold. that review's existence. If then, we take a his greatest fault was that same Scotch caufew samples from among its contributors, tiousness, which clipped the wings on which we shall have represented the whole class he had natural strength enough to soar. He sufficiently, without putting ourselves in the is rarely brilliant, and never rises above awkward position of criticising our cotem-common sense, which was his sole guide and poraries. master. A less fault, though still a grave Indeed. we find a whole octavo page, of thirty-four lines, without a single full stop, and with its various portions linked together by a suc cession of "ands." Wilson was too much a poet to be an essayist, too good-natured and easy-going to make a good critic. Yet though his genius was not suited to the essay, a little moulding might have made his style superior to the "genuine old brown Edinburgh," of which Jeffrey's is the best instance. Sydney Smith has a right to stand first, one, is the length of his sentences, which not only by seniority in the concern, but arises from the very prolixity and redunbecause he seems to have achieved the trans- dancy which he himself calls the English ition from the old to a newer style of criti- vice. In his essay on Swift, for instance. cism. That total want of the bump of veneration, which gave the peculiar character to his humour, was also the cause of his success. The reviewer requires no quality so much as courage. It will not do for the big-wig on the bench to make salaams to the prisoner at the bar, and the politeness into which Jeffrey was frightened by Byronic satire, however delightful and appropriate it may be in society, was misplaced and mistaken in one who assumes a position above his fellow-authors, whether rightly or not is of little import. Still we do not defend Smith's style throughout. He had really nothing but his humour, his clear head, warm heart, and absence of prejudice to recommend him. His qualities were those of character rather than those of mind, and we look for the latter in the good reviewer. He had no depth, and not much discrimination for the beautiful. He was only a good critic when the author was infinitely inferior to him, as in the case of Mrs. Hannah More, and a good essayist when the theme was commonplace. No one but Sydney Smith There is not much originality in Wilson; he is all fire and flight, and the latter is often too sudden and startling, and sometimes verges on triviality,-at least for the essay. But it must be allowed that his flights, in spite of these faults, are at least within the bounds of common sense, which cannot be said of some of Mr. Carlyle's. Wilson uniformly, as we once heard him say, when speaking of his own flights, chooses a clear day for his ascent, when, however high he may rise, the spectators never lose sight of him in mist or fog. Mr. Carlyle has struck out a new style of his own, and therefore deserves great eupeptic and epicedial, which, however corpraise; for though we do not deny that rect in themselves, are not understood by Smith, Jeffrey, and Wilson wrote, as they those who do not know Greek, and somemeant it, originally, the first ever reminds times require to be derived before even us of Addison, the second of Robertson, those who do know it can appreciate them; and the third of Sterne. But Mr. Carlyle or he has formed compounds of English has no prototype. And if he wrote well, it words, which do not harmonize with the was because his genius was good. If he genius of our tongue. The latter practice supplied a great want in essay-writing- is so common a fault with the Germanizers, Power, it was because his mind was very even in our newspapers and children's books, powerful. If he was a better biographist and has been so often taken to task, that we than essayist, and a better essayist than need only give two very common instances critic, it was because none of these was his to illustrate our meaning. Vaterland, like real sphere. His mind, like that of Tur patria, means the land where our fathers ner's, saw too strongly. He exaggerates dwelt, not the soil which fathers and fosters truth on the side of truth,-a blemish be- us; and fatherland will not do, because the came a vice, a beauty divine; all yellow aristocratic feeling is not so strong in the shone like gold. Of course, he too has English character as the progressive or the many Ruskins, who will contend that he domestic, while mother-country is a much sees truth, and that we, the world, see less more beautiful word in idea, and has the than the truth; but this argument is against advantage of being both Saxon and Norman common sense, and will obtain no more in in its components, uniting noble and trader literature than in art. by one domestic feeling dear to both. StandWe have given a sample of his exagger- point again is wrong, because the English ation, and thousands more might be supplied language can only form compounds of subfrom his later works. He is one of the rare stantives of two kinds; one in which the instances of a style not improving with first component stands in the place of an practice. In his early essays he was moder- adjective to the second-as in "gentlemanate and temperate; now he is often wild, rider;" the other in which the first is a and even absurd. His writing is a mass of genitive, governed by the second, as in pic half-finished ideas, daubed in, which he will ture-frame. not or cannot complete. Hence his obscur- Emerson, the disciple of Carlyle, has far ity. It is a phrensy of metaphor at times, outdone his master in style. His is of all and puzzles and fatigues. But neither in styles the best for essay. Every sentence his earlier or later works is he free from the is a dictum, suggesting thought, but rarely great blame of coining words in a base metal. requiring penetration; and all his sentences We are not going to enter now on the long are moulded into a continuous whole. The question of the rise of new words, and are man did not sit down and write one sencontent to refer our reader to Dean Trench's tence now and another then, and cull them chapter on that very subject in his "Study from his notes as he wanted them. He did of Words." But we confess ourselves not think in sentences, but thought the wholly one in mind with Ben Jonson, when whole subject. His mind is not a kaleidohe says, "A man coins not a new word with- scope of little shining bits of thought, but a out some peril, and less fruit; for if it hap-fitting encaustic tile. He is bold in the use pen to be received, the praise is. but moder- of words, brilliant in metaphor, and pure in ate; if refused, the scorn is assured." It is thought. He discards the old fallacy of the a proud thing for a man to say, "I have en- period. But he is no critic, no biographer, dowed my language liberally; I have given and could never be a historian, nor even a it no less than a hundred new words." Yes, philosopher. For the former his mind is if the coin was good, and wanted. There too poetical, for the latter his style too dogare, in fact, many requirements for the suc-matical. His faults are affectation in the cess of a coinage. It must first be needed, use of out-of-the-way metaphors, and Amewithout which it will only be pedantic and su- ricanism in that of words. The latter do perfluous. Palingenesy has nothing to re- not always bear the common meaning, but commend it, although Dean Trench himself a strong philosophical one of his own, uses the word. Again, it must exactly sup- which he is sometimes forced to explain. ply the want which it is coined to fill. It For instance, he has the single sentence. must be formed according to the genius of "Nature conspires," ("Representative the language, and above all be of a sweet Men," p. 175,) to which he is obliged to sound, and easily understood. Mr. Carlyle append the following: "Whatever can be has broken these laws in two ways. He thought can be spoken, and still rises for has either introduced such Greek words as utterance, though by rude and stammering organs. If they cannot compass it, it waits | nearly limited to Travels. This class of and works, until at last it moulds them to its perfect will, and is articulated." But though his genius is stronger, as his power is less, than Carlyle's, he has sometimes strained after originality of style, where he would have done better to trust his own originality of thought. At times he is found talking like Knox or South, at others like Addison or Steele, when it would have been better had he remained true to himself. writing requires at once the most and the least talent. Where the ground is thorough. ly new, a simple narration, the fingers guided by the eye alone,-suffices and delights. Who could be poorer in style than Mungo Park, or our literary missionaries? Even though Heber was a poet, there is no luxury and little brilliancy in his "Journal," in spite of its great popularity. Again, the work of Messieurs Huc and Gabet is that of simple, earnest men, but has no artistic beauty. On the other hand, where the ground is well known, it requires the highest possible talent to make your description readable to the thoughtful man. Even We have brought forward these five styles, because, though not one of them is perfect in the essay, each contains one beauty meet for its perfection. If a genius were to spring up with the humour of Sydney" Eöthen," and "The Crescent and the Smith, the judgment of Jeffrey, the warmth of Wilson, the power of Carlyle, and the originality of Emerson, he might astonish the world with his essays. "Descriptive Literature" would seem to form a very comprehensive class, but in point of style it does not. It lies in the very small space which separates the essay from the romance, and to one or other of these limits is constantly verging. Thus Haxthausen's "Russia," "The Roving Englishman in Turkey," Huc and Gabet's "Travels in China and Thibet," are almost collections of essays, illustrated by the author's experience, and admitting, from their very form, of more dash and descriptive colouring than the serious treatise or respectable review. On the other hand, there is a large class of works which follow in the wake of the "Sentimental Journey," and are simply descriptive fictions. It is difficult to decide whether biography should come under this head or remain with history, to which in substance it is more closely allied. The fact is, that biography differs in style according as the subject is more or less august. A good Life of Fielding or Colley Cibber, should read like a Christmas tale; and the tears and laughters, the ups and downs of their lives, could not be well told in a solemn, respectable, historical style. On the other hand, the "Memoirs of Goethe " are a broad chapter in the history of modern literature; and the "Life of Pitt" is an important page in that of modern Europe. Still the pure office of the biographer is to separate the man from his times, and connect the times with the man. So that he must paint at once the portrait and the group, and must therefore combine the talents of the novelist and the historian. If biography lies between history and fiction, the descriptive literature which fills the space between fiction and the essay may be Cross," which are among the best works of this class, are fit for little more than the drawing-room table, and will scarcely find a place among the English Classics. But if it is a rare thing for Englishmen of real genius to write travels, or describe national character with truth and brilliancy, it is still rarer for foreigners. Not only are the English the greatest travellers, but they would also seem to be the only people who really understand what travel demands. Knowing that hundreds of their readers must have seen the very places, nay, perhaps the very faces they describe, English travellers wisely pass from the tedium of long and serious description, to anecdote and sketches of character. Ease, impertinence, humour, a slight colouring of the truth, are indispensable qualities to this writer. Though, of course, he must never be vulgar, he has a longer tether than any other, and cannot be tied down to choice language and elegance of style. But what he wants in this respect he must make up in brilliancy, good taste, the intense love of the beautiful, and a real vein of humour. For this the Frenchman is too systematic, the German too phlegmatical, and the American mars many good qualities by that bad taste from which even Emerson, the best writer of the New World, is scarcely free. If we have left fiction to the last, it is not because it is the least-nay, perhaps it is even the most-important branch of literature with regard to style. Not only is it the best index of national genius and even national taste, but in each land is the weathercock of fashion. Nothing changes so soon or so utterly as the style of fiction, and no branch of writing depends for success so much on this. Millions still read Hume and Gibbon, and would scarcely know that these authors were dead, for aught the style of history hath changed. But how many hundreds, think you, care now for Pamela, or the Italian, once as popular as Pickwick | disposition. or Pelham in later days? Yet both were to a certain extent classical; and it was reserved for But if these changes have taken place, Scott to bring to perfection the romantic even during the short period that novels have been advanced to a separate position in literature, it must be possible to mark them, and define certain schools. school, which despised the unity of action. Bulwer and Scott are different branches of the same school, and both, per se, belong to a past age. As we have already said, Bulwer Now, there would appear to be three im- has felt the pressure of the fashion, and portant classes of novels, which are often yielded to it. In his earlier works he mingled, and sometimes subdivided. They belongs to the romantic,-in his later to the are the classical, the romantic, and the na- natural school. But while Bulwer painted tural. By the classical we mean those which portraits, and was content to make his seare written according to the strict rules condary figures a mere set-off to his hero which good taste and experience have laid and heroine, Scott painted historical pic down for them. The romances of the last tures, in which every figure was a portrait, century were of this class; but in England except perhaps the principal one. In France and Germany they united to this a strong the romantic, in Germany the natural school, tendency to the sentimental, while in France succeeded the classical. But in both the they savoured not a little of the philoso- progress has been slower than in England, phical. In all, however, the popularity of from the fact, that in the one the drama, in novels generally was the result of a certain the other the poem, has always found morbid tendency, consequent on the soften- more favour than the romance. Thus in ing of a high civilisation. In reality the ro- France the romantic school toned down into mance was only an inert drama, and as the proverbial,-in Germany to the dosuch the unities were preserved to a consi-mestic. derable extent, and the sentimentalism, The proverbial is the very antipodes of whether of passion or religion, transferred the natural. The point, which is always a from the mouths of the actors to that of the philosophical proverb, is its chief aim; and narrator himself. Hence the best novels of all probability, all nature, and much of inthe last century were antobiographies, and, dividual character, is made subservient to as such, were immoral, seeing that the it. Dumas (père) who, like Scott, paints phase in which the individual character is historically, and Lamartine, who is essenreally interesting, is in its combat with the tially romantic, are the chief exceptions to devil. No better novels, as far as the in- this class of writers. At the present day, terest is concerned, preserved by unity of the younger Dumas is reviving the classical character and action, can be found than and dramatic style, with almost as much Werther, Manon L'Escant, and Pamela; sentimentalism as Rousseau or Richardson but because the circumstances under which could have wished for; and more immo passion is painted in these are the strongest rality. which can draw passion forth, they became The domestic style of Germany is partly immoral. Yet as works of pure art, Van- accounted for by the genius of the people, Eyck-like pictures of that human heart, on partly by their imitation of the natural which the least incident leaves its impress School of England, without the humour that when once passion has galvanized it, they are here makes it successful. If Germany has without rival. Even their slumbrous pro- now scarcely a novelist of note, she has a lixity, their minute working up, and the thousand and one story-tellers of no small superabundance of their sentiment, are re-merit, who have raised a surfeit of simplicommendations, for with all these the inter- city, Mährchen, and fairy tales. est is rather furthered than decreased. Yet The present school of English novelists is that they are immoral can scarce be doubt- the natural, so called because its boast is to ed, when our fathers tell us of the morbid adhere strictly to probability and truth. Its youths who cut their throats, and the yet representatives are Dickens and Thackeray. more morbid young ladies who lost their Its tendency is to paint pictures of classes, characters after the first appearances of not of individuals. All the best characters of these authors are representatives of wellClosely allied with this school, but only known sets of beings. We have, or might in England, was that of the humorists. If have, seen a Sam Weller, a fat Boy, a the transition from Radcliffe to Bulwer was "Marchioness," and a Quilp, any day and a natural one, that from Fielding, Sterne, anywhere. "Werther" and "Manon." and Smollett, to Edgeworth and Scott, was Few of us could have ever no less so. The sentimentalists described *The nouvelles of M. E. de Girardin are a good the human heart,-the humorists the human specimen. known a Maltravers or Zanoni, although | married on the same speculation. . . The bosom these exist no less than those. But in moving in society with the jewels displayed upon those the character of the class, in these of it attracted general admiration."-Little Dorrit, the individual is drawn. In the one the surface, in the other the heart. p. 181. Again : "Mrs. Merdle's first husband had been a colonel, under whose auspices the bosom had entered into competition with the snows of America," &c.— Ibid. Hence, when Mr. Dickens wishes to draw a character with which we can feel a real sympathy, not the mere fellow-feeling of caste,-in short when he has to create a hero or heroine, he feels the necessity of abandoning the class-portraiture and imagining an individual. For this he is un-ed at the end of the chapter :fitted, and his heroes and heroines are maudlin, insipid, uninteresting, and forgotten. And the same disagreeable idea is reviv "There was no shadow of Mr. Merdle's com stands." Classes change and that rapidly. Half a plaint on the bosom, now displaying precious century hence we may seek a Dombey in stones in rivalry with many similar superb jewelvain through the city which now swarms with them. Mr. Dickens cannot hope to be We protest against this metonymy. immortal, though he may be longer read Even the innuendo of Sterne is better than than Victor Hugo, whose novels, though this. Of Dickens we have spoken at some the work of a poet, will always find admirers length, because, besides being the most in those who can feel. popular of living novelists, he is also The class-portrait must of necessity be the representative of the natural and hu superficial. The moment you begin to ana-morous school of to-day. But of Thackeray, lyze you sink into the individual. Again, its satirical partisan, of Bulwer and Disraeli, individuals are infinite in number and always the best of the romantic school, it would be different; classes are necessarily few. These trite and useless to discourse. Their differcauses give rise to repetition, which both in ences of style are obvious to all. his painting and language is Mr. Dickens' great fault. It forces him into mannerism, and as he has already arrived at that point we cannot but think that he has overwritten himself. His popularity, too, has spoiled him. He found that his little sketches, however slight, became household words, and he warms them up again incessantly. "Little Dorrit" is full of these faults. Of one man he can say very little more than that "the moustache went up under the nose, and the nose came down over the moustache." It is true that we have seen this at every hotel in every town in France or Italy, but nothing more. It is no individual that these words describe, and we should never know how he would act in any given circumstances. Even this, however, would be excusable if limited by good taste. But mannerism has pushed the great author into extravagance, and extravagance into coarseness. He is so fond of common things and striking types that he sometimes forgets what better taste requires. A good instance of this is the description of Mrs. Merdle: "This great and fortunate man had provided that extensive bosom which required so much room to be unfeeling enough in, with a nest of crimson and gold some fifteen years before. It was not a bosom to repose upon, but it was a capital bosom to hang jewels upon. Mr. Merdle wanted something to hang jewels upon, and he bought it for the purpose. Storr and Mortimer might have None but Sir A. Alison could have placed Mr. G. P. R. James, the hero of a hundred volumes, near the names we have mentioned. If he has a large school and many customers it is because, discarding all nature, he has seen how to make romance intensely interesting to a reader indifferent about reality. Both Caligula and Heliogabalus made consuls of their horses; but the latter was conscientious enough to raise a black block of stone to represent himself. The sporting novelists, who are now increasing daily, make horses their heroes, and their heroes very horse-like; but, preferring Caligula's to Heliogabalus' example, they have not the frankness to admit their own materialism. "Il y a de la femme dans tout ce qu'on aime," is an old mot of some clever old Frenchman. The lady-novelists of to-day evidently think the same, but they forgetat the risk of their frowns we must say itthat even the sugar-cane palls and nauseates when tasted to excess. Had we another De Staël, Radcliffe, Edgeworth, or Austin, we would hold our peace; but though we admit the benefits which the tenderer mind of woman confers on our literature, and compare it favourably with the brazen tongues of the present Amazons of France, we cannot but deplore the young-ladyism that is creeping in to unnerve our Fiction. Two, however, there are who have done more good than harm. "Jane Eyre" and |