He is the most easily pleased man in the world. He admires
everything, from the big Dictionary of Noah Webster to the last
diamond edition of Tom Thumb. Indeed, his sole difficulty is in
finding tongue to express his delight. Every pamphlet is a miracle-
every book in boards is an epoch in letters. His phrases, therefore,
get bigger and bigger every day, and, if it were not for talking
Cockney, we might call him a "regular swell."
Yet, in the attempt at getting definite information in regard to any
one portion of our literature, the merely general reader, or the
foreigner, will turn in vain from the lighter to the heavier journals.
But it is not our intention here to dwell upon the radical, antique,
and systematized rigmarole of our Quarterlies. The articles here are
anonymous. Who writes?- who causes to be written? Who but an ass
will put faith in tirades which may be the result of personal
hostility, or in panegyrics which nine times out of ten may be laid,
directly or indirectly, to the charge of the author himself? It is
in the favour of these saturnine pamphlets that they contain, now
and then, a good essay de omnibus rebus et quibusdam aliis, which
may be looked into, without decided somnolent consequences, at any
period, not immediately subsequent to dinner. But it is useless to
expect criticism from periodicals called "Reviews" from never
reviewing.
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