tistical discussion or display:-" We are all poor weak creatures, and I know very well I have my faults like other people." "Well, my dear," (submissively replied the husband,) "I should not have said anything about it, if you had not been so candid; but I must say you have a few faults." "Faults, sir! and pray, what faults have I?but you are always finding fault "-and the lady burst into tears at his cruelty. We are curiously and wonderfully made, particularly about the region of the heart; and when the outward coating of egotism or vanity is stripped off, we find an inner one of envy or jealousy. A man may depreciate his own pursuits, in order to gain a right to depreciate the similar pursuits of others; and when Walpole expresses great contempt for middling authors, it may be that he was quietly indulging his spite at the whole of his cotemporaries; not one of whom he would have admitted to be more than "middling" at the best. The want of individual aim in the remark does not rebut the presumption of its ill-nature. When Boswell repeated to Johnson

Let blameless Bethell, if he will, excel
Ten metropolitans in preaching well,

and asked him to whom the writer alluded in the second line, Johnson replied, "I don't know, sir; but he thought it would vex somebody."

We say frankly, however, that Walpole's constant negation and depreciation of authorship constitute his great offence in our eyes. It was a most mischievous littleness in a man of his rank to foster the vulgar prejudices of his order in this particular; and it is still, in our opinion, an infallible symptom of a narrow mind, or an imperfect education, to talk slightingly of the position of a man of letters, or repudiate, as lowering, a connection with any respectable branch of literature. "Give me a place to stand on," said Archimedes, " and I will move the world." The modern Archimedes who should be content to use a moral lever, would take his stand upon the press. And what portion of the press? Not, as we formerly intimated, on the ponderous folio, or the bulky quarto, or the respectable octavo, but on the review, the magazine, and above all the newspaper. Let any one calmly reflect upon the enormous power, for good or evil, exercised by clever writers who are daily read by thousands. It is a well-known fact, which any leading bookseller will verify with a sigh, that, whenever public events of importance occur, or great changes are under discussion, it is useless to publish books. During the reform bill, the Catholic emancipation, and the corn law agitation, regular literature of every kind was a drug; and ever since the commencement of the great continental convulsion in February last, it has been excluded from much of its fair and legitimate domain by journalism. It is more to the purpose to set about neutralizing any evil effects that may be apprehended from a change than to rail at it; and this change would hardly be so marked and durable unless the talent

and knowledge which used to find vent and expression in books had been gradually diverted into reviews and newspapers.

Ev

Mazarin declared that "he did not care who had the making of a nation's laws, so long as he had the writing of their songs." Had he lived in our time, he would have substituted, "so long as he had the writing of their leading articles;" and most assuredly no English statesman, who had thoroughly at heart the real improvement of the public mind, (on which all other improvement depends now-a-days,) would deny the paramount importance of elevating and sustaining the tone of that class of composition which forms the entire mental aliment of much the larger part of the community. Fortunately for the country, fortunately for mankind, it has already attained a high degree of excellence; and is rapidly clearing itself from the dirt, the rubbish, and the dross:-but no thanks, for this, to prime ministers, no thanks to cabinets, no thanks to the aristocracy; for every step of its progress has been retarded by dis couragement, or acknowledged with a sneer. ery other kind of intellectual distinction has been eagerly sought out and rewarded of late years; but where (with two or three exceptions) is the newspaper editor or writer, who might not adopt the very words of the lexicographer in his famous letter to Lord Chesterfield: "I have been pushing on my task through difficulties of which it is useless to complain, without one act of assistance, one word of encouragement, or one smile of favor." Why is Mr. Searjeant Talfourd, speaking of the late Mr. Barnes with reference to his editorship of the "Times," obliged to lament "that the influences for good which he shed largely on all the departments of busy life, should have necessarily left behind them such slender memorials of one of the kindest, the wisest, and the best of men who have ever enjoyed signal opportunities of moulding public opinion, and who have turned them to the noblest and the purest uses ?"*

The truth is, it requires a rare degree of moral courage to depart from the ordinary practice or confront the stereotyped prejudice; and it will be long, very long, we fear, before the juster notions of the French on this subject become prevalent among us; before, for example, our rising statesmen will rely on their literary as openly as on their parliamentary services, and feel as proud of an opportune article in a newspaper as of a successful speech in parliament. It is well known that almost every man who has attained to power in France since 1830, has been more or less avowedly connected with newspapers; nor at the present time is it possible for a party to maintain its ground in France without its daily organ, conducted by men of known talent; who (even when they do not sign their articles) are commonly more eager to parade their happiest exploits in this line than to veil or throw a shade over them. In al lusion to M. Thiers, M. Jules Janin says:-"The

merce; and it is in virtue of this alliance (which has been alluded to in the speeches of several gentlemen who have preceded me this evening) that you know of what is passing amongst foreigners; that you cannot but regard with sympathy the

subject, which I have executed miserably; but at least I do not make the new Queen of Portugal lay aside her majesty, and sell double entendres like Lady Bridget Tollemache. (Vol. i., p. 177.)

man who has risen by his pen. Who is the ambassador from Sweden ? - An author and an historian;

the historian of British India. Who is the ambas sador from Prussia?-An author and a professor. Who is the ambassador from Belgium? - Again, a man who has risen by literature. Who is the ambassador from France? - An author and historian. Who is the ambassador from, I had almost said, our fellow-countrymen in America? - Again, an author and a professor.

Since this was spoken, Mr. Everett has been succeeded by Mr. Bancroft, the distinguished author of "The History of the United States;" and M. de St. Aulaire's place is now filled by M. de Beaumont, the author of a work on Ireland, which is highly esteemed in France, whatever we may think of the views of Irish affairs taken by him.

The natural consequence of Walpole's peculiar mode of looking, or pretending to look, at authorship, was that he was a "bitter bad" critic. The

travagant commendation lavished on his long-forgotten play. This is not the only instance in which Walpole has the misfortune to differ from posterity :

What play makes you laugh very much, and yet is a very wretched comedy? Dr. Goldsmith's "She Stoops to Conquer." Stoops, indeed!-so she does, that is, the muse; she is draggled up to the knees, and has trudged, I believe, from Southwark fair. The whole view of the piece is low humor, and no humor is in it. All the merit is in the situations, which are comic; the heroine has no more modesty than Lady Bridget, and the author's wit is as much manqué as the lady's; but some of the characters are well acted, and Woodward speaks a poor prologue, written by Garrick, admirably. (Vol. i., p. 58.)

He could hardly be expected to appreciate Beaumarchais' masterpiece, or see what it por

to ensure a favorable reception for the book :

Let but a lord once own the happy lines, How the wit brightens and the sense refines. He must be a member of parliament, a member of Brookes', or a lounger at "White's Chocolate poor devil authors"

House" at the least. Such "

as Goldsmith, Smollett, Richardson, or Johnson, are ignored or slighted; Gray is flung off as a pedant; and even Fielding, with the blood of the Hapsburg in his veins, and though

Droll nature stamped each lucky hit
With unimaginable wit,

is voted low.

We will not quarrel with the high praise of Lord Carlisle's tragedy, (vol. ii., p. 163,) which was also praised by Dr. Johnson; but here is an exemplary specimen of dilettante criticism :

Mr. Jephson's tragedy, which I concluded would not answer all that I had heard of it, exceeded my expectations infinitely. The language is noble, the poetry, similes, and metaphors, enchanting. The harmony, the modulation of the lines, shows he has the best ear in the world. I remember nothing at all equal to it appearing in my time, though I am

it is surprising he could find nothing in it but a farce:

No, I am not at all struck with the letter of Beaumarchais, except with its insolence. Such a reproof might become Cato the Censor, in defence of such a tragedy as Addison's, on his descendant; but for such a vaurien as Beaumarchais, and for such a contemptible farce as "Figaro," it was paramount impertinence towards the duke, and gross ill-breeding towards the ladies. Besides, I abhor vanity in authors; it would offend in Milton or Montesquieu; in a Jack-pudding it is intolerable. I know no trait of arrogance recorded of Molière and to talk of the "Marriage of Figaro" as instructive! Punch might as well pretend to be moralizing when he sells a bargain. In general, the modern Gens de Lettres in France, as they call themselves, are complete puppies. (Vol. ii., p. 276.)

no

We must do him the justice to say he showed greater predilection for the encyclopædist school, and was fully alive to the national vanity of the French :

My French dinner went off tolerably well, except that five or six of the invited disappointed me, and the table was not full. The Abbé Raynal not only looked at nothing himself, but kept talking to

drissement. Besides, the subject in reality demands but two acts, for the conspiracy and the revolution; but one can never be tired of the poetry that protracts it. Would you believe I am to appear on the theatre along with it?-my Irish friends, the Binghams, have overpersuaded me to write an epilogue, which was wanting. They gave me the

abroad, to make us love our own country." This was before Mr. Churchill, who replied very properly, "Yes, we had some Esquimaux here lately, and they liked nothing-because they could get no train-oil for breakfast." (Vol. i., p. 272.)

He speaks thus of Montaigne :

I have scarce been in town since I saw you, have scarce seen anybody here, and don't remember a tittle but having scolded my gardener twice, which, indeed, would be as important an article as any in Montaigne's travels, which I have been reading, and if I was tired of his essays, what must one be of these! What signifies what a man thought, who never thought of anything but himself? and what signifies what a man did, who never did anything? (Vol. i., p. 135.)

We have not the remotest doubt that Walpole would have been found in the foremost ranks of Dryden's depreciators, when Elkanah Settle was set up against him by the court. He does actually prefer Mason to Pope!

Did your lord bring you the Heroic Epistle to Sir W. Chambers? I am going mad about it, though there is here and there a line I hate. I laughed till I cried, and the oftener I read it the better I like it. It has as much poetry as the "Dunciad," and more wit and greater facility.

It will be admitted that the concluding sentence of the following paragraph is not a lucky hit:

I made no commentary on General Oglethorpe's death, madam, because his very long life was the great curiosity, and the moment he is dead the rarity is over; and, as he was but ninety-seven, he will not be a prodigy compared with those who

reached to a century and a half. He is like many

who make a noise in their own time from some singularity, which is forgotten, when it comes to be registered with others of the same genus, but more extraordinary in their kind. How little will Dr. Johnson be remembered, when confounded with the mass of authors of his own calibre! (Vol. ii., p. 227.)

Again, alluding to Garrick :

What stuff was his Jubilee Ode, and how paltry his Prologues and Epilogues! I have always thought that he was just the counterpart of Shakspeare; this, the first of writers, and an indifferent actor; that, the first of actors, and a woful author. Posterity would believe me, who will see only his writings; and who will see those of another modern idol, far less deservedly enshrined, Dr. Johnson. (Vol. i., p. 333.)

These bursts of petulance, for they can hardly be called judgments, are the more provoking, because no one can see clearer, within a certain range, than Horace Walpole, when he lays aside his London-smoke spectacles. His remarks on Gibbon are sound and discriminating; but Gibbon had been a lord of the treasury. He defends Burke's famous allusion to Marie Antoinette when condemned by "the town;" but Burke was a parliamentary leader, and Marie Antoinette was a yucen. Perhaps the boldest opinion he ever hazarded is this (vol. ii., p. 226) :

its depth of thought and comprehensive expression, from a lad of eighteen

Reason a thorn in Revelation's side!

His criticisms on plays and players are colored by the same prejudices. It was the remark of John Philip Kemble, that he never knew an ama

teur actor or actress who was worth above thirteen and sixpence a week on the regular boards; and that there was not a provincial company of any note throughout the empire, who would not act either comedy, tragedy, or farce, better than the best amateur company that could be collected in May Fair. The difference was probably still more marked when the stage was in its zenith; yet Walpole, who had lived through its brightest period, awards the palm to the amateurs; and can account for an adverse criticism on a set of them only on the supposition that one of the "regulars" had indited it :

I am very far from tired, madam, of encomiums on the performance at Richmond House; but I, by no means, agree with the criticism on it that you quote, and which, I conclude, was written by some player, from envy. Who should act genteel comedy perfectly, but people of fashion that have sense!

Actors and actresses can only guess at the tone of

high life, and cannot be inspired with it. Why are there so few genteel comedies, but because most comedies are written by men not of that

sphere? Etheridge, Congreve, Vanbrugh, and

Cibber, wrote genteel comedy, because they lived in the best company; and Mrs. Oldfield played it so well, because she not only followed, but often set, the fashion. General Burgoyne has written the best modern comedy, for the same reason; and Miss Farren is as excellent as Mrs. Oldfield, because she has lived with the best style of men in England; whereas Mrs. Abingdon can never go beyond Lady Teazle, which is a second-rate character; and that rank of women are always aping women of fashion, without arriving at the style. Farquhar's plays talk the language of a marching regiment in country quarters; Wycherley, Dryden, Mrs. Centlivre, &c., wrote as if they had only lived in the "Rose Tavern;" but then the court lived in Drury Lane, too; and Lady Dorchester and Nel Gwyn were equally good company. The Richmond theatre, I imagine, will take root. (Vol. ii., p. 302.)

With "The School for Scandal" fresh in his memory, he says that General Burgoyne had written the best modern comedy ! "Who should act genteel comedy perfectly, but people of fashion that have sense?" This reminds us of

Who drives fat oxen should himself be fat. It is worse; it is arguing in a circle, and demanding an impossibility. People of fashion who have sense, will not take to acting as a profession: if they do, they soon cease to be people of fashion; if they do not, they make nothing of it. Perfect acting is as much an abstraction as a perfect circle, upon such principles. He is far from consis

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