Item, a young man who pretended to great taste in novels; who reviewed thein after they issued from the press, and who had been favoured with the correction of a few before they were submitted to the publisher. A foppish and ridiculous witling, he had been able by a great deal of artifice and flattery to insinuate himself into the favour of the fair, and had eventually become quite a “ladies' man.” "A dead sea of Item, a young man of no character at all. black and bitter waters." Item, some half dozen more who shall, in the following report of a conversation, have 1 D. 2 D. &c. prefixed to their names. 1 D. (Addressing himself to the Critic,) Mr Longinus Acidity, have you read Vivian Grey? Critic. I have. Beldam. An exceedingly fine and original novel. Cr. I don't think so, madam. It is an exceedingly poor novel. Hop, skip, jump. Perfect prose run mad. Full of absurdities; no moral to it; do no good; do a great deal of harm. Bel. Sir, it is a very brilliant novel. I would rather have produced the worst page of it than all the novels that your Yankees have ever written. 2 D. That may be, and Vivian be a poor novel notwithstanding. Sappho. That may not be, neither. I entertain high respect for American writers. Cr. There are no writers now-a-days. You must study the old English writers. Only ones fit to read. Bel. You will certainly allow Scott some merit, or you are a man of no taste. Excuse me sir. Cr. Scott writes very prettily. As drinking champaigne is no nourishment to the body, so Scott's writings are no nourishment to the mind. Hume may be compared to the roast beef of old England; what one is to the body; that the other is to the mind. Bel. That's digressing sir. vian Grey. We were speaking about Vi Have you any thing particular Cr. What of Vivian Grey? to say about it. If you have we will hear it; I am all attention. Bel. Your conduct is exceedingly rude; however, all circumstances considered, I suppose we must excuse it. 3 D. Have you heard it said that John Neal was the author of Vivian Grey? Cr. Very probable. Bel. Impossible! he is an American. Fop. I thought it sounded like his writing. O! it must be John Neal. Sappho. O! if it is written by one of our own countrymen I must read it. Bel. Pshaw! It would take twenty John Neals to write such a book. Besides I don't recollect seeing his name mentioned during the whole course of the three volumes. That is proof postitive that John Neal never concocted it. Cr. Very much in the style of that fly-away in many parts. I am convinced that John Neal was the author of it. Bel. The only circumstance that would lead me to suppose that he was the author is the manner in which it was conveyed to the printer, or rather the publisher. 6 D. If I may be so bold, madam, how was that? Bel. Why, the author sent it by the same person that was the bearer of the MSS. of Granby, to give the publisher the impression that it was written by the same person. 4 D. I will wait till we get further information on the subject before I express an opinion. Sappho. Well, let us drop Vivian Grey for the present, and take up a novel written nearer home, and quite as good, I dare say. Have you read Hope Leslie, Mr Acidity? Cr. I have, and it is a poor thing enough. Sappho. O, you sneer at every thing, except your own productions. You madam, I have no donbt, are ready to do justice to it; Bel. I am. Contrary to my general opinion of the light reading published on this side of the Atlantic, I think it is a work calculated to do much good; I consider it a great addition to American literature. The style is most beautiful throughout, and there are many descriptions that would have done honour even to Scott. Cr. Pshaw! All filigree-all syllabub-froth, insipidity. A continued series of ill-strung incident, and dull improbabilities. Bel. Will you have the goodness to state some of your jections, more particularly, Mr Acidity. ob Cr. Certainly, madam. In the first place how is Miss Hope Leslie to elude the vigilance of two Indians, who are represented as being so alert on all other occasions, then outstrip a party of drunken sailors,-run, very opportunely, to that part of the island where a boat happens to lie,-jump into a small bark and not perceive that there was a man in it for some minutes, and have presence of mind enough to practise on him such a subtle deceit. But the most absurd part is the supposition that the Italian occupant of the vessel could be so cajoled. Bel. I allow that part of the book to be rather exceptionable, though not to the degree you represent. Cr. Again,--how happened it that an uncovered cask of powder should be any where within reach of the fair young lady, Miss-Miss-what 's her name? I suppose it is customary to have such powder-casks, however, so that any one that happens to take a fancy to, may blow up a man of war at the shortest notice. Bel. You are a perfect Zoilus, I'll have nothing more to say with you on the subject. But let me ask you one question; don't you think that there are some redeeming qualities, setting aside those most monstrous defects you have just mentioned? Cr. None. Poor thing-very poor thing indeed. allow it any merit. I can't Bel. It will be of very little consequence to the author, whether or not you allow it any merit. The opinion of the public must decide its merits, and that has already shown a strong tendency to favour and praise the work. I then left this party, and withdrew a little to a table on which I found a number of late English and American periodicals, with other new works, adapted to a lady's parlour. I had taken up and put down two or three of the magazines, preparing my mind for a fresh assault upon some new circle, when I saw a moderate stir among the ladies, and observed them with the gentlemen out-pouring in pairs at one of the doors. I was astonished at this movement. If I had witnessed it at a cotillion party I should not have been at all dismayed; I should have known at once that the "call to supper" had taken place. But here! in a literary assembly! I knew not what to make of it. However not being naturally fond of solitude, and observing that I should soon be deserted if I remained inactive any longer,-what could I do ?-of course I followed after the rest. I was not long in suspense. After a very short time had elapsed, I was seated, credite posteri, (my stand-by from Horace; the only one to be sure, but universally applicable)—I was seated at a "Magnificent Supper." What,-thought I,— do literati then eat? I was soon convinced by actual observation that they do eat as heartily as other folks. I soon found VOL. II.-No. 2. 3 that Castalian were not the only waters they quaffed, and that they were nourished by other honey than that gathered by the "Attick Bee" alone. It was in vain for me to endeavour centering my thoughts at any particular point, so great was the din of dishes, conversation, directing, and "hurrying to and fro ;" and so after a little vain endeavour to chain my attention to any particular chit-chat, I determined to participate in it all. The following is the result, penned down, to the best of my recollection, as soon as I reached home. Trouble you-Percival-Lobster-salad--Clio--pass the salt-Miss Grey-third number-glass of wine-in the pressDe Vere-Buttmann's Grammar-fine novel-better with a little salt-try a whip-learned-work-Prarie-trouble you for a trifle-last evening-read through in a couple of hours-Berout's Mathematics-the last New Monthly-third volume 300th page-Cooper-&c. &c. After the supper was finished,-finished in every sense of the word,-we returned to the room into which I was first ushered. The most perfect good humour existed between all parties, and the greatest desire to oblige me was manifested by the ladies. I discovered that the supper was a sort of initiation ceremony, after which I was to be entitled to all the priviliges and immunities of the honourable assembly. A dozen ladies threatened to send me their albums on the very next morning-three or four promised me the perusal of their first attempts,—and one of the young gentlemen "would take the liberty to send for correction, a manuscript volume of poems preparing for the press.' I was afraid that I should be in the case of the Prince Regent, when Lord Castlereagh said of him that "it would be impossible for his Royal Highness to disengage his person from the accumulating pile of papers that encompassed it." On the next morning, in very good season, the albums, manuscripts and poems came, but the examination of their contents must be deferred till some other number; in which I will give extracts from the albums and specimens of the poetry. SHEEP FEEDING AMID THE RUINS OF THE CIRCUS OF CARACALLA AT ROME. Feed on ye peaceful ones!—amid the glow Of emerald verdure, prank'd with violets pure.- Dazzle amid your path. Feed on, meek flock! Not now affrighted by the hideous roar Tow'rd the far goal,-nor from yon crumbled arch -'T were well could we forget This grass-grown pavement, while imperial Rome On the stern courage of the bleeding wretch Or tone of tender pity were to him A dialect unknown, o'er whose dim eye With all the sportive voices, and the sound Blot, blot the scene Wild Fancy!-those red, sever'd bosoms glare But lo! with sceptred hand A haughtier phantom frowns. What dost thou here Through the proud mazes of thy regal dome |