CHAP. II. WHICH TREATETH OF THE INTRODUCTION AND STYLE OF A REVIEW. Whatever the subject of the work criticised, the same general rules will be applicable to the introduction. Any additional information necessary will be given in the chapters on special classes. With a faithful transcript of the title-page of the volume in hand, may be placed those of works upon the same subject; or, if the number is small, even of books which merely touch upon it, arranged in chronological order. From six to twelve is a very good number, and the publisher's name, and the date of publication, must in every instance be noted. The title of a book published in the eighteeenth century would look well, and one with a sixteen at the beginning of its date, would be an invaluable treasure, it would show so much learning and research. A French, German or Italian title is also an important acquisition. You must not suppose that you are expected to read all these works. Far from it! A faithful study of the title-page, or, at most, of the headings of the chapters, is everything required with all except the work in hand; and a skimming over for "extracts" is sufficient for even that. Several years ago, a reviewer, speaking of the Rev. J. J. Blunt, remarked that that gentleman would never review the dryest and most voluminous works, without making himself master of their contents. This instance of conscientious scruples in one of his brethren seemed to surprise the gentleman very much.* Having arranged your titles to suit your own taste and that of the public, you may begin the Introduction. The Introduction to a critique is an opportunity offered to display superfluous knowledge. You may begin with a pithy saying of some philosopher with whom neither yourself nor any one else has any acquaintance, and comment thereon; with a series of platitudes; with an excursion upon whatever comes first into your mind; in short, with almost anything, provided always that you keep one invariable rule in view, "Never mention the subject of the essay upon the first page," and are correct in style. The only feasible method of acquiring a good critical style, is by the study of the best productions of the finest reviewers. If you pursue this plan, you will, almost insensibly, undergo a complete mental metamorphosis. Your thoughts will, involuntarily, shape themselves into finely turned periods, The most trivial matters will give you an opportunity to display your command of language. You will cease to breathe," but you will " respire a portion of the atmosphere with which our planet is surrounded." Your rest will be "absence of motion," and your motion "absence of rest." You will never 66 you will "observe," or scan." You will never be so undignified as to "laugh :" you will merely "indulge in mirth." Even so ordinary remind you of the "mysteries of your craft." an occupation as eating dinner, will continually If the soup is too highly seasoned, it is only exuberance of fancy,' Sugar and vinegar are "antitheses." Worcestershire sauce is "keen 65 biting wit," a small quantity of which must be combined with more solid nutriment; while Soho is humour, more gentle to the taste, of used. A plum-pudding is the grand climax. which, when required, a larger quantity can be Your very dreams will be filled with visions of your art, and will realize the admirable description given by Horace,— "Velut ægri somnia van Fingentur species, ut nec pes, nec caput uni Reddatur formæ." Which may be freely rendered,-"Like the dreams of one whose thoughts, filled with the truths of philosophy, are combined even in sleep, in a design of harmonious unity." You will soon perceive, in your intercourse with others, that your talents and acquirements are appreciated at their full value. Should your friends acquire a habit of yawning while you are talking to them, you may know that they are expressing their admiration and astonishment at the brilliancy and profundity of your remarks. Are not the expressions, gaping with astonishment," " open-mouthed admiration," as old as the hills? Should you, when you meet two of your young lady acquaintances in the street and engage them in conversation, perceive them exchanging an almost imperceptible smile, which quickly passes away, you may feel certain that they are only indicating to each other their enjoyment of your society. If you notice your friends dodging around corners at your approach, or diving into places, where you can never find them when you follow them, rest assured that they dread the fascination of your conversation, and are certain that they cannot tear themselves away, if you commence speaking to them. These circumstances cannot fail to beget confidence. You will sit down to write a review with a joy somewhat similar to that with which you buttonhole a friend. But your pleasure will be wonderfully increased; for in the latter instance, you are conversing with a single individual, who is constantly recalling to memory engagements which must instantly be kept; while in the former, you take "The Public," as it were, by the buttonhole; you speak to thousands, and you have ample time to develope your theories to their fullest extent. You are now ready to enter upon the pleasant and useful task of reviewing. CHAP. III. "see" or "look at" anything, WHICH DESCRIBETH THE METHOD OF CRITI * An actual fact. It was a writer for the "London Quarterly Review," to which Mr. Blunt was at one time a contributor. CISING HISTORICAL WORKS. The introduction of a historical criticism, after the usual amount of "sparring," should Some few years ago, a contributor to the "Edinburgh Review" wrote a learned treatise to prove that the Druids never existed, except in the credulous brains of Julius Cæsar, and of those who copied them. Hume and Gibbon, men celebrated for disbelieving almost everything that could not be reduced to a logical certainty, believed in the existence of that order of law-giving priests. All historians of any standing have considered the truth of the reports concerning them to be so certain, that it was considered a superfluous task to prove their accuracy. The scanty records of their period concur to substantiate the fact of their being and power. But a critic doubted; and if valour and dexterity could put to flight those shadows of superstition and cruelty, they would vanish before the brandished pen of an Edinburgh reviewer. contain several vigorous assertions of principles | rors are corrected and his unfairness exwhich no one ever doubted. The following may posed." serve as specimens: "Man is a gregarious animal." "Man is a social being." "Governments are, properly, associations of men for mutual protection and the administration of justice." Any one of these may be developed into several pages of logical disquisitions; and the more evident the proposition the more keen must be the logic, and the more conclusive the arguments used in its demonstration. This task being finished, you may give a "short abstract" of the history of the world, from the creation to the present time. You may then condescend to glance at the work in hand. And first an important item is to be considered. Every historian, sometimes with the avowed intention, sometimes almost insensibly, tinges his work, more or less, with his political opinions. You, as a critic, should not professedly belong to any party, as your reputation for impartiality would suffer. Some reviews even go so far as to place a neutral motto on the cover. Still you cannot fail to be more inclined to one party than to the other, and this feeling should influence you in the prosecution of your task. If the history is written in a fair style, and the author is a member of the party to which you are attached, you may remark that "the gentleman whose work we are now criticising has given to the world another proof that history is not necessarily dry and unentertaining. He has produced a book which may be ranked with the productions of Macaulay and Motley, both in the accuracy of its statements and the melody of its language." If the historian belongs to the adverse party, express your regret that "our author has too often sacrificed his love of truth to his desire either to make use of a fine antithesis or to round off his sentence with an harmonious period." Those words "antithesis" and "period" are invaluable: the former in historical, the latter in every species of prose criticism. They not only convey your idea more readily than any other expression, but they have, also, a critical "twang," which is highly edifying. Occasionally, you may display your acquirements, in both historical and critical lore, by casually referring to "the brilliant antitheses of Gibbon, and the glowing periods of Macaulay." Such sentences are like a piquant sauce, and no well-constituted review can dispense with them. If It is considered an exhibition of great courage and wisdom for a reviewer to take a stand directly the opposite of that of the historian. a history is written with manifest partiality, you will gain great credit by correcting that error. This can only be done by exhibiting as great a partiality to the other side. Contradict the author's statements and substitute your own in their stead; deprecate the value of his authorities; ridicule his style, and, ten to one, your essay will be mentioned in the next number of "The Puff" as ་་ a very able and interesting critique of Mr. -'s work, in which his er We have only to add, that, in making "extracts," you should consult your opinion of the author. If you review favourably, carefully select the best passages, and say, "These extracts have been taken almost at random, and we have no doubt that many, displaying still greater ability, would reward a search." If you review unfavourably, as carefully select the poorest sentences, and remark, "These extracts are taken almost at random, but we doubt if anything better would be discovered by the most careful perusal." Some persons to whom we referred, near the conclusion of our introduction, will probably assert, that "this is a species of deceit;" but, as we have before remarked, "they are behind the age." Such little subterfuges are as harmless, and as well understood, as the "Not at Home," of a lady. The reviewer does not expect to be believed; his readers know that they are not required to believe him, so they are naturally satisfied. A WISH. BY ADA TREVANION. Give me the bush of southernwood, Fragrant as some sweet memory! The roses with their tender glow, Breathing their sweets to ev'ry breeze; The clumps of purple-hued heartsease. And one amongst them with rapt eyes, HORACE CAREW; OR, THE HEIR OF SAIRMOUTH CASTLE. CHAP. V. DOUBTS. On the Rialto at Venice stand several sombre, gloomy-looking palaces. Palaces people call them: you would think prisons had been a better appellation for them. They look so dreary and cheerless, that it would seem scarcely possible that light hearts and sunny faces should exist within their walls. The steps by which they are entered touch the water, for the narrow stone lining which borders the green walls hardly deserves the dignity of being yclept pavement. Iron bars grimly guard the lower windows, from which, ever and anon, flashes of light glance on the dark water underneath. From time to time a murky, hearse-like gondola glides past, mysterious and silent, on its watery way. The only notice of its presence is the dash of water against the prow, the ripple as the oars dip into it and raise miniature waves, and then, ere the eye has well taken in the apparition, it vanishes from view. Now select, if you please, the most imposing of those three buildings standing together. That with the dark portal is the one. But its sombre effect is counteracted this evening by lines of windows brightly illuminated. Three balconies overlook the Rialto; these are filled with fair faces, some eager in conversation, others listlessly leaning over the parapets, and watching the coming and receding gondolas as they arrive to deposit their burden of fresh guests, and then vanish silently into the night. It is nine o'clock. Strains of music sweep along the canal, and gay voices mingle with them. Lord Lindsay is giving a ball in honour of a certain royal marriage, and all English and Italians of any note in Venice are collected this evening in his gay saloons. Rather apart from the rest, in one of the balconies in question, are a young man and girl apparently in deep conversation: the latter is as unmistakably Italian as the former is plainly English. The dark hair of the one and light locks of the other sufficiently declare their respective nationalities. They are speaking in Italian. "And must you really go, signor?" asked the girl, as she raised her eye to the face of her companion, who was bending over her. "Yes; I- I cannot help myself: it must be. Addio, and I know I ought to say for ever." A slight shudder passed over the frame of the former speaker. She bent her face over the balcony, as though searching in the darkness. seeing you at my cousin's ball on Wednesday." "Signora Cellini," and the young man's voice trembled as he spoke, "I wish that—I indeed would desire nothing more than to be able to accept the Marchese's kind invitation ; but it would not be wise, I feel." "Oh! you are engaged," returned the lady, with the least possible hauteur in her voice ; “ a pleasanter party has no doubt forestalled us." "Signora does me wrong indeed. It is not that." Vieni, that waltz is nearly finished!" saying which the young lady turned towards the open window leading to the nearest suite of rooms, in which dancing was going on. As she moved from the support of the balustrade the young Englishman placed himself before her. The balcony was empty, for all the other loungers had joined the dancing party within. Signore!". the young man was trembling with excitement-"Ida, you must hear me !" he exclaimed (the conventional third person singular had "You know not given way to the second). what it is to be placed in the position in which I am. You cannot understand, but you shall know part of the truth. Dearest Ida, I love you; I have loved you for these many months!" The young girl had again turned towards the canal when he began to speak. "I have striven to conceal from myself what I love you is the truth. It is too late now. But-but more than man ever loved woman. I cannot make you my wife.” Ida Cellini started backwards, and faced her companion. "The signore insults me." Beads of perspiration stood on the young man's forehead. He seized the girl's hand. "Ida, promise me," he said, "that you will not misunderstand me. I love you dearly, truly; but there is a barrier now to my making any proposals to your father. I hardly ought to say you will call me base and perfidious. Indeed I have not meant it. Only think kindly of me; it is all that I can ask. Still you must hear the truth, as my only excuse for acting thus-I am pledged to another." There was a heavy fall, succeeded by a splash in the water below. Ida Cellini had fainted; falling against a low part of the balustrade: this being old had given way, and the girl was precipitated into the water underneath. CHAP. VI. WHAT CAN IT MEAN? "I hoped," she said, without again turning, The interesting part of the scenery of the "I hoped we should have had the pleasure of Rhine only commences from Bonn; Mrs. Somers therefore determined to proceed at once to Cologne by railway, and take the Rhine steamer from that city of smells, fragrant and otherwise, up the river. Greyson had taken leave of the party at Brussels, or, rather, the party had taken leave of him. His accident proved to be so serious as to detain him in bed for several days, so he declared. Horace thought that his proboscis had sufficiently recovered itself to allow the owner of it to appear in public. Greyson said all he could to induce Mrs. Somers to delay her departure. She agreed to all his arguments for so doing in the evening, and gave Horace orders to be ready to leave the next day. This latter was well pleased. Accident, so far, had prevented any recognition between the junior Dean and Horace. But separation was better than accident. He therefore proceeded with alacrity to execute his mistress's orders for continuing the journey. Three in party then, they set forth from Brussels, and in due time arrived at Station Centrale, at Cologne. Now Constance Shirley had a dog-a pretty dog too, which heretofore had travelled, by force of francs, in the same carriage with its mistress. It was found, however, at Brussels, that this luxury could be no longer permitted to the little black-and-tan terrier. It was therefore duly ticketed, and deposited in its own proper place. At Cologne, Dr. Everard, ticket in hand, went to claim the creature. To his amazement he found it in possession of another individual, who was endeavouring to carry the dog off with him. "That is my dog, sir," growled the doctor, in English, to the despoiler: "perhaps you will have the goodness to let it alone." The man addressed took no notice, but continued to tug at the dog's collar. "That dog is mine," vociferated the doctor, crescendo. Still no effect appeared to be produced on the man. The black-and-tan yelped most mournfully. "Are you stone deaf, sir? That dog is mine," roared its legitimate owner, fortissimo. And he seized Rose by the string by which it was tied. The man pushed him away. In the meantime the rest of the party came up. Horace explained in German that the dog was theirs; the man swore in German, or, rather, in Kolnish, that it was his. Dr. Everard stormed in English, Miss Shirley added her contribution to the Babel in French. Horace appealed to the authorities; they answered that the regular ticket had been presented by the man. The doctor produced his; that seemed also in order. Where then was the ticket that had been tendered by the German? It could not be found. "Well!” cried the man, at last, with a brutal laugh, “since we cannot agree about the animal we had better each take half." And, suiting the action to the word, he caught up the dog, and was actually on the point of tearing the little freature in pieces before them all, when a well directed blow sent him reeling backwards. The dealer thereof was Horace. The man dropped Rose, which flew to her mistress. As she did so, a yellow ticket flew from the collar. It was the ticket which claimed the animal, and proved to be the identical number with that of Dr. Everard, but for another month. In the midst of the surprise which ensued on the discovery the man took himself off unperceived. It was a clever subterfuge, and nearly a successful one. Constance thanked Horace heartily for the service which he had rendered her little dog, and looked even more grateful than she expressed herself. Mrs. Somers took up her abode at the Hotel du Nord, declaring her intention of remaining there for several days, should it prove comfortable. It did not much matter to Horace certainly whether the lady halted there or elsewhere, but he should have preferred putting a few more miles space between himself and the Dean of his college. About six o'clock that same evening the disguised courier was walking in the garden of the hotel. He was in a brown study, if that study can be called brown which has a lady for its subject. The agitated question in the young man's mind was, where had he seen that face before? The face was that of Constance Shirley of course. The oftener he went over the names of young ladies whom he had known, the further he seemed to get from any certainty. Yet one thing appeared certain in his mind, viz.: that at some time and some place he had before seen the owner of those blue eyes. And yet where could it have been? "Stay, I have it," he ruminated; "was there not a party staying one winter at my uncle's? Yes, I recollect; and there was a friend of the old gentleman— "Mr. Fisher!" Horace turned, and saw before him the subject of his reverie. "Oh, Mr. Fisher," began the young lady, "I am so glad to have found you alone, that I might tell you how much indebted I am to you for your gallant defence of my little dog. That barbarian would have made an end of poor Rose in another minute, I feel certain, if you had not interfered." Horace bowed his acknowledgments, and murmured something about the pleasure it was to him to have been able to be of any use. She was more like than ever to that certain unnameable someone, as she stood there with a light summer-hat and scarf in her hand, looking brightly into the face of her guardian's servant. "What do you think of our proposed plan?" she asked, after a pause. "The plan, Miss Shirley?" "Yes, the route-the tour that we are to make on the Rhine." "I-I have not heard what it is to be." "No? I thought it had been settled long ago between you and Mrs. Somers," answered Constance, gaily, with a smile. "Well then, I will tell you. We stay here and see Cologne, and then go on to Coblentz, where we are to meet some friends." The young lady blushed in the very faintest manner as she said this-so at least Horace thought. "Do you know Coblentz well, Mr. Fisher? Have you travelled a great deal?" "Why, yes, Miss Shirley, I have of course been much abroad, and know most of the places on the continent." "I suppose you are fond of travelling?" It was on the tip of the courier's tongue to have said, "For the pleasure of your society who would not be fond of it?" but he was prudent, and merely answered, demurely, "It is my occupation to do so, therefore I must of necessity be fond of it. But you, perhaps, have not been out of England before?" "Yes, indeed, I have. I lived for some years in France, and spent most of my holidays with a friend of my school-mistress in Paris. Then papa once took me to Dresden, and we made expeditions into Saxon Switzerland. But the Rhine, and Switzerland Proper, I have not seen yet. So, as I was going to tell you, we stay a little time in Coblentz, then explore the Rhine as far as Schaffhausen." My dear Constance," interrupted a meek voice from behind, "you will catch your death of cold, standing there with nothing on. It is quite late: you had better go in. Oh, it is you, Fisher; I wanted to see you." Mrs. Somers, accompanied by Horace's old enemy, had come unheard upon the téte-à-tête of the two young people. She looked not quite so meek as usual when she saw who it was that her charge was talking to. "Yes, Constance," she continued, as that young lady appeared in no hurry to obey her wishes, "you had better go in; Mr. Greyson will see you safe into the house." The Dean (his nose much patched, and considerably turned to one side) came forward and offered the young lady his arm. Constance ignored the offer, but walked quietly by the side of her jailer back to the house. Mrs. Somers trotted Horace for quite halfan-hour up and down the gravel-walk belonging to the hotel-garden, talking over routes and plans, and proposing halting-places. She was very meek in all that she said; but her companion soon discovered that her future movements had all, as Constance told him, been decided upon before. He had only to listen and acquiesce: but, after all, it was no affair of his; why, then, should he feel annoyed by it? Perhaps the truth was, he was not so much vexed at the lead the good lady took in arranging her tour, as he was angry at the interruption which it caused to his téte-à-tête. CHAP. VII. EXPLANATORY. But she was not drowned: the alarm had been immediately given: servants, gondoliers, and link-bearers plunged into the canal, which at this part was fortunately shallow, and brought the young lady safe to land. Luckily for her the water broke the fall-let us never say, then, that the absence of pavement was without its use; for, had Ida Cellini fallen on hard stones, the chances are that she would have suffered more seriously than was the case. Questions came quickly from all sides, but not many answers. "How did it happen? Who saw her fall? Which was the balcony?" were demanded by the indifferent. "Was she alone? Did she not do it on purpose, for the sake of creating a sensation?" asked the illnatured. But no one seemed able to give the required information; so the matter rested. Ida was duly cared for, and conveyed to her father's house; she persisted, however, in dressing again, and returning to the ball, where she immediately became an object of special interest and remark. There were found plenty of tongues to pronounce it bold and unfeminine to make such a further exhibition of herself; but no one ventured to question her as to how the accident had happened. She said nothing, and so curiosity for once was check-mated. Though the lady reappeared the youth did not. It did not much matter, for few missed him; still he was nowhere to be seen; and later in the evening his absence was remarked upon, and one or two asked if he, too, had fallen into the canal. Where was he? But, first, who was he? A vine must have tendrils, or it would hardly climb so gracefully over its artificial supports: not that the tendrils are particular objects of interest to anyone but a painter, as they don't bear grapes, or in any way give substantial proof of their usefulness. A story, too, must have off-shoots, or tendrils, that it may climb satisfactorily and gracefully; therefore, reader, pardon a digression. Our tale must be supported, and it would be dangerous to deprive it of its tendrils. Who was he? In the Guardian, of April 18-, appeared the following advertisement: WANTED, & TRAVELLING TUTOR, to take charge of a young man, and read with him during a tour on the continent. None but University men need apply. A Clergyman preferred. Apply, &c., &c. cr The Rev. Jeffry Jacobson answered the advertisement. He had been particularly anxious for some time to go abroad, in order to pursue but means were wanting. By return of post some investigations regarding the genus "gnat;" that H. Hogarth, Esq., of Whatsey Lodge, came a letter to the reverend gentleman, stating Sussex, would have much pleasure in entering into arrangements on behalf of his son Arthur, with the Rev. J. Jacobson, if references proved satisfactory. The references had proved satisfactory, and in consequence Arthur Hogarth was committed to the care of his travellingtutor, while the latter gentleman (all expenses paid, and £200 a-year into the bargain) obtained his long-desired opportunity of pursuing his researches among the musquitoes, and pro |