the dainties that are bred in a book, while we eat paper as it were, and drink up printer's ink. Men read and scribble, and scribble and read, and leave no time for solemn meditation and vigorous thinking. Can they not remember,

"Study is like the heaven's glorious sun, That will not be deep search'd with saucy looks;

Small have continual plodders ever won, Save base authority from others' books. These earthly godfathers of heaven's lights, That gave a name to every fixed star, Have no more profit of their shining nights Than those that walk, and wot not what they are;

Too much to know, is to know nought but fame,

And every godfather can give a name." But he who contents himself with the library we have recommended, has time for thought as well as study, and may observe for himself those moral and physical phenomena of nature, to which his books will be at once a guide and a light. Exhort such a one to explore books upon ethics, as necessary for regulating the conduct of human life, and he would answer, that in the Bible he finds enough for man to know, and more than mere man could have conceived, upon the subject. Tell him that he should study the works which treat of the history of mankind, and mark the wondrous and intricate workings of human passion, he will point to the volumes of the immortal bard, who has left no circumstance of life untouched. Urge the necessity of reading, in order to be au courant du jour, on all the various subjects which occupy the attention of this present time, and with a glance of rapture towards his monthly treasures, he will calmly respond-Maga, Maga, Maga.

In comparing the relative merits of those who are commonly enumerated as benefactors to mankind, the Cotton Lords claim the superiority for Arkwright, the jenny-spinner; some would yield the palm to Jenner, who transferred to men and Christians the disease of a cow; others extol James Watt, of steamy and fumum ex fulgore memory; while hosts of good men and true, repeat the name of one still living-and long may he live-even the name of Christopher North. For our self, with all respect to these gentlemen, and particularly the last, we are inclined to think that the renowned

Caliph Omar, the director of that famous literary holocaust, which for six successive moons fed the fires of the baths of Alexandria with the contents of the library of the Ptolemies, deserves the highest place. There was a magnificent determination about this Omar. Ebn Al Aas, seems to have been, like His Lieutenant-General, one Mr Arou the asses of our own time, a Conciliator, and would have willingly spared the parchments, and fingered John the Grammarian's cash; but he was forced to apply for authority to the higher powers, and found he had a decisive master. The Caliph knew no half measures, though he seems to have had a happy notion of division, as practised by logicians in general, and Peter Ramus in particular, when they wish to divide and conquer an argument. "These writings," said he, as he played with his scimitar, and smiled, as Caliphs and dialecticians smile, in the consciousness of their strength-" these writings either contain the sentiments of the Koran, or they do not; if the former, they are useless, if the latter, pernicious; let them all be burnt." How conclusive, and how simply grand, was this reasoning, and the decisive action which followed the logical conviction! What a quantity of rubbish has not this energy preserved us from!

We speak feelingly, for in our youth we were ourself atrociously addicted to reading. Nothing came amiss to us. In poesy, we culled the flowers from Homer to Callimachus; from Lucretius to Secundus; from Chaucer to Mr Pye the Laureate. Passing from the glorious fraternity of poets, to the men who teach philosophy by examples, we ranged from the muses of Herodotus to the authentic records of the Seven Champions of Christendom, and the unimpeachable annals of Giant-slaying Jack. In mingled history, geography, and travels, from Diodorus and Strabo, to the veracious account of Daniel O'Rourke's Voyage on Eagle-back to the Moon. When, indeed, we came to years of discretion and our estate, we locked up our five thousand ancestral volumes in a dry garret, and wrote a short treatise on the weakness of the nerves, and the general degeneracy of modern times, to palliate, in some degree, our faint-heartedness in failing to follow the good example of the Caliph aforesaid, or the

Curate in the house of the worthy Knight of La Mancha. For with all our reading, what the wiser are we? Dux Wellingtonus in pugnâ Waterlooensi, Parliamentoque Britannico et alibi, hath shewn, now sheweth, and we firmly trust will continue to shew, a clearer case of practical upper works, than can be found in all the ranks of the omnilegent philosophers, march of intellect, and all.

What we have hitherto said, how ever, we beg may be considered rather in the light of an episode to our introduction; and our readers will regret to learn, that in consequence of the length to which these incidental remarks have run, we shall find it necessary exceedingly to condense what we have to say upon the main subject of our essay; the purport of which is, not to shew that books in general are good for nothing, but that there is a great deal of nothing in what are commonly considered good books. We say good books," for as to the bad ones, we have not that severity in our nature, to deal with them as they deserve; and we willingly leave them to the deep damnation of the critics, from the minute mouse-bite of Mr Col burn's small type, to the all-destroying cranch of Mr Murray's Review.

With respect, then, to a great portion of the books which the kind world gives us credit for reading, merely because we talk about them with much profoundness and critical discernment, we profess our opinion to be, that they contain "an infinite deal of nothing." We shall not go so far as to say, that their merits, like the reasons in Gratiano's conversation, or in Mr Brougham's seven-hours speech on the law, "are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff; you shall seek all day or you find them, and when you find them, they are not worth the search;" but of a truth, their excellence is only to be found "sparsim," as Sir Charles Wetherall would say; and were these works to undergo such a process of evaporation, as would leave behind all the heavy and useless matter, we apprehend that formidable quartos would frequently afford, upon distilla*tion, no more than nice little duodecimos of pure spirit. These combinations of real talent with mere talk, are, however, to be found in different forms. Sometimes, nay very frequent

ly, the combination is like a chemical union, where both are to be found in every particle, and (so to speak) the copper of the one, and the zinc of the other, combine in one uniform sheet of brass; in other cases, the combination is as it were only mechanical, and like gold and lead fused together, we can in a moment select the particles of either from the mass. This latter description is by much the more convenient for the Reviews, and for the public; we easily get the whole marrow of the book in a few extracts; and we have nothing to do but to buy it, and discourse learnedly of its contents, or write another review of it, upon the strength of the extracts in that which we have read. In such cases, however, it is prudent to tell John, or Sam, or whatever other decent middle-aged person attends upon you, to cut the leaves of the book open, as, if you write very brilliantly upon it, which doubtless you will, if you write at all, some friend may ask the book of you, and might presume to found impertinent conclusions upon the undoubted virginity of the leaves, should his paper-knife be the first to penetrate them. But we are afraid that we are falling into too much seriousness upon this subject; indeed, though we be sometimes inclined to ask with Flaccus, "ridentem dicere verum quid vetat ?" yet, generally, when we enunciate our discoveries of important truths, we feel disposed to do so with that soberness of manner, which becomes us no less than the sportiveness of our lighter moments. Now, what we have been saying, is as true as that Joseph Hume is not a Sir Isaac Newton, or that too much dispatch is not the fault of the Court of Chancery. In these days, one would no more think of reading through a respectable" quarto than of not buying it. Our libraries must have it, but we ourselves are satisfied with the cream which has been skimmed off it and dished up in the Reviews. The only work which we ourself, or any one of our thousand and one friends, has read through for the last five years, is The Magazine; and such is the force of inveterate habit, that we sometimes detect our fingers, notwithstanding the positive injunc tion we have given them to the contrary, in the act of turning over five pages at once. This, however, only

happens when we are so unwise as to attempt to read after dinner, at which time, our consciousness of our own acts is not always of the clearest; for we fully coincide in opinion with our friend Mr Patrick Shane, who, in speaking of Maga, remarked, that Blackwood never speaks, but he says something." It would be a very pleasant thing, if literary productions could be submitted to something like chemical analysis,-if we could separate the merit of a book, as we can the magnesia of Epsom Salts, by a simple practical application of the doctrine of affinities. Were such a process possible, we would wager the whole of our investments in the Consols, that from a given quantity of solution of Maga, the precipitating agent would throw down ten times the quantity of pure matter, that the same quantity of solution of any other new book would afford; or, what comes to the same thing, that one number of the Magazine would yield as much of the precipitate aforesaid, as two quarto volumes of any thing else lately published, containing ten times the quantity of words.

As there is a reason for every thing, one is naturally led to ask why it is, that books are, in general, such as we have described them; and there are different causes which offer themselves to our attention. First, it may be, that as literature is frequently paid for, like linen, by the yard, the quantity becomes more an object to the manufacturer than the quality; yet this reason savours of merchandise, and lacketh charity, wherefore we pursue it no farther. Again, it may be, that authors suppose that the human mind, like the animal stomach, is not fitted for highly concentrated food, and that a quantity of non-nutritive matter must be supplied, along with the pure talent, in order to fit the mind for its digestion, even as some philosophers say, the stomach of the horse must be distended with hay, before it can act with healthy activity upon his feed of oats. There is more of philosophy and

of benevolence in this reason, which two things so generally adorn the character of voluminous writers, that, doubtless, the effect of which we speak may, with more propriety, be assigned to a cause wherein they predominate, than to that first mentioned.

But, thirdly, perhaps writers make their works long, because, like the excellent Pascal, they have not time to make them shorter.* It is not every one, that, like the author of Lacon, can afford to spend his days in condensing volumes of thoughts into pages, and pages into paragraphs. This is a serious matter, and worthy of grave consideration. For ourself, we are apt, like his honour the present Master of the Rolls, to come to a prompt decision, (would that we could always decide as soundly!) and therefore we, without hesitation, recommend a partnership concern, between authors and those of the critical fraternity, who are cunning in the art of making extracts. These gentlemen might as well operate before, as after publication, and carve out the choice morsels from a MS. with the same dexterity that they exercise after the publisher has clothed the mass of words with sheets and boards, and given its heavy nothings a local habitation and a name. But, then, what would we do for ponderous new books to adorn our libraries withal? What would become of the paper-makers, the printers, the printers' devils, the correctors, the stitchers, the binders, and Lord knows how many more? And, above all, what would become of the Reviewers? Alas! how dangerous is innovation upon an established system, even where improvement is most evident! We fear we may have even already done mischief, by the potency of the observations which we have been led to make; and in order that we may avoid doing any more, while we are in this dangerous humour, we here hold our hand.

ONE OF THE CLAN NORTH.

AFTER a long period of debility, the consequence of a dangerous wound received in the great "Battle of the Nations," fought near Leipzig, I found myself so far recruited in the autumn of 1815, as to undertake a long-planned excursion to the residence of a widowed aunt, who lived, with two daughters, on the family estate of her deceased husband, near the sources of the Elbe, in Bohemia. I proceeded by slow journeys, and at noon, on the fifth day after my departure from Berlin, reached a small post town, a few miles from my destination. Here I heard, with inexpressible sorrow, that my aunt had very recently lost her eldest daughter, a lovely girl of eighteen, by fever. I had not seen my cousin since her childhood, but my reminiscences of a delightful visit to my hospitable aunt during the happy days of boyhood were acutely roused by this afflicting intelligence; and to save my bereaved relatives from the agonizing necessity of announcing their loss, I folded some crape round the sleeve of my uniform, and, with no enviable feelings, journeyed onward to the house of mourning. About a mile from the little post-town my carriage turned a sharp angle on the road, and suddenly one of the finest prospects in this romantic district burst upon me. Be tween the giant stems of a dozen venerable oaks I beheld a wide and fertile vale, through which the infant Elbe was gliding like a silver serpent. The middle ground was varied by green and swelling hills, crowned with copses of oak and beech, while in the distance towered the vast and awful forms of the venerable Giant moun tains. On the slope of the highest intermediate hill stood the modern and elegant mansion of my aunt, surrounded by a well-wooded park, above which, on the summit of a dark and frowning rock, appeared the decayed but still imposing castle of my late uncle's ancestors, which retained its ancient and characteristic name of the "Robber's Tower." A large portion of this once extensive pile was now a shapeless mass of stones, over which the giant ivy mantled in green and prodigal luxuriance; but the keep, a round tower of vast dimensions, still

A TRUE ADVENTURE.

defied the tooth of time, and threw up its lofty head with Titan grandeur.

During my slow progress up the hilly roads, I recognised many spots endeared to me by vivid recollections of former enjoyment, but now they suggested no pleasurable associations; my fancy was haunted by the image of the disconsolate mother, and I could find no relief from depressing anticipations but in the hope that my unexpected arrival would afford at least a temporary relief to the mourners. The afternoon was considerably advanced when I arrived at the house; and my poor aunt, to whom the crape on my arm revealed my knowledge of her recent loss, clasped me in a maternal embrace, and, leaning her head upon my shoulder, sobbed aloud. Her once full and finely formed person was wasted with sorrow and want of sleep, and her expressive features were furrowed with the lines of deep and heartrending misery. She was the living image of woe and desolation. "Dearest nephew!" she said at length, in a low and broken voice, "why did you not arrive three weeks sooner? You would then have found me rich and happy in the possession of two daughters; but it has pleased Heaven for wise purposes to sear me to the quick, and to deprive me of a moiety of all I valued in this world: for what has a widowed mother on this earth but her children!" At this inoment entered Julia, her surviving daughter, a beautiful girl of seventeen; but grief had preyed upon her bloom, and her cheek was fair and spotless as her snowy neck, which rose in delicate proportion from the crape handkerchief which shaded her youthful bosom. She had heard of my arrival, and, while the ready tears started into her large and expressive blue eyes, she permitted me to salute her cheek, but her emotion forbade all audible welcome. Feeling how premature would be all attempts at consolation, I gradually led my aunt and cousin to discourse of the departed Cecilia, and had ere long the pleasure to see them more tranquil, and able to speak of her with comparative firmness and resignation. From their conversation I gathered that she was perfectly conscious of her approaching death, but was neverthe

less apprehensive of premature interment, and earnestly besought her mother to have the vault under the large round tower converted into a sepulchre, and to place there her unscrewed coffin in an open sarcophagus. The tender mother eagerly promised to comply with the last wish of her darling child, and the pall which covered the coffin was daily moistened with the tears of the desolate survivors.

With a view to cheer the spirits of my aunt and cousin, whose health had visibly suffered from long confinement, I proposed a walk round the park. Avoiding the lower road which led to the sepulchre, I conducted my companions up a steep and well-remembered path, which brought us to a higher level of the castle ruins. Here an agreeable surprise awaited me. When I had played a boy about this ancient pile, all approach to the baron's hall and the apartments in the tower was impracticable, owing to the entire destruction of the lower staircases; but with a view to better security of person and property in case the not distant tide of war should roll through this secluded district, the baroness had ordered the construction of a staircase terminating in a long corridor, which connected the apartments in the great tower with a fine old baronial hall in tolerable preservation, and accessible only by a small door from the corridor, in consequence of the two grand en trances having been blocked up by large masses of ruin. In this noble apartment every trace of decay had now disappeared. A new flooring of polished oak, new furniture of massive and appropriate design, and new casements of stained glass which admitted a soft and chequered light through the tall and narrow windows, proved the tasteful application of abundant means. In each corner of the hall stood a vast iron stove of antiquated form, with the family arms curiously emblazoned; and on the walls hung some large oil paintings, bearing the stains and wrinkles of two or three centuries; but, having been recently cleaned and varnished, they were still, at some distance from the eye, wonderfully effective. The most striking of these were a wolf hunt, drawn with a display of bone and muscle not unworthy of Rubens; two battle-pieces from the days of chivalry; and the VOL. XXIV.

catastrophe of amortal combat between two mailed knights. In the last, espe cially, the artist had produced an effect as powerful as it was appropriate and true. Observing how much I was struck by this old picture, my aunt told me that a clue to the subject had been found in an old family chronicle, written by the successive castle-chaplains. The prostrate knight was the valiant Bruno of Rothfels, who was killed in single combat about three hundred years since by Gotthard, then lord of the "Robber's Tower." The dying man was unhelmed, and his life-blood, issuing from a wide gash across his throat, had flowed in torrents over his breastplate. The convulsed features and glazed eye-balls of the wounded man told his approaching death, while his clenched right-hand was raised towards heaven, as if imprecating his adverse fortune, and his left was grasp ing the blood-stained grass. I gazed upon this singular picture until I fancied that I saw the sinewy limbs of the wounded knight quivering with convulsive effort, and almost thought I heard the death-rattle in his throat. When I described to my companions the strange impression which this scene of blood had produced upon my imagination, they acknowledged a similar feeling, and begged me to quit a place which they rarely entered, from an invincible reluctance to encounter this painfully effective picture. Returning to the corridor, I observed at its extre mity a low arched iron door, secured with a bar of iron and large padlock. Inquiring to what part of the castle it conducted, my aunt informed me that it was the entrance of an old armoury, which occupied the upper floor of a low square tower containing the castle dungeons; and, being massive and fireproof, she had availed herself of its security to place there some plate and other valuables, until the Austrian deserters and other marauders, who occasionally committed outrages upon private property, had been taken or dispersed by the police. Above the iron door was suspended another old picture which immediately absorbed my attention. A young and lovely woman, in the garb of a nun, was kneeling in prayer before a shrined image of the Virgin. A beautiful infant boy lay dead and bleeding at her feet-wild despair and delirious agony spoke in

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