hearty commendation, as may enable them to drive their mischievous competitors from public estimation into deserved contumely and neglect. In a literary point of view, a strict surveillance should also be kept over them; for the same fascinating properties which give them their power over our manners and morals, enable them to wield an immense influence over both the style of our authors and the taste of our readers. Such of them in particular as become unusually popular, ought to have their defects as compositions, whether they consist in insipidity or feebleness, in inaccuracy or inelegance, in exhibitions of ignorance or offences against good taste, pointed out with an unsparing hand, so as to counteract, as far as possible, the evils which their extensive circulation may enable them to effect. An undaunted critic, indeed, cannot have more legitimate objects of attack than the blemishes and blunders of a popular novelist. The praise accorded to such is generally in, the extreme, and while every beauty is selected and noted for the purpose of applause, the most palpable deformities are either overlooked or metamorphosed into perfections. To the propensity for admiring every thing in such authors, whether good or bad, may be justly ascribed a great portion of the unnatural inflation and obscurity, accompanied with stiffness of expression, and incoherence of thought, which characterize the writings of so many of our youthful aspirants to literary distinction.

But while a due regard to the interests of both good morals and good authorship, requires that the popularity of an offender against either, should afford no protection from the censure of the critic, justice demands that the neglect with which a meritorious, but less fortunate writer, may be treated, shall be no hinderance to the most zealous commendation of his beauties. Indeed it is the best mark of a sound critic to be able to discover excellence where it was not supposed to exist, and to detect blemishes where superficial observers could find nothing but perfection. To draw merit from the shade, and attract towards it the countenance and encouragement of the world, is a generous and noble act, which we should suppose every critic would be ambitious to perform. But how few of them seem to be actuated by that ambition! Judging from the general tone of the periodicals which are organs of criticism amongst us, it would seem as if our critics considered their whole business to consist in echoing monotonous eulogies on the celebrated, and ejaculating sneers upon the neglected authors of the day, without any reference whatever to their respective merits. Hence it is, that a great proportion of our criticism has degenerated into a mere reverberation of the encomiums or the censures that may be first issued upon a new work, and which generally proceed from too interested a source to be frequently accurate. Does this state of

our criticism arise from the general dishonesty of the critics? We think not. Neither does it arise altogether from their incapacity or ignorance. Its chief source is their indolence. A new book comes out. They read it superficially, or perhaps not at all. At all events, they will not waste labour in examining it minutely. It becomes popular. They must speak of it in their journals. Their readers expect it. The easiest way they can acquit themselves is for them the best, although, for the cause of literature and morals, it may be the worst. A panegyric, got up, doubtless, by some one interested in the success of the publication, appears. It is copied verbatim into the would-be critic's periodical, with a few introductory editorial remarks in approbation of its opinions, whatever they may be-or in some cases, these opinions are adopted by the editor, and given to the world as his own, by merely changing the phraseology, and throwing, at least, a portion of the criticism into his own language. Thus the original puff, starting, perhaps, from the very press at which the book was printed, goes the rounds of periodical circulation, until, by dint of repetition, it is rendered the fashionable opinion of the day.

We do not believe that the works before us have ever had the advantage of that reverberated puffing just mentioned. At the time they first appeared, the echoing system of criticism was not so prevalent. But there was another, and, perhaps, still greater disadvantage under which they laboured-they were published among ourselves, on this side the Atlantic. They had not, therefore, an opportunity of acquiring any of those mystical charms belonging to all new books that cross the ocean to this country, and which render them so wonderfully fascinating, to our critics first, and then, of course, to their readers.

These novels, therefore, although written by the greatest genius in romance this country has produced, did not become fashionable. No critical trumpets were sounded, at their first appearance, to announce the phenomena to the world; nor did a perpetual chime of editorial bells precede them in a triumphal progress from one end of the Union to the other. To this day they are lying in comparative neglect; and there are a hundred villages in the United States, in which their names have never been pronounced, while there is not one in which Paul Clifford has not read lectures against the rights of property.

But is it to the silence of the critics concerning these works, that the public neglect is to be ascribed? Is there not something in the works themselves that obstructs their general popularity? We must in candour acknowledge that we think there is. They seem to have been written only for the benefit of the "judicious few," the judicious few, therefore, monopolize their beauties, which, numerous and splendid as they are, have a peculiarity

about them which none else can enjoy. Shame to those critics, however, that do not belong to this judicious number, who are the favoured sons of literature, endowed with a faculty of discerning and relishing a species of intellectual repast which the multitude cannot understand. Men who cannot appreciate the beauties of Brown's works,-who cannot feel and admire the immense power of mind which was required to produce these volumes of profound thought, keen perception, and subtle analysis of human character, are totally unqualified to pass public judgment on works of imagination. Our newspaper critics, indeed, have not been altogether unfriendly to the reputation of Brown. Editors of talent have occasionally introduced a passing notice of him and his works into their columns. But their remarks have generally been brief and cool. We have never seen, in any of our journals, such an earnest and warm recommendation as was calculated to awaken public attention, or was even indicative of the existence of any ardent admiration of these productions in the mind of the editor himself. When those, therefore, who undertake to guide public opinion in literary matters, seem either incapable of entering into the spirit of Brown's compositions, so as to feel and properly appreciate his excellencies, or have expressed their opinions in relation to them with coolness and indifference, it cannot be expected that the mass of the public, whose custom it is to follow the sentiments of others in these matters, will give themselves much trouble about them, or make inquiry after books which those who lead their taste have so slightly recommended.

To the professed critics, therefore, the reputation of Brown owes but little. To whom then is it indebted?-for a reputation he has, and that too of an enviable, because durable, description. It is not to the million, for with them he never can be popular-his profound but prolix habit of philosophizing forbids that. With whom, then, is he in favour? We shall answer-with those whose favour is the best proof of merit, the intelligent; the cultivated and the reflecting classes of society-the men who have leisure to think, capacity to judge, candour to acknowledge their sentiments, and influence to give them weight. It is the favourable verdict of such a class which forms the true criterion of merit, and the certain presage of a permanent fame.

Thus the reputation of Brown is limited-it always will be limited-to a narrow circle. But while such a circle exists, and that will be while reflective minds and solid judgments are found among men, so long will his reputation endure, without being eclipsed by any writer of romance equally singular for closeness yet tediousness of reasoning, abruptness yet prolixity of narrative, fervour yet wearisomeness of style. There is something paradoxical in the use we have made of these epithets.

We admit it. We intend it. The fate and character of these novels are a perfect paradox. They have been much praised and but little read. Their merit is great, yet their attraction is small. They reflect honour on the literary talent of the country, and yet they are as a sealed book to the greater part of its population.

We commenced this article with the assertion that novel writing is the most attractive species of literature-and yet we have taken for the subject of it, a series of novels, which we have acknowledged to possess but little magnetism. This would seem as if we had caught something of the subtilizing spirit of Brown, and were becoming ourselves paradoxical. But we would remind the reader of the proverbial phrase, that there is no rule without an exception. We still maintain our assertion in relation to novel-writing generally. Against this assertion the character of one, or even a dozen novels, proves nothing-it only forms an exception to a general rule.

We shall now endeavour to account for the absence of that popular attraction in these works, which their greatest admirers have been obliged to acknowledge and deplore. In reference to attaching qualities, we may divide all novels into three classes, the narrative, the descriptive, and the philosophical. Of these, the first is by much the most, and the last, the least attractive.

That to a very large majority of light readers, (we might, perhaps, include readers of every description,) narrative has much greater charms than either description or ratiocination, is proved by the well-known proneness of the mind, when perusing a work of fiction, to pass over, or at most, slightly glance at, the descriptive and philosophical passages, while it dwells with complacency or delight on those which carry forward the story, and communicate that information relative to the events of which the curiosity is in search. It is neither for the acquirement of knowledge in ethics, nor instruction in science; nor yet for the attainment of an acquaintance with external nature, animate or inanimate; nor, in short, with a view to information or improvement of any kind, that novels are generally read. Amusement is the great-almost the only object. In hours of relaxation and leisure, the mind which can never be idle, requires occupation. That which will afford it employment with the least exertion, will ever be the most acceptable; and every one must have experienced, that to peruse a succession of events, requires much less attention or exertion of thought, than to connect the parts of a description, or to follow the deductions of an argument, so as to comprehend them in a manner that will afford either benefit or satisfaction.

With respect to the descriptive novel:-Why is it more attractive than the novel which moralizes? What are its superior

charms? We confess that long and formal delineations have never been pleasing to us. We could, at any time, better endure to wander through a dozen pages of abstract speculation, than through half the number of mere description. The one has generally some chain of connexion in the ideas, which, by a moderate share of attention, we can follow without becoming bewildered. In the other, the parts or appearances delineated, are necessarily separate, and must be singly represented. To connect them, in the perusal, in such a manner that the imagination may form a satisfactory picture of the whole group, requires a mental effort greater than in the hours of lassitude and idleness, which alone we usually devote to novel-reading, we are willing to make. Such at least is our own experience; and we believe, that it differs but little from that which is generally felt. Still, the novels which are termed descriptive, or are ranked as such, are usually more entertaining than those devoted to moralizing. This arises not from any superiority of attraction possessed by description itself, but from the circumstance that descriptive novel-writers have seldom or never indulged their peculiar vein to such extent as the moralizers. With their descriptions, actions and incidents, which in reality form the great charm of works of imagination, are more frequently blended; for even to the writer, sheer description is more laborious and fatiguing than moralizing. If a scene is to be described, it must come to an end when all its features are fully presented to view. But to what end did philosophizing ever come? Who can set bounds to speculation; or limit the wandering of his thoughts when he has fairly embarked them on the tide of theory, or given them license to range amidst the perplexing wilds and interminable labyrinths of metaphysics?

It is this unfortunate propensity to prolixity in the philosophical novelist, together with his frequent and inevitable lapses into mysticism and obscurity, which renders his productions, despite of whatever talents they may display, less readable, and therefore less popular than those of the describer in fiction, although, in most cases, the performances of the latter are the result of mechanical tact rather than intellectual pre-eminence. There is, at least, one descriptive novelist of this country, whose peculiar powers consist in grouping and arranging, sometimes with considerable effect, but frequently with wearisome minuteness, and always with the square-and-rule exactness and measured precision of a working man,-those appearances of external nature with which he is familiar, rather than in displaying them with the bold, free, concise and vivid pictorial touches of a forcible and animated writer. Yet the novels of this descriptive writer are much more popular than those of the philosophical Brown, because his descriptions, long-winded and tediously minute as