The elder Rushbrook,

sentenced to transportation. in the meantime, has avoided suspicion and fallen heir to a great property. Just as his son is about to be sent across the water, some of Joe's friends discover the true state of affairs, and obtain from the father, who is now conveniently upon his death-bed, a confession of his guilt. Thus all ends well, if the word well can be applied in any sense to trash so ineffable; the father dies, the son is released, inherits the estate, marries his lady-love, and prospers in every possible and impossible way.

We have mentioned the imitation of Fagin. A second plagiarism is feebly attempted in the character of one Nancy, a trull, who is based upon the Nancy of Oliver Twist; for Marryat is not often at the trouble of diversifying his thefts. This Nancy changes her name three or four times, and so, in fact, do each and all of the dramatis persona. This changing of name is one of the bright ideas with which the author of "Peter Simple" is most pertinaciously afflicted. We would not be bound to say how many aliases are borne by the hero in this instance some dozen perhaps.

The novels of Marryat - his later ones at least — are evidently written to order, for certain considerations, and have to be delivered within certain periods. He thus finds it his interest to push on. Now, for this

mode of progress, incident is the sole thing which answers. One incident begets another, and so on, ad infinitum. There is never the slightest necessity for pausing, especially where no plot is to be cared for. Comment, in the author's own person, upon what is transacting, is left entirely out of question. There is thus none of that binding power perceptible, which

often gives a species of unity (the unity of the writer's individual thought) to the most random narrations. All works composed as we have stated Marryat's to be composed, will be run on, incidentally, in the manner described; and, notwithstanding that it would seem at first sight to be otherwise, yet it is true that no works are so insufferably tedious. These are the novels which we read with a hurry exactly consonant and proportionate with that in which they were indited. We seldom leave them unfinished, yet we labour through to the end, and reach it with unalloyed pleasure.

The commenting force can never be safely disregarded. It is far better to have a dearth of incident, with skilful observation upon it, than the utmost variety of event, without. In some previous review we have observed (and our observation is borne out by analysis) that it was the deep sense of the want of this binding and commenting power, in the old Greek drama, which gave rise to the chorus. The chorus came at length to supply, in some measure, a deficiency which is inseparable from dramatic action, and represented the expression of the public interest or sympathy in the matters transacted. The successful novelist must, in the same manner, be careful to bring into view his private interest, sympathy, and opinion in regard to his own creations.

We have spoken of "The Poacher" at greater length than we intended; for it deserves little more than an announcement. It has the merit of a homely and not unnatural simplicity of style, and is not destitute of pathos; but this is all. Its English is excessively slovenly. Its events are monstrously improbable. There is no adaptation of parts about it. The truth

is, it is a pitiable production. There are twenty young men of our acquaintance who make no pretension to literary abililty, yet who could produce a better book in a week.

ETC.,

LIFE OF PETRARCH. BY THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ., AUTHOR OF "THE PLEASURES OF HOPE,' ETC. COMPLETE IN ONE Volume. CAREY AND HART.

PHILADELPHIA,

[Text: Grabam's Magazine, September, 1841.]

WE are not among those who regard the genius of Petrarch as a subject for enthusiastic admiration. The characteristics of his poetry are not traits of the highest, or even of a high order; and in accounting for his fame the discriminating critic will look rather to the circumstances which surrounded the man, than to the merits of the pertinacious sonnetteer. Grace and tenderness we grant him; but these qualities are surely insufficient to establish his poetical apotheosis.

In other respects he is entitled to high consideration. As a patriot, notwithstanding some accusations which have been rather urged than established, we can only regard him with approval. In his republican principles; in his support of Rienzi, at the risk of the displeasure of the Colonna family; in his whole political conduct, in short, he seems to have been nobly and disinterestedly zealous for the welfare of his country. But Petrarch is most important when we look upon him as the bridge by which, over the dark gulf of the Middle Ages, the knowledge of the Old World made its passage into the new. His influence on what is termed the revival of letters was, perhaps, greater than

His

that of any man who ever lived - certainly far greater than that of any of his immediate contemporaries. ardent zeal in recovering and transcribing the lost treasures of antique lore cannot be too highly appreciated. But for him, many of our most valued classics might have been numbered with Pindar's hymns and dithyrambics. He devoted days and nights to this labour of love, snatching numerous precious books from the very brink of oblivion. His judgment in these things was strikingly correct; while his erudition, for the age in which he lived and for the opportunities he enjoyed, has always been a subject of surprise.

Upon the whole, therefore, it is not very wonderful that Petrarch has had many biographers. Much, to be sure, of the excessive comment upon his character may be traced to the generating influence of biography in itself. One life as surely begets another as a sum at compound interest doubles itself in a certain space of time. Each personal friend of the hero is anxious to prove a stricter intimacy with him than that enjoyed by the personal friend who wrote before. Contemporary contradictions thus arise, which it is left for posterity to reconcile. In the private library of the French king at the Louvre there exists a Petrarchian Library, consisting of nine hundred volumes illustrative of the life of the poet. It was collected by Professor Marsand of Padua, and a quarto catalogue of it was, not many years ago, published at Milan. The best biography of Petrarch, after the one which now lies before us, is no doubt that of the Abbé de Sade. This prelate, proud of a descent from Laura, consumed the greater part of his life in toilsome journeys, seeking material for a life of her lover. He was unquestionably the most accomplished foreigner who wrote on the affairs of Italy

in the fourteenth century. His account of Petrarch has been made the chief basis of Mr. Campbell's present work. We are sorry to see, moreover, that the author of "The Pleasures of Hope" has followed his authority even in the matter of wholesale vituperation of all previous writers upon the subject. De Sade abuses the whole Italian nation, accusing it, en masse, of gross ignorance in respect to our poet. Mr. Campbell

abuses the whole Italian nation and De Sade. Not only this, but he is at great pains to be bitter upon Archdeacon Coxe, who had bequeathed to the library of the British Museum a Ms. Life of Petrarch. Of this Ms., Mr. Colburn, it seems, caused a copy to be taken, and, intending it for publication, requested Mr. Campbell to act as editor. Mr. C. consented, "sur

rounded himself with as many books connected with the subject as he could obtain, and applied himself assiduously to the study of Italian literature, which he had neglected for many years."

Having done all this, our editor sat down to his task of arrangement and revision. But the Coxe-Petrarchan Mss. appear to have defied his powers. . If any one," says he, " suspects me of dealing unfairly with the Archdeacon, let him go to the Library of the British Museum and peruse the work in question—his skepticism will find its reward. He will agree with me that the Coxeian Ms. is placed in a wrong part of the Museum. It should not be in the library, but among the bottled abortions of anatomy, or the wooden visages of the South Sea idols." Mr. Campbell's kind offer of permitting any skeptic to satisfy himself by going to the Museum and " perusing a huge book which he has just declared to be unfit for perusal, puts us in mind of the candour of the Munchausens and Ferdinand