CRITICAL NOTICES. Manon Lescaut. From the French of Johannot. DEROGATORY as it may be to our character for taste and universal acquirement, we must confess we have never read the original of this work: the translation, therefore, came upon us with all the charms of novelty. And yet, what we have read of it in the four monthly parts now in our hands, has hardly equalled the expectations raised in us by the warm praises of a variety of critics. Possibly this may be in a great measure because we had it not in our power to read the book through at once. Any work so simple in style as Manon Lescaut, and in which the interest is confined to two or three characters, must necessarily suffer from a fragmentary perusal; as must, in fact, every work, and especially a fiction, which has any unity as a conception, or enduring merit as a work of art. Any book, deserving to be called a book, be it poem, or romance, or history, must be seen as a whole, and judged as a whole, before it can be properly appreciated, or fully enjoyed. This, by the way, is one reason among many, why books should be of moderate length, and why so many more countries have succeeded best, and produced the greatest variety of excellence, in those branches of literature, on which the very nature of them has imposed the strictest limits to wit, the Lyric, and the Dramatic -than in any other whatsoever. Profitable as the system of piecemeal publication may be for the booksellers, and some of their employés, we may yet count those ages fortunate that knew not the innovation. They have thereby had the luck to produce much that they, and we alike, must else have wanted. Let the reader, if he has the courage, fancy Wilhelm Meister, or Undine, or the Vicar of Wakefield, or the Collegians, published, for the first time, by weekly or monthly instalments, and patiently deposited, layer after layer, to ripen or to rot in the memory's store-room, 'till all were gathered, and the heap complete: published, we have said, for as to their authors having so produced them, with the unripe fruit of their imperfect, and to themselves as yet but half revealed creations, lying piled on every stall, and cheapened at every crossway-we need not suppose that, for so they could never have been. Not thus are the wonders of art called into existence, nor such the greeting men should give them. The chief exceptions we know of, and those more apparent than real, are the ancient serious epic, as the Iliad and the Odyssey, which have properly neither beginning nor end; and the modern comic epic, as Don Quixote, and Tristram Shandy, in which the humours of one predominant character deck, with their prismatic hues, the entire field of vision,-the wide prospect of humanity, over which we travel with them. Productions of this kind, inexhaustible as nature herself, and like her unique and infinite, may be better than others apppreciated in portions, though still their unity as existences must sink deep into the gazer's soul, and ever be mutely present there, if with glad heart he would enjoy, or worship in a reverent spirit. But enough, for the present occasion, of topics, which, if we tarried with them, would lead us and our readers into many a maze; we merely meant to observe, apropos of the publication before us, that we think it a pity that of late in France and England, so many works, of long established character, should have been republished in periodical parts, and thus in that fragmentary state, introduced, for the first time, to the knowledge of many among the young and ardent of that enthusiastic age, which books are sometimes found so strangely to affect and modify. We have been sorry to see such works as the Vicar of Wakefield, Paul and Virginia, Gulliver's Travels, and many others, thus cut into portions and hawked about, their wholesome juices oozing through the hasty severance, made by the bungling bookseller.That some of the decorations, with which modern publishers have too profusely adorned these simple unaffected productions, have a good deal of merit, and are calcula ted to extend a taste for the fine arts, we are | Thou's history of his own time; a great not disposed to deny; but we cannot forget work, we believe, as it is undoubtedly a big that most of the advantage of such read- one, but considering what books, with all ing, depends on the force of the impres- its losses, are still the world's inheritance, sion which, on a first acquaintance with rather a strange object of such chivalrous them, they leave on the still so plastic and devotion. Another judge, (by office, and recipient mind of the young reader, and a by antiphrasis,) made almost an equal sacribenefit of that kind, between the langour fice for the sake of studying Barclay's Arof deferred curiosity, and the glitter of genis; a book which, in our black-letter meretricious illustration, it were vain to days, we happen to have tried our appeexpect from these monthly reprints: the tite was keen enough at the time, and amusement afforded may, perhaps, be equal books a rarity where we were, yet with all in both cases; but the charm of that sud- the good will in the world, and keys and den and complete intimacy with the off- commentaries to help us, we could not, spring of a master mind, is lost both to the either in Latin or French, get through a head and the heart. quarter of it, but 'twas a famous book in its day, so perhaps the judge was in the right. We could account for this strange turn in so many ermined amateurs, but it's not worth the trouble. Manon Lescaut is, however, very far from having pretensions to rank with any of the works above named; our excuse for this little digression must be found in our anxiety not to judge too harshly of a book, of which we have only read a part, as well as in our painful consciousness, that works of a far higher order might, in a similar plight, be equally the victims of a too hasty censure. Certain it is, at all events, that critics of sundry climes, and characters still more different and critics too of no common calibre-have agreed, if not in their approval, at least in their admiration of Manon Lescaut. The publisher of the translation, in an apologetic address, to which we may perhaps again refer, contents himself with quoting the praise of Lord Chancellor Camden, who says of it, that he "preferred Manon Lescaut to any novel he ever read; that in the whole range of romance, as far as he knew, the character of its heroine is the only one which owes no part of its interest to fiction or fancy; and that it is a faithful and unexaggerated picture of ordinary life, belonging to no particular age or country." Mr. Thomas also repeats the assertion of M. Jules Janin, that Manon Lescaut is the original type of two works, the merits of which are universally acknowledged, Atala, and Paul and Virginia." Whether the clever, though rather superficial Frenchman be right in this affiliation, admits of considerable question; and as to Lord Chancellor Camden's opinion, we would not give much for it. Of all people for making queer choices, and taking queerer likings, when in their old age they recommence reading,-commend us to dignitaries of the bench, especially if superannuated, or on the high road thereto. One chancellor is said to have resigned his office to read, in the original latin, De VOL. III. NO. XVI. An authority of a different order, and one for whom we entertain great respect, is M. de Barante, in his little book, "De la Litterature Française pendant la dixhuitième siècle," a most excellent work, and considering the time at which it was written, especially remarkable for the impartial calmness with which, amid all the bustle of the still protracted fray, the author views and judges the leading characters, the so grotesque and various masks in that carnival of the philosophes, of which the appropriate, but too significant ending was the culbute generale. Selecting Marivaux and Prevost, from a group of once popular novelists, M. de Barante remarks of the latter : He has a "This author's mode of life had an injurious effect upon his works. If he had not been forced to make his fruitful pen a constant source of subsistence, he would undoubtedly have left a higher reputation. In all that he has written, we find something to please and interest us. simple way of telling a story: nothing in his compositions, or in the style of them, seems to aim at effect. He relates events without making them the subject of reflections; he depicts passionate scenes, without scenes, without himself appearing moved. But as the story is simply told, the reader is affected, as if the fact itself were passing before his eyes. In to sound the depths of passion. Once only has he tried that sort of writing, and without abandoning his own peculiar manner, he has in that instance proved eminently affecting. In Manon Lescaut he has been content to be the historian of the passions, as in his other fictions he had been of mere adventures; but this is done with such truth, that there was no need of eloquence to depict the feelings of the heart; for him it was sufficient merely to relate them. On the whole, the character of his works seems to belong to a different age. To tell naively what they had seen, or fancied that they saw, to put forth few reflections, to enter into no minute general the Abbé Prévost has taken little trouble. K "The only instance in which the character of an absolutely profligate pickpocket was ever made comparatively welcome to our graver feelings, is the Abbé Prevost. It is the story of a young man, so passionately in love with a profligate female, that he follows her through every species of vice and misery, even when she is sent as a convict to New Orleans. His love, indeed, is returned. He is obliged to subsist upon her vices, and, in return, is induced to help her with his own, becoming a cheat and a swindler to supply her outrageous extravagances. On board the convict ship (if we recollect) he waits on her through every species of squalidness; the convict dress and her shaved head only redoubling his love by the help of pity. This seems a shocking and very immoral book; yet multitudes of very reputable people have found a charm in it. fact is, not only that Manon is beautiful, sprightly, really fond of her lover, and after all, becomes reformed; but it is delightful, and ought to be so, in the extraordinary story of Manon Lescaut, by The to the human heart, to see a vein of sentiment and real goodness looking out through all this callous surface of guilt. It is like meeting with a tree in a squalid hole of a city; a flower, or a frank face, in a reprobate purlieu. The capabilities of human nature are not compromised. The virtue alone seems natural; the guilt, as it often is, seems artificial, and the result of bad education or other circumstance. Nor is any body injured. It is one of the shallowest of all shallow notions to talk is to be honoured but the virtuous; or that there Do we think nobody are not privileged harms and vices to be got rid of as well as unprivileged? No good-hearted person will be injured by reading Manon Lescaut. There is the belief in goodness in it; a faith, the want of which does so much harm, both to the vicious and the over-righteous." of the harm of such works. Part of this is, we fear, a little sophistical, and might easily be wrested in favour of publications having most of the faults of Manon Lescaut, without any of its redeeming qualities. Whether Mr. Leigh Hunt need have entered into so minute a defence of it, is a question on which we are not yet competent to decide. So far as we have read, we have found little to justify Mr. Thomas's deprecation of apology, (by which, as the fashion is, he in effect apologizes) "for those too truthful pictures of human life, and that warmth of expression, which are to be found in its pages." Whether he has softened down in the translation what was indecent in the original, we know not; but as yet we have met nothing that startled us. novels contain things just as offensive, and Nine out of ten of modern English out of all comparison more likely to mislead and corrupt. cil of the celebrated Tony Johannot, are, we The illustrations, which are from the penthink, hardly equal to some other productions of his; they are occasionally deficient in spirit and in character; still, when con trasted with the mode of illustration now so popular in England, they speak favourably for the superior taste of the French people. If we return to this work, as it is very possible we may upon its completion, we shall pass them in more detailed review. Meantime the publication is undeniably a cheap one, and when completed will make handsome volume. a very Tables of Analysis in the Moist Way and KNOWING of no more accurate criterion the To the medical student we would strongly recommend these tables; in his toxicological studies he will find them of infinite vaJue, as well from the saving of time, which actions set before him in a tabular form, as results from having the more important refrom the clear and comprehensive manner in which the tables are arranged. has been long felt by the junior students, Mr. Brittan has supplied a want which and is entitled to their warmest support for the judicious manner in which he has done it. If his book has but the effect of calling attention to that important and much neglected branch of medical knowledge, he will have justly earned the respect of his countrymen, few of whom have had not repeated opportunities of seeing how, in medico-legal enquiry, the life of a fellow-being depends on the accuracy and skill with which the medical practitioner applies his chemical reagents. STORIES ABOUT ALFRED THE GREAT, ETC. We perceive by the dedication that Mr. Brittan was the pupil of Dr. Kane. The pupil is justly proud of his teacher; and for this, the "first fruits" of his instruction, in our opinion, the teacher need not blush. Stories about Alfred the Great, for the The character of this clever little work will be best shewn by quoting the preface "In offering this book to the public I must mention that I have been careful to relate truths for my youthful readers. To give my authorities in the margin, I thought unnecessary in a book for children, but the facts contained in these pages may be found in the writings of one or other of the following antiquarians: Dr. Lingard, Mr. Sharon Turner, Dr. Milner, or the indefatigable Alban Butler. When I told these stories to my own young listeners, there were many questions they asked which led to further stories: in this little book I have omitted such details-the explanations that amuse some children, might not suit others. May I be allowed to add, that I hope the faults of the story-teller will be forgiven in the interest which all must feel for the Great King Alfred." The compiler is evidently not a very practised writer, but the notion is a good one, and capable of being worked out with great effect. If she has not altogether succeeded in this, apparently her first attempt, it is fairly attributable, first, to the very narrow limits to which she has chosen to confine herself; and secondly, to her detailing less of the life of that period, and more of the bare events, than is desirable in a book for children. Looking forward 133 with pleasure to the continuation of this little series, we recommend the authoress to adopt an easier style, and to be a little more sparing in the use of long words-a commodity to which all healthy children have most justly a strong dislike. The Booksellers' Charter Song: as composed and sung at Mr. Cumming's Annual Trade Sale, on Wednesday Evening, 11th Nov. By Mr. J. FEAGAN, Bookseller. Dublin: FOLDS. 1840. Would that ninety-nine-hundreths of the books published were confined to the compass of this neat little publication. The The song reviewer's task would be in that case both an easier and a pleasanter one. is a judicious combination of learning and spirit. We would quote a few verses of it, if it were not that most of our readers must already have seen it in one or other of the Irish or English weekly periodicals, into most of which it has been copied at length. A minute critic might discover some imperfection in the lists of the renowned and prosperous of the craft and its supporters, both ancient and modern, dead and alive, which with a skill only second to that of the author of "the Groves of Blarney," Mr. Feagan has managed to include within a But booksellers, like dozen of verses. other men, have their partialities, and we would not wish it otherwise; and besides, it may not be all partiality: the necessities of the metre may reasonably come to the author's assistance, if any slighted ghost, or forgotten living bibliopole, should call for vengeance on his head. THE NATIVE MUSIC OF IRELAND. In our present number we again present our readers with three Irish airs. In the mechanical departments of the work, we are but experimenting. The neglect of every matter of art in Ireland has hitherto been so great, that we have had to cope with difficulties, which few, possibly, of our readers, are prepared to appreciate. The metals to be graven, the tools to be employed,-the inks to be used, are all in a state of imperfection. The result is, and it has been the case for years, that those requiring any musical work of nicety to be executed, go, or send to London for it; and thus, even in Bunting's last beautiful work, in the bringing out of which so much notationality has been tastefully displayed, the reader will find the last page deformed with the announcement, "London, engraved by H. T. Skarratt, 5, Eyre-street, Hatton-garden." One hundred and thirteen plates for an Irish work, especially national, engraved in London! It is enough for us to say that while there is a possibility of avoiding a consummation so devoutly to be deprecated, we shall not resort to it. We are no such philosophers on these points as Dr. Whately is. His Grace of Dublin,-an authority much to be respected,—has lately told us, that there is no person more anxious to encourage Irish industry than himself; and that he has been convinced that the only effectual way to encourage Irish manufacture is, to encourage the production of articles of the best quality at the cheapest rate. So far all very well, had he talked of encouraging that production in Ireland; but when he rambles on in such fine philosophic abstractions as the following, we are not for going with him. Quoth the Archbishop, "Let them stand on their own basis!" Grand! say we. Quoth the great Anglican economist, "A forced adherence to the manufactures of any country will destroy them; for it will make the workmen lazy, and it will induce them not to take the same care they otherwise would do!" Mighty and prophetic speculation! say we. Quoth the founder of the chair of political science in T. C. D., " Increase Irish skill and capital, and then you may leave the Irish manufactures to take care of themselves!" Noble, glorious, and inspiring discovery say we. Now, all this must mean at the present crisis, "Stand by and see, first, will the country sink or swim. Then, if she swims, all is right; but if she sink, why, we can't help it. It is demonstration that she must, and ought to have sunk-upon principle." We grant ye, "upon principle,"—yet it may be just as well to stretch out an arm and prevent the catastrophe; for, in truth, after all, half the political economy, so wonderfully current in the great world, is nothing but exceedingly splendid reasoning upon a few thread-bare ideas in fine abstract terms of the art; and, as things in reality exist very seldom in that state of absolute abstraction contemplated, the said splendid reasoning as often turns out to be about as substantial as moonshine. Thus, souls are usually coupled with flesh and blood; men with passions, feelings, affections, and a country;-workmen with wants, appetites, families, and a home; skill does not produce itself,-capital does not create itself,-and when economy has said her best, what will become of our manufactures if left entirely to stand on their own basis, and spontane |