Those "earnest men with clasped hands," which a distinguished contemporary so eloquently invokes, ought to secure the services of this extraordinary manufacturer of fiction. He would make an admirable feuilletonist. He has that happy knack of working up little scenes and incidents with a dexterity which can hardly be surpassed. He would do very well for a weekly newspaper; but we would rather, if we were allowed any option upon the subject, not have any more of his three-volume novels; they are too much of a good thing. We have had them "usque ad nau seam;" they neither contribute to the fame of Mr. James, nor to the amusement of his readers. We do not believe the pecuniary resources of their author are in that condition which requires any eleemosynary eking out by such a manufacture; for we have somewhere heard that he derives a considerable income from the patent, to which he has succeeded by inheritance, of that medicine which goes by his name, so celebrated among the faculty for its efficacy in febrile diseases. Why, then, should Mr. James detract from the anodyne efficacy of this admirable patent medicine, by his equally somnolent but more expensive fictions; for if a novel with a powder, ter in die sumenda, is to be the future formula, we fear the patient, reversing the adage, will throw the book to the dogs, and infinitely prefer the milder and less innocuous physic.

There is an anecdote related of Lord Thurlow. When practising at the bar, he had conceived the happy idea that a wooden machine might be contrived, for the purpose of drawing equity pleadings, which would have the effect of saving the weary practitioner much of the manual labour incident to the routine of that harassing branch of the profession. This bright idea occurred to him in a conversation with Mr. Scott, afterwards Lord Eldon. Some years subsequently, when Thurlow was Lord Chancellor, a bill of the most extraordinary and clumsy contrivance came before him, which excited his displeasure as well as his surprise, how any member of the profession could be found so ignorant of his business as to put such a document out of his hands. "Perhaps," suggested Mr. Scott, drily,

"this bill was drawn by that wooden machine which was once suggested to me by your lordship!" So we are inclined to think the distinguished writer, whose book is now before us, has hit upon some mechanical contrivance for the manufacture of works of fiction. We say mechanical advisedly, not trusting ourselves to reiterate the epithet used by Lord Thurlow, that being suggestive of a block; and if Mr. James, Mr. Harrison Ainsworth, and one or two more, had laid their heads together, it is not unlikely they may have devised some such notable contrivance. Nothing else could account for a fecundity so mar vellous. Alexandre Dumas is a joke to Mr. James. He produces a novel, we believe, every fortnight; but Mr. James produces a work every week. We think it is but the other day since "The Convict" was out: the work now on our table has been published for some time.

We wonder how many novels Mr. James has actually written. As long as we recollect anything, we remember to have seen them announced. He is by no means an old man now; therefore he must have been employed in their manufacture from his earliest in. fancy. It is, perhaps, not impossible, that, like the immortal Lipsius, he composed a work the day he was born. Shall we add, in the words of our dear Uncle Toby, that we "wish it had been wiped up, and nothing said about it." We shall, we must-for really with some talent and considerable powers, Mr. James has produced very many books, which have neither added to his own reputation as an author, nor increased the character of English literature of the day. He writes too frequently-he writes too much-he evidently does it by contract; and consequently many of his productions are only fit to line trunks. If the genius of Mr. Dickens-confessedly of such power-be insufficient to produce more than one book in each alternate year, can a feeble and prosy practitioner like Mr. James, expect the public will tolerate one of his novels, containsix hundred and sixty-nine pages, or thereabouts, every month or every week, as the case may be? Will not the most avid of circulating library readers be gorged to satiety with this crambe repetita, for in point of fact it is nothing more? To analyse the

materiel of which this author's books are composed were superfluous; he has done it so cleverly himself in the work now before us, that further comment were needless. Three or four pages of description, and all about a country inn, common and old-fashioned, the tritest subject in the world; he admits all this, and then proceeds to add what his conscience must have warned him as suggesting itself to his readers.

"Was there ever such a tiresome fellow in the world?"

"That is the worst of James's books, he is so fond of long descriptions." "I always skip the description in your books, Mr. James.".

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I always skip the love."

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If you do, gentle reader, you must skip the whole book, from love-as evinced by the kissing of a lip, or the gentle pressure of a hand doth Mr. James manufacture the staple of his novels, but the love is milk and waterish," and the description ineffably tiresome-besides, the love, such as it is, is all at first sight, which is improbable, in those days of prudential considerations, calculating parents, and wary young ladies. We have had some little experience, and we never heard or knew of such a thing-at all events, it never happened in our own case and we are (albeit, now a critic), as handsome and as agreeable a young person as can be met with in a day's walk-our hair is curled, so are our whiskers-our tie, produced by long and severe study, is unexceptionable our gloves are the work of Hubigantour coat is the result of the reflections of an artist, compared with whom, M'Auliffe is a bungler-our waistcoat was only consummated after profound reflection; it is of Irish manufacture, so is the heart within it--we are altogether a deuced neat, good-looking, amiable fellow-and nobody, we have no hesitation in confessing it, has ever yet fallen in love with us-upon first sight and, therefore, the conclusion is inevitable, the thing is impossible, it cannot be true:

"When Bishop Berkeley said there was no matter, And proved it, t'was no matter what he said."

And so it is no matter, not the least in the world, what Mr. James says upon a subject of which he can know so little-no one falls in love at first

sight, least of all a lady-but, perhaps Mr. James speaks from personal experience he knows he is a lion-he may be a handsome man, we have never been favoured with an opportunity of giving our opinion upon that subject-if this be the case, we only adhere the more strongly to our own opinion-the exception but proves the rule.

The novel which we are discussing has two names, "Sir Theodore Broughton, or Laurel Water"-wherefore the latter was given it, we were for a long time utterly unable to comprehend we looked through the many pages in vain for a solution, not of the "Laurel Water," but of the difficulty, and finding none, we had recourse to the preface, in which there is related a rigmarole story of some one having poisoned some one else, the prisoner having been convicted upon what Mr. James considers inconclusive evidence, with an abstract of the trial, and a short report of the cross-examination of the prisoner's counsel, who, in those days, Mr. James informs us (and really we feel much obliged to him) was not allowed to address the jury.

The commencement of the book is so like Mr. James, that we cannot resist the temptation of giving it to our readers in his own words. The curtain rises, and lo!

"There was an old man sitting in an arm-chair-a very old man-and a very ugly one-it is an exceedingly unpleasant thing to be old and ugly-but, as the one is brought about by time, and the other by fate, there is no use in being cross about it-the remark is not impertinent, whatever the reader may think, for the old gentleman I have been speaking of had been cross all his life, because he was ugly, and was still more cross now, because he was old."

This old gentleman, very rich and gouty, and infirm, was about making, or rather altering, his will, for the purpose of disinheriting a certain Mr. Donovan, who, if we recollect aright, was his nephew, and settling his property upon his grandson. To effect this disposition of his estate, one Mullins, a lawyer, makes his appearance. He is described; the requisite formalities are gone through; the papers are executed; every one goes to bed. At midnight, a sudden ringing of bells

is heard. There is an alarm in the household, and the old gentleman, being taken suddenly ill, dies. Then we have Mr. Donovan's disappointment on discovering he is only a remainder man after the death of the grandson, the young heir's delight, and all that sort of thing, as a matter of course. Mr. Donovan, being a scoundrel, very naturally concludes that the best thing he can do will be to act upon the old suggestion" Come, let us kill the heir, that the inheritance may be ours." This he endeavours to effect by indirect means, and sends him off to enjoy London life, with a servant, whom he instructs to lead his master into every kind of vice, to which hot young blood is usually prone. Then appear upon the stage Reginald Lisle and his companion and friend Major Brandon, alias the "Ravenous Crow' -though for what purpose this gen. tleman is introduced we are much at a loss to conceive, except possibly to show the author's extraordinary taste for talking of-we would fain we could have added displaying his knowledge of-foreign countries. Very recently he was with the inhabitants of Van Diemen's Land; now he is among the Cherokee Indians! We wonder where he will be found next. To proceed. There is a highwayman, as a matter of course-a certain Colonel Lutwich, moving in the society of gentlemen, who have not the smallest suspicion of his practices a sort of humble imitation of Paul Clifford-the frequenter of fashionable saloons in the evening, and of the king's highway towards midnight-where, clothed in disguise of a large padded white coat, and moveable whiskers, he relieves his friends of any superfluous cash which, after the day's expenses, may chance to be found in their pockets. He is, however, discovered at last, sent to Newgate, and somehow or other-we presume through the medium of an alibi-escapes, goes into the army, distinguishes himself greatly on foreign service, becomes a general-officer, and returns, covered with glory, to marry the heroine of the tale-or rather one of them (for there are two or three occupying this prominent position, who had previously fallen in love with him, as well as we recollect, at first sight; but, ere we go farther, we have lighted upon a passage, which we shall extract for our readers, for the purpose of au

the

thenticating a fact to which we have formerly adverted, that it is out of the nature of things for Mr. James to write a novel, without introducing upon the stage one, two, or three gentlemen on horseback, as he deems most expedient. At page 102, in the first volume, our readers will find the passage which follows:

"There are few counties in England which contain more beautiful spots than the county of Warwick; few that are more thoroughly English in scenery; few that possess so much of these landscape features which, without offering to the eye anything peculiarly grand or striking, satisfy, without tiring the mind. It was in the county of Warwick, then, that, about six o'clock in the evening of a fine spring day, three gentlemen on horseback might be seen riding along, with two servants behind them, one of whom led a strong saddle horse, quite sufficiently loaded with portmanteaus."

Then the author proceeds to expa

tiate upon the comparative merits of post chaises, railroad carriages, and other modes of conveyance, and confesses his predilection for what he is pleased to call the "old Yellow," for the following very quaint reasons:— First, because it will go through everything, and over everything always, when you please, and if it lies quietly down on its side, you have nothing to do but to get out, and help the postboy to put it to rights again. And second, because you cannot hurt or offend it." We quote the author's own words, and should feel extremely obliged to him, if he will be good enough to inform us what species of conveyance is the most liable to take umbrage, in order, that for the future, we may adopt a proper degree of caution in abstaining from travelling therein or thereby.

The occupation of breaking butterflies or caterpillars upon a wheel is by no means one suited to our taste or abilities, and we shall not further stoop-whatever were the intentions with which we originally set outto discuss the plot, if any there be, or to criticise the characters introduced in this the latest production of Mr. James. They are both monotonous and uninteresting to an incredible degree; and in addition to this, there is nothing new. It has been said by the wise man of old, that this

is a characteristic which pervades all terrestrial affairs. It is certainly, one which is peculiarly applicable to the novels of Mr. James-having read one, we have read all. The incidents are

usually the same, particularly the introduction of the episode, to which we have already adverted; and the circumstance of causing the heroine to faint, either from excess of rapture, or in consequence of some accident; for instance, in the case of Kate, who faints upon a sofa, because Colonel Lutwich tells her he is in love with her, she raises herself after a short space, upon her arm, and tells the colonel not to call any one, for that she feels rather better, and that she is very foolish—

"He approached her gently, and gave her some water to drink, kneeling by her side: and then he bathed her temples, and then kissed her hand. I was thinking,' she said at length, with a smile, 'how happy my poor father would have been, if he could have seen this hour.'

"It was too much for me.

"Then can you, do you love me?? said Lutwich eagerly. Kate left her hand in his, and her cheek glowed again, but she was silent; he gazed at her still eagerly, and said, 'O speak!'

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Do you not see?" she moaned at length, turning away her head, but Lutwich's lips joined hers, and sealed there the promises they had made."

We will hold ten to one, ay, or twenty to one, if any of our readers will accept the wager, that in any novel which Mr. James has recently given to the world, some similar scene occurs. When a young lady faints we have seen various remedies resorted to for her recovery, but certainly it never occurred to us that kissing was the most effectual means of restoration. Availing ourselves, however, of the benefit of Mr. James's experience, which must have been very extensive, and as he is so fond of insisting upon the point, we shall take the earliest opportunity of trying the experiment, that is, provided the fair "fainter" be sufficiently charming to be worth the trouble; and if the experiment be successful, we hope we may be permitted to call it by the name of James's Restorative." Let us, ere we conclude our brief notice of these intensely uninteresting volumes, introduce our readers to Dr. Gamble, whose portrait, albeit rather clumsily painted, is one of the best in the book.

"At length, however, they returned, and the first course of their dinner was over, when after some little bustle without, such as that which in most inns announces the arrival of new gueststhe door of the ordinary dining-hall, in which they were taking their food, was thrown briskly open, and a personage entered whose name has been mentioned before in this book; but whom, for many reasons, I have refrained from bringing into the more active scenes till the present moment. He was a middle-aged man, dressed in black, with a large cravat tied somewhat tightly round his neck, and the ends fringed with lace, hanging down upon his coat. He could not be called corpulent; but the period when the human frame begins to spread laterally had clearly commenced; and if an abhorrence of the good things of this life had at all retarded the growth of fat, his countenance belied him. He was tall, and had certainly at one time been goodlooking, as far as mere features were concerned; but the expression could never have been prepossessing, and now it was quite the reverse. There was a great deal of moisture swimming between the eyelids, one of which dropped occasionally half over the eye, giving involuntarily a curious meaning look to his face, in good keeping with the general expression. His mouth was large and sensual; but yet there was a merry turn about the corners, which seemed to speak it as well fitted for jest as eating; and the protuberant chin, rounded and somewhat turned-up, had a bold and impudent air, as if conscious that there was a spirit within ready to defend whatever the lips uttered. The worst feature, however, of the whole, was the forehead, which, though broad was 'villanous low.'

I may as well mention the foot and leg, though on the present occasion they were concealed by large riding-boots, but upon all ordinary occasions the former might be seen covered with an exceedingly neat shoe, displaying its small size and fine proportions to the best advantage, while a black silk stocking set off the ancle, surmounted by an exuberance of stout and symmetrical calf, shaking underneath at every wellplanted step the owner took.

"Not knowing whom he was about to meet with, this worthy personage entered the public room of the inn with a gay, dashing, reckless sort of air; and taking no notice of the party assembled at the farther end of the room, kept his head turned towards the landlord, who was following obsequiously, continuing to give directions which he had commenced at the door. 'And, harkee, mine host, he said, after that, a broiled chicken

and mushroom-sauce; mind, I say a chicken, not the old cock I just now saw upon the dunghill,—a chicken young and tender as Hero just after she had first seen Leander,-do you understand me? The cut of salmon, not boiled till it is as dry as your or my grandmother, but just till the red has changed to pink all through, and the flakes acknowledge the cream between. 'Tis a pity you have no lobster; but let the cook beat up the flesh of two anchovies in the sauce, eschewing the bones and scales, then add ten drops of vinegar, and as much onion as would lie upon a sixpence. As to the wine, it must be Madeira; and I shall not object to an apricot tart, wound up with old Cheshire and a bottle of port, not black-strap, but real, genuine, crusted old port, of the best vintage in your cellar. See to it, mine host, see to it, and in the meantime let me have the Advertiser to doze over and preserve my appetite.'”

In conclusion we trust we may be permitted to offer a word of advice. Mr. James may derive benefit from a

practical consideration of it. We bear him no ill will; and we should be sorry to say he had written himself out; but if he expects the public to buy or to read his novels, he must really take more time to write them, and draw more largely upon that inventive genius which he so largely possesses, for he has unquestionably written some good novels, but, if he has, he has also written many bad ones: not bad, in a moral or ethical point of view, for we cannot recall to our recollection one single line from his pen which could offend the taste of the most sensitive or the most fastidious mind - a child might read them all, and not be a whit the worse- but bad because they have a total want of vigour, of originality, or of variety of incident; and are really only fit to amuse the leisure hours of the most unenlightened class of circulating library readers, without imparting one new idea, or one atom of instruction.