Hawthorne's volumes as a text. In May we shall endeavor
to carry out our intention. At present we are forced to be brief.
With rare exception- in the case of Mr. Irving's "Tales of a
Traveller" and a few other works of a like cast- we have had no
American tales of high merit. We have had no skilful compositions-
nothing which could bear examination as works of art. Of twaddle
called tale- writing we have had, perhaps more than enough. We have
had a superabundance of the Rosa-Matilda effusions- gilt-edged paper
all couleur de rose: a full allowance of cut-and-thrust blue-blazing
melodramaticisms; a nauseating surfeit of low miniature copying of low
life, much in the manner, and with about half the merit, of the
Dutch herrings and decayed cheeses of Van Tuyssel- of all this, eheu
jam satis!
Mr. Hawthorne's volumes appear misnamed to us in two respects. In
the first place they should not have been called "Twice-Told Tales"-
for this is a title which will not bear repetition. If in the first
collected edition they were twice-told, of course now they are
thrice-told.- May we live to hear them told a hundred times. In the
second place, these compositions are by no means all "Tales." The most
of them are essays properly so called. It would have been wise in
their author to have modified his title, so as to have had reference
to all included.
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