on,
who, if he attacked authority, took care to have common sense on his side,
and never hazarded anything offensive to the feelings of others, or on the
strength of his own discretional opinion. There is another inconvenience
in this assumption of an exotic character and tone of sentiment, that it
produces an inconsistency between the knowledge which the individual has
time to acquire, and which the author is bound to communicate. Thus the
Chinese has not been in England three days before he is acquainted with
the characters of the three countries which compose this kingdom, and
describes them to his friend at Canton, by extracts from the newspapers of
each metropolis. The nationality of Scotchmen is thus
ridiculed:--"_Edinburgh._ We are positive when we say, that Sanders
Macgregor, lately executed for horse-stealing, is not a native of
Scotland, but born at Carrickfergus." Now this is very good; but how
should our Chinese philosopher find it out by instinct? Beau Tibbs, a
prominent character in this little work, is the best comic sketch since
the time of Addison; unrivalled in his finery, his vanity, and his
poverty.

I have only to mention the names of the Lounger and the Mirror, which are
ranked by the author's admirers with Sterne for sentiment, and with
Addison for humour. I shall not enter into that: but I know that the story
of La Roche is not like the story of Le Fevre, nor one hundredth part so
good. Do I say this from prejudice to the author? No: for I have read his
novels. Of the Man of the World I cannot think so favourably as some
others; nor shall I here dwell on the picturesque and romantic beauties
of Julia de Roubigne, the early favourite of the author of Rosamond Gray;
but of the Man of Feeling I would speak with grateful recollections: nor
is it possible to forget the sensitive, irresolute, interesting Harley;
and that lone figure of Miss Walton in it, that floats in the horizon, dim
and ethereal, the day-dream of her lover's youthful fancy--better, far
better than all the realities of life!

VIII

THE ENGLISH NOVELISTS

There is an exclamation in one of Gray's Letters--"Be mine to read eternal
new romances of Marivaux and Crebillon!"--If I did not utter a similar
aspiration at the conclusion of the last new novel which I read (I would
not give offence by being more particular as to the name) it was not from
any want of affection for the class of writing to which it belongs: for,
without