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country traversed, not in the traveller. The contrary is the fact. A man may write in an extremely trite and hackneyed style, of a newlydiscovered region, while another may invest with ho a country previously described by a thousand writers. Mr. Reade's present volumes may be adduced in illustration of this truth. They are in many parts hi-lily original, lo cause the author, basing his remarks on his own idiosyncracies, ....ther controverts the opinions of others than echoes them. Where he has to treat of things universally acknowledged to be excellent, this, of course, is loss palpably the case; but often, while agreeing with his prod, co-stors, he gives different reasons for his decisions, and appears to have arrived at his conclusions in a different way. His criticisms on Art are distinguished by a fine taste and a most delicate appreciation of beauty. They are brief, moreover, and pithy, and rendered piquant by the introduction of numerous characteristic anecdotes. This judicious intermingling of criticism with narrative, and of both with poetical and highly-coloured descriptions of scenery, render his work exce, dingly amusing. He has collected, in moving along, many legends and traditions, which he relates in a light airy style, well calculated to relder them agreeable. There is throughout, however, a dash of pensiveness, or we should rather perhaps say, of melancholy, which, infusing itself into the stories and into the descriptions and criticisms, imparts to them a sort of fascination. This is experienced more especially in what relates to the wanderings among the higher Alps; but the feeling is not altogether dissipated by the bright warm sun of Italy. The reader who has perused all the modern works on that country will experience most pleasure in going through Mr. Reade's volumes, because he will best know how to appreciate his accuracy and his enthusiasm, things by no means incompatible. It is, on the contrary, impossible to be accurate, in writing of Italy, without being enthusiastic. On two other points we differ from Mr. Reade : he overrates Voltaire, and underrates Dante and Petrarca. It may not, perhaps, he difficult to account for this fact: Mr. Reade's own gloom is overwhelmed by the gloom of Dante, from whom he desires to escape, as from a saddening and oppressive thought, while Petrarca's metaphysical and airy love appears to his Northern apprehension too much like a dream. Iłut although in these cases we decline to accept the decision of his judgment, we admire the manly candour with which he states his opinion. It is almost a guarantee that when he deals in eulogium his words are the true representatives of his feelings. Here and there short disquisitions are introduced, on topics naturally connected with the subject, though forming, strictly speaking, no part of it, which may be mentioned as an additional source of originality. These extraneous matters are interwoven into the narrative with much skill, and so that it requires a nice eye to detect the point of transition. The style is slowing and picturesque, but occasionally, perhaps, too ambitious. In many places, however, where the author is engaged in narrating, it is sprightly and easy, and remarkable for its gracefulness.






THE country girl, alone in the Brown Bear, had some slight twitchings of remorse. She felt it ; she had very much slandered London and the Londoners. She had been taught—she had heard the story in fields and at fire-sides, seated in the shade of haystacks, and in winter chimney-corners—that London was a fiery furnace ; that all its inhabitants, especially the males, were the pet pupils of the Evil One, and did his work with wonderful docility. And now, how much ignorance had departed from her In an hour or two, how large her stock of experience She was alone—alone in a London tavern; and yet she felt as comfortable, as secure of herself as though perched upon a Kent haycock. She had seen thousands of people; she had walked among a swarm of men and women, and nobody had even so much as attempted to pick her pocket; nobody had even snatched a kiss from her. With the generosity of a kind nature, she felt doubly trustful that she had unjustly doubted. She was in a London hotel (poor hawthorn innocence 1) and felt not a bit afraid ; on the contrary, she rather liked it. She looked about the room : carefully, up and down its walls. No; there was not an inch of looking-glass to be seen. Otherwise she thought she might have liked to take a peep at herself; for she knew she must be a fright; and the young

* Continued from p. 9, Vol. IV. NO, XX, -WOL, IW. H

man would be back soon ; and though she cared not a pin about him—how could she 4–still, still she should have liked one look. “What, my little girl, all alone 2'' asked a new-comer—as the young woman thought, a very rude, and ugly, and somewhat old man. “Got nobody with you, ch Where's your parents o' “I’m not alone, and that's enough,” said the girl, and she fervently clutched her little bundle. “Very well, my dear: wouldn't offend you, mylass; wouldn't"— “I’m not your dear ; and I don't want at all to be talked to by you.” Saying this, the girl continued to grasp her property, and looked with very determined eyes in the harsh, ugly face of the old intruder. The fact is, the girl felt that the time was come to test her energy and caution. She had too soon thought too well of the doings of London. The place swarmed with wicked people, there was no doubt of it; and the man before her was one of them. IIe looked particularly like a thief as he looked at her bundle. “That's right : quite right, my little wench. This is a place in which you can't be too particlar,” and saying this, Bright Jem —for it was the uncomely honesty of that good fellow's face that had alarmed the spinster—Bright Jem, with his mild, benevolent look, nodded, and passing to the further end of the room, seated himself in one of the boxes. And the girl felt more assured of his wickedness; and anxiously wished the return of that very nice young footman—that honest, sweet-spoken young man—so long engaged in converse with his aunt. Would he never come back 2 It was odd, but every moment of his absence endowed him, in the girl's mind, with a new charm. Tright Jem was all unconsciously despoiled of every good quality, that his graceless relative, Ralph Gum, might be invested with the foreign excellence. Hark! a footstep. No ; it is not the footman: he still tarries with his aunt. It is Jerry Whistle, the Bow-street officer, with his daily flower between his lips; his happy face streaked like an apple ; and his cold, keen, twinkling eye that seemed continually employed as a search-warrant, looking clean through the bosoms of all men. IIe paused before the girl, taking an inventory of her qualitics. And she, to repel the boldness of the fellow, tried to arm herself with one of those thunderbolt looks that woman in her dignity will sometimes cast about her, striking giants off their legs and laying them in the dust for ever. Poor thing ! it was indignation all in vain. She might as well have frowned at Newgate

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