-the young and accomplished Richard West, Gray's Favonius; but the dry dusty study of the law suited not with a spirit fondly attached to the elegance of classical pursuits. It could not be said of West, that

"the smell

Of ancient parchment pleased him well."

It did not please him, and he accordingly removed as far as he could from its influence. In one of his letters to Gray, he says, "I lived in the Temple till I was sick of it. It is certain at least that I can study the law here (Bond-street) as well as I could there. My being in chambers did not signify to me a pinch of snuff." Very improper all this.

If, indeed, there be any pleasure in high associations, in dwelling where the great have dwelt, and thus tracing back the steps of time to honourable antiquity-if there be any virtue in the memory of brave deeds, or any influence in the recollection of departed wisdom, then is the edifice, which contained the bravest and most learned of our ancestors, a pleasant dwelling-place; and when I leave it-hopeless to find another spot consecrated by so much valour and so much wisdom-it should be for some angulus terræ, some wood-girt corner, which the foot of soldier or of lawyer has never yet been known to press.

E. R.

READING AND WRITING.

Accurs'd the man, whom fate ordains, in spite,
And cruel parents teach, to read and write.

CHURCHILL'S Author.

SOLOMON, whom, like Burns, I resemble in every thing-his wisdom excepted, has hinted that in much reading is much weariness: if so, this would seem, judging from the activity of the press, the most wearisome age, that ever existed since the foundation of the world. Churchill then, as quoted above, appears to be right only half way; and that, as it respects our being taught to read-unless he was so simple as to believe it necessary that an author should read, as well as write. How it might have been in his time, I cannot pretend to say, "mais nous avons changé tout ça." Writing is clearly free from any objection, and is doubtless the most lively, agreeable, indolent, pleasant thing imaginable. Witness, for instance, the numbers, who, according to the epigram,

"Write with ease, to show their breeding:"but it is true that the next line intimates that

66 Easy writing's d― hard reading,"*

and for this reason, we have, it must be confessed, frequent cause to complain of our "cruel parents."

An old writer, whose name I forget, makes this remark on a certain prodigious reader-it is in Latin, but the substance runs thus-"If I had read as much, I should have been as great a fool as he is;" and Lord Bacon's advice is "not many, but good books," which is, by the by, a very ill-considered phrase, for, if he had merely said "good books," he might have spared himself the trouble of saying "not many," This, however, is not the class, that we have to deal with; we have free souls, and are not to be cooped up in a nut-shell in this way. I speak of modern literature, belles lettres, and the groaning shelves of a fashionable repository of what are very inexpressively called light publications. Behold! here is a gorgeous feast for the mind-not that mind has any thing to do with its production, more than the cook has with the production of mutton or turnips, Shakspeare, who, it is well known, had a way of saying things quite unlike any other human being, observes something about men dying when their brains are out, and even expresses surprise that it was not so in the case of Banquo. A similar astonishment is described by one Niccolo Forteguerri, in his Ricciardetto, when a man who had been decapitated, takes his head up in his hand, and walks down stairs-a circumstance, which at any rate proves that it is of no consequence whether a man's brains be under or over his shoulders, or any where at all. This dying, or "effect defective," might "come by cause," in Shakspeare's time; but it is not so now with writers, for the absence of this article does not prevent their presence, and the active use of their goose-quill; they die not for the want of it, though their works do. I have often thought what a snug revenue it would be, if I could get a grant of the postage of all letters, which people repented of writing, or which there was no sort of reason for them ever to have written; but how my income would be improved, if I could have, in addition, the value of all books, that is, (to prevent misconstructions) the value of the paper, printing, and advertising, under similar circumstances: as to the value of the time of the authors, I am not avaricious, and by no means insist upon that,

There is, I admit, some poetry of eternal verdure, which flourishes on heights inaccessible. Of such I speak not; but of that produced by those unlucky wights, who, not attending to

十一

The Pic-nic.

la recisa testa in mano piglia, E le scale discende.

Canto xi. St. xvi.

the great master, "Equo ne credit,"* have, rashly bestriding the winged-horse, found themselves suddenly rolling at the foot of the hill. Nor do I allude to that hapless, yet, perhaps, happy mortal,

ὃς υπερτατα δωματα να ει

who, like the gods, lives in the upper story; or, as the epilogue has it, sojourns

-"high in Drury-lane,

Fann'd by soft zephyrs, thro' a broken pane:-"

but I mean those demireps among the muses, who pour forth their unbidden lays, sometimes "most musical,"

"Perfect then only deem'd, when they dispense
A happy tuneful vacancy of sense,"

and always "most melancholy," sharing with the nightingale the
poet's description of her song, "miserabile carmen." Here,
however, I must explain what I understand, or would signify,
by the term demirep. Dr. Johnson makes these observations:
"A man of letters, for the most part, spends, in the privacies of
study, that season of life, in which the manners are to be softened
into ease, and polished into elegance; and, when he has gained
knowledge enough to be respected, has neglected the minuter
acts, by which he might have pleased;"—but it is difficult for us,
at this time of the day, to conceive what the worthy doctor is
driving at. We know of no such persons. Our authors are all
petit-maitres, the best dressed, and the most polished ornaments
of the gayest assemblies. How they get there, leads me to the
etymology of a demirep, which I take to be, demi, half, and rep,
an abreviation of reputation; and this half I imagine to consist,
not in the approbation or reading of his work, but in his having
published, or rather printed, a book, and having consequently
become Mr. Thingumbob, the author of Whatdyecallum. Ovvoμg
woλλanı Ticπu, says the Syracusan, a name often charms‡, and
with many, indeed, is all in all: but the oddest thing is, that
such persons, or I should perhaps say, "men of letters," are, at
their introduction into these circles, called lions-one would really
think that it did not require much wit to have hit upon a more
obvious and appropriate appellation. As such have not the
inward and spiritual grace of poetry, neither have they the out-
ward and visible garb of the poet. Murphy, in one of his farces,
66 a ser-
ushers in a gentleman with a very thread-bare coat, as
vant of the Muses," adding, "you may know him by their livery."
But there is yet one comfort, which, amongst the blessings of

En. ii. 48. Trust not the horse. † Geo. iv. 514. + Idyl. xxviii. 40.

printing, has never yet been noticed. The Romans, according to Horace Martial, and others, were often condemned in private, and in their baths and elsewhere, to hear these birds of song "pour their throats," in the recitation of bad verses, till patience gave up the ghost, and died in despair. Not so with us; our ears are our own: they may print, but they can't make us read, or hear read "tenet occiditque legendo*" would be indictable at sessions.

As I am speaking of those, who swell the lists of dulness, I might mention pamphleteers, and writers of moral essays, but I refrain, as I could only speak by report; for I never read either, especially the latter, which, I am told, are at every turn constantly giving one some unpleasant ugly slap. The little compendiums too (or per saltums, as I may call them) of experimental philosophy, chemistry, &c. for ladies, are not in my way, though their instruction was very much in the way of a bas bleu relation of mine, who, by the bursting of a retort (uncourteous) lost a finger, and by an experiment with fulminating powder blew off her thumb. Good, tender-hearted, unscientific people, are shocked at this, but they may spare their pity. My aunt is more proud of the honours of that day, than was ever hero of the scars of glorious war. Travellers are privileged persons. If they encounter perils by "flood and field," dauntlessly quitting Dover for Calais, and Calais for Paris, and see what nobody else does, or ever will see, it is fit that they should publish, and give the world the benefit of their ordinary and extraordinary discoveries. I have no quarrel with them. Why should they travel like their trunks, and get nothing but the jumble and the dust? No, let every traveller of every description write his tour; every one is qualified, for, as Shakspeare says, "it is as easy as lying." Modern dramatists are not fair game; they do not come within my scope, for they do not write to be read; therefore why, in nine cases out of ten, they write at all, is best known to themselves.

Time, breath, pen, ink and paper, would fail to enumerate and comment on the infinite progeny of the teeming press; and I shall but slightly touch on that great marketable article-Novels. In this line, it is true that one writer has nearly spoilt the trade-still “scribimus docti indoctique," men, women, and children are all natural geniuses in this way; and, what is more

Hor-Holds you by force, and reads you quite to death.

†Their works are intended for acting, and not, it is to be presumed, for reading Melodrames, farces, and modern comedies were, in the way of reading, very like the treat, which Dangle accuses Mrs. Dangle of having had an opportunity of enjoying, “You have all the advantages of it:—mightn't you, last winter, have had the reading of the new pantomine a fortnight previous to its performance?"-The Critic.

surprising, there is a sort of public, that has "stomach for it all;"-it is their idol:

-Like Israel's fools of yore,

The calf themselves have fashion'd they adore:
But let true reason once resume her reign,
This god shall dwindle to a calf again."

Some of these readers read by stealth, showing grace, but unable to subdue the passion; and to them, as Goldsmith said of his Muse, novels are "their pride in private, but their public shame." That these, however, should breed by the myriad, is not a prodigy, if what Lady M. W. Montague affirms be true, and who can read and doubt, "that every young lady, who has read two novels, can write a third?" while to examine the contents of the library of our Leadenhall-Minerva, one would swear that what she can do, she has done.

Thus much for the scandal of the age. Its defence or apology, is more difficult; but it was once a speculation of mine, and I found that something could be advanced to show that, however great the scriblo-biblio-mania of our day may be, it is not in all probability, without a parallel. Two blacks, it is true, do not make one white: still it is something to be defended by numbers.

The times, in which we live, are always the most defamed: "Oh! that mine enemy had written a book!" is left for a few men to say, for few, in our days, have either an enemy or friend that has not written a book. We are not so much a nation of shop-keepers as of authors. Our neighbours, the French, have been infected too; and Montaigne complains of the escrivaillerie of his age. To go further back, and travel into Roman story, we find their noblest satirist lashing the "scribendi caco thes" of his countrymen; and amongst the Greeks, Mya Bißhiov, μeya xaxov, a great book is a great evil, was surely not said by Callimachus without good experience of the fact. I say nothing of the staring proof in the contents of the Alexandrian, collected by the Ptolemies, and other libraries of former years, now irretrievably lost. "This valuable repository," says the Bib. Class, speaking of the Alexandrian, "was burnt by the orders of the Caliph Omar, in the seventh century; and it is said, that during six months, the numerous volumes supplied fuel for the four thousand baths, which contributed to the health and convenience of the populous capital of Egypt." Here, then, we are apt to think that we ought to stop, and date the beginning of the

It is not uncommon, also, to find some writers of novels intimating in their prefaces, that they have no great respect for this species of composi tion; and others, accused of the fact, flatly denying it:-both cases seem to imply a degree of judgment and good taste, which their works would never have led one to suspect.