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time in a more exaggerated form, seeking by increased vehemence to supply the place of originality. They are manufactured to suit a market, one by the way very nearly exhausted; and their authors cannot be considered as artists, but artizans. They have their pattern before them, and a very short apprenticeship enables them to turn out a tolerably showy article.

We regret to see by a postscript that Mr. Hewlett is suffering from domestic afflictions, and that his health and situation are not such as to conduce to that ease of mind necessary to the production of a great literary work. We trust that he will soon recover his wonted health and spirits, and again delight us with Novels taken from actual life, equalling in spirit and cleverness his "Peter Priggins." With the tone and spirit of the present work, putting aside its mode of execution, we cannot sympathise. It surely is a matter of bad taste, to say the least, to make his hero's chief merit the having killed Hampden on Chalgrove field, and equally false to place all his distress upon whether he was legitimate or illegitimate by birth; an accident which has only ennobled the character of many heroes, from William the Norman downwards. The same gentleman also, the pattern man, is inclined and studies to become a Christian minister, with a promise that he shall go out slaughtering, if there is an opportunity. The whole tone towards the Parliamentary party (as in almost all the novels of the same class), is unjust in the extreme and shows an utter ignorance or gross perversion of history. It is to be regretted that the original authorities are not studied by the supporters of the circulating library; for we can assure them that much more picturesque descriptions, and a much more powerful interest might be found in the pages of Clarendon, Whitelock, and other contemporary authorities, though perhaps some modern Walpole might say these writers are themselves, in every sense of the word, equally romantic.

THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. By the Author of the "Yemassee," "Guy Rivers," &c. First Series. Square 12mo. New York: Wiley and Putnam.

A COLLECTION of American Tales, formerly published in Annuals. The author tells us in his Preface that they illustrate the Border history of the south, and vouches for their general truthfulness, having drawn them from living portraits and from actual scenes and circumstances. As far as we have been able to look into them, we can corroborate this assertion, and there is a freshness in the subjects and a vigour of delineation and observation in those we have perused that place the author far above the usual writers of this class of literature. As graphic specimens of American manners and feelings, they are valuable to the European reader.

1. POEMS. BY THOMAS POWELL. 2. DRAMATIC POEMS. BY TMOMAS POWELL. 2 vols. 24mo. C. Mitchell.

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THE poems we have met in another shape, and believe they were published some time since; this applies also to the dramas, although it appears they have undergone some modification. Mr. Powell has considerable power of versification, if not almost "a fatal facility." All his productions show too much carelessness and a total disregard of "Old Ben's" aphorism, that "A great poet's made as well as born." Nature has done much for Mr. Powell, but he will do little or nothing for himself. Some of his shorter pieces are very pretty, and entitle him to the rare and noble title of poet. He seems however, in common with many other writers, to think that all that a poet pens must be poetry; and therefore writes, and not only writes, but prints, any vague idea that enters his head. If this want of consideration is formidable in lyric poetry, it is fatal in dramatic; and, consequently, these dramas are not really plays, but versified dialogues. Mr. Powell has, however, a quality in him, which with severe training might produce something lasting. As it is, we can only say, hasty writers can only expect to have idle readers, and regret that many pretty thoughts and sweet sentiments are thus likely to "waste their sweetness in a desert air.”

THE PURGATORY OF SUICIDES; a Prison Rhyme. In Ten Books. By THOMAS COOPER, the Chartist. Fcp. 8vo. J. How.

THIS work and its reception are remarkable signs of the times. But a few years since, and the very name of chartist, or even radical (which by the way has become rather genteel, since there has sprung up an ultra party), would have been sufficient for any paper or set professing respectability, to have shunned it as something of a caste which it was defilement to think of. Thanks, however, to the means of disseminating opinions, and to some hearty workers in the cause of true liberality, every one has now a chance of being listened to and even fairly appreciated. The chartist poet has perhaps even a better chance than the conservative, inasmuch as there is to be expected from him newer developments than can be hoped for from one of an expiring creed. Mr. Cooper, therefore, can fairly be left to stand or fall by his merits as a poet; and if he thereby loses the opposition or the encouragement of party, still he has the better opportunity of diffusing the glorious light of genius over all classes.

The birth of a new poet is an epoch in the world, and chronology would employ herself much better by emblazoning in her records the advent of genius, and the publication of a great poem or work, than by recording the births and deaths of hundreds of warriors and kings. It is no matter whether poets shine as morning or evening stars; whether they precede their age or express it at its meridian; whether they embody the past or foreshadow the future. In whatever way they come, they come to remould mankind to marshal men to new modes

of conduct; to extend the dominion of intellect; and to aid in the removal of error and evil. Whatever may be their consciousness or intention, such must be the effects they produce. A man, however, may have many talents, great enthusiasm, a glittering fancy, facility of expression, noble sentiments, and even fervid eloquence, and yet not be a poet in that sense of the term in which it is applied to the few great ones, whose remarkable ideas, stamped in all-enduring language, have become the current coin of mental intercourse. Men who have moulded the phrases, built up the language, and embodied the great thoughts and feelings of a nation. We have read Mr. Cooper's book with great sympathy for the sufferings so refined a mind must have endured in his imprisonment, and with great admiration of his undaunted nature, proved by his abstracting his mind amid such scenes to the highest learning and literature, and resisting tempting offers to withdraw from the advocacy of the cause in which he has already suffered a martyrdom. Differences of taste may exist as to his poetical abilities; but none as to his heroic conduct in adhering to his philanthropic principles.

The poem consists of a succession of dialogues of suicides, from Sardanapalus to Lord Castlereagh, and the poet thus takes occasion to discuss opinions, religious, social, and political. In so doing he manifests a wide extent of literary gleaning, and places in curious opposition the characteristics of human nature. His powers of description are considerable, and though he has not the firm distinctness of Dante, he has the same sense of the gloomy and the vast. Milton, however, is his prototype for style of expression; and he indulges in the same remoteness of allusion, and the same gorgeousness of imagery, until, with his original, he occasionally verges into the vague and turgid; substituting physical vastness and bulk, for genuine power of thought and simple sublimity. He has many stanzas, however, of noble verse and great felicity of expression; and many curious and interesting traits and eccentricities of the human creature are developed.

When it is considered under what circumstances it was written, and with how little aid Mr. Cooper has acquired the mastery of literary and poetic expression, it is a remarkable performance. As a political poem we cannot but think it ill-judged, for it appeals by its perpetual display of learning and allusions to subjects that can only be familiar to persons more than commonly well read, and not to the class with which the author so specially delights to connect himself. Such a man cannot but produce other, and we think, superior works; and it would be a benefit to all classes if he would give a chartist epic, prose or verse, depicting the genuine hues and characteristics of the people, enabled as he is by his powers and his position to reflect the reality unencumbered with the prejudices of rank or party.

As it is, we recommend its perusal, both for its own sake and as a specimen of the innate talent ready to burst forth from the great bulk of the people.

DOUGLAS JERROLD'S

SHILLING MAGAZINE.

THE CONFESSIONS OF RICHARD GRAINGER.

As you have requested me to put upon paper the account which I gave you of the most remarkable passage in my life, I shall do it as briefly as possible, and leave you to correct any errors into which my pen may slip; for I am not a practised writer.

Some one has said that we remember best that which has

caused us pleasure. Is this true? I cannot say it. I have two volumes in my mind, the "Pleasures of Memory," and the "Pains of Memory; and I almost think the latter has the bolder type.

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If there is a place in the world of which I could draw a picture from memory (if I had the handicraft), it is Robert's Fold; but few were the hours of comfort I had there. Some poet says

"My eyes make pictures when they're shut ;"

and though I am no poet (though I like poetry, and wish I had read more of it when I was young), I am sure I can often see Robert's Fold, and every particular thing about it, very well in the dark; better, indeed, than in the light. Talking of poetry-I would say that there is plenty of it in some of the plainest and commonest facts in the world, if only men who write knew how to handle them. For instance, there seemed to be nothing like poetry about those old grey stone cottages in Robert's Fold-their broken windows, miserable fire-places, and rough stone floors: but let these facts be looked at in connexion with the hopes, feelings, and desires of the poor creatures that lived there; or let them be contrasted with the freedom and beauty of surrounding nature, and I think something like poetry will then make its appearance. Robert's Fold was the name of a homestead, consisting of a farm

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house, barns, stables, and a few cottages, standing in the form of a square and connected by a wall of loose stones, such as is generally used for a fence in that part of the country—the west of Yorkshire.

To see this Robert's Fold, you must imagine a large, oldfashioned, and gloomy farm-house (but it might have been made. pleasant enough with pleasant people in it), substantially built of old grey stones, with a porch in the front, and windows of small panes with stone partitions, but some of them blocked up with slabs. In the front of the house was a garden,—not an ornamental one, but a plain kitchen-garden,-where kale and potatoes were grown. On one side of the house was a gate, which led into the Fold, and on the other were a few poor cottages. The Fold, as I have told you, was a square, of very uneven ground, and, when inside of it, you could see nothing beyond it. It looked dismal enough on a rainy day. And here, in the farm-house, lived my uncle Robert, to whom the whole property belonged. Now I must say something of my uncle's character, and this is no pleasure to me. But I shall endeavour to look away from my own pleasure or pain, and write down exactly what is fair and true, without any wish to injure his memory, but with an intention to illustrate facts which should be well understood, for the welfare of society.

My uncle was a miser. He was, I believe, the richest man in the parish of Fordenton, where his farm was situated. Adjoining the Fold, and at some distance from it, he had, altogether, about five hundred acres of land, some of it capital pasture land. I suppose he had the common feelings of our nature in him; but his love of money had overcome them, so that they were seldom visible. He had been brought up in a hard way, though he came to all this property; and his living so much alone, surrounded by none but his poor, hard-working dependents, had strengthened his unhappy and avaricious disposition. Strange as it may seem, (I have not to account for it, but only to state the fact,) he seemed to delight in unhappiness. I could understand his love of money in some measure, but I never could understand his hatred for everything comfortable and cheerful :-nothing offended him more than a merry speech, and he did not like to see one at ease and happy, even on a Sunday. "I should think thou might find something to do better than standing against that wall," he would say, when he caught me indulging in a lounge outside of the Fold, on a Sun

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