fiery-talkative, perhaps. We perceive two or three indications of a bad, boyish temper, in this, worth rebuking.

Hostility should be met, and was met, as we have already seen, toe to toe; but why should hostility continue, when the aggression is over? Why these new blows at the Quarterly?-And why these out-of-the-way flings at the Edinburgh?

We do not wonder much at the North American, though, after all, when we consider the case, for betraying a little more spite and bitterness toward the Edinburgh. It is much easier to forgive a foe, after he has wrought mischief to us, than a friend. The abuse of the Quarterly was bad enough; but praise from the Edinburgh, who could endure? A tough battle it were easy enough to forget, or forgive; but who can forget or forgive such regard, as that of the Edinburgh, for North America?-Fondling, which laid all her ribs bare? Kissing, which took the skin off? Toying, which

"Foor America might feel

Through triple bars of brass or steel?"

Or love, which made a suit of armour necessary, if she lay down for a nap? A blow from the Quarterly, she could put up with-a blow of the foot, we mean, of course, after the fashion of the Quarterly; but a hug from the Edinburgh would have been, or might have been, fatal-a caress, death. In a word, if you will, the unkindness of the Quarterly was that of one, who teaches you to fight, by continual outrage; makes you formidable, in spite of your teeth, by reiterated, rough, and brutal provocation; while the kindness of the Edinburgh was like that of the bear in the fable. Wishing to brush off the fly, he brushed off a nose with it. We do not wonder so much, therefore, at any especial inveteracy of the North American toward the Edinburgh; but still, we should say, nowEnough; enough. Stop where you are. You have gone quite far enough too far, indeed; for you are now guilty of those very things, which you complained of in the Quarterly and Edinburgh. You have now said of a great people, that which is wicked, foolish, and absolutely untrue, because you are out of temper with a book; that which, you must have known, or should have known, to be untrue, even while you said it, and that which, if it were true, should not have been said where you have said it, nor when you have said it, nor without much provocation. You might as well have uttered it, from the desk, on the Sabbath day, as in this North American Review-and you know it. You have thrown out rash political sarcasms. You have abused all parties, here. Do not persuade yourself, by the way, that you are impartial, because you are abused, by all parties here, in reply. You have sneered about a national church. You have grown saucy, as you have grown popular. Having been praised for your spirit, we fear, about a twelvemonth ago; having obtained a few subscribers, where you dreaded losing a few, by your flourish at the Quarterly, you have begun to make a business of it; and are now flourishing away, in VOL. VII. No. 41.-Museum.

3 L

1

every other page, at one thing or another of this country. This may do for a time, perhaps; but, in the long run, it will prove a bad game-a bad "spec" it won't "pay well." In short, you have grown scurrilous, impertinent-overbearing-to the full extent of your courage and capacity. You are personal, too; and you have gone aside, here, here, in this very paper, two or three times, for the purpose of insulting a nation. Your North American Review is a work of power; of great power. It is a work of authority; and, if we are not very careful, it may be a work of great mischief. All this, we should say, and all this we do say, of this April Number, from which we are now going to select a few passages, in justification of ourselves, and of our observations.

*

First. In a paper, purporting to be the review of a good American story-(a clever article, though much too long, about a very clever book, it appears)-the writer says, "If he (an American author) is not satisfied with indigenous virtue, he may take for the model of his characters, men, of whom the old world is not worthy, and whom it has cast out from its bosom." Well enough that, so far; but he goes on to say, that "if he (the American author) finds himself in need of a class of men more stupid and degraded than are to be found among the natives of the United States, here are crowds of the wretched peasantry of Great Britain and Germany, flying for refuge from intolerable suffering, in every vessel that comes to our shores." Pretty well that, faith! Crowds, in every vessel. With what face will the North American Review complain of the Quarterly now, for adopting the report of such people as Fearon?

Pass we over the review of BUTLER'S REMINISCENCES, which is well enough, to be sure; and a long paper, about Spanish America, headed" INSURRECTION OF TUPAC AMARU"-a capital thing, nevertheless; an article, under the general head of MODERN ASTRONOMY, Subdivided, however, into several parts, every one of which is treated with singular perspicuity and vigour; the review of a work by MISS HANNAH ADAMS, (see BLACKWOOD, Nov. 1824, p. 560,) called LETTERS ON THE GOSPELS, which review, done as it is, in the way of trade-or, at least, of the shop-is very fair; passing over all these, and over the VINDICATION OF COUNT PULASKI, which is a proud paper, and a very generous paper, creditable, in every way, to the North American Review, and to the editor thereof, (see PULASKI, BLACKWOOD, JAN. 1825, p. 68,) we come to a masterly treatise upon the CODE NAPOLEON; a treatise, however, wherein we find a passage or two, which we look upon as a great reproach to this Number-nay, as a disgrace to the whole work; and as likely to excite a bitter prejudice every where against the character of it. "In a form a little modified, the condition of every prince in Europe is the same," says this writer, p. 394. "There is not one of the leading sovereigns, who

REDWOOD, republished by John Miller, London.

could reign a day, without his standing army. Without the horseguards, London itself would not be habitable." There! there!

that appears in the North American Review; a paper established, in a paroxysm of righteous hope, in a fit of indignant valour, for the protection of good men, a great people, an abused people, against the absurd, eternal, atrocious calumnies of bad men, over sea; a proud bulwark of truth, for one hemisphere; a perpetual, though quiet rebuke; a lofty, grave example for the other. What shall we say of such a story? Foolish though it be, it is not a thing to laugh at. We look upon it as very serious, for such a paper as the North American Review, to say that, somewhere about a million-perhaps twelve or thirteen hundred thousand people, are kept in order by a troop, who are never seen or heard of, by the multitude. Why, there is a single parish in London,-that of St. Mary-la-Bonne, (or, as they call it here, Marrow-bone-parish,) the inhabitants of which could eat up the horse-guards, horses and all, for breakfast. Well may the people of this country laugh at the wisdom of that, when they find such idle trash in the chief journal of America.

This, however, is not all; for the writer believes it (any body can see that); and what is more, the editor believes it, or he would not have permitted such a thing to appear. Both of these are clever men; both, men of authority; and both, we believe, honest, good men. Both, at any rate, are so regarded in America. And if so, what may not be said, and what may not be credited, hereafter, in that country, concerning this.

We did hope for a better example, in such matters, from the new world. We did hope for great moderation; for wisdom and power; for truth and soberness, whatever else there might be, in the North American Review, after it fell into the hands of Mr. Sparks (a Unitarian preacher, who bought up the work on speculation); we did hope, that, after a while, an American would be sure to find that, in every page, if he took it up, among a strange people, that, which would make his heart leap; that, which would make him feel proud of his country-as proud, as if her great warflag were unfurled, in a desert, over him; that which-or that, upon the truth of which, he would be willing to put his life.-But how would such a man-a man, full of hope, and full of pride-a man, who would sooner die than do aught unworthy of his country -a man, who knows that if we dislike a person, we dislike the land-so far-which gave that person birth; while, if we like a person, we like his country; a man, who knows that our chief prejudice against every people proceeds from our acquaintance with some individual of that people;-a man, who knows all this, feels it, and acts accordingly, how would he bear to meet with such a passage, in such a book, among the cities of Europe? Would he not as lief see the flag of his country-the war-flag thereof, dishonoured?

By the way, while reviewing two late orations of Professor Eve

rett, (formerly editor of this very N. A. Review-See BLACKWOOD, Nov. 1825, 570,) somebody, (Mr. Sparks himself, no doubt,) indulges Mr. Southey, in a good-natured way, with a palpable hit. We give the passage, "But what shall we say," quoth Mr. Sparks, "what shall we say of the present Poet-Laureate of England? He continues to dream dreams and see sights; to indite ominous presages and scatter his portentous forebodings about America, with as much pertinacity as ever, and with as much apparent ignorance of the principles of our government, and the organization of our society. A twelvemonth has just elapsed since this sagacious politician suggested several important changes in our constitution, without which, he is convinced, the whole system of American republics must come to a speedy end, and the people be left in a deplorable state of mental and moral degradation. And what do our readers imagine these reforms to be, which are to save our republican institutions from perils so threatening? No other, indeed, than a gradation of ranks; hereditary titles and wealth, and a Church establishment! These are the salutary appendages that Mr. Southey, in his wisdom, recommends as the necessary safeguards to our liberty, right morals, and religion, which he says are fast decaying, and fears will soon be extinct. His modesty, it may be presumed, prevented his adding one thing more as requisite to the good government, virtue, and happiness of these United States; and that is a Poet-Laureate."-Very fair.

N.

SELECTED FOR THE MUSEUM.

WORDSWORTH-MRS. HEMANS-JOANNA BAILLIE,-L. E. L.— MRS. TIGHE.

Noctes Ambrosianæ.

Christopher North.-Wordsworth often writes like an idiot; and never more so than when he said of Milton, "his soul was like a star, and dwelt apart!" For it dwelt in tumult, and mischief, and rebellion. Wordsworth is, in all things, the reverse of Miltona good man, and a bad poet.

Timothy Tickler.-What!-That Wordsworth whom Maga cries up as the Prince of Poets?

North. Be it so; I must humour the fancies of some of my friends. But had that man been a great poet, he would have produced a deep and lasting impression on the mind of England; whereas his verses are becoming less and less known every day, and he is, in good truth, already one of the illustrious obscure.

Tickler.-I never thought him more than a very ordinary man -with some imagination, certainly, but with no grasp of understanding, and apparently little acquainted with the history of his

kind. Good Heavens! to compare such a writer with Scott and Byron !

North.-And yet, with his creed, what might not a great poet have done? That the language of poetry is but the language of strong human passion!-That in the great elementary principles of thought and feeling, common to all the race, the subject matter of poetry is to be sought and found!-That enjoyment and suffering, as they wring and crush, or expand and elevate, men's hearts, are the sources of song!-And what, pray, has he made out of this true and philosophical creed?-A few ballads, (pretty at the best,) two or three moral fables, some natural description of scenery, and half a dozen narratives of common distress or happiness. Not one single character has he created-not one incident-not one tragical catastrophe. He has thrown no light on man's estate here below; and Crabbe, with all his defects, stands immeasurably above Wordsworth as the Poet of the Poor.

Tickler.-Good. And yet the youngsters, in that absurd Magazine of yours, set him up to the stars as their idol, and kiss his very feet, as if the toes were of gold.

North.-Well, well; let them have their own way awhile. I confess that the "Excursion" is the worst poem, of any character, in the English language. It contains about two hundred sonorous lines, some of which appear to be fine, even in the sense, as well as the sound. The remaining 7300 are quite ineffectual. Then what labour the builder of that lofty rhyme must have undergone! It is, in its own way, a small Tower of Babel, and all built by a single man!

Tickler.-Wipe your forehead, North; for it is indeed a most perspiring thought. I do not know whether my gallantry blinds. me, but I prefer much of the female to the male poetry of the day. There is Joanna Baillie. Is there not more genius, passion, poetry, in the tragedy of Count Basil, than in any book of Wordsworth?

North.-Ten times.

Tickler.-There is Mrs. Hemans. Too fond, certes, is she of prattling about Greece and Rome, and of being classical, which no lady can hope to be who has never been at one of the English public schools, and sat upon the fifth form. But is there not often a rich glow of imagery in her compositions, fine feelings and fancies, and an unconstrained and even triumphant flow of versification which murmurs poetry?

North.-There is.

Tickler.-Is not L. E. L. a child of genius, as well as of the Literary Gazette; and does she not throw over her most impassioned strains of love and rapture a delicate and gentle spirit, from the recesses of her own pure and holy woman's heart?

North.-She does.

Tickler-And was not Tighe an angel, if ever there was one