"On account of his weakness ;" reiterated the perplexed Mr. Pickwick.

of a gentleman's chair as he is in the act of sitting down, and such like feats. If Mr. Dickens can exhibit a character with his heels in the air, he laughs and continued the driver, "but when he's in it, we bears him up "He always falls down, when he's took out o' the cab," chuckles, and rubs his hands, and thinks he has achiev-werry tight, and takes him in werry short, so as he can't werry

ed a great chapter. Now Mr. Winkle, the third of Mr. Pickwick's colleagues, is the chosen subject for this sort of merriment. He is a mere fool, and of all imaginable fools the most insipid. He is put upon a tall horse, and made to dismount that he may not be able to get up again. He is provided with a gun to shoot his friend Tupman by accident; (a capital joke!) He is set on skaits to be laid sprawling on the ice. He is represented as the greatest coward in the world, and is made to go through the motions of a duel, and is on the point of being shot, because, having shut his eyes in very fear, he cannot perceive that the challenger is a man he had never seen.

well fall down, and wev'e got a pair o' precious large wheels on; so when he does move, they run after him, and he must go on; he can't help it."

Mr. Pickwick entered every word of this statement in his note-book, with the view of communicating it to the club, as a singular instance of the tenacity of life in horses, under trying circumstances. The entry was scarcely completed when they reached the Golden Cross. Down jumped the driver, and out got Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Tupman, Mr. Snodgrass, and Mr. Winkle, who had been anxiously waiting the arrival of their illustrious leader, crowded to welcome him.

"Here's your fare," said Mr. Pickwick, holding out the shilling to the driver.

What was the learned man's astonishment, when that unaccountable person flung the money on the pavement, and re

His adversary however, dis-quested in figurative terms to be allowed the pleasure of fighting him (Mr. Pickwick,) for the amount !

covers the mistake; and so poor Mr. Winkle escapes with his life.

So much for the Pickwickians proper; the principal subjects of the work, through which these three personages are kept on the stage without uttering one word of wit or sense, or even of absurdity. The only trait of character in any one of them (except Mr. Winkle's cowardice,) is the following, which, for the sake of aiming a sneer at professors of benevolence, is recorded of Mr. Tupman, but never illustrated by any incident whatever.

Now general benevolence was one of the leading features of the Pickwickian theory, and no one was more remarkable for the zealous manner in which he observed so noble a principle, than Mr. Tracy Tupman. The number of instances, recorded on the Transactions of the Society, in which that excellent man referred objects of charity to the houses of other members for left-off garments, or pecuniary relief, is almost incredible.

Of the adventures of these worthies, no abstract can be given, because they are made up of a succession of blunders and scrapes, of which the following may be taken as a specimen. We select it because it is short, and because it is the first of them. Mr. Pickwick has just issued from his lodgings, and proceeding to a stand, calls a cab.

"Cab!" said Mr. Pickwick.

"Here you are, sir," shouted a strange specimen of the huinan race, in a sackcloth coat, and apron of the same, who, with a brass label and number round his neck, looked as if he were catalogued in some collection of rarities. This was the waterman. "Here you are, sir. Now, then, fust cab!" And the first cab having been fetched from the public house, where he had been smoking his first pipe, Mr. Pickwick and his port manteau were thrown into the vehicle.

"Golden Cross," said Mr. Pickwick.

"Only a bob's vorth, Tommy," cried the driver, sulkily, for the information of his friend the waterman, as the cab drove off. "How old is that horse, my friend," inquired Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his nose with the shilling he had reserved for the fare. "Forty-two," replied the driver, eyeing him askant. "What?" ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, laying his hand upon his note-book. The driver reitered his former statement. Mr. Pickwick looked very hard at the man's face, but his features were immoveable, so he noted down the fact forthwith.

"And how long do you keep him out at a time?" inquired Mr. Pickwick, searching for farther information. "Two or three veeks," replied the man.

"You are mad," said Mr. Snodgrass.
"Or drunk," said Mr. Winkle.

"Or both," said Mr. Tupman.

"Come on," said the cab-driver, sparring away like clockwork. "Come on, all four on you."

"Here's a lark!" shouted half a dozen hackney coachmen. "Go to vork, Sam," and they crowded with great glee round the party.

"What's the row, Sam?" inquired one gentleman in black calico sleeves.

"Row!" replied the cabman; "what did he want my number for ?"

"I did'nt want your number," said the astonished Mr. Pickwick.

"What did you take it for, then?" inquired the cabman. "I did'nt take it," said Mr. Pickwick, indignantly. "Would any body believe," continued the cab-driver, appealing to the crowd; "would any body believe as an informer 'ud go about in a man's cab, not only takin' down his number, but ev'ry word he says into the bargain," (a light flashed upon Mr. Pickwick-it was the note-book.)

"Did he, though?" inquired another cabman.

"Yes did he," replied the first; "and then arter aggerawtin'

me to assault him, gets three witnesses here to prove it. But I'll dashed his hat upon the ground, with a reckless disregard of his give it him, if I've six months for it. Come on," and the cabman own private property, and knocked Mr. Pickwick's spectacles off, and followed up the attack with a blow on Mr. Pickwick's nose, and another on Mr. Pickwick's chest, and a third in Mr. Snodgrass's eye, and a fourth, by way of variety, in Mr. Tupman's waistcoat, and then danced into the road, and then back again to the pavement, and finally dashed the whole temporary supply of breath out of Mr. Winkle's body; and all in half a dozen seconds.

"Where's an officer," said Mr. Snodgrass.

"Put 'em under a pump," suggested a hot pieman.
"You shall smart for this," gasped Mr. Pickwick.
"Informers," shouted the crowd.

"Come on," cried the cabman, who had been sparring without cessation the whole time.

The mob had hitherto been passive spectators of the scene, but as the intelligence of the Pickwickians being informers was spread among them, they began to canvass with considerable vivacity the propriety of enforcing the heated pastry vender's proposition: and there is no saying what acts of personal aggression they might have committed, had not the affray been unexpectedly terminated by the interposition of a new

comer.

"What's the fun?" said a rather tall thin young man, in a green coat, emerging suddenly from the coach-yard. "Informers!" shouted the crowd again.

"We are not," roared Mr. Pickwick, in a tone which, to any

"Weeks!" said Mr. Pickwick in astonishment--and out dispassionate listener, carried conviction with it. came the note-book again.

"He lives at Penton will when he's at home," observed the driver, coolly; "but we seldom takes him home, on account of

his veakness."

"Ain't you though; ain't you?" said the young man appealing to Mr. Pickwick, and making his way through the crowd, by the infallible process of elbowing the countenances of its component members.

That learned man, in a few hurried words, explained the real state of the case.

"My father, sir, vos a coachman. A vidower he vos, and fat enough for any thing-uncommon fat, to be sure. His missug Come along then," said he of the green coat, lugging Mr. dies, and leaves him four hundred pound. Down he goes to Pickwick after him by main force, and talking the whole way. the Commons, to see the lawyer, and draw the blunt-werry "Here, No. 924, take your fare, and take yourself off-re-smart--top boots on--nosegay in his button-hole--broad brimspectable gentleman--know him well--none of your nonsense- med tile--green shawl--quite the gen'l'm'n. Goes through the this way, sir-where's your friends?—all a mistake, I see--ne- archvay, thinking how he should inwest the money; up comes ver mind--accidents will happen in best regulated families-ne- the touter, touches his hat--' License, sir, license?' 'What's ver say die--down upon your luck-pull him up--put that in his that?" says my father. License, sir,' says he. 'What li pipe--like the flavor--great rascals." And with a lengthened cense?' says my father. Marriage license,' says the touter. string of similar broken sentences, delivered with extraordinary Dash my veskit,' says my father, I never thought o' that.' 'I volubility, the stranger led the way to the traveller's waiting think you wants one, sir,' says the touter. My father pulls up, room, whither he was closely followed by Mr. Pickwick and his and thinks a bit. 'No,' says he, 'de, I'm too old; b'sides, disciples. I'm a many sizes too large,' says he. Not a bit on it, sir,' says the touter. Think not?' says my father. I'm sure not,' says he; we married a gen'l'm'n twice your size, last Monday.' 'Did you, though,' says my father. To be sure, ve did,' says the touter-'you're a baby to him--this way, sir, this vay!— and sure enough my father walks arter him like a tame monkey behind a horgan, into a little back office, vere a feller sat among dirty papers and tin boxes, making believe he was busy. 'Pray take a seat, vile I makes out the affidavit, sir,' says the lawyer. Thankee, sir,' says my father, and down he sat, and stared vith all his eyes, and his mouth vide open, at the names on the boxes. 'What's your name, sir,' says the lawyer. "Tony Weller,' says my father. 'Parish?' says the lawyer. 'Belle Savage,' says my father, for he stopped there ven he drove up, and he know'd nothing about parishes he did'nt. And what's the lady's name?' says the lawyer. My father was struck all of a heap. Blessed if I know,' says he. 'Not Know!' says the lawyer. No more nor you do,' says my father-'can't I put that in afterwards?' 'Impossible!' says the lawyer. 'Werry well,' says my father, after he had thought a moment, 'put

"Here, waiter, shouted the stranger, ringing the bell with tremendous violence, "glasses round--brandy and water, hot and strong, and sweet, and plenty-eye damaged, sir? Waiter; raw beef-steak for the gentleman's eye-nothing like raw beefsteak for a bruise, sir; cold lamp-post very good, but lamppost inconvenient-very odd standing in the open street half an hour, with your eye against a lamp-post--ch-very good--ha! ha!" And the stranger, without stopping to take breath, swallowed at a draught full half a pint of the reeking brandy and water, and flung himself into a chair with as much ease as if nothing uncommon had occurred.

Whilst his three companions were busily engaged in proffering their thanks to their new acquaintance, Mr. Pickwick had leisure to examine his costume and appearance.

What Clarke ? says the lawyer, dipping Susan Clarke, Markis o'Granby, Dork. ing,' says my father; 'she'll have me, if I ask her, I dare say: I never said nothing to her, but she'll have me, I know.' The license was made out, and she did have him-and what's more, she's got him now; and I never had any of the four hundred pound, worse luck."

He was about the middle height; but the thinness of his body, and the length of his legs, gave him the appearance of being much taller. The green coat had been a smart dress garment in the days of swallow-tails, but had evidently in those times, adorned a much shorter man than the stranger, for the soiled and faded sleeves scarcely reached to his wrists. It was but-down Mrs. Clarke.' toned closely up to his chin, at the imminent hazard of splitting his pen in the ink. the back; and an old stock, without a vestige of shirt collar, ornamented his neck. His scanty black trousers displayed here and there those shiny patches which bespeak long service, and were strapped very tightly over a pair of patched and mended shoes, as if to conceal the dirty white stockings, which were, nevertheless, distinctly visible. His long black hair escaped in negligent waves from beneath each side of his old pinched up hat; and glimpses of his bare wrist might be observed between the tops of his gloves, and the cuffs of his coat sleeves. His face was thin and haggard; but an indescribable air of jaunty impudence and perfect self-possession pervaded the whole man. Now, how the vagabond here described, and who appears to be a stranger to the cabmen, should have such influence over them, we are left to conjecture. The reader will be yet more puzzled, when, after reading what follows, he is told that this chattering biped not only passes with Messrs. Pickwick & Co. for a gentleman, but that a great part of the story is made up of his successful attempts to introduce himself, rags, and dirt, and all, into good society, in that charac

ter.

The only characters of any pith in the whole book, are Sam Weller and his father. The former is Mr. Pickwick's servant, the latter a mail-coach-man. Sam is a shrewd knowing cockney, whose dialect sets off his queer sayings. He is really amusing in his way, and has more sense and more humor than all the rest put together. He figures chiefly in the second volume, and we cheerfully admit that that volume, as containing the record of his sayings and doings, is worth the money that it sells for. His father too is amusing in his way, and quite sagacious. But a queer story is to be told, and it happens to be convenient to lay it on him, and so he is made to go quite out of his character, and act the part of an idiot. The story is told by Sam in his best way, and we give it as illustrating his peculiar manner, and displaying the monstrous absurdities of the author.

We should be unjust to Mr. Dickens, if we failed to notice the character of old Wardle, an honest, hearty, hospitable country gentleman of small estate. It is admirably drawn, and the Christmas gambols at his house are delightful. We have seen nothing like it from the pen of any writer of this century. We hope it is drawn from the life, for if so, then something yet remains of that England which was the country of our ancestors, and from which we derived manners and customs ill exchanged for absurd imitations of the dege nerate English of the present day. If there be in England just such a man as old Wardle, and just such an establishment and family as his, then there is a place in the Island where a Virginia gentleman would feel that he was at home, and in the midst of his kindred. We cherish the hope that the picture may be true, and we can assure Mr. D. that it has procured him more of our sympathy and good will, than he will experience at the hands of more than one in a hundred of those, for the gratification of whose low tastes the absurdities and extravagancies of Pickwickism are devised.

Though Mr. Dickens scems incapable of conceiving and tracing an entire and consistent character, there is perhaps nothing for which he is so remarkable, as his faculty of catching and hitting off, in a single sentence, some distinguishing characteristic in the person or manner of an individual, by which his physical identity is made palpable to the reader's imagination. Something of this sort is attempted with almost every one that is introduced, and sometimes unfortunately the picture of the individual is quite incongruous to the part he is intended to act. But many are mentioned but to be de

scribed, and of these, in some instances, the sketches | number of such readers in the great marts of publicaare most felicitous. Take the following example. tion, will render their favorite authors the favorites of publishers.

"Delightful situation, this," said Mr. Pickwick.
"Delightful!" echoed Messrs. Snodgrass, Tupman, and

Winkle.

"Well, I think it is," said Mr. Wardle.

"There ain't a better spot o' ground in all Kent, sir," said the hard-headed man with the pippin-face; "there ain't, indeed, triumphantly round, as if he had been very much contradicted by somebody, but had got the better of him at last.

sir-I'm sure there ain't, sir ;" and the hard-headed man looked

Again :

Another game, with a similar result, was followed by a revoke from the unlucky Miller; on which the fat gentleman burst into a state of high personal excitement which lasted until the conclusion of the game, when he retired into a corner, and remained

perfectly mute for one hour and twenty-seven minutes; at the end of which time, he emerged from his retirement, and offered Mr. Pickwick a pinch of snuff with the air of a man who had made up his mind to a Christian forgiveness of injuries sustained. The old lady's hearing decidedly improved, and the unlucky Miller felt as much out of his element, as a dolphin in a sentry-box.

We agree with our friend Mr. Noah, that the author of this work is a writer of considerable power. In many tales which are dispersed through it, he displays this power in a very high degree. There is a moral horror in some of them of which none but a master is capable. We have no great taste for that sort of thing, and, whatever others may think, take infinitely more delight in fun and merriment. But we are not of the number of those who believe that "effect can be heightened by exaggeration," or that any picture is the better for "being overcharged." He who shoots above the mark may miss it as far as he who falls below. The skill rem acu tangere is what we require from him who claims pre-eminence as a painter. This skill we must deny to Mr. Dickens, and we maintain that the great body of this work is made up of grimace and absurd caricature, and impossible incidents happening to beings that have no existence in nature.

The prevalence of this preposterous taste curiously illustrates the nature of the empire of fashion. For, after all, fashion, like the press, has no authority of itself, but is only an instrument in the hands of those who wield it for their purpose. We are old enough to remember the change which took place in the fashions of dress in the latter part of the last century. It was but a fruit of the simultaneous political revolutions of that day. Up to that time the voluminous folds of rich brocade stiffened with gold, which enveloped the persons of the wealthy and high-born, served as a barrier to keep at a distance from the saloons of fashion, all those who were less endowed by the goods of fortune. None but the wealthy could afford to make themselves fit to be seen in those scenes which rank had determined to appropriate to itself.

When the day of Liberty and Equality arrived, a reaction in fashion took place exactly suited to the occasion. In its first revulsion it went to the extreme of sansculottism,, and nothing but the invincible delicacy of the softer sex prevented a return to perfect nudity. As it was, they came so near it, that our matrons would blush to tell their daughters of the fashions of their youth. But the genius of that age of revolution had seized the sceptre of fashion, and would suffer no expense in dress in which the daughter of the mechanic might vie with the daughter of the nabob. In short, in that day a lady might dress, for ten dollars, as well as fashion permitted any lady to dress.

Progressively a change of an opposite character has taken place. Dress is now hardly less expensive than before the French revolution. But the change is not in the material, but in the fabric and the quantity consumed. The manufacturing interest is now lord of the ascendant; and they who now wield the sceptre of fashion see clearly that a return to the style of the year 1800, would be followed by the utter ruin of all the workers of silk and cotton throughout the world.

Here is matter for curious and interesting speculation; and, pursuing the ideas suggested by it, the sagacious investigator of the connexion between cause and conse

tween the influence of the "Trades Union," and the prevalent corruption in the taste for light literature.

But while we say this, we repeat that we have no quarrel with Mr. D., and admit that he has considerable powers. Our quarrel is not with him, but with (he must excuse the word) his keepers. It is his misfortune to possess a talent, the abuse of which renders him accep-quence, may be led to suspect some such relation betable to that class of readers by whom meretricious arts are preferred to modest grace. This is therefore his public. By this he is debauched and corrupted, and to this he prostitutes himself. We pity him, and we would, if it were possible, shame them. The more we admire him, the more we pity his degradation and reproach it's authors, who, like the Philistines in the temple, insult with their boisterous applause the gigan-button, and to be known by Pickwick designations. tic powers tasked "to make them sport."

The increase of works of this kind, marks the increasing importance of that class of readers which patronizes it. It is a symptom of that illusory and distempered prosperity, which, by multiplying the symbols of wealth, introduced among the patrons of literatare multitudes of men without taste, without education, and consequently prone to low amusements and degrading indulgences. When the price of a book can be readily spared from the wages of a journeyman tailor, or a merchant's clerk, it is to be expected that books will be written expressly to please them, and the great

We learn indeed, from the English papers, that the popularity of our author, in his own country, is not confined to the classes of which we have spoken. It seems that persons of rank and fortune delight to form themselves into Pickwick clubs, to wear the Pickwick

But it is nothing new to us that, in a government of orders, there must be a great vulgar as well as a little vulgar. It was a saying of Christina, Queen of Sweden, the daughter of the great Gustavus, that "when nobleman and gentlemen turn coachmen and cooks, they do but correct the mistake of fortune, and show what nature intended them for." The popularity of Mr. Pierce Egan, and the costly editions of his works had long since shown, that the Tom and Jerry school includes many of the minions of fortune, but it does not show the merit either of his writings or their admirers. All that they can do is to lend their gold to gild

the triumph of grimace, obscenity, and buffoonery, over | But a ray of wit that lightens on a serious subject; a taste, and wit, and sense and decency.

But is this sort of literary saturnalia, to have the effect of reversing the laws of taste, and repealing the canons of criticism? Are we in this, as in everything else, to bow to the decision of the numero pluris? And will it not be true in the end as it was in the beginning, (whatever revolutions may take place in the Republic of Letters) that the candidate for literary immortality should take as his maxim, “satis est mihi equitem plaudere?" We trust so. We know that the appeal to posterity is always derided. From the nature of the case it must be so, and most especially when the taste of the age is depraved by any cause, and when he who writes to please it, is like to outlive his own reputation. But the hope to be remembered by posterity, to “blend our voices with the future visions" of those in whose veins our blood shall flow, and to embalm our memory in the language of our country, is one too dear to be relinquished for the applause of an hour. Necessity may constrain the choice, but the generous spirit of true genius will submit with reluctance, will curse its patrons in bitterness of heart, and sighing, say "my poverty, but not my will consents."

flash of mirth that smiles through tears; or a tear, that flows unbidden from eyes that seem unused to shed them, command all our sympathy. The charm is in the suddeness and the contrast. We can even dispense with the former, and bear to see a solemn coxcomb shown up at some length. But toujours perdrix; toujours perdrix will never do.

We doubt not that these ideas are not new to Mr. Noah. We are sure he approves them, and are willing to abide his judgment of our censures, not of Mr. Dickens, but of Boz-not of the author, but the school. We have no great cities on this side of the Potomac, and therefore no mobs, civil or literary. Our slaves are not recognized as members either of the body politic, or the Republic of Letters. We stand on our defence against imported innovations. We fight pro aris et focis, and if Mr. Noah does not approve our endeavor to repel all foreign invasions of our rights of property or taste, we are willing to stand condemned.

If Mr. Paulding could be expected to speak, we would propose another test. We have the highest respect for that gentleman. His liberality, candor and manly sense, are worthy of all praise, and his is that infectious mirth which

"Gars the widow's heart to sing

Tho' the tear were in her eye."

Now if he would answer ex animo, whether he is not conscious that the distempered appetite of his public has driven him into extravagancies which did violence to his own taste and judgment; and whether, in thinking of his reputation as the inheritance of his children, he does not look on these things with regret, we have no doubt that in that answer we should find our full vindication.

It is our confidence in the correctness of these ideas that emboldens us to defy the authority of that which calls itself the public. We know that the periodical press relies for the most part on the support of the very class of readers of which we have been speaking, and must be expected to take the part of a writer who is a favorite with its patrons. We are, therefore, not surprised to find laudatory notices of the writings of Boz prefixed to this publication, from the Examiner, the Morning Chronicle, the John Bull, the Tyne Mercury, &c. &c. But we must be allowed to say, that such notices from the Edinburgh or Quarterly Review would We are aware that we have no right to ask this have surprised us. With these masterly critics we do question, and no reason to expect an answer. We are not presume to rank ourselves; but we hope our ambi-aware that the question itself implies a censure. But tion may be allowed to seek its honors from the same hands that delight to crown their labors with approbation; and we are satisfied to find our censure ratified by their silence. We would that we too could rebuke by silence. We should have escaped an unpleasant task.

Among those who avow their opposition to our views in regard to this kind of writing, we are sorry and surprised to find Mr. Noah. We were sorry because we hold his taste in high respect, and surprised because we had expected his approbation of our attempt to repel a lawless invasion of his peculiar province. Were we insensible to the polished wit and racy humor of this gentleman, we might be less indignant at the attempt to palm on the public the gross counterfeits which we condemn. If he thinks that we have no taste for fun, we can hardly expect to find favor in his eyes. We beg leave to assure him that we enjoy a laugh as much as any one we know. But we cannot laugh at the word of command, and we cannot keep our risible faculties on the stretch through six or seven hundred pages of grinning buffoonery. It is the same thing with the pathetic, and with all the modes and forms of eloquence. Let the wit or the orator blow a trumpet before him, and proclaim his purpose to make us laugh or cry, and straightway our muscles assume an inexorable rigidity, and the fountain of our tears dries up.

we beg leave to assure him it is very slight. We have no thought of placing his works in the same category with those of Mr. Dickens. The gentlemanly nom de guerre of Launcelot Langstaffe, Esq., and the vulgar designation of Boz, will express the difference between

them.

But we repeat that we expect no answer from him, and again refer ourselves to the arbitrament of Mr. Noah. If he condemns we will stand condemned, and we will consent to abdicate our throne of criticism, and burn our sceptre. His be the fiat. Nocens absolvatur : Judex damnetur !

HELEN DEFENDED.

MISS EDGEWORTH'S HELEN-AGAIN. A writer, whose taste cultivation appears to have rendered more fastidious, than correct or discriminating, makes, in the last Messenger, an attack upon this novel and its authoress, characterized by at least as much boldness and spirit, as justice. He discovers in "Helen" innumerable "vulgarisms of language," and a plot exceedingly defective,-though he favors the public with a specification of but one particular, wherein

this deficiency of plot consists. Miss Edgeworth's | former novels, written in her father's lifetime, being all free (as her assailant thinks) from similar faults, he infers that they were indebted to Mr. Edgeworth for their merits; and that his daughter, deprived of the guardian influence of his judgment and taste, fell immediately to that humble level, whence his aid alone had raised her.

We might, plausibly, except to the competency of the judge who has passed this sentence. He inveighs against "the slip-slopperiness that pervades" the style of "this literary bantling" of Miss Edgeworth!-and talks of "such careless, slip-slop, vulgar phraseology!"-His first sentence, construed according to its natural import, would convey the idea—exactly opposite to his meaning that in the case of Helen, a woman was not the author. And all these specimens of decency, refined taste, elegance and accuracy, occur in a composition not half a page long !-Now, if it is just that only

Those should "teach others, who themselves excel,
And censure freely, who have written well,”—

"Wildfire, quite in wind"—"Highblood was blown, beyond the power of whip or spur"-" Squire B. won the match hollow." [Description of a horse-race. Harpers' edition of E's works; vol. 14. p. 35.]

"None that ever sarved man or beast"-ib. (said by a stable boy.)

"Percy is not curious, especially about jobbing. He will ask no questions; or if he should, I can easily put him upon a wrong scent." (Comm'r. Falconer speaks.) "Remember, you cannot get on in the diplomatic line without," &c. (id. ib.)

The same expression, "diplomatic line," used twice, vol. 15. p. 192-by Lord Oldborough, and by Mr. Temple!

"Another line of life." (Mr. Percy.) 46.

"We must push her in the line for which she is fitthe fashionable line." 164. (Mrs. Falconer.) [This use of the word "line," is selected by our Charleston critic for animadversion, in Helen.]

"Come, come, Maria, what the d- are you about?" (Col. Hauton, a nephew of Lord Oldborough, speaking to his sister, in Lord O.'s crowded drawing-room.

we might justly ask, where is the present critic's com- vol. 14. p. 64.) mission for sitting in judgment?

But a plea to the jurisdiction often implies a want of substantial merit in the cause: and recrimination is usually the defence of those who feel the assault to have been just. Both are wholly unsuitable to the case of Miss Edgeworth. We are therefore willing to suppose, that the assailant here used the language we have quoted, merely to exemplify, and hold up visibly to censure, the vulgarisms he meant to rebuke: as Longinus "is himself the great Sublime he draws ;"or, as one lecturing the 'ladies of the British fishery' upon their excessive freedom of speech, would naturally borrow a few phrases of their own Billingsgate, to make himself the better understood.

Long ago, while her father yet lived, and with reference to some of her most admired works, the Quarterly Review pronounced Miss E. "remarkably deficient in" the art of "framing a story." The plot of "Helen" may safely be compared with that of "Patronage," or of "Belinda," or of "Harrington," or of "Ennui,”for probability, and freedom from unnatural intricacy. That element in it-namely, General Clarendon's insisting that he should be the first love of his wife-which our Charleston critic deems so monstrous, is full likely to be positive fact; as truth so often surpasses fiction in strangeness, and as, in the infinitely varying capriciousness of human nature (especially, English nature) no freak can ever be incredible. In this comparison then, of her former productions with her last, there is no support found for the supposition that it was to her father Miss E. owed her former success.

Let us see whether, on a comparison of the phraseology used in "Helen" with that in its more honored predecessors, these have any superiority to boast of.

Presently after, he says again—" come, come, Maria, what the deuse are you at?" (attempting to make her sing. ib.)

"She" (Miss Hauton) "cleared her throat, and began again-worse still, she was out of tune.” (ib.) "D....d agreeable, you two seem,” cried the Colonel, (to his sister and Capt. Percy) "without a word to throw to a dog." 66.

"She is hipped this morning"-(Col. Hauton, p. 68, speaking of his sister, to her face, and in the same presence!)

"I do not agree with the general principle, that," &c. (p. 57-Godfrey Percy.)

"Buckhurst thought and thought." 41.

"Oh hang it! hang it, John! what the devil shall I do? My father won't pay a farthing for me, unless I go into the church!" p. 42. (said by Buckhurst Falconer-a young gentleman about to enter into holy orders.)

"Would dance divinely, if she would but let herself out." (Buckhurst F. says it, of Miss Caroline Percy!) 43.

"The terror of his voice and lightning of his eye." (vol. 15. p. 103-misquotation of Gray.)

Alfred Percy (a young lawyer of talents) quotes Burke as saying that "Law has a contractile power on the mind." Now Burke indeed says, that law is not so apt to open and liberalize the mind, as it is to quicken and invigorate it. But contractile does not express his meaning. Contractile is intransitive in its signification. It means "having the power of self-contraction,"--not the power to contract another thing.

Lady Angelina Hadingham, a beauty and bel-esprit, is made to cry out, in a roomfull of company, "O! cramp! cramp!-horrid cramp! in my foot-in my leg!"

Let us take "Patronage"-the most admired, perhaps, of all this admirable novelist's works,—and to which Mr. Edgeworth prefixed his paternal approval, Mr. Edgeworth had studied law, if not practised. written, as the book had been, under his roof: let us Had Patronage been written either by him, or under take Patronage; and see if, in a few pages, we cannot the "guardian influence" of his "taste and judgment," find many parallels to the "vulgarisms" (as the Charles- he never would have committed or suffered the blunton critic calls them) which have been quoted from ders it contains, in points connected with that profesHelen.

sion.

VOL. III.-68