We have made these remarks in consequence of having seen accusations preferred against this journal, of hostility to American literature; and although they have chiefly emanated from sources not worthy of notice, we have deemed it well to avail ourselves of the occasion to express our sentiments upon the subject. As far as we can discover, the ground of the charge is the circumstance of our not having been able to perceive the spirit of poetry in some "most tolerable and not to be endured" productions, in the shape of verse; and having dared to condemn a few novels, for faults which are far better calculated to injure our native literature, if allowed to exert their influence, than any efforts which we could make, if we were even actuated by all the bitterness of hostility with which we are reproached. We may affirm that scarcely a work of genuine merit has been issued from the American press, since the commencement of this journal, which has not received its full award of praise; but whilst we have lauded various authors, to whom it is both a duty and a pleasure to pay the tribute of our admiration for their talents, and our gratitude for the lustre they have shed upon the country-whilst, we say, we have eulogized such authors as these, we are nevertheless the enemies of native genius, because, forsooth, we have not coincided with the estimate which the precious poets (soi disant) we have alluded to, are modestly inclined to form of themselves, and have indicated the errors of a few compounders of fiction, whose works, whatever merit they possess, are obnoxious to the strongest censure, in several respects of paramount importance!

There is something sufficiently ludicrous in the commotion which these rhyming personages have endeavoured to excite, in consequence of our not being able to per ceive the lustre which, as they affirm, is reflected by their effusions, and the manner in which they endeavour to identify their cause with that of American literature, or rather constitute those exquisite effusions the very nucleus of that literature. The learned professors who have published valuable works of erudition, the physicians with their well written treatises, the lawyers, whose publications are of such importance, the statesmen, whose admirable writings and speeches are collected into volumes, the authors of books of travel, of biographies, of historical, scientific, political and religious works, the writers of excellent fiction, the genuine poets-all are nothing in comparison with these buzzing flutterers around the base of Parnassus, and however much the former may be praised, it is no compensation for the detriment inflicted upon "American literature," by depreciating the latter! We must nevertheless be permitted to opine that our real claims to literary distinction, rest upon the persons whom we have indicated, and that so far from doing harm, we render an important service when we check any influence which the individuals of the other category might exert, fitted, as it is, to vitiate the public taste by creating a fondness for frivolous, trashy food, destructive of all appetite for substantial nourishment. It is only to be regretted that ocean is so often "into tempest wrought," in order to "waft a feather," and that the same ridiculously disproportionate swell is requisite sometimes for the purpose of "drowning a fly."

It shall always be our endeavour to furnish our readers with genuine opinions, unbiassed by any motives but those of manifesting the truth-to write "without fear," though we can scarcely hope "without reproach," knowing full well, as we do, that the critic who follows the dictates of his own judgment, incurs a double risk of exciting displeasure. We may commit errors of taste, but they shall never be of a more reprehensible description; and with this determination, we throw ourselves upon the good sense and good feeling of the community. It is indeed much more from the intolerance of opinion, which, we are afraid, prevails to a lamentable extent in our country, than from any other source, that injury is inflicted upon the cause VOL. XVII. —No. 33. 30

of native literature. When a writer knows that every sentiment which he utters, will subject him to a practical evidence of the dissent of those whose disapprobation it may meet, it requires a powerful resolution to escape the trammels which such knowledge is fitted to impose-an under current, unsuspected, perhaps, by himself, is set, of perilous influence upon his sincerity and impartiality, and unless he be constantly aided by the stronger power of an opposing rectitude and firmness of purpose, he degenerates into a mere trimmer and time-server, the sport of every shifting puff of the popular gale. If independence be not sustained by the public hand, it can accomplish nothing-it is a flower, which, if on it the baleful breath of party-spirit of any description be permitted to blow, must soon wither and die. Whilst, therefore, we shall follow the counsel of the great dramatist and philosopher, "Not to stint

Our necessary actions, in the fear

To cope malicious censurers,"

we shall hope for that support, which in such an undertaking especially as ours, those only who are in the habit of "swearing by no masters," have a right to expect. Testimonium veritati, non amicitiæ reddas, is an exhortation of Seneca, which should be the motto of every review.

If any branch of composition demands in an especial manner the extenuation of nothing, it is without question this of romance. Excellence here is indispensable; mediocrity is worse than useless. None other is so pregnant with peril to both the heart and the head of the reader; none exercises so extensive and predominant a sway; and unless works of this species result from a combination of virtue and genius, the perusal of them, to say the least, is a miserable waste of time. Too much scrupulousness can scarcely be exerted, particularly with respect to their influence upon morals. If the effect of the fiction be not the inculcation of truth, and truth of a character of which ignorance is not bliss, nothing should be permitted to rescue it from anathema. The cause of good morals is that of good taste. The latter cannot exist unconnected with the former. He who is incapable of appreciating moral truth, cannot long be competent to perceive that which, for the sake of contradistinction, may be termed intellectual. We are firmly convinced, that both are receiving material injury from the torrent of novels which comes unceasingly from the press, confounding the attributes of good and evil, sweeping away the landmarks of purity and sense, and deluging the public mind with the foulest waters of every species of corruption; and it behoves all who are in any way invested with the guardianship of literature and morals, to strain every nerve to arrest the destructive course of the flood.

We have never felt more disposed to commit a book to the flames, than whilst reading or trying to read this tale of Carolina. What object of utility or pleasure could the author have seriously deemed such a work fitted to accomplish? A more disgusting quagmire of absurdity and monstrosity, it has never been our misfortune to wade through; and if he fancies that he has placed fanaticism in the salutary odious light, which seems to have been his design, he is much mistaken in the fond belief. By endeavouring to do too much, he has done nothing for his purpose. He has completely failed, by aiming with that improvident ambition which "o'erleaps itself." The horrors which he has piled one upon the other, doubt. less with the idea that they would thus attain the elevation of the sublime, throw such an aspect of ridiculous and revolting improbability upon the entire narrative, as completely to frustrate its object. Fanaticism might without question produce effects even more horrible, if possible, than those which are here attempted

to be displayed; but to render them credible, a very different course must be pursued from that of the present writer-quodcunque ostendis mihi sic, incredulus odi, is a line which might have been made expressly for his picture. He seems himself to have obtained some faint glimpse of the extravagance of his efforts, and takes several opportunities to assure his readers that he does not transgress the bounds of fact, quoting from the history of Carolina, certificates, as it were, of some of the most atrocious of his incidents as well as of the groundwork of his story. Such, however, being the case, he has contrived to divest truth, in a most efficacious style, of every thing like probability, we had almost said possibility. That le vrai n'est pas toujours le vraisemblable, is abundantly testified by his pages. Truths, indeed, of the description of those which he has employed, are altogether unfit to be dragged before the public gaze in their naked hideousness. "Si j'avois la main pleine de vérites," said the circumspect Frenchman; "je me garderois bien de l'ouvrir," and in an especial manner is the remark applicable to such truths as these.

From the preface, in which not an ill written outline of the early history of Carolina is given, we were induced to expect a work which would furnish something like an interesting picture of the region and the people amid which the scene is laid. A fine field was open in the political situation of the colony at the period selected, when the volcano which was soon to burst forth to the destruction of oppression and despotism, was beginning its portentous throes; and in connexion with it the miserable religious delusions, which then prevailed to a certain extent, might have been turned to signal account. They could have been rendered an impressive and effective shade to a picture at once replete with instruction and interest; but as we have already intimated, nothing is offered but an intolerable series of the operations of the grossest hypocrisy and the most stupid fanaticism. Before we had proceeded very far in the perusal of the work, it appeared to us that we had fallen upon an egregious subject for ridicule, but the second volume convinced us it was beyond even that. From the sublime to the ridiculous there is but one step -how many steps are there from the ridiculous to the disgusting? Such a pretty villain as the hero, was scarcely ever before conceived by a brain the most prolific of monsters. The author's own description of him is too delectable to be omitted. "There were four predominant vices in the character of Peter Rombert-the first was an inordinate self-conceit; the second, an avarice that coveted but to squander; the third, a base sensuality, as untameable as it was brutal; and the fourth, a craving ambition, so restless and insatiable, that half the time it knew not for what it strove his hypocrisy was subservient to all these; and had it not been for the uncontroulable nature of his temper, he would have been a still more dangerous man; but Providence never intended that man should be perfect in any thing, and least of all in villany." A pleasant companion, certainly, this almost faultless monster, to be associated with for the space of two mortal volumes of more than two hundred and fifty pages each! We are, however, not restricted entirely to the company of this agreeable gentleman, as a number of very angelic beings are brought into com munion with him, in order that he may be enabled to exercise his commendable qualities upon them in a characteristic way, which he unquestionably does "with a vengeance." But we have no room to go into any account of his edifying career, even if we had the inclination. We do not, we confess, apprehend much danger from the work, as nothing but the dogged resolution of a reviewer, determined to see the affair to an end for the purposes of his vocation, could enable any one to resist the temptation of treating it in the manner we indicated in the outset. It is almost as dull as it is reprehensible, the story being clumsily wrought; the interest, if ever excited, rarely sustained; and the characters for the most part awakening no

sympathy whatever. Against all such productions we enter our most earnest protest: and were it for no other object than to prevent their spread, and arrest the injury which they are calculated to produce, we would beseech the Coopers, the Irvings, the Birds, the Sedgwicks, the Pauldings, not to allow their pens to be idle. Weeds will grow if flowers do not occupy the soil. That the work in question gives occasional signs of talent, cannot be denied; and if the author would exert it in a reputable manner, we should rejoice to bear our humble testimony to his success.

Rookwood: A Romance. By W. Harrison Ainsworth. From the Second London Edition. 2 vols. 12mo. pp. 412.. Philadelphia: 1834.

MR. AINSWORTH, who, we understand, is a writer of melo-dramas for the London stage, has thought proper to present the world with a fiction, which appears to bear nearly the same relation to a regular novel, that a melo-drama bears to a regular play. As an apology for the abundance of stage effect, and the utter disregard of probability which his work displays, he has termed it a romance. He tells us, in his preface to the second edition, that "a romance was evidently wanted, and that the public were ready to receive the first that appeared with open arms”—and thus he accounts for the sale of his first edition. We may be able, in the sequel, to assign some other reasons for that remarkable phenomenon.

The public, at least the American portion of it, are, no doubt, ever ready to bestow the meed of praise upon any composition, in which a proper choice of the field, and a masterly execution in every respect, shall vindicate a claim to the respectable name of romance. The recent success of one of our own writers in this department of fiction, has settled that point. But the readers of the English language-those who have assigned their respective niches in the Temple of Fame to Scott, Edgeworth, Irving, and Cooper, will undoubtedly refuse to the writer of Rookwood," elated though he may be with his ephemeral success, any other title than that of a maker of flashy melo-dramas, even although he may print each of his meretricious productions in three volumes and call it a romance.

The story of "Rookwood" is constructed with that utter disregard of probability —that sublime contempt of human motives and impulses-that magical annihilation of the difficulties of time, space, and stubborn matter, which are no where else to be found, except in the Arabian Tales, or the marvellous narratives so happily ridiculed in Don Quixote. The descriptions have something of the gloom and extravagance of Radcliffe, without any of her wild beauty and touching repose-and the characters are for the most part monstrous, from the circumstance of their being composed of traits which cannot possibly co-exist.

We have too much regard for our readers, to inflict upon them an outline of the story; but to satisfy them of the truth of our assertions, we will give them a specimen of the incidents, the description, and the characters.

We will take for example the incidents of a few hours.

Luke Bradley, a youth who has been brought up in a camp of gipseys, has suddenly acquired the knowledge that he is the eldest son of the deceased Sir Piers Rookwood, and is consequently heir to the estates of his late father, under the title of Sir Luke Rookwood. Having just escaped from imprisonment in his own house, he is riding on horseback to a gipsey encampment, to visit young Sybil, a girl of the tribe, whom he ardently loves, and to whom he has long been betrothed. His grandfather, a disguised Rookwood, who has long been the sexton of the family, is

mounted behind him on the horse, and by his suggestion, that the gipsey girl will not make a courtly and fashionable Lady Rookwood, nearly persuades him to aban don her and marry Eleanor Mowbray, his cousin. Before reaching the encampment they meet with Dick Turpin, a highwayman, who, by a melo-dramatic conjuncture of circumstances, has become possessed of the marriage certificate which proves Sir Luke's legitimacy. He goes with them to the camp, to arrange the terms on which he will sell the important document to Luke. On their arrival there, Sybil declines to marry Luke, from the wise reasons which have occurred to her as well as the old sexton, but at the same time forbids him to marry Eleanor. She then goes to her grandmother, Barbara, the queen of the gipseys, and discusses with her a mysterious prophecy of Barbara's, which requires a Rookwood to marry a Rookwood, in order to enjoy peacefully the estates; and the old woman requires Sybil to assist her in a very feasible scheme, to marry Luke to Eleanor, murder Eleanor, then marry him to the said Sybil, and so fulfil the prophecy and enjoy the estates peaceably and respectably. In this wise scheme the author undertakes to assist, to a certain extent; and it is marvellous to see with what dexterity he pulls the wires of his puppet characters, in order to accomplish his purpose. He makes Dick Turpin leave the camp just long enough to intercept Eleanor and her mother on their way from the funeral of Sir Piers (whither an inscrutable impulse and the will of the author had sent them), and bring them, together with a priest conveniently present, to the encampment. They are conducted into an old priory, very commodiously fitted up for the author's purposes with a subterraneous chapel and secret passages. Here the plot thickens with a vengeance. Old Barbara is ready with her band of gipseys, who surround the priory and prevent all egress. The first thing the old queen of the gipseys does, is to give the fainting Eleanor a love philtre to make her love Luke (she being the betrothed spouse of Ranulph, Luke's younger brother). Spirit of Scott! a love philtre! to accomplish the purposes of a novelist in this enlightened nineteenth century! The girl takes it and consents to marry Luke.

But it is the author's design that she shall not quite marry him. Who shall prevent it? Tax thy invention to the utmost, reader, thou wilt never guess. This consummation is to be prevented by no other than Sybil, the gipsey girl, who will thus defeat all her wise grandmother's schemes for her advancement. Sybil comes in, falls in love with Eleanor, and determines to save her. After a tissue of extravagant incidents, which it would be tedious to follow, the parties descend into a subterraneous chapel, to perform the marriage ceremony. When it is begun, their only torch is extinguished, and, in the dark, Sybil substitutes her hand for Eleanor's, and is married to Luke. The old queen, somewhat embarrassed on discovering this contre temps, commands Sybil to poison Eleanor. They go into a convenient subterranean recess for this purpose; but here Sybil exacts an oath from Eleanor that she will marry Luke, and then poisons herself!!!

The incidents of this stirring day are wound up, in the true melo-dramatic style, with a general battle between the retainers of the Rookwood family, and the whole tribe of the gipseys.

We think our readers will be satisfied with this specimen of the incidents. It may well be inquired whether the literary world has declined to such a state of Vandalism as to tolerate such trash as this. Shall a writer of fiction be allowed to save himself all the trouble of supplying probable motives and feelings to his characters ? Shall he be allowed to annihilate all the probabilities of time, place, and action? Shall he use impossible instruments-love philtres, omnipotent old women, and disinterested highwaymen? Genius of true romance forbid!