is to say, books written with set purpose | to be Robert Bloomfield. We do not upon the country - are not to be very say that the poetry of "The Farmer's highly prized. The actual scenes are be- Boy" is equal to Byron's or Wordsworth's, fore you, and all descriptions of them will but the descriptions are evidently a transeem tame and barren; the "microscopic script from real life, and the round of observers," the "word-painters," make labor in the fields throughout the year is but a sorry show by the side of nature depicted with a homely fidelity, which herself. Such books are better fitted for we only get elsewhere in the occasional London than the country, and it is always touches of the other and far greater peasto be noticed that they receive their chief ant poet - Robert Burns. praise from the dwellers in cities. We do not refer to works which have a distinctly practical value, such as those of Yarrell or Bewick, nor to the classics of the country, such as Walton's " Angler" and White's "Selborne." Yarrell is pleasant to read, as well as valuable to consult; but Bewick is only good for the illustrations, which will doubtless preserve his fame for ages to come. We have long had a suspicion that White's "Selborne is more frequently praised than read, founded upon the manifest ignorance of its nature and contents which is betrayed in the usual allusions to it. It is common to see books compared with it, which might just as well have been compared with the "Cid." Walton's "Angler" is essentially what Charles Lamb called a "take-downable book," never to be superseded for its sweet pastoral pictures, though few use it now as a guide to an gling. The country poets are not, we believe, favorites in the country. Theocritus and Virgil stand alone, but their modern rivals do not so well repay perusal. It seems ungrateful to utter a word in depreciation of Cowper, who was so faithful to rural life, but in the ears of the present generation too many of his lines have an artificial and prosaic ring which suffices to keep him undisturbed in his place on the shelf: The stable yields a stercoraceous heap, Warily, therefore, and with prudent heed It would be very unjust to say that Cowper is always like this, but there is too large a proportion of such dislocated prose to permit of his becoming a popular favorite again. Thomson is not beyond the reach of similar objections, and for simplicity and truthfulness to nature he was surpassed by a humble follower who is not so much read now as he deserves The Task, Book Third. Among the most striking sketches of life in the woods and fields with which we are acquainted are those of Charles St. John, who, although an ardent sportsman, could write books which may be read with continual interest by persons who care little or nothing about sport. Few of his readers are ever likely to forget his thrilling story of "The Muckle Hart of Benmore," or his accounts of the badger an animal which is sometimes supposed to be getting scarce in England, although we have known of his flourishing within fifty miles of London, and in the midst of a stronghold of foxes.* The badger, in fact, not unfrequently lodges with the fox, and it would be extremely difficult to bring together, out of the whole of the animal creation, two creatures of greater cunning and rascality. If they have any means of communicating their ideas to each other, and are able to compare notes at the end of their night's sport, many a stirring adventure must they have to relate, and many a hearty laugh must they enjoy over the way in which they have outwitted their great but comparatively stupid enemy - man. It was owing to Charles St. John's intense love of the country that he left a name which, we believe, will outlast that of many a writer who has occupied a much more prominent place in the public eye during his day and generation. He will always be sure of an honored place in the country library, and that alone will preserve a man's memory green. His books are genuine records of out-door life, not prepared for effect, nor made to sell, but written out of the fulness of knowledge and of love for the subject. It was very hard at first to persuade him that he could write anything which others would desire to read, but one day a friend put together some of his notes on Scotch sport, including the tale of "The Muckle Hart," and sent the article to the Quarterly Review. Thus it was in these pages that St. John was introduced to the The bustard, the hoopoe, the gyr-falcon, and other rare birds, have been shot within a few miles of the same spot during the last three or four years. public, and great was his delight, as his | Land before the mind's eye, without waste friend Mr. Innes has recorded, in receiv- of words, and without once falling into ing "the first money he had ever made by the sin of tediousness. his own exertions." The work on the "Wild Sports of the Highlands "t was the result of this first experiment, and after a long interval there followed his "Tour in Sutherlandshire,” and his "Natural History and Sport in Moray" books which are destined to live, although | his own opinion of them was so modest. "All I wish," he says, "is that my rough and irregularly put together notes may afford a few moments of amusement to the old; and to the young not amusement only, but perhaps an incitement to them to increase their knowledge of natural history, the study of which in all its branches renders interesting and full of enjoyment many a ramble and many an hour in the country which might other wise be passed tediously and unprofitably." They are worth reading with this object in view, but they also possess many of the attractions which belong to the best books of travel- and there are no books which are more acceptable in a country house. ness Of these, according to the ordinary library catalogues, the number is legion, but comparatively few will stand the hard test of a second reading. In some cases, we see far more of the author than of the places which he visited; in others, the narrative is rendered almost intolerable by a bad style, or by excessive diffuseblemishes which mar many a celebrated book of travels. In still other instances, it is evident that the traveller has not been anxious to mark the line between romance and reality, and the consequence is that it is difficult to decide how we are to take him. This appears to us to be one of the faults of Herman Melville's "Typee and "Omoo"-dashing narratives enough, though rather "free" and coarse. Far more favorable examples of the best works of this class may be found; and, to avoid making what might seem an invidious choice, we will mention two or three which belong to the last generation, but which will survive for some generations yet to come. One of these books is Eliot Warburton's "Crescent and the Cross." No Eastern traveller has ever succeeded so well in bringing the Holy Quarterly Review, December, 1845. † Of which a new edition, with illustrations which add much to the interest of the text, was published in 1878. Natural History and Sport in Moray (1863), p. 325. Damascus and Jerusalem have often been described, but by no one more effectively in a short compass than by Warburton. The inspiration of a large part of "Tancred was probably derived from "The Crescent and the Cross."* It is true that Mr. Disraeli approaches his theme from a different point of view, and his genius for epigrammatic sayings was not shared by Warbur ton. It was in " Tancred" that Abraham was first called an Arab "sheikh "—a phrase afterwards used by Dean Milman in his "History of the Jews." In the same way, Mr. Disraeli dealt with Damascus in a sentence which flashes like one of the far-famed blades of the ancient city: "It had municipal rights in the days when God conversed with Abraham." Warburton conveys much the same idea, but with less art: "There is little to be seen in Damascus, except the city's self. No vestige remains of the palaces of the sultans, and, indeed, few of any other antiquity, though this is probably the most ancient city in the world. Eleazer, the trusty steward of Abraham, was a citizen of it nearly four thousand years ago, and the Arabs maintain that Adam was created here out of the red clay that is now fashioned by the hand of the potter into other forms." The voyage up the Nile has been described usque ad nauseam, but Warburton's story of it never wearies. Yet when one yields to the common, but usually mistaken, tendency to collect all the works of a writer who has pleased us, the result in the case of Warburton is a disappointment. He was a man of one book. His "Darien" is all but unreadable, and his "Memoirs of Prince Rupert " wholly worthless. The only other book of Eastern travel that can be compared with "The Crescent and the Cross," is one that far surpasses it in vividness of description and in finished workmanship-Mr. Kinglake's “Eōthen." No reader of that small, but perfect, work, is likely to forget the chapter on "The Plague at Cairo," or that entitled "Terra Santa." Through the brief and memorable chapter on "The Sphinx" there runs a strange and solemn undertone of warning and mystery. It is curious that the three books which contain the most remarkable Eastern pictures anywhere to be found, out of the Bible, were published within five years of each other-between 1844 | eral skipping, although they might not and 1849. The third is Curzon's "Monas like to acknowledge it. In all the earlier teries of the Levant," a work far more in- novels of Sir Walter Scott there is nothteresting than nine novels out of ten. Mr. ing to skip, and whatever may be the Burton's "Bookhunter" may be searched changing tastes of the age, it is satisfac in vain for the records of any bibliophile tory to find that these stories are always who pursued his search after rarities with read by the young with the greatest dea zeal exceeding that of Mr. Curzon in his light. Put a set of "Waverley" within explorations of the Coptic and Syrian their reach, and they will never stop until monasteries. Nothing could be better they have gone through them all; and done than his account of "The Convent of when they have done, they will not carry the Pulley," or of the great monastery of away with them a single bad idea or im"Meteora," or of his visit to the Church pression. There are not many novelists, of the Holy Sepulchre on the Good Friday old or new, of whose works as much could of the Greek calendar. Let us not forget be said with equal confidence. to notice that this also was a book which would never have been written if the author had not lived in the country. "I was staying by myself," he tells us, "in an old country house belonging to my family, but not often inhabited by them, and having nothing to do in the evening, I looked about for some occupation to amuse the passing hours." Then it occurred to him to give an account of the adventures which he had encountered in the pursuit of his ancient manuscripts, and the result was a book which will always be looked upon as a good friend and companion by those who have once made its acquaintance. Novelists, however, are of a perishable race, and the exceptions are only suffi ciently numerous to prove the rule. Let any reader of long experience try to recall the "great" fictions he has read in his time, and see where they are now, and then let him estimate the chances which any modern writer has of reaching the year 2000. It will not be mere style, or skill in sarcasm, or power of depicting a "character here and another there, that will save a man; it will all turn upon his power to interest and amuse successive generations. Dickens's wonderful portrait gallery, although crowded with groThe number of these really companion- tesque figures, is in no danger of sinking able books is much smaller than most into oblivion. His plots were usually thin people suppose. Novelists get out of date, and commonplace, but the picturesque except a very few Fielding, Scott, and surroundings amid which he placed many Miss Austen, at the head of the excep. of his creations, and the genuine humor tions in our own language. It requires of his early works, seem to give him an no extraordinary gift of foreknowledge to assured claim upon posterity. No man perceive that most of the writers of fiction of our time has ever approached him in who have promised themselves immortal- the power of photographing scenes and ity will fall a long way on the "hither persons after they had once- and perside." Each generation will have enough haps only once- passed under his eyes. of its own to read, and it will naturally The American sketches in "Martin Chuzprefer the novelists who best represent its zlewit" were made in the course of a rapid own manners, ways of thought, and habits journey, and yet they revealed an insight of life. After a few years, an old-fashioned into national character and peculiarities, air begins to be visible in all novelists which years of close observation of Amerexcepting those who did not deal exclu-ican life could not have imparted to ordisively with the men and manners of their nary men. This great power is shown, on own generation, as in the case of Sir a smaller scale, in the unrivalled pictures Walter Scott, or who, if they did occupy of old City churches, queer characters, and themselves with studies of their contem- quaint country fairs or streets of provin. poraries, were almost the first to bring cial towns, which he presented as "The genius and originality to the work as Uncommercial Traveller." There is no was the case with Fielding. Yet in can- need to remind the public that they owe dor it must be admitted, that there are one of the most dramatic and highly many tedious or disagreeable chapters in wrought novels in the language the "Tom Jones," and still more in "Joseph" Tale of Two Cities". - to Charles DickAndrews " and "Amelia " chapters ens; but there are other admirable writers which, as the Hindoos say, leave "a bad who no longer seem to "draw" the large taste in the mouth." It is doubtful whether audiences which they deserve. many readers of the present day get through either of these works without lib- | The "sensational" tales which of late have been sold by tens of thousands could scene scarcely have won success if the present | than by a garish style, and the " generation had not forgotten Mrs. Gas- painter's " manner. Sir Robert Walpole's kell. One of her short stories, "The feeling is shared by most men who have Grey Woman," clearly suggested the vul penetrated beneath the surface of public gar imitation which during the summer life: Do not read me history, for that I has been thrust into everybody's hands at know to be false." The attempts to write the bookstalls. Another writer to whom contemporary history are mostly failures, justice is not being done now, even if it although they are often much applauded was ever done, is Charles Lever. It is at the time. It would be easy to mention the common impression that his stage works which were received with wildly was always crowded with roystering dra- exaggerated praise, as "setting criticism goons and hard-drinking Irish squires, at defiance," but which upon a little cool and comparatively few readers seem to examination are turned out of the library have appreciated the brilliancy and variety in disgrace. which adorn "The Knight of Gwynne," or to have appreciated the mingled grace and vigor shown in "Sir Brooke Fos brooke" and " Tony Butler." People 66 We dare not even touch upon the vast field of modern general literature, but we may venture to express the hope that a place for George Borrow will always be who think of Lever only as "Harry Rol-found in the country house. We know of licker," should look at the sombre scenes no works published in the present century, which usher in "Luttrell of Arran," or which preserve so much of the romance the vivid conception of Irish life which is and charm of the country as Lavengro transferred to the reader's mind by the and "The Romany Rye." There was a opening chapters of "The O'Donoghue." dramatic power in Borrow which ought to As for the mystical stories which are once have won for him a famous name. His more in vogue, the true father of them all account of the appearance in Mumper's was the late Lord Lytton; and if he could Dingle of the awe-inspiring figure of the see the productions of the school which Flaming Tinman and the tremendous he founded, he would not come to the con- combat which ensued; the scenes with clusion that the public has grown wiser Isopel Berners, and with the gipsies Petuor more critical since his time. lengro and Tawno Chikno; the attempt of the old crone, Mrs. Herne, to poison the "gorgio" in the tent, as she had "drabbed the porker these and many other powerful passages seem to show that George Borrow might have written a great novel or play. What he has left, however, will be forever prized by all who know how to enjoy it. He, too, lived and wrote in the country, or he would never have written at all. "I hastened," he says, "to my summer-house, by the side of the lake, and there I thought and wrote, and every day I repaired to the same place, and thought and wrote until I had finished The Bible in Spain." The companionable books are those which suit a reader's individual taste and temperament, and therefore each must find his own. The friend who is ever welcome to one man may be a burden and a vexation to another, and it is much the same with books. Yet it may safely be said that in the spare room in the country there ought to be a fair sprinkling of the older divines the great poets will be there as a matter of course and a select company of the essayists, from Montaigne to Sir Arthur Helps. Sir Thomas Browne or Burton, Clarendon or Burnett, should not be looked for in vain. Evelyn and Pepys will always be able to fill up a spare half-hour, and Walpole's letters, or a little brief diversion with Sterne or Smollett, will sometimes suit the fancy when more substantial entertainment is not desired. Biography can scarcely fail to be attractive, if it truly sets before us the course of a human life; and everybody knows that Boswell's "Johnson " is one of the books of this class which can never be taken up at the wrong moment, or laid down without unwillingness. The historians to whom one goes willingly, as to trusted counsellors, are few and far be tween, and their fame has been acquired rather by good sense and sound judgment "Live always in the springtime in the country," says Mr. Ruskin. "You do not know what leaf-form means unless you have seen the buds burst, and the young leaves breathing low in the sunshine, and wondering at the first shower of rain."* But it may be said that there are some people who cannot bring themselves to like the country, or to live in it, and there is at least one great authority to be cited in support of that view, whose name must always be pronounced with respect and affection Samuel Johnson. We know that he honestly thought that no place in The Two Paths, p. 153. the world was equal to Fleet Street, and hours," and has not fallen out of harmony that he used to relate with glee the story with nature, will find life far more pleas of the tallow-chandler who went to live in ant in the country than in the town. He the country, who grew tired of that and of will no doubt see the town occasionally, his idleness, and who at last begged his but his home will be in the country. How successors to let him return to his beloved are the most cherished associations of haunts at least on melting-days. Charles home - apart from kinsfolk to gather Lamb called the country "odious and de- round a London street, a wilderness of testable," and declared that "a garden brick and mortar, where no individuality was the primitive prison, till man, with can impress itself, and nothing that is Promethean felicity and boldness, luckily ours, except the furniture, is to be seen? sinned himself out of it." But what did Home can best be created in the country, Lamb know about either the country or a and that is the reason, among many othgarden, except Covent Garden, which, ers, why children-circumstances pernext to the Temple, was his favorite place mitting should always be brought up of abode? When he wrote the letter from there. The word "home" then means to which we have just quoted, he lived in a them something much more than a place street in Enfield, with "shops two yards to eat and sleep in; their young minds square, half a dozen apples, and two are stored with recollections of all beauti penn'orth of overlooked gingerbread, for ful things in nature, and of a thousand the lofty fruiterers of Oxford Street; and innocent amusements which the city child for the immortal book and print-stalls, a knows nothing of, although, by an undy circulating library that stands still, where ing instinct, he never ceases to pine for the show picture is a last year's Valen- them. In the country, home strikes its tine."* This was Lamb's idea of the roots deep into the heart. The children country, and he preferred the sweet scents never forget the flowers they planted, the and repose of Covent Garden. But even birds they were accustomed to watch, the the real country would not have suited little patches of garden which were given him, for he, like Johnson, was made for to them to cultivate, the very sounds the streets, as many other people are. which are associated with the fields and They must be perpetually elbowing and woods. The time will come when these being elbowed by their fellow-creatures, influences will be invested with a strange and see a crowd around them, with flaring and tender, perhaps with a pathetic intergas-lamps, and shops and theatres, or they est; but all are for good. Sir Arthur are as lost and helpless as so many fright Helps tells us that once, in the midst of ened children. That being so, the coun- a forest which he had to traverse on a try, with all its soothing influences, and journey, there came strongly into his its myriad objects of interest, is no better thoughts the "possibility of all care being to them than a place of penance. Such driven away from the world some day." men ought not to be enticed away from A similar feeling must often have been the rattle of the stones, which is more with every man who has wandered much musical to their ears than the songs of alone in solitary places, so incompatible nightingales or the murmur of summer do suffering and evil seem with the outzephyrs among the trees. Moreover, any ward beauty and majesty of the great one who has spent the greater part of his world of nature. Some protection against life in London, in the midst of active pur- the evil, some solace for the suffering, is suits, does wrong to go suddenly into the provided for the young, when a love of country, abandoning all business and oc- this great world is implanted in them. As cupation. His mind is not attuned to the life advances, its power will strengthen scenes around him; he does not under-rather than wane. Hard, indeed, must be stand anything or care for anything; the the lot of the man or woman whose life is trees, flowers, birds, have no message for forever bounded by the streets of a great him very likely he does not even notice city. Beyond lies the country, pure and them. Nature and he could never have tranquil, remembered well amid all the more than a distant bowing acquaintance vicissitudes of after years; and, once one with another. His wisest course is to there, the storms of life are moderated, go to town constantly on "melting-days." even though they cannot be altogether But a man who remembers his "best hushed. In this precarious world, it may not always offer happiness, but at least it will bring peace. * Letter to Wordsworth, Jan. 22nd, 1830. |