THE time has been when a good oak table, from two to three inches thick, and supported by a quadruple alliance of stout posts, would have been requisite to sustain the load of Literature which finds secure and snug accommodation on this leaf of rosewood. Here are about a dozen volumes, all presenting a certain uniformity in point of appearance, and averaging from two to three ounces in weight, which, in fact, constitute what is called the Literature of the Month. A few years ago, a spectator at the other end of the room would have taken them, through his eye-glass, for a new and neat edition of the Arabian Nights, or some other popular work at present, he would approach them with the respectful curiosity of one about to finger the embodied authorship of the day.

In the Sunday Library, for instance, we have Sermons of all sorts and sizes; in the Library of the Fine Arts, Discourses on Painting, and Biographies of Painters, apparently conveyed from the Periodicals; in the Select Library we have the Polynesian Researches, which means an omnium gatherum from the Society and Sandwich Islands; in the Family Library we have Sketches from Venetian History, which combined, make an exceedingly good sketch of Venetian History; in the Family Library, Dramatic Series, we have Massinger's Plays, with the naughty words omitted, and nothing but the ideas retained; in the Family Classical Library, we have Tacitus speaking English through the mouth-piece of Murphy, as if it had been his native tongue; in the National Library we have the History of the Jews, founded on the writings of Moses and the Apostles, beautified and improved by a modern novellist! In the National Library of Standard Novels, we have one of the fictions that stand on Messrs. Colburn's shelves; in the Libraries of Useful Knowledge and Entertaining Knowledge, we have more knowledge than it is necessary to catalogue, it being already more ancient than the present month; in the Cabinet Cyclopædia, we have the History of Geographical Discovery from the earliest ages, up to the impertinence of a young Frenchman called

Caillé, who thought proper to break through the prestiges of science, which had seemed to make the thing impossible, and visit Timbuctoo; and in fine, in Constable's Miscellany we have a Tour in Normandy, in which the author describes, with praiseworthy minuteness, how the mounseers tie their wooden shoes.

The advantages and disadvantages attending this form of publication, which is somewhat punningly distinguished as the family form, are pretty well balanced.

Among the former, may be mentioned the encouragement it affords to the booksellers to venture on a work comprised in a single volume, which before, owing to the expense of advertising-that great essential in the business of publishingwas attended with almost hopeless risk. In the present system, to advertise the individuals is to advertise the family; and a book in an interminable series of volumes may well afford such an expense. It may be said that the facility thus thrown in the way of single-volume authors, is likely to conduce more to the abundance than the excellence of literature, but that is of no consequence; we are not obliged to buy every book that is published; and if the family libraries I bring forth one good volume that would have otherwise remained in embryo, we should say that they have done well in their day and generation.

Among the disadvantages, not to publishers but to literature itself, may be reckoned a taste for the flimsy and superficial, which such monopolies can hardly fail to introduce, or at least encourage. Although, in the first instance, the Editors may have a fair-enough assortment of materials to select from, yet, for a book that is published every month, they must mainly depend upon hack scribblingupon the slopsellers of the Muses. But even setting aside the necessity imposed by mere want of time, it is evident that an author, who has put forth all his powers and all his application in the solitary vigils, perhaps, of years, in the production of a work by which he hopes to be known in after ages, will rarely think of throwing it into a multitude, of which the majority must almost necessarily be composed of the obscure or unsuccessful.

There is, besides, a kind of aristocratical feeling prevalent among true literary men, which causes them to shrink from mingling with a crowd; and although it cannot be denied that we have some instances before us of a generous spirit of rivalship, which shrinks from no field, however common, yet, in general, the family men will be found to be the vulgar traders in literature, whose object is to make up their slops at the smallest possible expense of time and brains, and to obtain for them, in exchange, the utmost possible return of pounds, shillings, and pence. The only chance, therefore, which a publisher has of conferring a benefit upon literature by such a work, and of ultimately benefiting himself, is by establishing at the very outset, so lofty a character of excellence as to invite, rather than repel, the emulation of the first talents of the time.

If criticism was in any thing like a sound and healthy state, there could be little reason for respectable authors keeping aloof from such associations, except the aristocratic feeling at which we have hinted; but the fact is too obvious that, in enlisting in a family concern, a writer virtually attaches himself to a class or a faction, and subjects himself either to the abuse, or, what is still more fatal, to the neglect of the family enemies. To pursue these considerations, however, would lead

us

into ground, which, for sundry reasons, we do not mean fairly to break till next month. One of these reasons is, that we do not wish, at present, to interfere in our sport with the King's hounds, whose glorious cry is just now up on all sides; but, by way of an interlude between the death of the old foxes, which are now dying so hard, and the great Epping hunt in May, we promise you as fine a "view hollo'

"As e'er was echoed to by hound or horn."

Among the evils entailed upon us by the family books, is the ridiculous abuse of literary titles. A man, for instance, who compiles any little narrative of political occurrences, is straightway a historian. We shall not particularize the works we allude to, since their date is already passed; but we are half tempted to sacrifice, by way of example, a piece of maudlin imbecility which the reverend author terms a HISTORY OF THE BIBLE.*

* National Library, No. VI. History of the Bible. By the Rev. G. R. Gleig, 2 vols. Vol. II. Colburn.

This, it will be observed, is not a mere philological account of the sacred book, but a new version of a History of the Jews, purporting to be taken from the Scriptures. The task is a delicate one, and can only be performed well by a man of severe taste and profound Biblical learning. If Mr. Gleig's version was altogether a paraphrase, the critic would have little to do with any thing except the structure of his sentences; but unfortunately, it is mingled throughout with such sentiment and romance as the author of the "Subaltern" may be supposed to delight in. This, however, is hardly the place for a serious examination, even if the book were worth one; and the reader, therefore, must be satisfied with the following specimen of paraphrase:

ORIGINAL.

'39. Jesus said, Take ye away the stone.... 41. Then they took away the stone trom the place where the dead was laid....

43. And when he had thus spoken, he cried with a loud voice, Lazarus, come forth. '44. And he that was dead came forth, bound hand and foot with grave cloaths; and his face was bound about with a napkin.'John, c. xi.

'PARAPHRASE.

'Jesus immediately commanded the mas. sive door to be rolled back, and standing on the brink of the cavern, exclaimed with a loud voice, Lazarus, come forth. There was a silence among the crowd so profound that the very waving of the grass might be heard. Men gazed at Jesus with mingled awe and astonishment, as if doubting whether or not his extraordinary mandate would be obeyed; but their amazement was only to be equalled by their horror, when they beheld the dead man rise from the earth arrayed in his shroud, with legs and arms swathed in linen, and the napkin around his head which the piety of his surviving friends had placed there.'

In an anonymous work of the historical class, the author exhibits equal modesty and good sense in using the word "Sketches" to designate the contents of his book. This would seem to predicate well of the value of the piece, and we are not disappointed. These Sketches form, in our opinion, the very eau ideal of a popular history of a country in which the reader is not deeply enough interested to desire minute information, presented in a form which precludes the idea of philosophic research and laborious detail. They present, in fact, the melo drama of Venetian History, and will amuse the youthful reader so much that there may

* Family Library, Vol. XX. Sketches from Venetian History. Murray.

be some difficulty in persuading him that he is also instructed. The style, easy and unpretending, is frequently elegant, and the narrative is managed with taste and skill.

Take the following passage as a short specimen of the author's pictures. It describes the triumph of Pope Alexander III. over the Emperor Frederic Barba

rossa:

'But a far heavier calamity than the rout of his fleet had now humbled the arrogance of Frederic, and so totally had he been defeated by the Milanese at Legnano, that many days clapsed after the battle before it was ascer tained that he still lived. Humbled on all sides, he no longer refused to treat, and it was resolved that conferences should be opened at Venice, for the adjustment of the claims of the Lombard cities, and the settlement of the pontificate. The result was a truce for six years with the former, and the acknowledgment of Alexander as Pope. To add solemnity to this treaty, Frederic expressed a wish that he might ratify it in person; but, while he remained under excommunication, it was a mortal sin in any one to hold communion with him. The Pope freed the Venetians from these spiritual difficulties by removing the anathema; and on the 24th of June, the Emperor landed on the Piazzetta of St. Mark. The Doge, attended by his train of state, his councils, the senate, and all the other members of his court and government, received him on his disembarkation, and escorted him to the gates of the cathedral. There, surrounded by the imposing splendour of ecclesiastical pomp, clothed in his pontifical vestments, the triple crown glittering on his brow, himself alone seated, amid a brilliant throng of cardinals, prelates, and ambassadors, who stood round, Alexander, severely tranquil, awaited the approach of his no longer formidable enemy. The Emperor, as he drew near, uncovered his head, cast aside his purple mantle, and prostrating himself before the Holy Father's throne, crept onwards that he might kiss his feet. The wrongs of twenty years flashed across the remembrance of the Pope. He had been hunted like a partridge on the mountains; unthroned, dishonoured, exiled, proscribed, a price set upon his very life; and the persecutor, from whose impious violence he considered himself to have been shielded by that especial providence which watched over his sacred office, was now humbled beneath him in the dust. He may be forgiven, if, in a moment so trying to self restraint, he was unable to suppress his strong feeling of exultation. Planting his foot on the neck of the prostrate Emperor, he repeated the words of David, 'Thou shalt go upon the lion and the adder; the young lion and the dragon shalt thou tread under thy feet! It is not to you, it is to St. Peter' murmured the in. dignant Prince; and the reply cost him a yet further humiliation. Alexander trod a second time, more firmly, upon his neck, exclaiming,

It is both to me and to St. Peter!' A square stone of red marble, in the vestibule of St. Mark's, still denotes the spot on which the singular and memorable reconciliation took

* Psalm xci. 13.

place. On quitting the cathedral, the Emperor conducted Alexander to his horse, assisted him to mount, and held his stirrup; he would even have waited on his bridle, and have performed the lowly duties of an es quire, but the good taste or the satiety of the Holy Father forbade these further marks of subjection.'-pp. 74-76.

There is also before us another attempt at History, but not the history of political societies, but of knowledge and civilization.t

A good history of Geographical Discovery would undoubtedly be a gift worthy to be made even by so intellectual age as this to all succeeding ones. In the CABINET CYCLOPÆDIA, however, there is neither room for a good history of this kind, nor does the author, although an industrious and clever man, appear to possess the description of talent requisite for its production. His work is rather an index than a history, and owing to the want of proper references, a very incomplete index. The volume on the table goes far within all reasonable compression. We are put in mind of the maps of the seventeenth century, in which Congo and Abyssinia were squeezed together like a couple of pan-cakes, in spite of the few thousand miles which intervened in the geography of nature. Talking of Africa, it is singular that even with all this necessity of compression, the author should not have given at least a glimpse of the grand question which has made that quarter of the world so interesting, not merely to the man of science, but to the politician. The ideal river which till lately intersected Africa, and is supposed to be mentioned so early as by Herodotus, in his expedition of the Nasamones, and is described by Ptolemy, Pliny, the Arabian Edrisi, and confounded by the Portuguese missionaries with the Senegal, the Gambia, and the Rio-Grande, still maintains its place as the Niger; while the Quorra, Sharry, and other streams of the interior that form in their union, if they are united at all, the only great river of central Africa, are scarcely even alluded to. We should like to see this writer exercising his industry on some subject which time and room render it possible for him to grasp.

Geographical discovery makes way naturally for descriptions of people and

in that temple-porch The brass is gone, the porphyry remains.' Rogers's Italy, St. Mark's Place. + Cabinet Cyclopedia, vol. xvi. History of Maritime and Inland Discovery, vol. iii.

He

nations, and at this moment our eye is caught by a couple of volumes which relate to the superficial manners, costume, and other particulars of the outward man of the greatest discoverers in the world.* This is indeed the pleasantest book of the kind we have ever read. It would have done honour to Edward Moore. It affords, notwithstanding, only an outside view of this picturesque people; but it pretends to do nothing more, and in this age of bronze the modesty is delightful. At first sight one would imagine that the author was beholden to the subject for the interest and amusement his book conveys; but in reality, if the Young American were to post himself for a reasonable time at a window of this city, or of any other of the congregated abodes of men, he would produce a series of descriptions quite as interesting and amusing. never looks at an individual without receiving a sketch on his mind of his appearance, dress, and manner, and without forming a hasty, but tolerably correct notion of at least the superficial outline of his character. In the same way, he never looks upon a group of individuals without forming a scene or a picture, possessing reference not merely to each of the figures, but to some real or fancied action which connects the whole. As a mere book of costume, the 'Year in Spain" is invaluable. We think when the author has had the advantage of a few years more of moral experience, he may write a novel which it would be no presumption to place by the side of Gil Blas. In travels in Spain, one of course expects a few robber scenes, and the following is exceedingly good in its way.

'By the light of a lantern that blazed from the top of the diligence, I could discover that this part of the road was skirted by olive trees, and that the mules, having come in contact with some obstacle to their progress, had been thrown into confusion, and stood huddled together, as if afraid to move, gazing upon each other, with pricked ears and frightened aspect. A single glance to the right hand, gave a clue to the mystery. Just beside the forewheel of the diligence stood a man dressed in that wild garb of Valencia which I had seen for the first time in Amposta. His red cap, which flaunted far down his back, was in front drawn closely over his forehead, and his striped manta, instead of being rolled round him, hung unembarrassed from one shoulder. Whilst his left leg was thrown forward in preparation, a musket was levelled in his hands, along the barrel of which his eye glared fiercely upon the visage of the

* A Year in Spain. By a Young American, 2 vols. London. Murray.

conductor. On the other side the scene was somewhat different. Pepe being awake when the interruption took place, was at once sensible of its nature. He had abandoned the reins, and jumped from his seat to the road side, intending to escape among the trees. Unhappy youth that he should not have accomplished his purpose! He was met by a muzzle of a musket when he had scarce touched the ground, and a third ruffian appearing at the same moment from the treacherous concealment of the very trees towards which he was flying, he was effectually taken and brought round into the road, where he was made to stretch himself upon his face, as had already been done with the conductor.

'I could now distinctly hear one of these robbers, for such they were, inquire in Spanish of the mayoral as to the number of passengers; if any were armed; whether there was any money in the diligence; and then, as a conclusion to the interrogatory, demanding "La volsa !" in a more angry tone. The poor fellow meekly obeyed. He raised himself high enough to draw a large leathern purse from an inner pocket, and stretching his hand upward to deliver it, said, "Toma usted, caballero; pero no me quita la vida !"-"Take it, cavalier; but do not take away my life!" The robber, however, was pitiless. Bringing a stone from a large heap collected for the repair of the road, he fell to beating the mayoral upon the head with it. The unhappy man sent forth the most piteous cries for misericordia and piedad. He might as well have asked pity of the stone that smote him, as of the wretch who wielded it. In his agony he invoked Jesu Christo, Santiago Apostol y Martir, La Virgin del Pilar, and all those sacred names held in awful reverence by the people, and most likely to arrest the rage of his assassin. All in vain, the murderer redoubled his blows, until growing furious in the task, he laid his musket beside him, and worked with both hands upon his victim. The cries for pity which blows had first excited, blows at length quelled.

'They had gradually increased with the suffering to the most terrible shrieks, then declined into low and inarticulate moans, until a deep-drawn and agonized gasp for breath, and an occasional convulsion, alone remained to show that the vital principle had not yet departed.

It fared even worse with Pepe, though, instead of the cries for pity, which availed the mayoral so little, he uttered nothing but low moans, that died away in the dust beneath him. One might have thought that the extreme youth of the lad would have ensured him compassion; but no such thing. The robbers were, doubtless, of Amposta, and, being known to him, dreaded discovery. When both the victims had been rendered insensible, there was a short pause and a consultation in a low tone between the ruffians; who then proceeded to execute their plans. The first went round to the left side of the diligence, and, having unhooked the iron shoe and placed it under the wheel, as an additional security against escape, opened the door of the interior; and mounted on the steps, I could hear him utter a terrible threat in Spanish, as he demanded an ounce of gold from each of the passengers. This was answered by an expostulation from the Valencian shopkeeper, who said that they had not so much money, but what they had would be

given willingly. There was then a jingling of purses, some pieces dropping on the floor in the hurry and agitation of the moment. Having remained a short time at the door of the interior, he did not come to the cabriolet, but passed at once to the rotunda. Here he used great caution, doubtless from having seen, the evening before, at Amposta, that it contained no women, but six young students, who were all stout fellows. They were made to come down, one by one, from their strong hold, deliver their money and watches, and then lie flat upon their faces in the road."Vol. i., pp. 89-92.

A TOUR IN NORMANDY belongs to the same class of works, but is widely different in execution from the former. The author has no turn for picture-writing. His sketches have not a tinge of the spirit of romance; and, in juxta-position with the Young American's, are like the drawings of machinery in an encyclopædia beside a painting. This would be all so much the better were the author's talents uniformly applied to things of any real importance; but the idea uppermost in his mind appears to have been that it was necessary to write a book— and having no leisure, or no capacity, to select his subjects, down went every thing into his journal that came across him. An object was not measured by its own relative importance; for all objects were important alike, inasmuch as all formed materials for his Tour: and thus, mingled with passages which no one but a man of talent could write, we are presented with silly and insipid details, which it would sorely try the patience of any man of talent to read. Even all the little nothings of the day, however, were sometimes insufficient for his purpose; and in these cases we are presented gratuitously with a list of such books, of well-sounding name, as the adventurous tourist chose to pass the time with. In short, we would say that if such a work had been sent in letters (as perhaps it was) to a party of friends at home, it could not have failed to be read with amusement and interest; but coming before the reader in the shape of a book, it must excite regret to find the author misapplying so strangely those talents which, as if in mockery, he allows to peep out upon us at frequent intervals.

The POLYNESIAN RESEARCHES, now in its second edition, transports the student of national manners to the South Sea. +

*Constable's Miscellany. A Tour in Normandy. By J. A. St. John. Hurst, Chance, & Co.

+ Select Library, Vol. I. Polynesian Researches, by W. Ellis.

The sketches of the inhabitants of the Society and Sandwich Islands, are equally interesting and valuable. These spots present us with a picture, on a small scale, of the progress of human society; and a philosophical enquirer into the moral antiquities of nations will find much food for speculation in the pages of Mr. Ellis. But it may be observed, that the savage character, although the same in our day as in times past, cannot exhibit clearly the same phenomena in its development and progress. Surrounded by the enlightened inhabitants of Europe, savages are like plants in a hot-bed, and the growth of their faculties, although according to a process of nature, is unnatural. The History of O-a-hu, one of the Sandwich islands, exhibits an illustration of this, where, in a space of time incredibly short, the idols of superstition were thrown down, the natives began to cheat their visitors in shops and warehouses, and crowds of trading vessels rode in the harbour as in some mart of established and civilized commerce.

If to consider the manners of a nation in the aggregate be an interesting employment, it is no less so to pry into the development of particular tastes or powers in individuals. There are two works before us which belong to literary biography, both well deserving of notice. The noise of the various volleys that were fired over the grave of Byron has now died away. The fury of partisans has subsided, and the authors of the stramash themselves have returned to their usual occupations-one to write novels, one to tattle essays, and one to make, set, and sing songs as if nothing had happened. The world now knows about as much of Byron as it ever will know, and as there is any need of its knowing. We, indeed, have not given to posterity a life of the poet, but we have given it abundance of materials; and the biographer-whose advent will be some four or five score of years hence, will hug himself on the idea of having had such pioneers to clear the way for him. There is a pawkie shrewdness about Galt, and an aptness in gathering into form the scattered details of human character, which eminently fit him for the task of biography. He was too near Byron, however, both in time and person-he was too much exposed both to the infection of private contact, and the wider contagion of public opinion, to