Tellier, who turned his horse's head about, I heard for the last time his "Aie, donc, Rosbif-chuck!"-mounted my new vehicle, and without further accident arrived at the Place Louis Quinze, at a quarter past seven, consoling myself for the loss of my dinner-party, with a thousand stern resolutions never again to take-a ride in a cuckoo.

H.

SUPPOSED TO BE SUNG BY THE WIFE OF A JAPANESE Who had accompanied the Russians to their country.

I LOOK through the mist, and I see thee not

Are thy home and thy love so soon forgot?
Sadly closes the weary day,

And still thy bark is far away!

The tent is ready, the mats are spread,

The saranna is pluck'd for thee,

Alas! what fate has thy baidare + led

So far from thy home and me?

Has my bower no longer charms for thee?—
Where the purple jessamines twine
Round the stately, spreading, cedar tree,
And rest in its arms so tenderly,

As I have reposed in thine.

In vain have I found the sea-parrot's nest,
And robb'd of its plumes her glittering breast,
Thy mantle with varied hues to adorn,-
Thou hast left me watchful and forlorn!

Dost thou roam amid the eagle flocks
Whose eirie is in the highest rocks?
Dost thou seek the fox in his lurking-place,
Or hold the beaver in weary chase?
Dost thou search beneath the foaming tide
Wherein the precious || red pearls hide?
Return!—the evening mist is chill,
And sad is my watch on the lonely hill,
Return!-the night-wind is cold on my brow,
And my heart is as cold and desolate now.
Alas! I await thee and hope in vain!—
I shall never behold thy return again!

She stood on the beach all the starless night,
But nought appear'd to her eager sight;
No bark on its bosom the ocean bore,
And he whom she loved return'd no more.
For the strangers came from the icy North,

And their words and their gifts had won him forth.
Their ship sail'd far from his native bay,

And it bore him to other regions away.

Saranna is the bread-fruit of the Japanese.

† Baidare, the Japanese boat.

M. E.

Purple jessamine, Bignoria grandiflora, is a climbing plant, native of Japan; flowers purple.

§ They ornament their parkis (mantles) and all their dresses with the feathers of the sea-parrot, storm finch, and mauridor.

Japan produces red pearls, which are not less esteemed than white.

THE LITERARY WORLD.

"Credilo a me, credilo a me che questo è un mondaccio."

P. ARETINO.

"WHAT Will the world say?"-" all the world are full of it,"-are expressions in daily use, whenever a Mr. Maguffin gets into a scrape, or a Judy O'Huggins contrives to make a judy of herself, although in all probability, (provided the living be a decent living), not one-tenth part of the parish ever heard of the celebrated Mr. Maguffin, or feasted its ears on the musical sounds which constitute the name of the fashionable Miss O'Huggins. "The world" is, in truth, one of those invaluable India-rubber phrases, the complaisant elasticity of which will accommodate itself to every possible intensity of signification. The world of Napoleon was a reasonable-sized world enough; and even Alexander might have been contented with his world, if, being the son of Jupiter, he had not prophetically foreseen the discovery of a transatlantic "other world," and been tormented with the second sight of a dish of chocolate and an Havannah segar,-in which particular of a hankering for colonial territories, he only sympathized with his modern antitype, that renowned warrior Ferdinand the detestable, the hero, child, and champion of the "monarchical principle." These, indeed, are something like worlds; but there are worlds which contrive to make an imposing figure in this our sublunary system, the pretensions of which to the title are highly questionable. The "fashionable world," the eatings and drinkings, and trippings of which on the "light fantastic toe" are so faithfully and so laboriously recorded in the "columns" of the Morning Post, scarcely embraces three thousand families. Still smaller is that self-important body, "the theatrical world," meaning, of course, those only who live and have their being in the intrigues of the green-room,-the dwindling and bastard descendants of the Dangles of the last generation. The religious world," indeed, with all its subdivisions, isles, and continents, its missionary societies, tract societies, and Bible societies, trunk and branch, supplementary and auxiliary, and supplementary-auxiliary, is a tolerably numerous body, and has some well-grounded claims to the appellation; but what are we to think of the world of that great mass of worthy souls, who, to obtain its transient notice, sacrifice their respectability and independence, to say nothing of their domestic comfort; though the whole sphere of the intercourse with their own species is circumscribed within the polygon" or the "colonnade," and does not exceed the limits of halfa-dozen families? To this train of reflection we were led, in glancing over the pages of an old number of the "Revue Encyclopédique," (a French periodical work of great merit,) in which the relative proportion of the whole population of France is compared with the number of those who can, and who cannot read; and the facts rendered familiar by the sensible image of black circles, the dimensions of which are as the numbers they respectively represent. By this very simple expression of a most important truth, we were forcibly struck with the disproportion between the numerical strength and the influential activity of the corps of which we are ourselves unworthy members, "the literary world." So much has been said, and justly said, of the growing civilization of Europe, and of the influence of the press, and so

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much is daily and hourly done in courts and camps, in cabinets and in tribunals, by corruption and by intimidation, to check this progress and to annihilate this influence, that we were by no means prepared to find, that, though the larger of the subjoined circles suffices to shadow forth the whole population of that country which we have been in the habit of considering as the most highly civilized nation on the European continent, the smaller one does no more than represent the number of those honest fellows in France, who do not know A. from a bull's foot, or B. from a chest of drawers, and who use "no other books but the score and tally."

Reasoning from this datum, it follows that, if there be any fidelity in the type, a lens of some considerable power would be requisite to discover the speck which should represent the readers of Spain or Italy; and not even the microscopic eye of a fly, (if, as Pope asserts, that insect has a microscopic eye,) could detect the existence of such a corps in the continents of Asia and Africa. Yet does the small circumference which would embrace the difference between the above two circles, include within its "petty space" the whole number of Frenchmen who can read, not one in ten of whom perhaps ever does read more than a playbill, a restaurateur's carte, or the weekly account of his baker or blanchisseuse. If from this small remainder we again exclude those who are no judges of literary or of scientific excellence, how few will remain to estimate a Newton or a La Place, a Linnæus or a Cuvier, a Lavoisier or a Davy.

To come at once to that which touches ourselves most nearly; in how humiliating a point of view do these said circles place that literary fame for which we labour so hard, and for the most part, so much in vain! Thirty thousand readers, good, bad, and indifferent, embrace the "urbs et orbis" of the most fashionable periodical; and those even of the best authors are not much more extensive. What then are we to think of the "literary world," whose applause rejoiceth the heart of a second or third rate author, and puffeth up the conceit of the writers of an occasional essay, an elegy, or a "speech intended to be spoken?" Verily, it is all vanity and vexation of spirit. There is not a crackbrained craniologist in the Edinburgh coteries, notwithstanding, who does not imagine "all the world" to be occupied with his depressions and prominences, seeking for an explanation of the ups and downs of life by the irregularities upon the surface of the human knowledgebox; nor is there a miserable writer for mechanists and scene-shifters who will not tell you, with equal confidence, that "the world" thinks

of no other bumps than those which are raised on the pate of Mr. Grimaldi. Methinks it might something abate the vanity of many a candidate for the "digito monstrari" to measure his world by this canon of the Revue Encyclopédique, and place his little black circle by the side of that of Dr. Eady or Mr. Warren, or of the poetical and once popular Mr. Packwood, somewhile the "notus omnibus tonsoribus," and the Coryphæus of those who "funguntur vice cotis." Nay, could the selfimportant folliculaires, who imagine they occupy the attention of nations with their wranglings and vituperations, be made to feel that everyday men, whose names belong to the history of literature, die unknown to the gossips of the next street, or imagine how small a mortal, even the divine Locke, was in the eyes of his college bed-maker, it might serve to teach them a little discretion, and make them "take pains to allay, with some cold drops of modesty, their skipping spirit," who are now 66 too wild, too rude, and bold of voice," for ordinary patience. But to bring a writer, be he who he may, to a true sense of his own insignificance, the best way is to force him to quit this "world," about which he is so conceited. Not that we recommend suicide, "Gardez Tous bien," as Harlequin says, " de faire cette folie-la. Il n'y a rien de si contraire à la santé." We merely would intimate the necessity of changing the air, and leaving the narrow circle of local celebrity. Let the pamphleteer go into a theatrical circle, or the fashionable dramatist attend a few meetings of the Royal Society, and they will soon feel the nothingness of that "bubble reputation" which they are so eager to seek even in the reviewer's mouth.

There is a pretty sizeable literary world, which keeps in pay the circulating libraries, and which might be called the Leaden-hall world, within the phosphoric sphere of which many brilliant lights move with distinguished lustre, which are wholly unknown in every other region. "Tel brille au second rang," &c. The pamphleteer's world was just such another, till it was lost and immerged in the readers of daily journals. The world of magazines and reviews, on the contrary, is a thriving world, and daily growing in consequence and consideration. Some Cockney authors have (to use a phrase of Cobbet's) "a nice little" world of their own; only it speaks a language unintelligible to all, except its own inhabitants. Then again, there is a half dozen or so of gentlemen poets, who flourish in country book-clubs among the parsons much bemused with beer," and in the universities, where they figure as the Miltons and Shakspeares of the age, and stand far above poor Pope; who, God save the mark, is no poet at all! What may be the sort of attraction which forms the centre of this world, Heaven only knows, unless it be the obstinate desire of warring with "men, gods, and columns," and proving Horace a false prophet, and a bad judge of his art. Poor Jeremy Bentham's world, still smaller than all the rest, consists only of the wise and good, turpe et miserabile! and though, through the assistance of his translator, he is known from the Tagus to the Neva, he is read only by the select few. He, however, enjoys fame; but what a rare piece of illustrious obscurity, beyond all other, is the reputation of the most favourite law author; and still worse, that of medical writers, whose grim-gribber is seldom much read, even by the profession itself.

Fortunately for the brethren of the quill, there is a world for every

sort of talent and for every scale of ambition: but the difficulty is for a writer to fit himself for that world. The greatest failures in literature, as in life, arise from mistakes on this point; and a ghost in broad daylight is not a more incongruous ens, than the man who persists in making his corporal appearances in a world which knows him not. The "bemused parsons," already noticed, are lamentable examples of this truth; their highest flights of poetry are nothing on earth but misplaced sermons; and like misplaced gout, they would be profitable and laudable if they were but brought back to their proper sphere. Thus Newton commented on the Apocalypse; and thus Cuvier sets up for a statesman; thus also ("parva componere magnis") Rennell plunges into physiology, and John Kemble played comedy. Happy, thrice happy are they whose talents not only are well directed, but are directed to please a world which pleases them! Without this mutual sympathy between the author and his reader, life (i. e. literary life) would not be worth the trouble of living.

But to return from parts to the whole: if the literary world be altogether a mince affaire to a living author, still less is it to him when he is dead. What is the immortality of the great mass of writers preserved in libraries but the immortality of the tomb,-dust and worms? or rather does it not resemble that of a medical museum, in which the subjects preserved in existence are but monuments of deformity and disease, records of error, and mementos of ignorance and misconception? Often too does it happen, that when a writer contrives to attain to this enviable distinction, he most unfortunately drops his name by the way, and lives only as the "unknown author of such a work." Often too (which is much worse) he travels along the highway of time, loaded with works which he never composed, and which serve only to impede his march to posterity. Then again there are many who enjoy their immortality only by paroxysms, coming forth to the world, like the seven sleepers, after centuries of oblivion, and proving that their fame, like light, has its fits of easy and of difficult transmission. Literary immortality, however, has its advantages as the last sad resource of those who do not thrive on this side the Styx, and who have too good reason to complain that the literary world is no longer a republic. As this world wags, indeed, at present, there are too many candidates for its favour who discover that

"Tous les discours sont des sottises

Partout d'un homme sans éclat.
Ce seroient paroles exquises

Si c'était un grand qui parlât."-MOLIERE.

At least there are too many who are miserably impeded in their search after fame by pre-occupants, who have possessed themselves of the chief places at the feast of literature by dint of distinctions quite as groundless and as aristocratic. The high-road to eminence is crowded and stuffed up with the favourites of blue-stocking muses, “ qui aiment terriblement les énigmes," and are “diablement fortes sur les impromptus." Others dash along the surface, borne in the car of a fashionable review; some are picked up by the Admiralty, and launched on the world as first-rate geniuses on the strength of a ministerial squib, or a Tory pamphlet. Then again another knot contrive to attain notoriety by a persevering system of mutual puffing; thus persuading the simple, that, in wearing to a thread the mannerisms of a great writer,