THE attempt to daguerreotype, as it were, the living features of the most distinguished men of the age, is no slight one : it implies boldness, at least, if it does not argue presumption. With this charge Hazlitt was not unjustly attacked by the Edinburgh Review, on the appearance of his own brilliant gallery of portraits, bearing the same title as that which appears as the caption to this paper. Mr. Horne has modelled his book indirectly on that of Hazlitt, and with the same characteristic confidence, has far less of almost every other quality that distinguished the author of Table Talk, except those most laudable virtues of sincerity and a love of the truth. Mr. Horne cannot lay claim to the brilliancy or the acuteness of his master, though he is sometimes ingenious (his attempts at declamation are often insufferably absurd): but when he aims to hit the gist of a question, to get at the truth, he is generally sound and sensible. He fails much rather in excess of eulogy, than of censure,-a generous fault, that does but little harm. Yet his book is full of defects, most of which consist rather in omission than in performance. The title is a striking one, and promises a good deal; does it accomplish as much? is it satisfactory? That must be our first inquiry; for from a book of this kind, one is inclined to look for a bird's-eye view of contemporary literature (if not of science, also); and at the same time for spirited and faithful individual characters. Detachod sketches of this sort attract much more attention than similar portraitures in a long work; and also infer more reliance in the moral painter. In Clarendon, in Burnet, in Gibbon, or in Hume, we expect finished miniatures; but if either of these masters of the historical style had given us only separate pictures, we should have required more Jabor and pains than we expect to be bestowed on the incidental character drawing which must frequently occur

in a long history. In a portrait, wo require more than merely a head, which occurs in a great historical painting. From the very fact, then, of their isolated position, these portraits challenge attention, and seem to invite criticism. Thus it appeared to us with regard to the Spirit of the Age formerly, and with this New Spirit of the Age now. At best, it is an awkward method of writing. The manner of writing is a mixed mode. You have portrait, essay and criticism in one sketch. Now we look in a portrait for nothing else, yet strict adherence to pure character writing would too much diminish the size of the book-consequently metaphysical disquisition is introduced, in order to increase it. The style of these sketches, too, is apt to become, from the nature of the subject, a little ambitious, sometimes inflated, and frequently altogether vicious. This is true more particularly of Hazlitt. Mr. Horne is a much plainer writer, when he writes from his good sense, but his attempts at fine writing are often simply ridiculous. Let any one read the last page of the last paper in the volume if he doubts our judgment, or suspects a want of appreciation. Perhaps, after all, however, we are not rightly situ ated to estimate fairly this kind of writing. For ten years we have dealt pretty extensively in this sort of wares. Literary criticism has been our hobby,a little over-ridden of late, and we must confess we begin to tire of the trade. Say what we may, there is a certain cant of criticism-a species of scholastic slang, into which one is apt to fall. We get after a while into the habit of reading books almost solely for the sake of writing upon them, and lose all relish for works that do not make a constant appeal to the judgment, and critical analysis. Short, incidental critiques, written from fullness of knowledge, in a sincere and hearty spirit, and with a clear eye, are certain

VOL. IV.-NO. LXXIII.

4

ly more grateful than long, formal, set criticisms; yet we have commenced the task, and will conclude it as we best

can.

There are certain obvious defects in the book, and, as it is our first duty, so it will be our aim, to attempt a fair measure of that. The title is a misnomer - the leading portraits, with few exceptions, are of those who belong at least as much to Hazlitt's period as to that to which Mr. Horne professes to have confined himself. They are of the last age of authorship. And of the living writers many are barely clever writers, pleasant authors, to be sure, but very far from ranking with the controlling minds of the period. Great inequality, not only in kind but of degree also, is to be found among many who are here placed on the same level; much the same thing as if in the official list of the officers of the army, Captains, Generals, Majors, and Corporals, were classed together in the same rank. Dickens, Bulwer, Macaulay, Carlyle, are leading intellects-represent certain classes of literature, of which they stand at the head, but Mary Howitt (delightful as she is in her best and earliest books), is by no means of the same order of mind, and belongs, in fact, to a much lower grade: neither is the author of the Ingoldsby Legends, nor, at least, one-half the names that might be mentioned, entitled to such a standing and consideration as their position in the book implies. In a volume of portraits of the leading minds of the age, those only should be included whose efforts really leave their mark behind them, giving the age its form and pressure. To tell the truth, the book was not wanted, whence arises no small portion of dissatisfaction. Hazlitt had painted the portraits of the brilliant and judicious of his age, like another Titian, to which but very few new names ought to be added. The selection, too, has been unfortunate; some of the best names having been omitted. Thus Lord Ashley and Dr. Southwood Smith, most worthy in their sphere, still do not represent the literary character of the present day. Neither do several of the illustrious obscure among the poetic favorites of Mr. Horne, who appears to cherish these poetic failures, out of misplaced benevolence and unwise sympathy. Very many clever men ought never to

appear in a work like this, which should be devoted to their masters. Sydney Smith, Hook, Hunt, Landor, Wordsworth, belong to the past. Hazlitt, singularly enough, did not include the witty Canon of St. Paul's, while he sketched the features of Jeffrey, Gifford, Brougham, and Southey. Strange omissions, too, may be noted; thus we have a half dozen mediocre poets,-and the manly Elliott is omitted-undoubtedly a true poet of the people, a genuine product of this century; we should add Clare's to the name of Elliott. Not a word of Miss Edgeworth, the head of the Irish novelists, in a professed paper on them. Hazlitt gives us Bentham, that original representative of the Utilitarians, yet Horne does not give us John Mill, his adherent and disciple. Many bright periodical writers, as Foster of the Examiner, the best literary critic of the English press, are passed over in silence; so, too, of the clever magazinists, of the writers in the Penny Magazine and Penny Cyclopedia, &c. The new school of translators, with Mrs. Austin, is not alluded to. If Lord Ashley is introduced, the excellent and able Horner ought to be, also. Not one historian is mentioned. Not a syllable of Mr. Hallam, Sharon Turner, Dr. Lingard, Sir Francis Palgrave, &c., though these writers have confessedly founded a new school of his tory, and given a new face to the Anglo-Saxon history, to the constitutional history of England, and to the history of the English Church.

Pusey and Puseyism might be omitted, without any detriment to a fair view of the literary character of the age, but if the subject is at all introduced, these names should be added to his--Newman, Keble and Paliner--men, writers and disciples perhaps writing under and after him, yet much his superiors. The Oxford school of historians, poets and preachers, is at least as characteristic as the Irish school of novelists. We do not so much complain that a sufficient number of writers are not mentioned, as we do that some are, who might be much better passed over, and who fill the place of better men. The writers are strangely grouped together in one paper, for instance, Sydney Smith, Fonblanque, and Douglas Jerrold; in another, Hood and Theodore Hook-upon what principle of selection these authors are so inti

mately conjoined we cannot under stand. They are all men of wit, and writers in whom that quality is prominent and characteristical. Yet their wit is individual, and of the most opposite characters. One is a divine, the second a journalist, the third a miscellaneous writer; of the two last named the first is a generous and kindly humorist, the last a coarse and vulgar satirist. One is the last of the old line of clerical satirists, another is a sharp, shrewd, political wit, the third is a lively painter of manners and moral satirist. Between Tom Hood and Theodore Hook, there is the least possible sympathy: Hood, a poet of fine fancy, a wit, as a punster unmatched, with keen sense and fresh feeling, and a general humorist of the best class. Hook, an acute man of the world, a clever painter of vulgarity and high life, and a violent partizan writer, overflowing with abuse and virulence.

This work, too, labors under the defect of being a professed continuation (always a heavy drawback) and also a close imitation. It is true the imitation is confined chiefly to the manner of handling, yet the matter is in most cases hardly worthy of it. Too much has been attempted altogether. Too wide a range was at first marked out, and the filling up, is, consequently meagre. Yet the volume has certain general merit. It is in the main fair and judicious; some of the slighter sketches being extremely well done. The notices of Ainsworth and Satan Montgomery are very clever and no less true. The judgments passed on the novelists are very well executed. The merits of Tennyson are enthusiastically, and in a spirit of true appreciative criticism, brought forward. So much for the work itself. We shall by no means attempt to re-write the separate portraits, nor hope to comprise, in a few pages, a general view of contemporary English literature; we will only endeavor to depict the striking features of a few of the leading men of the day, with incidental limnings of inferior artists. The most popular literature of the day is that for those who read purely for amusement-the Novels; and that for those who would blend something of learning with relaxation, who would unite history, philosophic speculation, and criticism with wit, eloquence and argument, in a word

the Review. We shall, therefore, present pencil-sketches of Dickens and Bulwer, Carlisle and Macaulay, with a few pen and ink touches of other profiles. Mr. Horne leads off with Dickens [the whole series may be likened to a contra-dance, in which the most opposite characters are distinguished by antithetical contrast].

From his vast popularity, no less than his merit and success, the name of Dickens occurs first in a list of contemporary writers. He is undoubtedly the best living novelist. Yet his merits, great as they are, are not unaccompanied by striking defects, and it is our object now, rather to notice these since those have been so warmly advocated and frankly recognized. In his best works even, and in the humorous portions of them, he is very apt to run into caricature. His muse is riant and oversteps the modesty of nature. He is often compared with Hogarth, whom in many respects he resembles [perhaps the reader is not aware that the novelist is married to a grand-daughter of the great artist, a fit conjunction in the aristocracy of genius-the only genuine aristocracy]; yet, we make bold to suggest a much closer resemblance to Cruikshank. In this parallel, we by no means intend to depreciate the novelist, nor exaggerate the talent of the admirable artist. Cruikshank is, in his walk, unrivalled, and comes much closer to Hogarth, in our judgment, than Dickens himself. Yet in both writer and artist, there are, compared with Hogarth, similar deficiencies; a want of substantial force and richness of materials-something too much of sketchiness and comparative meagreness, with a similar tendency to extravagance and burlesque. paper on Dickens is very full and genial-overflowing with admiration and full of ingenious observation. From this we would wish to detract little. Dickens is primus inter primos, yet by no means facile princeps, among the writers of the day. He has many clever rivals, still he surpasses them all in the aggregate. Lover, Lever, and Jerrold singly, may give inferior writers "pause," yet Dickens is a match for the whole body. He has been compared to Le Sage, to Scott, to Irving; yet we think he has not been fairly dealt with by those who would write either his eulogium or a libel. He has

The

not the infinite variety of adventure that marks Gil Blas, a Spanish novel, albeit its author was a Frenchman. He has not the historical resources of Scott, nor his wide reading. The modern Smollett makes fresh draughts of life from nature and is little of a mere scholar, if we may judge from his writings. His style wants the elaborate finish of Irving, whose classic taste distinguishes him as almost the sole Addisonian writer of the day. Dickens has certainly greater exuberance and richness of materials than Irving, but he cannot finish a picture with such elaborate care and attention. Let the reader compare, for instance, the best separate sketches of the two writers, and he will find the individual pictures and scenes of the earlier writer the most delicate. Compared with the novelists, our classic humorist is a cabinet-painter, confined entirely to miniatures or cabinet pictures; still in them he unites the fidelity of Dennon to the rich coloring of Stuart Newton. The story of Ichabod Crane, the Country Choir, Rip Van Winkle, and other master-pieces, rise at once to view. Knickerbocker and Salmagundi contain more of extravaganza and purely grotesque description, while the later tales (delightful as they are) betray evident imitation of Addison and Goldsmith. In character, dramatic force, vivacity and copiousness, however, there can be no comparison. Still, though less striking and abundant, we believe Irving's humor (from the magic of his style) will probably outlast the more flaunting works of more popular authors, in the same line. Dickens has much, however, beside his humor to recommend him; although it was that quality by which he first gained the ear of the public, and that, upon which he must mainly rely for more popularity. He has almost always a moral purpose, to expose hypocrisy, awaken honest indignation, or excite the too often dull and latent feeling of humanity. He has, in general, manliness of sentiment in spite of a sentimentality he is obliged to assume, from its exceeding popularity. The public at large has no perception of delicate feeling and not much idea of the simplicity of deep sentiment-in writing. A weak sentimentality too often usurps its place, more agreeable to the public

palate and more congenial to the common mind.

Our author, notwithstanding, sometimes draws honest tears of generous sympathy, for the weak subjects of oppression and wrong. He would assist the struggling and defend the oppressed. He would animate all. Man is dear to him, as his fellow, and he would aid him as his friend. Of the special attacks of Dickens upon our country, we think they must furnish in themselves a sufficient punishment for him. They convict him of meanness and ingratitude-the lowest, and one of the highest crimes a man can be guilty of. In the same book, there are still admirable things, as the account of his voyage is as good in its way, as Rabelais' description of a storm at sea. His accounts too, of the public institutions he visited, are no less excellent. But his social pictures are not only unfair, but much worse. In truth, Dickens was not the proper judge of our state of society, nor of any class of company above the common. To be a judge of good manners, or a gentleman, it is not sufficient merely to be able to depict the opposite style. A comic writer is not, necessarily, a gentleman or a man of feeling. The author was essentially a cockney; his dress betrayed him: (the flash vest, long hair, corded pantaloons, watch guard, &c) his manners, phrases, and air. Always fond of describing such characters, he is not altogether without a strong fellow feeling for them, that generally makes us so wondrous kind. These are among

his best sketches, the Benjamin Allens, Dick Swivellers, and the like. All personal defects and literary sins, however, we consider expiated by the last production of Mr. Dickens-his charming Christmas Carol, a work which does honor to human nature. It is a noble work, in every point of view, and together with Oliver Twist, the best caricatures in Pickwick and Nickleby, insures a permanent reputation for its author. It is a work calculated to open the heart closed to the dull moan of human suffering, and extend the sympathies of those, who have centered all feeling in the narrowest possible circle, of which self is the centre.

Mr. Horne's estimate of Dickens, appears to us, after all, exaggerated. Yet we believe it sincere. Tried by a