"THE WORKS OF THE LEARNED," FOR 1827-8.

THE LITERARY SPECTATOR.

WHEN Ben Jonson put " Works" at the head of his folio, his contemporaries were mightily scandalized at his presumption; and yet with what travail was he delivered of his elaborate plays, corn- pared with the easy delivery of a modern author ! The Travels of William Lithgow are travels indeed : what hairbreadth escapes— what journies on foot, destitute of raiment, and imminent danger of life ! What a close of his grand tour was his imprisonment in the Inquisition—the rack he suffered—and the dislocated limbs he brought home, as testimonies to the truth of his narrative!

But, because modern labours are comparatively light, we are not among those who thence conclude that they are less valuable: the Great Harry, though built with enormous pains, and which, when launched, plumped into the water like a moving mountain, was not so useful, so ornamental, or so noble a specimen of art, as the three-decker of the nineteenth century.

In early times, learning was only to be had by digging and mining; it is now the circulating medium. Men may become learned in many ways besides the means of erudite courses of instruction : that is learning which enables a writer to inform his readers of matters applicable to the purposes of either profit or pleasure, of which they were not previously aware. In this sense, many. are learned who do not suspect themselves in possession of this envied distinction. A prejudice lingers, however, in favour of that description of learning gained by hard study over tall books, and under the dim light of the lamp. But this is only the theory : in practice, men appreciate the living learning only which cheers the evening of leisure, or guides the daily labour—enlightens the professions, or instructs the statesman.

Since the direct influence of literature upon the wellbeing of society has been discovered, the practical utility of books is the standard by which they are tried. Before this power was per- ceived, learning in itself, and for itself, was a fine thing: a book per se was a monument, sacred to the memory of its author, if to nothing else. To walk along the aisles of a college library, and to deviate into its stalls, is to visit a churchyard. What are the OPERA upon OPERA but grave-stones ? The author's mind moulders below, in a state of decomposition, far beyond the fear of a mortal resurrection.

There was once a Review published in this country, under the title we have put at the head of this paper: let not the scoffer scorn at our application of it to a rapid notice of the literary produce of the season.

Before we resume our critical sketches of the writings of the day, we prefer to cast a glance behind us : we presume no ignorance in the reader ; doubtless he knew something before the First Number of the SPECTATOR fell into his hands ; but it may be as well to ascertain from what point we start in the literary history of the year 1828.

Much has been printed—more reprinted ; but what has been added to the existing stock of ideas ? What will live ? What deserves to live ? How much is already dead ? Is the season of 1829 likely to be better for its predecessor of 1828—or happier, for that is better—or wiser, or more virtuous—for all these words mean precisely the same thing when analysed. We will not pre- tend to answer these questions. In running over the publica- tions in literature during the season, we shall estimate them according to the knowledge they have contributed, the pleasure they produce in the perusal, or the ability they display. What has been DONE ?

If we were to exclude novels from the works of the learned, we should be led by an ignorant and vulgar prejudice. In a novel descriptive of national manners, the author must have been a keen observer, and have "learned" numberless facts—and, moreover, have reasoned upon them. In a novel of character and humour, how deep must be his study of mankind ! Was Fielding less learned than Scaliger or Lipsius ? Just the contrary—the whole family of Scaligers possessed not a tithe of the learning of the author of Amelia and Jonathan Wild. Mr. Fraser has written several grave and valuable quartos, under the title of Travels in Persia, &c. ;—are they one jot more learned than his spirited novel the Kuzzilbash ? Does any part of his travel's, though labo- rious and intelligent, convey so good a description of the Turko- man tribes as this novel ; or is there in them any scene so fine as that in which the youthful Kuzzilbash encounters Ibrahim in the Desert ? Let us, then, emancipate ourselves from the influence of names, which have ever been intellectual chains, and consider novels as "learned," and, moreover, as " works." This season, like the last four or five, has been very productive in them ; talent sets decidedly in this direction. We will select the best, and take them according to their characteristics.

Among novels the object of which is the description of national manners at particular epochs, we have Lady Morgan's O'Briens and O'Flahertys ; the Kuzzilbash, already mentioned ; Hajji Baba in England—another novel by a learned traveller ; and the Croppie, by the author of the Tales of the O'Hara Family. All these are worth preservation, and will probably be preserved. The most dubious of them is Lady Mor,gan's book, which is distinguished by a predominance of trash ; the genuine talent of the authoress may, however, float the rubbish. We know not what to say of this lady: we never read her productions without being excited to nausea by her conceit, her ignorance, and her preten- sion ; at the same time that we are compelled to admire her acute remarks, her feeling of genuine humour, and her thorough conception of the true wild Irish character. The other Irish tale is a feverish narrative—hasty, and as ill digested as a dream ; bui, like a dream, it is vivid in its colouring, rapid in its Changes, and pregnant with a fearful interest ; and, moreover, there is truth in much of its attempt to draw the national character at a crisis calculated to call forth all its energies. The Chronicles of the Canongate, of which two series have appeared in the course of the season, partly belong to this class, and partly to the class of historical novels. • The Fair Maid of Perth, which entirely occu- pies the second series, while it is written with undiminished power in its general scenes of character, passion, and the pic- turesque, where it touches upon the strictly historical, will bear comparison with the best of the author's unrivalled efforts in this branch. He has conceived the character of the weak but amiable King Robert, with a power that is little short of histo- rical inspiration. He has gone over that page of history with the chemical fluid that restores all faded characters, and calls into new life letters and lines that had long sunk into oblivion.

Of the novels purporting to describe fashionable life, there has been a large crop : this "life" has its interest,—and more particu- larly so to a people who look up to their aristocracy with almost a superstitious awe. It has now been sufficiently described ; they who wish to imitate it at second-hand, or desire to peep behind scenes closely shrouded by adventitious circumstances from the vulgar gaze, may now stare their full. The poorer members of the aristocracy for money—the wealthier for fame—have told all they had to tell, and have dwelt upon such distinctions as they could detect, till fashionable life is, or might be, as well known on the wolds of Yorkshire, or the wilds of Exmoor, as it is in Grosvenor-square. Some talent has been elicited : Herbert Milton, and Herbert Lacy, together with Yes and No, contain many scenes and cha- racters which please the reader, and show intelligence, an some- times *humour, in the writer. The author of De Lisle, or the Sensitive Man, is a patient artist—laborious and slow ; but his work, when finished, might hang beside the able performances of Mr. Ward, without much fear of suffering by comparison. The author of the English in France, which we know not how to class —whether as a national, fashionable, or didactic novel, or a book of travels—is the most enlightened of our novel writers ;- he understands better than any of them the elements of society ; he appreciates justly the prejudices and the virtues of different countries, while he is not deficient in that general knowledge and relish of the peculiarities of individual character, which makes the fortune of the general novelist. The author of Sayings and Doings is a pleasant writer, and a close observer: in our opinion, his tales are nearer to a close transcript of life in the nineteenth century, than anything else of the kind now on the anvil. There was a loud outcry, on the part of small critics, against one of the tales in the new series (the last, called, we think, Gervase Skinner)—it was said to be 'low,' vulgar," gross :' the fact is, that these people recognised us truth, and then knew how low it was. .The Fugglestons —against whom the cry was chiefly levelled, are a family of provincial players, promoted to London— the development of their habits and traits is done in a style of painting which lies on the right side of the caricature of Smollett.

Penelope is a satirical novel, abounding in clever exposure of pomposity, pretension, and all the conventional forms of virtue. But of all the productions of the season, in the class of works of the imagination, scarcely excepting the Chronicles of the Canon- (rate, none equals the genuine humour, the simple truth, the freshness and life, of the Autobiography of Mansie Waugh, tailor in Dalkeith. This, in our opinion, is the only work of genius

which the press has given us within this year—excepting, always, any that Sir Walter may have favoured the world with. Sir Michael Scott is an extraordinary work : it is spun with the fineness and the beauty, but also with the flimsiness of the cobweb.

To turn from imaginary to real history, we shall find, compara- tively, but few labourers in the field : it is neither so short nor. so sure a road to reputation. The only genuine history that has been written in English for some time, is that by Colonel Napier, of the Peninshlar War. Here are enlarged views—copious information, labour, arrangement-, style—industry in collecting—discernment in selecting—judgment and impartiality in deciding. It is, how- ever, after all, a professional work. Lord Londonderry and Mr. Gleig, in coming after him, have added but little to either our in- formation or our amusement. Mr. Hazlitt, in his Life of Napoleon, has written ably : it is a mine of original thought—sometimes well; often ill applied ; but it is neither history nor biography. It is not easy for a writer to pass from the critical to the historical train of thought. The materials only of history are to be found in the lately published Correspondence of the Earl of Clarendon, and the Diary of Burton. But, if we have not history of home-growth, we can import. The translation of Niebuhr's Roman History has given us the profoundest and most original historical work of .modern times.

The English press is always rich in books of travels. The Journal of Bishop Heber—the amiable, enlightened, the pious, and the learned Bishop of Calcutta, who fell a sacrifice to his sense of duty—would, alone, stamp a high value upon this depart- ment: pregnant with information—full of wise and liberal sug- gestions, with all its scenes conceived with a poet's fire, and improved with the preacher's wisdom—this book is the book of travels for the season. Besides this, we have the erudite work of the two Beecheys on the Mediterranean Coasts of Africa—a scene full of classical interest ; the copious work on Mexico by Ward, and the pleasant narrative of Captain Lyon—both inte- resting in subject, and the first laborious, liberal, and useful ; to say nothing of certain North Pole quartos, into which, to confess the truth, we are weary of looking— Nil nisi aer et prmtus.

To have one book of books in each department of literature, in the course of the season, is as much as posterity will thank us for. What Heber's Travels are among Voyages and Travels, the Life of Lord Collingwood is among Biographies. The Admiral and the Bishop !—a pair of mortals to make men proud of their humanity —we could dwell hut too long on the models their lives hold out: let all read these two books, the chief remains of the authors, and in themselves an invaluable legacy. The Life of Columbus, by Washington Irving, is rather a history of the discovery of the New World, than the life of the discoverer: there is but one event in his life ; but then it is enough for a generation. We cannot think that the pen of Mr. Irving has been happily employed in this work ; he is but a feeble manager of historical details. The poet Burns has found a new biographer in Mr. Lockhart : he does all for Burns that the reader can wish : had the author taken more pains in digesting and polishing his work, it would have done more for Mr. Lockhart. The Life of Ledyard, by an American, we mention, not for any skill in the biographer, or for any novelty in the subject, but because the character of Ledyard is a chapter in the history of human nature.

Poetry and criticism are like the fabled cats that devoured each other. We have no poetry ; and in criticism, much so called, but nothing that deserves the title. Who is there among English writers to be named even with such a man as William Schlegel? Crudities, miscalled criticism, appear in every shape, from the paragraph puff to the solemn Quarterly; but where are the principles that are applied ? en what philosophy are the random remarks founded ? and in sference to what end, or by what test, are the productions of literature estimated by our most celebrated critics ? Poetry is as rife as criticism, and equally worthless. We have looked with anxiety for the indications of some rising genius to take the places of those fast sinking in years and apathy. The only pieces which have given us the least pleasure this season, have been some—too slight almost to mention as an exception—in a volume, called Epheme- rides, by Mr. Pringle. These poems were chiefly written in South Africa ; and it may be that the novelty of the scenery contributes mainly to our satisfaction.

Such are the " Works of the Learned" for the season 1827-8, according to the impression they have made in our memory ; which,

after all, is ag good a test as some applied by more formal critics. This is the library THE SPECTATOR would select out of the mere literature of the season: we would have other shelves for other branches of knowledge.