leasure of reading it, will escape many, and
is hardly worth insisting upon. Omoo is of the order composite, a
skilfully concocted Robinsonade, where fictitious incident is
ingeniously blended with genuine information. Doubtless its author has
visited the countries he describes, but not in the capacity he states.
He is no Munchausen; there is nothing improbable in his adventures, save
their occurrence to himself, and that he should have been a man before
the mast on board South-Sea traders, or whalers, or on any ship or ships
whatever. His speech betrayeth him. His voyages and wanderings
commenced, according to his own account, at least as far back as the
year 1838; for aught we know they are not yet at an end. On leaving
Tahiti in 1843, he made sail for Japan, and the very book before us may
have been scribbled on the greasy deck of a whaler, whilst floating
amidst the coral reefs of the wide Pacific. True that in his preface,
and in the month of January of the present year, Mr Melville hails from
New York; but in such matters we really place little dependence upon
him. From his narrative we gather that this literary and gentlemanly
common-sailor is quite a young man. His life, therefore, since he
emerged from boyhood, has been spent in a ship's forecastle, amongst the
wildest and most ignorant class of mariners. Yet his tone is refined and
well-bred; he writes like one accustomed to good European society, who
has read books and collected stores of information, other than could be
perused or gathered in the places and amongst the rude associates he
describes. These inconsistencies are glaring, and can hardly be
explained. A wild freak or unfortunate act of folly, or a boyish thirst
for adventure, sometimes drives lads of education to try life before the
mast, but when suited for better things they seldom persevere; and Mr
Melville does not seem to us the manner of man to rest long contented
with the coarse company and humble lot of merchant seamen. Other
discrepancies strike us in his book and character. The train of
suspicion once lighted, the flame runs rapidly along. Our misgivings
begin with the title-page. "Lovel or Belville," says the Laird of
Monkbarns, "are just the names which youngsters are apt to assume on
such occasions." And Herman Melville sounds to us vastly like the
harmonious and carefully selected appellation of an imaginary hero of
romance. Separately the names are not uncommon; we can urge no valid
r