་་ D that these Dutch books were to be found on the shelves of the same publisher, so strangely assisted by De Foe? This surprising discourse, which the apparition put in much finer words than Mrs. Bargrave says she can pretend to,» lasted an hour and three quarters, at the end of which the ghost said she would take leave of her, and walked from Mrs. Bargrave, in her view till a turning interrupted the sight of her, which was three quarters after one in the afternoon. » Nothing can be better than the quiet air with which De Foe adds, towards the end of his story, Drelincourt's Book of Death is, since this happened, bought up strangely. » Our task of sketching the literary character of De Foe would be but imperfectly executed, were we to omit all notice of a class of works which acquired at the time a higher degree of popularity than they have retained. This diminution of esteem may be attributed in some measure to two very different causes: first the overwhelming and universal fame of Robinson Crusoe, which has eclipsed all the other works of our author, and secondly a gradual refinement of taste which renders disgustful to us, pictures of profligacy and vice, however vigorous the pencil which delineates, and however brilliant the colouring which embodies them. With regard to the first-mentioned cause, there are, alas, innumerable instances in the history of letters which show how surely one chief work renders us blind to others of great but inferior excellence that the Paradise Lost has caused us to remain in comparative ignorance of the Lycidas, is in accordance with external nature -we cannot see the stars until the sun is set, though they are always in the heavens. The works to which we have just alluded are stamped with the same genius which distinguishes Crusoe, and the Plague year; but the scenes which they describe, and the personages who move on the stage, are generally of an odious and revolting character and the very skill which paints the adventures of prostitutes and ruffians causes disgust in proportion to its perfection. The Spanish literature abounds with these delineations of the Vida Picaresca, as it was called, and Gil Blas and Lazarillo de Tormés are instances which will occur : to every reader of fiction but we must confess that whether from the greater gaiety and more sunny cheerfulness of the Continental and particularly of the Spanish-national character, or from the coarseness being in some measure softened by a foreign language, these pictures of careless witty profligacy are free from an air of brutality which offends us in similar subjects in English. Like the inimitable beggars of Murillo, who carried the picaresco taste to its highest pitch in a sister art, the Spanish and even French vagabond wears his rags with something of a jaunty air, while the English ragamuffin retains little of poverty but its squalor, little of ingenuity but its rascalities. It is melancholy to think that the school in which De Foe acquired his accurate knowledge of the habits and adventures of these rogues and cheats, was a prison; generally the school of their education, as well as the Olympic arena of their proficiency in the vigorous language of one of our old Dramatists : SIR A. AP. A Counter! Why, 'tis an University! who not sees? SIR A.WEND. Then he's a graduate. SIR A. AP. Say they trust him not? SIR A.WEND. Then is he held a freshman, and a Sot, SIR D. DAP. SIR A.WEND. And never shall commence; but being still barred, When then, I pray, proceeds a prisoner? When, money being the theme, He can dispute with his hard creditors' hearts, () The Roaring Girl. Act. III. : Smollet and Fielding have both written in this manner, and with admirable effect but while it is impossible to deny the genius that pervades the scenes they have left us of this nature, we are not perfectly convinced of their propriety as works of amusement to the young. Their wit, their knowledge of human nature is purchased too dearly at the expense of that whiteness of soul as Horace beautifully calls it, which is not only the greatest charm of the youthful mind, but its most powerful security against the contaminations and selfishness of that world with which it must sooner or later come in contact. » What Salandri so gracefully addresses to a girl may be well applied to youth of both sexes. Più che leggiadra sei, e più vezzosa, Di bel candore, che non ha difetto. The two most remarkable instances of this kind of writing are the Count Fathom of Smollet, and Fielding's history of Jonathan Wild, both of which works are, judging by our own personal experience, likely to produce a gloomy and dangerous effect upon the mind of a young reader. The uninterrupted succession of meanness and brutality in Fathom is hardly once relieved by a single tonch of generous or elevated feeling, and the cold-blooded atrocities of Wild, related with a terrible irony, seem rather an abstract theory of the agency of some evil spirit than a story possessing any of that probability which is indispensable to secure the interest of a reader. : It is in general difficult, and always dangerous, to attempt to excite sympathy towards a character in itself essentially undeserving-if not of respect, at least of admiration and the instances in which even writers of the greatest genius have failed in the experiment are so frequent that they ought to deter every author from attempting so perilous an exploit. Shakspeare indeed has given us an Antolycus-and has proved that the less unamiable peculiarities of the vagabond character are not incompatible with a certain charm and half-reluc : tant liking but it is not necessary to wade through the loathsome details of a class of stories which of late were unhappily the vogue in England, to be convinced that no task can be more difficult and unprofitable than the attempt to reconcile what nature has made incompatible, or to hope any lasting reputation from what is neither elevated in taste nor pure in morality. TO THE EDITORS OF THE ST. PETERSBURG ENGLISH REVIEW GENTLEMEN, Having lately returned from a visit to London, where I was naturally much struck by many scenes peculiar to that gigantic metropolis, it occurred to me that some of them. might afford either amusement or instruction to your readers. I therefore send you the enclosed, which, should you judge it worth insertion, shall be followed by others. I am, Gentlemen, Your very Obedient Servant Неизвѣстный. SKETCHES IN LONDON. PUBLIC HOUSES-PARLOURS. For real substantial comfort of every kind under the sun, give me England-give me London!- In London, you may always make yourself at least temporarily happy. When all the blandishments of life are gone when those near and dear to us, are either laid under the sod, or far away in distant lands, when friends forsake, and acquaintances will not recognize, let me but be in London and I can still at least be comfortable. To many, this assertion, may appear absurd, and to those who possess not a thorough acquaintance with London it doubtless will, but it is sober fact nevertheless. - One evening late in the month of February, I was pursuing my solitary way from the city, where I had been following my avocation during the day,-to my rather dreary abode at the West-end. I had but newly parted from my only near relative in London, who had just left England; I had experienced already, though young, the hollow and unsatisfactory nature of casual friendships, and I felt, as I walked through Finsbury Square, a particular depression of spirits. I caught a glimpse of a family group, gathered ronnd a pleasant hearth, in a house in the square, and my thoughts involuntarily wandered back to happy early days, when I had made one of a similar circle,-when that circle was complete, -undivided either by death or distance, to that period of unalloyed happiness-long passed away-never, never to return! These thoughts had naturally a very depressing influence on my spirits, which the gloomy state of the weather-it was a boisterous and cloudy evening-tended much to increase. I walked slowly on, and had reached a turning to the right, in the «City Road, when suddenly a sharp shower began to fall,-I was unprovided with either cloak, or umbrella. The omnibus» thought I, is my only resource. As the thought crossed me, one of these convenient, though lumbering, machines approached,-I hailed the conductor, but was answered, only by that look of contemptuous pity, which these curious members of society always favour you with, when they are full-that is when their vehicle has its complement of passengers. What could I do? I felt little disposed for a soaking, past experience had taught me, that there was little hope of finding a vacancy in any omnibus on a rainy night at that hour-at this instant my eye fell upon the sign of The Angel projecting from a house at the corner of the street,-I scrutinized the place, and finding it to be a respectable looking Public-house I stepped in VOL. III. 47 |