lumber-rooms. Mr. Timbs has laboured hurrying down to the House late. "Yes, perseveringly and with honour amongst confound you! I have been up all night at many of them, but what is wanted is a com- it." plete digest of a period from the journals, not a mere collection of fragmentary paragraphs, however attractive and interesting they may be. 66 This is the same kind of eagerness with which one at first goes through a very different kind of book, Nathaniel Hawthorne's Scarlet Letter," certainly one of the most engrossing, and perhaps the most remarkable, work of fiction in the language. It may not strictly come within the meaning of "pleasant books; " for it is a sad, sad story, with that scarlet initial sered into the heart of it, burning, scorching, withering all its surroundings. How every character stands out from the canvas; how distinctly you see that hard city with its fierce Puritan rulers; and that midnight scene with the minister, standing on the gallows' platform in the fierce grip of his terrible remorse, is it not Dantesque in its realism and sublimity of imagination? But the leading figure in the strange drama, that patient, lonely woman, with her elfin child, — how tame other heroines of novels seem after Works like these come not within the category of pleasant books, you say, and truly. They conjure up dusty ghosts of ancient journalists, though happily we may leave the early host of miserable newsmongers, who were whipped and imprisoned for their tale-telling propensities, and take Cave and Johnson by the hand, through Boswell's introduction. "Boswell's Life of Johnson." Yes, that is indeed a pleasant book. It is the wizard's ball. We look into it, and are at once in the company of Johnson and Goldsmith and all the wits and celebrities of the time. We take snuff with Sir Joshua Reynolds, we hear the King talking in that famous library to his magnificently egotistical subject. What tremendous prefaces that said egotist wrote in The Gentleman's this one sad picture of misplaced love! Magazine for his friend Cave. They treated Alexander Smith, who has written delicievery rival with a supremacy of contempt ously about Hawthorne, liked "Twice-Told which is highly entertaining in these days of Tales" better than the "Scarlet Letter." respectful rivalry. Was there not some- He thought you got nearer to the author in thing mean in the Doctor's treatment of these mere stories. He always felt that Garrick? Johnson seems to have kept him Hawthorne wrote the tales for himself, and out of his club at the Turk's Head for years, the novels for the world, and that you got because he was an actor. "He will disturb nearer to the author in the former than in us with his buffoonery," said the Gentleman's the latter, just as you get nearer to an artillustrious contributor. What a magic ball ist in his first sketch than in his finished pie it is, this production of the Scotch tuft-hun- ture. For our own part, we think the reater! Here is spiritualism, an' you will. son that you get away from the author in But there is no tedious sitting round tables the novels is the reason why we like the and waiting for knocks with Boswell. Sum-"Scarlet Letter" best. The delusion is mon whom it shall please you of those halcyon days, and here they are as they lived, every sneeze and cough described; and, duly noted, every wise and foolish thing they said. They were professed clairvoyants even then, spiritualists with secondsight theories, and Boswell believed. Dr. Johnson was willing to try and believe; but 66 I do believe," said Boswell to George Colman the dramatist; "the evidence is enough for my mind, if it is not for the greater one. What will not fill a quart bottle will fill a pint. Sir, I am full of belief." "Are you?" said Colman. Then cork it up." "He must have been an insufferable bore, this same Mr. Boswell. Perhaps we are indebted to his littlenesses for the greatness of his work; it is those details of life "Gil Blas." Yes, we must give you a and conversation which seem trivial at the place in our favourite corner as a pleasant time to large minds, that give to the story book. We stood the other day on the of Johnson its depth of colour and extraor-threshold of the house where Le Sage livesi dinary finish. Have you read my book?" and died. We asked a Frenchman wh Boswell said to a member of parliament lived close by (it was true he was but a complete from beginning to end, like an acted drama without the whistle of the prompter, the noise of scene-shifting, the laying down of carpets, the intervals for music, and the gossip of the stalls. You are disturbed nowhere, the mind never wanders from the story: it is like reading Clarissa Harlowe's letters after she leaves home; you never doubt their reality, and your deep interest in her never flags. The "Seven Vagabonds," Night Sketches,” Sunday at Home,” all are charming works 2 but when we look back upon Hawthorne and think, that suffering patient woman, ticketed with the burning mark of her shame, asserts her title to the first place in our thongas and affections. 66 64 66 66 66 common man) for the maison celèbre, but he granted to him, and much more alloyed in could think of nothing thereabouts worth at- its nature while it is almost the last attritention, except that great ugly citadel which bute we can assign to the irritating and agfrowns upon Boulogne. Here was fame! gressive intellect of Hazlitt." Here, inRare, quaint Bidpai," " Cakes and Ale," deed, is an author, Charles Lamb, about "The Story of a Feather," and "Rasselas," whom one feels all that desire which Smith here they are in a cluster. How pleasant felt about Hawthorne. It is impossible that all, and yet how widely different from each we can get too near Lamb; and how charmother, the mystery, allegory, and fasci-ingly he has put himself into all his works. nating pictures of Eastern lands, and the We feel his thoughts with him; he lets us graphic home-touches of an English master. into his innermost secrets, even to his doFrom Barzoyeh and his wise sayings to the mestic troubles and his domestic happiluscious beauties of the Happy Valley; from nesses, those glimpses of sunshine which the Abyssinian prince to the mayor of Hole- came more frequently than one could have cum-Corner a long step and strange, but imagined into the gloom of that domestic how natural! The mind is not astonished, tragedy. When in a moment of insanity the fancy is not outraged. Among pleasant his sister stabbed his mother to death, "I books the furtherest lands lie close together, was at hand," he says, only time enough and Tobias Aconite shall have a place be- to snatch the knife out of her grasp." side the greatest potentate of fiction. A What a terrible picture! "His father was pleasant companion in the flesh, a shrewd, imbecile," says his biographer; "he alone witty, pungent conversationalist, Douglas takes care of the old man; when the old Jerrold, one of that modern army who man dies, he alone takes charge of the unhave made Bouverie Street classic ground. happy sister." "For her sake he abanSurely here is a life which has yet to be doned all thoughts of love and marriage (all told! A son is rarely the best biographer hope of the fairhaired,' whose image yet of his father. Blanchard Jerrold's is a lifts here and there across his page in later book full of interest; but where is that life years glimpses of a bygone dream), and before the son knew the father well enough with an income of scarcely more than 1007. to understand him? Where are those early a year derived from his clerkship, aided for days of the printer, those early struggles of a little while by the old aunt's small annuity, the author? We know enough of the man's set out on the journey of life at twenty-two triumphs; are they not ever before us? years of age, cheerfully with his beloved Who shall tell us of his failures, of the days companion, endeared to him the more by when the approaches to the citadel were her strange calamity, and the constant apbeing conducted, when the trenches had to prehension of a recurrence of the malady be made, and the rifle-pits to be dug, the which had caused it." That is a pleasant days before the conquering genius burst in essay of Lord Lytfon's which appeared in upon the guarded garrison of Fame, and the Quarterly Review a year ago, on "Charles waved the tattered banner of victory? Has Lamb and his companions." We are in not all this to be done for Thackeray yet? doubt whether we ought not to add the Mr. Theodore Taylor's book, with its trea- whole of this learned author's essays to our sured plates, and its most real portrait, is familiar corner. They are to our mind his but a preliminary foretaste of the biograph- best performances, unless we except The ical feast to which we hope to sit down. Caxtons" and My Novel." Leigh Hunt There is a blank in our shelf of pleasant comes altogether within the meaning of a books until that full picture is drawn by pleasant companion. There is hardly a some loving pen. "Pendennis," it is true, more agreeable book than his Indicator," is there, and Philip," in which we trace and he has a good deal of that "charm" some of the great man's immortal foot-steps; which belongs to Lamb, and also in a simiand those miscellaneous papers, with "The lar degree to Tom Hood. Turning to this White Squall" amongst them, are amongst latter writer, the mind instinctively wanders the most delightful companions whom we to that exquisite picture of solitudesummon round the fire on these dark November nights. A pleasant book in the fullest meaning of the word pleasant, is " Essays by Elia." How well Bulwer has described the secret of Lamb's influence. "He is one of those rare favourites of the Graces on whom the gift of charm is bestowed a gift not indeed denied to Hunt, but much more sparingly 66 66 "The weeping heron, motionless and stiff, Then the scene shifts momentarily, and 66 Comedy anon lifts the curtain, and a host poet." Nor were these the words of mere of familiar faces, rollicking and grim, start flattery; for Scott afterwards inserted the up to set the table in a roar; and then with a sigh for the hardness of the times, and the misfortunes of genius, we turn to that dedication to the second edition of Cakes and Ale," and read with a blush of sorrow and shame, “This humble offering [To Thomas Hood] is herewith renewed; with the expression of a regret that it was necessary for Thomas Hood still to do one thing, ere the wide circle and the profound depth of his genius were to the full acknowledged; that one thing was-to die!" It is the old, old story. Turn we to one of our most entertaining friends D'Israeli's "Literary Character"—for endorsement; and haply too for contrary illustrations. How much of that past history of unappreciated authorship have we not changed in the present day? Look around and see the prize-holders; look around and note how the public of today rewards its entertainers. There are novelists who receive thousands of pounds for one book, and a successful play pays enough it seems to make a man's fortune. What did Johnson procure for Goldsmith's "Vicar of Wakefield"? Alfred Tennyson can get a hundred guineas for half a dozen stanzas. When Goldsmith received fifty pounds for "The Deserted Village," don't you remember how poor Goldy" thought the bookseller had been too liberal Verily these are the days for your successful author, whether our literature is really stronger and better for the change is a question which others may discuss, so long as we are permitted to gossip by the fire about pleasant books, the only companions who keep their faith with you, pure, unchanged, unshaken, in all the din and conflict of the times. poem in his collection of “ English Minstrelsy," as illustrative of manners now obsolete. "It is possible, it is even probable," writes Benjamin Disraeli, "that if my father had devoted himself to the art (of poetry) he might have become the author of some elegant and popular didactic poem, on some ordinary subject, which his fancy would have adorned with grace and his sensibility invested with sentiment; some small volume which might have reposed with a classic title upon our library shelves, and served as a prize volume at ladies' schools. This celebrity, however, was not reserved for him." Instead of rivalling Mr. Tupper, as his son evidently fancies he might have done, he was destined to give to the world a series of curious, learned, and interesting works illustrative of the literary and political history of England and many foreign countries, full of anecdote and with new and original views, which time and public opinion on the whole have ratified as just. Still the poetic temperament was not wanting in the prose writer; and as his son suggests, "it was possibly because he was a poet in himself that he became a popular writer in the best and truest sense, and made the belles lettres charming to the multitude." Although Isaac D'Israeli conceived in early youth the idea of a work illustrative of the literary character, it is not a little curious that he was stimulated to go on by the accidentally discovered compliments of another great poet. In his preface to the "Literary Character," he says: “ Upwards of forty years have elapsed since, composed in a distant country, and printed at a provincial press, I published An Essay on the Manners and Genius of the It was the deliberate opinion of Sir Wal- Literary Character.' To my own habitual ter Scott that Mr. Isaac D'Israeli had mis- and inherent defects, were superadded taken his role in composing such prose those of my youth. The crude production books as the one we have just mentioned. was not, however, ill received, for the ediHe was quite aware of the old proverb tion disappeared; and the subject was which tells us, "Poeta nascitur, non fit," found more interesting than the writer. and yet he declared that nature intended During a long interval of twenty years, Isaac D'Israeli for a poet. Our versatile this little work was often recalled to my premier informs us that when his father recollection by several, and by some who was first introduced to Scott, who was then have since obtained celebrity.. an exin the zenith of his fame, the latter saluted traordinary circumstance concurred with him with the recitation of a poem which these opinions. A copy accidentally fell D'Israeli had written in his early youth. into my hands which had formerly beGreat surprise was expressed by the author longed to a great poetical genius of our of these lines, at finding them not only times; and the singular fact that it had known to Walter Scott, but also remem- been more than once read by him, and bered by him. "Ah!" replied Scott, "if twice in two subsequent years at Athens, the writer of these lines had gone on with in 1810 and 1811, instantly convinced me his pen, he would have been an English that the volume deserved my renewed at 66 mer; 60 66 66 tention." Lord Byron had marked the were poor conversationalists. Charles II. copy with many notes, some of which having read Hudibras, sought Butler in the D'Israeli afterwards published; and the hope of a sparkling chat, but he was engreat poet's letter to the author was event- tirely disappointed. Alfieri and Gray were ually embodied in the preface. dull in company, and Corneille, the great French dramatist, was silent and taciturn. Disraeli relates that once when Rousseau returned to a village, he had to learn to endure its conversation. Alone, I have never known ennui, even when perfectly unoccupied; my imaginations, filling the void, were sufficient to busy me. It is only the inactive chit-chat of the room, where every one is seated face to face, and only moving their tongues, which I never could support.' Addison and Molière talked but little, and Dryden himself has said of himself, “My conversation is slow and dull, my humour saturnine and reserved; in short, I am none of those who endeavour to break jests in company, or make repartees." Tasso was so reserved that a person in his society said this persistent silence was indicative of madness; the poet, overhearing him, asked whether he was acquainted with a madman who knew how to hold his tongue. The habit which a man acquires of thinking through his pen, has a tendency to weaken his power as a speaker and conversationalist; his rule of revision, his wonted rounding and perfecting of sentences, make him severely critical with regard to his unwritten utterances; we have many examples to the contrary, it is true; but they go to prove the rule. Authors talk best amongst themselves. The curiosity of outsiders is a restraint upon them; but after all, they say the best things to those who consult them through their works; to us who seek them alone with genial appreciation and respect, holding sweet converse with familiar books. Dickens we put with Hans Christian Andersen and Grimm. They are kindred somehow in our mind; but Dickens in this category is represented only by "The Old Curiosity Shop," and "The Christmas Carol." We put "David Copperfield" and Martin Chuzzlewit," and "Pickwick " by, for wayside reference, for chamber books sometimes, or garden reading in the sumbut Tiny Tim" and "Little Nell," real though they be, we introduce to "The Little Tin Soldier," Elsie," "The Ugly Duckling," "Little Claus and Great Claus;" and that old street lamp and other curiosities of Andersen seem to belong to the Curiosity Shop," not so much from affinity of fancy, as because it seems to us Dickens must understand them himself so thoroughly. We have had our last Christmas book from Dickens, they say. Oh, these lasts! Oh, this giving over, this closing of the book, this ringing down the drop scene, this writing Finis! Are there no more Tiny Tims, not Scrooges, nor Toby Vecks, nor Mrs. Lirripers left in that teeming brain; or is it time to rest? We do not complain, we only regret that the summer is over, listen more attentively with Toby Veck to the Christmas bells, hug that little figure which we find at Bob Cratchett's fireside closer to our hearts, and breathe more fervently that never-dying prayer, God bless us every one." 66 99.66 66 99 66 In that pleasant little corner above the ruck of thumbed and greasy volumes which have passed in special review before us sitting here in the firelight, come we now to an Many a great wit has thought the wit it exclusive set of gilt-edged friends who seem was too late to speak, and many a great to have a place apart; these are a select reasoner has only reasoned when his oppoparty of poets, represented by In Memo- nent has disappeared." "Ossian" was the riam," The Ancient Mariner," "The De- first Napoleon's favourite book. It is rare serted Village,' "The Borough," "Evan- poetry. The description of Winter which geline, Ossian," " Lalla Rookh," Bep- Mr. Howitt has quoted in his "Seasons" po," and "Don Juan," Mrs. Browning's as an example, is almost equal to Shakssonnets, and a miscellaneous book of songs peare's graphic poem in "Love's Labour's with examples from Dibdin and some minor Lost," the most perfect word-picture we poets. How Johnson must have astonished know, and one that is perhaps less quoted Boswell with that most unexpected judg- than any. Southgate has omitted it from ment of the poet, who had been working his voluminous " Many Thoughts; " it is not anonymously for so long: "Sir, Goldsmith in Friswell's " Familiar Words; " we do is one of the first men we have as an author." I think it is Mr. Forster who says in reference to "Little Goldy" looking foolishly sometimes, Conversation is a game where the wise do not always win." Lafontaine, of witty, fable fame, and Marmontel, 66 66 not find it in " Elegant Extracts," and even Ayscough, in his most copious and judicious "Index," does not indicate the dialogue that the two learned men have composed in praise of the owl and the cuckoo." and with the peculiar erectness of head and "Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest 66 Timbs relates that William Strahan, a native of Edinburgh, came to London when a young man, and worked as a journeyman printer. Franklin was his fellow workman. Strahan prospered, and eventually became a famous publisher. He was a great friend of Johnson. Is it not noteworthy that the learned doctor had two very intimate Scotch friends? This William Strahan was sueceeded by his third son, Andrew, and died worth more than a million. The mention of "Rejected Addresses," brings up this wayside note. Andrew Strahan presented James Smith with a thousand pounds—a piece of rare munificent appreciation which is worthy of a lasting record. "In Memoriam," sad though its strain, we call a pleasant book for those images of beauty and soothing thoughts of patient hope and fond regret that meet your eye at every page. It is a poem to glance at now and then, and lay down. Not so " Beppo and "Don Juan." What can withstand the lightning of this poet's genius? You must go on; the poetry is torrent-like in its rush, and crowded with human interest. Perhaps the mind flags when Haidee is dead, and the better part of our moral nature pauses to regret that so much exquisite poetry should carry with it so much filth. It is a curious little edition that of Murray's, introduced by a string of "opinions of the press " and extracts from Byron's characteristic letters to the publisher, with each fresh batch of copy. There is an absence in Byron's works of those quiet domestic scenes which lend such a charm to Goldsmith and Cowper, to Longfellow and Thomson, Tennyson and Wordsworth; but his genius sparkles in every page like Shelley's, and dazzles like none other; and his intellect has the grasp and weight of Johnson. It is a relief, after Byron, to come How much injustice shall we do by enddown to the smooth musical flow of Tom ing our gossip here, by sitting still to think Moore. Despite that charge of snobbism, of our benefactors in print? Crabbe and which is not easy to overcome, we cannot Thomson, and a host of others crop up for help turning to Willis's "Pencillings by the recognition, as we lay down our pen. But Way," for a glimpse of Moore in society; we only profess to have gossiped; we have Moore at Lady B's, with the author of not simply selected, we have not merely "Pelham," and S of the "Rejected criticised, and in talking of our most cherAddresses." "I found myself seated oppo-ished books in that favourite corner, we do site M——, with a blaze of light on his Bac- not disguise from ourselves the fact that chus' head, and the mirrors with which the they increase and multiply day by day, superb octagonal room is panneled reflecting week by week. Moreover, we have menevery motion. To see him only at table, you would not think him a small man. His principal length is in his body, and his head and shoulders are those of a much larger person. Consequently he sits tall, tioned books for private companionship, for quiet, pleasant winter hours. For Shakspeare one needs a companion; he must be read aloud. The grand, sonorous music of his words fills the heart to overflowing, and |