330 



Monthly Revierv of Ltteralure., 



TSept. 



female aufhorsliip of these realms is too serious, 

 poiliaps too passionate, for the task. English 

 women can write ujion nothing but love and re- 

 ligion ; and therefore they write little besides 

 novels — serious or frivolous, sacred or profane. 

 VTit and philosophy are very sparingly conferred 

 upon them. 



The few female auto-biograchists who have 

 graced the literature of England, were confined 

 to the stirring times of the commonwealth, when 

 the pressure of circumstances, by acting upon the 

 strongest and finest feelings of woman, developed 

 her intellect, and forced her upon active and even 

 perilous existence. The two most bril'iant in- 

 stances of this charming ^ewre of egotism are to 

 be found in the memoirs of the fantastic Duchess 

 of Newcastle, and in those of the heroic Mrs. 

 Hutchinson ;— both admirable illustrations of their 

 respective classes, at the epoch in which thoy 

 ifourished ; the one, of the pure, unmixed aris- 

 tocracy of England ; the other of its geuti7, or 

 highest grade of middle life. 



A little graver still : 



Intolerance is the offspring of conceit : we push 

 an opinion, because it is our own, and resent con- 

 tradiction as a personal insult. Very few per- 

 sons, however, have any lawful right of property 

 in their own ideas. The greatest number of our 

 opinions arc corporate, and belong to the age and 

 country in which we happen to be born. Xo in- 

 considerable quantity belong tothat venerable and 

 respectable personage, our old nurse. Even the 

 few notions which strong thinkers develope for 

 themselves, depend very closely on habits of 

 thought, impressed by tutors and parents, modified 

 by external circunistances,equally uncontrollable. 

 If some of our worthy anti-catholic, anti-reform- 

 ing, corn-trade-fettering aristocrats, could be 

 made sensiMe of the very vulgar origin of many 

 of their favourite ideas, they would as soon shake 

 hands with a chimney sweeper as entertain them. 



Very grave, indeed : 



Tlie brightest page in the history of aristocra- 

 cies, is that which relates the events of the revo- 

 lution of 16SS. Yet, what a tissue of heartless 

 intrigue, corruptioir, and tergiversation ! wh.at 

 underhand correspondencies with the excluded 

 family ! what promptitude to ovei turn the work of 

 their own bands, are displayed in the lives of the 

 great men of that day ! Since the revolution, the 

 aristocracy have been the remora of civilization, 

 — a feather-bed between the walls of despotism, 

 and the battery of public opinion. A surplus 

 wheel in the machinery of the state, they T\ould 

 long since have stopped tlie movements of govern- 

 ment, if their subserviency did not adapt them to 

 every impulse from the crown ; while, by means 

 of their representatives in the House of Com- 

 mons, they modify the proceedings of that body. 

 At the moment in which I write, the influence of 

 the aristocracy, in defeating a liberal ministry, in 

 making the corn laws an affair of their peculiar 

 " order," in opposing a necessary retrenchment 

 of corrupt expenditure, prove to demonstration 

 the futility of the received theory. Should public 

 opinion, however, triumph in the lower House, the 

 aristocracy jnust submit to reform, or be crushed. 

 An enlightened people, and an auti-national aris- 

 tocracy, cannot long co-exist. 



A flash of wrath, even ! — the unhappy 

 object, her reviewer — whom she detects, 

 through an act of imprudence in her pub- 

 lisher scarcely to be credited : 



I was not mistaken ; nor do I know any just 

 cause or impediment why I should not denounce 

 my critical e.Kecutioner, who has shewn me so 

 little mercy, so little justice ! There is something 

 so revolting in hired misrepresentation — some- 

 thing so mutually degrading, in a task thus given, 

 and thus performed — it belongs so peculiarly to 

 the canaille of literature, who stab for pay, like 

 bolder (and honester) assassins, that the soul 

 sickens when talent, and supposed liberality, dc- 

 sertthe standard of independent opinion, to enlist 

 in the bande noire of organized vituperators, or 

 enrol in the troop of well paid puffers and party 

 panegyrists! 



But why so very angry ? We gave Lady 

 M. more credit for tact than this vehemence 

 implies. She is not so much behind the 

 curtain as she imagines. For reviewers to 

 praise beyond desert is, beyond all manner 

 of doubt, dictated often by the interest of 

 publishers, but much oftener brought about 

 by the solicitations of authors and authors' 

 friends. We do not beUeve — and " we 

 should know"— aitfic is ever purchased. 

 Pique may sometimes sting the irascible 

 into malevolence ; but stipulation, never. 

 It would not be so easy, so natural, nor so 

 effective. 



AVe must wind up with a scrap, equally 

 acute and lively — like her own conversation, 

 of which it is manifestly a specimen. It is 

 headed, " Idleness of Genius :" — 



I said, not long since, to Mr. •*•, " Nobody 

 tolerates, or even likes, a thorough-going, 

 genuine, conscious coxcomb, more than I do — one 

 who has taken up the profession coolly and de- 

 liberately, like the Brummels, &c. &c. of old. 

 But I cannot stand your friend : he is such a dull 

 dandy, and nothing but a dandy." 



" No, I assure you," was the reply ; " he is by 

 no means deficient. He has, on the contrary, 

 considerable talent ; but he is so indolent. Huw 

 of:en do you see great talents rendered ineflBcient 

 by indolence !'' 



" Yes, you do," I said ; " it is a pity." But 

 suddenly struck with the absurdity, I observed, 

 " What nonsense we are talking. One goes on 

 for ever repeating common places, without reflec- 

 tion. You know, as well as I do, that great 

 talents and indolence are physically incompatible. 

 Vitality, or all-aliveuess — energy, activity, are 

 the great elements of what we call talents." 



The idleness of genius is a mere platitude. 

 Bacon, Shakspeare, Wilton, Voltaire, Newton 



No ; it is too long — ^not for us, but 



our grudging columns. 



Devereux, hy the Author of Pelham, 3 

 vols. ; 1829 BIr. Bulwer reads much, di- 

 gests well, and writes ably and rapidly. 

 His mill is constantly going — in at the liop- 

 per in one shape, and out at the mouth in 

 another — in meal or in bran, nothing is 

 lost, and much of it is thoroughly boullcd. 

 To throw off our metaphor, which will only 



