1831.3 MonlJily Hevicw of Literature. 323 



in part as a cramming-book, and for what the translator calls counter practice, 

 that is, for the compounders and venders of drugs. Its general conciseness, and 

 especially its arrangement, will doubtless recommend it in preference to the 

 more bulky and clumsy performances now commonly in the hands of medical 

 men. The multitude of remedies admitted into the Modern Pharmacopoeia are 

 here distributed, according to their primary eifect, into a dozen classes — much 

 to the advantage of the reader and referrer — for they are usually scattered and 

 detached. The whole body is classed as Caustics, Rubefacients, and Epispas- 

 tids. Astringents, Tonics, Excitants, Narcotics, Emetics, Purgatives, Laxatives, 

 Temperants, Demulcents, and Anthelmintics — a distribution at least welcome to 

 the unlearned consulter of a pharmacopceia. 



The Club-Book, being Original Tales, &c., by various Authors. 



3 vols. 12mo. 



Two heads are better than one. What if we bring together a thousand heads, 

 and those learned ones ? asked the projectors of the Literary Union, in the spirit 

 of mathematicians, rather than of philosophers or poets. We shall soon fly 

 over the moon, and set the Thames a fire. Literary men — though Chian and 

 Falernian might make capital tipple — were as little likely to mix as oil and vine- 

 gar. Whatever department they take, they are still too much of a trade to 

 agree ; and no hatreds, not even theological ones, have equalled, if we may 

 trust D' Israeli, literary quarrels in animosity. Nevertheless, the hope of gain, 

 if not of fame, will sometimes draw and bind together these deadly opposites ; 

 and here are no less than nine or ten of the members clubbing to make three 

 little volumes, with Captain Gait at the head of the squad. In this loving act 

 of rivalry, the raw folks of the country will expect each man to exert his best 

 energies, and anticipate a treat ; but not one, we suspect, was written with a 

 view to joint publication at all. The volumes are, however, amusing enough — 

 few of the tales perhaps come up to the reputation of the individual, except 

 in the single case of Jerdan, who certainly in his little sketch of the Sleepless 

 Woman, has far outstripped himself. Let him rest — never let him tempt his 

 fame with another ; for never must he calculate on sucn another inspiration. 

 By the way, where did he pick it up ? 



Gait, at some time or other, has been striking into a new path — that of the 

 mysterious — as if he had just got a glimpse of the possibility of something extra- 

 ordinary being wrung out of common events. By dint of studying faces, a 

 painter detects the guilt of a footman — discerns the word ravisher written on 

 the brow of a wretch, who had violated a lady in the absence of her lord. In 

 the " Unguarded Hour," a judge detects a murder, by frightening the culprit at 

 the bar, with suddenly appealing to the ghost of his victim ; an old tale, by 

 the by, and as felonious to repeat as a Joe Miller. In the "Book of Life" he 

 goes still farther. One man has some pretty good reason to suspect another of 

 a murder, and annually, on the anniversary, dreams of the current events be- 

 falling the man. These dreams he reports to a third, a very wise, observant 

 man, and a German, and he finally details the said dreams to the dreamee, and 

 forces him to the confession of his crime. 



Allan Cunningham's "Gowden Gibbie" approaches too close to the extrava- 

 gant, as is always the case whenever he touches fiction — he should eschew it, 

 sanguine viperino cautius. It tells of a sordid farmer, Scotch (by the way, all 

 the writers are Scotch, except Lord L. Gowcr, and he is half a one), who is 

 tricked into the belief, that the hill upon his farm is full of licjiiid gold, which 

 he is destined to tap. Under cover of the cheat, some rogues strip him of his 

 solid metals. To make the dupe a Scotchman is an atrocious libel. 



Andrew Picken's " Deer Stalkers" is past all reading — we question if Sir 

 Walter Scott would get throupli it ; and Mr. James will certainly stifle his 

 I)atron, the said Sir Walter, and ourselves, with his chivalry. Hogg's "Bogle 

 o' the Brae" mocks us with the hope of humour — but it is all shadowless as the 

 figures of the magic lanlhorn, which gives rise to it. 



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