THE EDINBURGH LITERARY JOURNAL; OR, WEEKLY REGISTER OF CRITICISM AND BELLES LETTRES. No. 136. THE BYSTANDER. No. VII. ON CONVERSATION. SATURDAY, JUNE 18, 1831. Ir is strange, considering the great portion of our life that is spent in society, and the dependance of our happiness upon the power of thus spending it, the small num. ber who know how to converse. Conversation is at once the bond which holds society together, and the ingredient which renders it pleasant. It is true, that so gregarious an animal is man, even a mute gains upon our affections and becomes indispensable to us, if any connexion of birth or affiance, or the necessities of business, bring us constantly together. There is a fine example of this in Sir Walter's story of the two drovers-neither of them men with many ideas, or great power of expressing even their limited range, yet going on most sociably together, whistling as they went. I have known two divinity students live, during the entire course of their academic career, in the same apartment, each immersed in his books the whole of the long winter evening, serving each other at mealtimes rather by the intervention of signs than of words, yet dearly attached, as the events of their after life clearly showed. Nay, I am by no means certain, that had not the affections of Jeanie Deans been pre-engaged, even the mute attentions of Dumbiedikes would not have been successful at last. In these instances, however, we remark no more than an instinctive aversion to solitude, and a clinging to the object which redeems us from it, that man shares in common with the brutes. By society, is meant those wider reunions of human beings, in which the interchange of ideas expands the mind, at the same time that the necessity of mutual deference smoothes away its harshnesses. No one who has had the ill-luck to be seated at dinner next to some monosyllabic neighbour, who replies to the first attempt to draw him into a conversation with "No"-to the second with "Yes"-and to the third with "Perhaps ;" and who has felt the load of discomfort which lies upon the heart, while sitting amidst an assemblage of such nonintercourse gentlemen, in a room dimly lighted with half-snuffed candles, can doubt of the importance of smalltalk to the well-being and comfort of society. There are a great many causes, each of which is singly capable of rendering one unable to discharge this social duty. Some are prevented from talking by sheer stupidity. Others, who have ideas enough, are hindered by constitutional phlegm-they like to follow out the trains of thought which cross their brains, and are too indolent to care for the amusement of their neighbours. These are comparatively happy in their silence; but there is a class of mortals who are anxious to join in conversation, but who never can hit upon a subject. People of this kind sit upon thorns the whole time that they are in company, fretting under the consciousness of appearing stupid and uninteresting. They are deserving of our pity, for their annoyance is simply the consequence of a constitutional want of readiness and self-possession. Those, Price 6d. on the contrary, who are kept silent, by a resolve never to say any thing but what is striking or profound-who allow the conversation to flag while they are straining after some witticism, are only suffering the just punishment of their vanity, when they undergo such mortification. It is not every one who can talk that is capable of holding conversation. Some, from an overflow of animal spirits, chatter on continually, never enquiring whether their hearers are amused, nor greatly caring for their admiration, blest in the consciousness that their tongues are wagging. Others enter into company with a desperate resolution to be amusing, and a long stock of commonplaces, with which they overwhelm every one who comes within the sphere of their attraction. What some persuade themselves is conversation, is in reality nothing else than the engrossing consciousness of their own projects and actions overflowing in talk. None of these people converse-they only hold soliloquies in public. Nothing more annoys and surprises men of genius, than to see persons, whom they regard as of plodding natures and limited capacities, preferred to themselves as companions, and taking the lead in conversation. We have often discovered this jealousy in their carping and cavilling at such persons. They are in the wrong to be astonished, for the essence of that genius upon which they pride themselves is the depth and richness of its emotions, its susceptibility of being engrossed and overmastered by its own conceptions. Now, it is quite in the order of nature, that a person who has but a limited range of ideas, and can easily command his shallow feelings, should, like a certain American hero, be "always ready for action." His thoughts are neither so grand nor so subtle, as to leave him at a loss for words, and he is always aware of his situation for the time being. But men of genius are not only mistaken, they are showing a weakness and unworthiness of nature, when they allow their annoyance at being outshone by such a person to lead them to decry his peculiar talent. Although of a lower grade than those with which they are endowed, it is nevertheless of rare occurrence, and great utility. He who feels contempt For any living thing, hath faculties It is not meant to deny that there is both pleasure and profit in having access and habitual intercourse with men of genius. There is always something in a man's most trivial words and actions expressive of his character, and it is impossible to associate with a man of high mind, and not be continually receiving suggestions and impressions which instruct and elevate us. The mistake on our part lies in thinking that these can be obtained by meeting him once in crowded society-that he is like a schoolmaster or a comedian, ready to fulfil his vocation at a moment's warning-that he is not rather like a seer, over whom the spirit comes, possessing him, he knows not how, nor can forbode when. The mistake on his part lies in supposing that he must vindicate his situation in society as other men. Every man takes his place This last paragraph, we are half inclined to suspect, has been a kind of digression. To return, the young of either sex have rarely much talent for conversation. Their consciousness of life is too overpowering. Nevertheless they have a power of making themselves agreeable to each other, which amply compensates for the want. It is a bad sign when a very young person possesses that power of ready but unimpassioned alternation of discourse which forms the charm of conversation in people of more advanced years. It is customary to call precocious children hothouse plants, but the term is scarcely applicable here. A hothouse plant is one which, by too liberal an application of heat and moisture, has attained an unnatural degree of succulence. It is too luxuriant for its strength-it withers away from want of stamina. But young persons, such as those of whom we are at present speaking, are unnatural in the other extreme-they are withered before they begin to bourThey have the green leaves of youth without its nourishing juices. They remind us of what the nursery tales relate concerning fairy changelings-withered, peevish, insatiable, old persons, with the form and helplessness of infants. in company in virtue of some peculiar title-one besition, which prevented her from becoming fade. He cause he is rich-another because he is talented-a third had laboured assiduously to cultivate and strengthen her because he is amusing-a fourth because we like him. mind. In the town which they inhabited there were Let no one attempt to lay claim to a place which is not about half-a-dozen families, living like themselves upon due to him, or go about to cozen people by false preten- a narrow competency, all of them a slight degree more sions. refined, and better educated than the shopmen and artisans by whom they were surrounded. Amelia's busband endeavoured, as his family increased in numbers, to eke out his slender income by receiving a few young gentlemen as boarders. Several of the neighbouring country gentlemen intrusted their sons to his care, and as there was a number of absentee proprietors in the county, finding him and his wife superior persons, they were glad of such an accession to the narrow range of their summer society. Amelia's feeling of what constituted a proper deportment in society, had been formed theoretically, upon the model of Shakspeare's and Richardson's heroines. The cool observant character of ber husband had taught her to look on the realities of life, to see her real situation in society, yet without injuring her natural and acquired gentility of mind. The mingling with the county families, and a delicate discerning tact, enabled her to conform to the simplicity of modern manners. A turn of mind acquired by having been, in a great mea. sure, the instructress of her own children, and afterwards invested, along with her husband, with a joint surveillance over their young boarders, rendered her rather fond of teaching, while the fruits of her reading and observation enabled her to discern that the attainment of her wishes depended mainly upon her concealing them. She became a kind of missionary for the propagation of refinement of thought and action—we use the expression in its worthiest sense-in the circle in which she moved. We were all attached to her by her goodness of heart, and attracted by her powers of conversation. Her beneficial influence is attested to this day by the peculiarly urbane tone which pervades the society of the town in which she lived,-by the success and happiness in after life which many of the friends of our youth, now widely scattered through the world, gladly confess they owe to her. Our good Amelia had, it is true, a little of the pedant about her; her character was in accordance with her natural disposition, but it had been formed under rather adverse circumstances. She knew her worth to the full extent, and piqued herself upon it. Yet we have often wished that there were more Amelia the world. geon. Few men are good at conversation. They are in general too technical-their talk is overcharged with indications of their profession. Even those who have devoted themselves to no active business have favourite pursuits, literary or otherwise, which give a monotonous colouring to their conversation. Such as are free from all these faults, have a worse habit—that of talking politics. This subject, as it is in general discussed, is the most sickening and drivelling of all. Men who really take an interest in the matter and understand it, find that it is a serious study, and are anxious in their hours of relaxation to lay the burden aside. It is uniformly those who know only a few cant phrases by rote who in sist upon introducing the subject on all occasions. "Damn it," said Squire Western, "let us talk about politicssomething that we all understand." s in Ladies who have passed the age of thirty-five, and, according to rule-though there are some exceptions-married ones, make the best conversationists. We can approach them without a constant and intrusive reference to the difference of sex, while they retain all that gentleness and feminine delicacy which form their principal charm. Whether the sphere in which they have moved be limited or extensive, so that it be not vulgar, they have picked up a mass of observation, which men intent upon one object have no idea of. Their minds, unfettered by an artificial education, have associated and arranged their Philip Augustus; or, The Brothers in Arms. "And now, my dear sir, will you tell me, what is your object in these long and desultory remarks ?” To write a Bystander, Madonna. Have I succeeded? G. LITERARY CRITICISM. By the Three Author of " Darnley," "De L'Orme," &c. store in an original and pleasing manner. They possess a light, graceful versatility, and the power of giving a direction to the conversation, or suggesting topics, without seeming to do so. They form, in virtue of this talent, the cement of society-the formers of the charac-"a le charme de la chevalerie, cette magie du bon vieux Their temps qui nous remue si profondement." The remark existence; but none, on the other hand, questioned its many supernumerary characters, whose presence is wholly appearance in his neighbour, nor for a moment hesitated unconnected with the advancement of the plot, and who himself to acknowledge and give way to its authority, really become the source of very vexatious disappointeven when it pointed out the path to the most romantic ment, by their sudden and unexpected entrances and perils, or to vows of wild devotion. It came like a exits, when, after arresting our observation by their first grand contagion, an intoxicating delirium, which drove appearance, we find, in a little, it is also to be the last, on the patient during its fervour to violent and absurd or that henceforth they are to swell the train of those conduct, but, like many a strong stimulant, left on its who give their parts "an understanding, but no tongue." departure the judgment and vision even keener than they Accordingly, when a new face appears, and a strange were before it had entered the system, subsiding at last, voice cries fire, we invariably think three times, ere we in its final result, into a calmer and wiser equipoise of venture to put any trust in him. This class of precocious all the passions it had put in commotion. We need not gentlemen, so to call them, finds a fit representative in say what a wide field the various modifications, from in- the person of Guillaume Comte de la Roche Guyon. dividual or national causes, of such a disease, must ne- By all the laws of honour, he should have broken sundry cessarily lay open to scrutiny and explanation. And it lances with Sir Guy de Coucy; and his apropos appearis on this account that, while the devoir of the true ance at the castle of the latter, on the story of the murknight has been finished long ago, the occupation of his der of his grandfather, would, in all probability, in other companiou the minstrel or troubadour, cannot be lost, hands, have been attended by some very startling and until the memory, not less than the living presence of marvellous consequences. With an extensive acquaintance the theme of his song, has died out and been forgotten. besides, as we said before, of his favourite topic, he loves The lay may never be repeated twice in the same strain- to give his knowledge lavishly out; and the desire perfor every generation bas a "touch of harmony" to admire haps of saturating his readers to the same extent with of its own, and the mere novelty of alteration, without himself, with this to him attractive information, is often prejudice to the truth of the matter, supports its length- the occasion of leading him into details and minutiæ, ened existence. which, by the frequency of their repetition, break up the general spirit of his narrative. We cannot help thinking also, that we discover throughout all this exactness, a tendency to the imitation of a greater mind, which, as it ought most assiduously to be courted as a study, ought with equal care to be shunned in the copy of its excellence, unless by a spirit whose innate strength gives him assurance of the power to sustain an equal flight. The opening circumstances of the novel, with many of its subsequent incidents, remind us far too forcibly of what he never can aspire to approach-the romance of Ivanhoe. | But the greatest fault of " Philip Augustus" yet remains to be mentioned. Evidently overburdened with his matter, the power of its methodical arrangement seems unfortunately to have deserted him; and while he has given the outline of a thousand sketches, he has not Of those who thus seek to perpetuate ancient worthiness in a form agreeable to existing taste, the present author, while he has been one of the steadiest to his task, is very far from being the most unsuccessful in its execution. Even now, while imagination only "du bon vieux temps" can be his pride, he seems redolent of all its enthusiasm, and conversant with all its scenery and character; and the mastery which he possesses over the language of emotion, and the description of touching loveliness, enables his strong feelings to find vent with their deepest effect. This capacity of expression we think, indeed, is a principal cause of the popularity with which the other efforts of Mr James have been, as the present one will no doubt be, much on the same account, received. For, while we have not ourselves been struck anywhere with a great display of original thinking, we perfectly understand how far the " pomp and circum-given a single finished rallying point round which they stance" of words may carry along with them, not merely may gather with any consistency and strength. Novel a forgetfulness towards such a want, but the delusion and detached as each chapter in the work is, standing by also, that the mind is actually imbibing a stock of fresh itself, it is not an episode from the general narration, but and untried information. Neither is the style too lofty; an individual and isolated history. The consequence is, it flows in a rich, powerful, and sustained stream. But that to give an analysis of the whole work, would be to the forte of our author we apprehend to be, the depth of give a framework of every one of these chapters. feeling with which he casts his eye across all natural beauty, and the responsive poetry of language which he summons up to maintain and be the vehicle of his own delight, to the finest sensibilities and affections of his readers. These are some general impressions in favour of Mr James, drawn from his former volumes, and also those before us, which we wish to express before venturing on our more legitimate province, where we are not so confident that his success has been very decisive. The world has demurred to the decision of Milton on his own behalf; and although Mr James thinks the present work "the best thing he has yet composed," we must take the liberty of dissenting from his opinion. The choice of the subject is certainly very happy; and the era, the manners, and condition of the country, the bustle and variety of historical incidents, the many striking characters who were there engaged-all opened up a wide career for talent and ingenuity. But a good romance, as much as a good play, requires, that where a superabundance of materials exists in the hands of the artist, a judicious sacrifice should be made of subordinate agents and events to the interests of a few principal actors, or else, in the desire to omit nothing, every thing will be apt partially to elude our grasp. In this way Mr James has erred, from a wish no doubt to embrace all the objects in his extensive field, by the introduction of Rather, therefore, than give a clumsy epitome of what really cannot bear any fair abridgement, and deal unjustly both with the author and reader, we shall confine ourselves to the selection of one or two prominent passages. The prime interest of the tale, as its title implies, hinges upon the haughty and passionate, but deep-designing, cautious, and, in the very whirlwind of his passion, often coldly politic Philip. From the early means of information, indeed, regarding the internal situation of France, or rather from the want of general interest in domestic movements at this epoch, the majority of our readers, we imagine, have been accustomed to view this singular man and great monarch through the medium alone of his foreign policy; thus giving an undue preponderance to the thirst of selfish aggrandizement, which apparently was the mainspring of all the movements of France during his reign, both in relation to her own government, and the position of surrounding states. us at length steady the tantalizing cup, that we have so often dashed from our lips, and make acquaintance with Philip as he now stands before us. Let with her full, soft, blue eyes over the far-extended landscape, appeared lost in thought; while her other hand, fondly clasped in that of her companion, shadowed out, as it were, how nearly linked he was to her seemingly abstracted thoughts. "The other tenant of that chamber was a man of thirty-two or thirty-three years of age, tall, well formed, handsome, of the same fair complexion as his companion, but tinged with the manly florid hue of robust health, exposure, and exercise. His nose was slightly aquiline, his chin rounded and rather prominent, and his blue eyes would have been fine and expressive, had they not been rather nearer together than the just proportion, and stained, as it were, on the very iris, by some hazel spots in the midst of the blue. The effect, however, of the whole, was pleasing; and the very defect of the eyes, by its singularity, gave something fine and distinguished to the countenance; while their nearness, joined with the fire that shone out in their glance, seemed to speak that keen and quick sagacity, which sees and determines at once, in the midst of thick dangers and perplexity. "The expression, however, of those eyes was now calm and soft, while sometimes holding her hand in his, sometimes playing with a crown of wild roses he had put on his companion's head, he mingled one rich curl after another with the green leaves and the blushing flowers; and, leaning with his left arm against the 'embrasure of the window, high above her head, as she sat gazing out upon the landscape, he looked down upon the beautiful creature, through the mazes of whose hair his other hand was straying, with a smile strangely mingled of affection for her, and mockery of his own light employment. "There was grace, and repose, and dignity, in his whole figure, and the simple green hunting tunic which he wore, without robe or hood, or ornament whatever, served better to show its easy majesty, than would the robes of a king; and yet this was Philip Augustus. "So pensive, sweet Agnes!' said he, after a moment's silence, thus waking from her reverie the lovely Agnes de Meranie, whom he had married shortly after the sycophant bishops of France had pronounced the nullity of his unconsummated marriage with Ingerberge, for whom he had conceived the most inexplicable aversion." Equally powerful is the picture of the separation of this fond pair, when the necessities of state affairs and the cold calculations of worldly men had torn them asunder: "At three, the queen's litter was in the castle-court, the sergeants of arms mounted to attend her, and the horses of her ladies held ready to set out. With a heart beating with stronger emotions than had ever agitated it in the face of adverse hosts, Guerin approached the apartments of Agnes de Meranie. He opened the door, but paused without pushing aside the tapestry, saying, 'My lord!' "Come in,' replied Philip, in a voice of thunder; and Guerin, entering, beheld him standing in the midst of the floor, with Agnes clinging to him, fair, frail, and faint, with her arms twined round his powerful frame, like the ivy clinging round some tall oak agitated by a storm. The king's face was heated, his eyes were red, and the veins of his temples were swelled almost to bursting. She shall not go!' cried he, as Guerin entered, in a voice both raised and shaken by the extremity of his feelings,' By the Lord of Heaven! she shall not go!' "There was energy in his tone almost to madness; and Guerin stood silent, seeing all that he had laboured to bring about swept away in that moment. But Agnes slowly withdrew her arms from the king, raised her weeping face from his bosom, clasped her hands together, and gazed on him for a moment with a glance of deep and agonized feeling-then said in low but resolute voice, Philip, it must be done! Farewell, beloved! Farewell!' and, running forward towards the door, she took the arm of one of her women, to support her from the chamber. "Before she could go, however, Philip caught her again in his arms, and pressed kiss after kiss upon her lips and cheek. 'Help me! help me!' said Agnes; and two of her women, gently disengaging her from the king's embrace, half bore, half carried her down the stairs, and, raising her into the litter, drew its curtains round, and veiled her farther sorrows from all other eyes. "When she was gone, Philip stood for a moment gazing, as it were, on vacancy,-twice raised his hand to his head-made a step or two towards the door— reeled-staggered—and fell heavily on the floor, with the blood gushing from his mouth and nostrils." have seemed to draw forth the defects of “Philip AugusWe fear that, in the course of these remarks, we may tus" (the novel) into invidious light, while we allowed its beauties to slumber in the shade. Perhaps this appearance is inseparable from the duties of the "ungentle craft." In taking leave of the subject, however, we can say that our confidence in the abilities of the author is no way diminished-that we still regard him-setting apart the first authors of the day, in that class of composition claims of THE ONE who stands pre-eminent-among the which seems to be his favourite, but that we cannot concur with him in giving “ Philip Augustus" the preference over." Richelieu." THE distinguished authors of these posthumous volumes have many claims upon our respect. They both occupied a very eminent station in our national church: and, while there existed many striking points of difference business habits, great natural shrewdness and tact, steadibetween them, they possessed in common indefatigable that party in the church, of which they were successively ness of principle, and a commanding influence among the leaders. As impartial critics, however, we are compelled to judge books by their own merits, and not by the high name of their authors. This must be our apology for confining our notice of the two volumes now before us within the scanty limits of a short article. Sir Henry Moncreiff has already appeared before the public, both as a writer of sermons and as a biographer; but more successfully in the latter capacity than in the former. His Life of Erskine is an interesting piece of biography, and well deserves perusal on account both of the information which it contains, and especially the judicious remarks on character and doctrine with which it is interspersed. His Sermons (we allude particularly to the volume published in 1805) are chiefly remarkable for a strong infusion of Calvinistic divinity of the most rigid character. They are too exclusively doctrinal perhaps― too dryly metaphysical for general edification—they smack too much for modern palates of that school divinity which was at one time so fashionable among the divines of our church, and which we are not sorry to see superseded by a style of preaching not less strictly orthodox, but more popular, more practical, and consequently likely to prove more generally useful. The present volume is more miscellaneous in its contents, and altogether furnishes a more favourable specimen of the author's pulpit eloquence. Even here we occasionally discover a little mysticism, and not a little dogmatism-the latter quality we should have considered in ordinary cases as highly offensive, but in this particular instance it is softened down to us by two considerations, the respect we owe to a wise and good man, and the circumstance that his positions are generally so much in accordance with our own sentiments, that we are willing to excuse the reason which in strictness we are entitled to demand. The volume contains twenty-two sermons, the best of which, in our opinion, are the first, on "Christ's Death, and its Effects,' -the eighth, on the "Doctrine of Assurance," and the thirteenth, "The Consolations of Faith." If the present volume adds little to our national stock of theological literature, it at least supports the reputation which Sir Henry Moncreiff had already earned as an elegant writer, and a shrewd, well-informed, and orthodox divine. We must not forget to mention that the greater number of the discourses contained in this volume were selected from Sir Henry's papers, and a few of them printed under the revisal of the late Dr A. Thomson, and that there is a short, modest, and elegant Preface, by the author's distinguished son, Lord Moncreiff. Of Dr Thomson it would be easy to speak at length, and difficult to say any thing new. The part which he acted during the last twenty years of his life was too conspicuous to leave the public ignorant of his character as a public man or as an author. It cannot be denied that he appeared to much greater advantage in his living appearances than in his writings. The former were almost uniformly successful, and sometimes eminently so. His eloquence was not of a very lofty character; at the same time we are willing to admit that this remark must be qualified by many splendid exceptions; but as a debater, we never saw him fairly matched. The same character, though in an inferior degree, belonged to his writings. In personal satire, in controversy, in smart criticism, he was strong, and he was conscious of his strength. In his graver publications he has, to a great extent, failed. This is the more to be wondered at, not merely because he was an extremely popular preacher, for nothing is more common than instances of popular preachers publishing unreadable sermons, but because his popularity was fixed upon the sure and legitimate ground of good sense and practical exposition of divine truth. Besides, he was a practised and a skilful writer; and if his style is distinguished more by vigour than by elegance, this arose rather from the character of the man than from his ignorance of classical composition. Perhaps, after all, the secret of his failure-for his authorship in sermon-writing is a failure-lies in the haste with which he composed and published. With the exception of his "Sermons on Infidelity," his discourses appear to be the very hasty productions of a richly-stored and yigorous mind, satisfying itself with the thoughts which presented themselves first in order, and taking little trouble to exhibit them otherwise than in their original shape. We have mentioned his "Sermons on Infidelity" as an exception to this slovenliness of authorship. They contain more thought, more condensation and pertinence of reasoning, and more careful arrangement, than we find in his other sermons and lectures; but, upon the whole, Dr Thomson's published discourses will add little to his living reputation. We make this remark general, because we find nothing in the present volume to deserve particular criticism. It is like the bulk of its predecessors, partaking in the usual proportion of their faults and excellencies. reams of paper without an eye to publication. Not so with clergymen. They write sermons to assist them in the useful discharge of their duty in instructing their people; and the compositions, when thus used, may effectually serve their present purpose, though they may be totally unfit for the public eye, for which, in fact, they never were intended. Under such circumstances, the fame of the departed, and sometimes even the cause of religion, may suffer from the undue partiality, the ignorance, or the cupidity, of surviving relatives. The injury to the dead is still greater, when, as in the case of Dr Thomson, sudden and unexpected death overtakes a man in the midst of his usefulness, and without that warning which would have put it into his power to place beyond the reach of relatives papers which were intended for no eye but his own. We know the apology which is generally offered in such cases, but we greatly doubt its validity -at least to the extent to which it is sometimes urged. We offer these remarks here, because we have understood that the publishing another volume (and who will ensure us against another and another?) of Dr Thomson's sermons is in contemplation. The experiment has been sufficiently tried, and we can assure his executors that they are not likely to increase their departed friend's reputation, or their own, by its repetition. These strictures do not apply to Sir Henry Moncreiff's posthumous volume, because it appears that he had corrected and re-written almost all the Discourses in the volume now published, with an eye to their being laid before the public. Ivan Vejerghen; or, Life in Russia. By Thaddeus. Bulgarin. Two vols. 12mo. Pp. 292, 296. London : Whittaker and Treacher. Edinburgh: Henry Constable. 1831. IVAN VEJEEGHEN is a sort of Russian Gil Blas. We mean the book, not the hero, for he is but a tame representative of La Sage's logician and coward, moral picaroon, and selfish friend. The adventures of the Russian resemble those of the Spaniard in this-that they introduce us to almost every grade of Russian society, and that the story of them is told in a satirical style, in a strain of acquired misanthropy, tempered with natural bon-hommie. We are first introduced to Ivan as a neglected and abused orphan, on the establishment of a Polish nobleman settled in Bialo-Russia. His treatment here is sketched in a light caustic style that reminds us of the castle of Thonder-ten-tronckh. No "The first ten years of my life were spent in the house of Mr Gologordoffsky, a country gentleman in BialoRussia; there I was reared like a home-bred wolffing, and was known under the name of The Orphan. body cared for me, and still less cared I for any body. None of the inmates of the house paid me any attention except an old, worn-out dog, who, like me, was left to provide for himself. "I had no corner of the house assigned me for my lodging, no food nor clothing allotted me, nor any fixed occupation. In the summer, I spent my days in the open air, and slept under the sheds attached to the barn or cowhouse. In the winter, I lived in the bulky kitchen, which served as a rendezvous for the numerous train of servants, and I slept on the hearth among the hot einders. In summer, I wore nothing but a long shirt and a piece of rope about my waist: in winter, I covered my nakedness with whatever came in my way-any old jacket or fragment of a peasant's coat served my purpose. With these articles I was furnished by compassionate people, In who did not know what to do with their old rags. I wore nothing on my feet, which became so hardened that neither grass, nor mud, nor ice, made any difference of feeling. My head likewise was left to its natural cover Before concluding this short notice, we have a word to say about publishing posthumous volumes of sermons, and we think the present a very proper occasion. ordinary cases, when a man leaves any MSS. at his death, his executors have a sort of right to publish them, as it may be fairly presumed that few men will scribble |