This is a large octavo, embracing, we believe, the principal poems of Mr. Fairfield, if not all of them, and to be followed by a collection of his prose writings. His prose, so far as we have had an opportunity of judging, is scarcely worth reading. His poems have, in many respects, merit—in some respects, merit of a high order. His themes are often well selected, lofty, and giving evidence of the true spirit. But their execution is always disfigured by a miserable verbiage—words meaning nothing, although sounding like sense, like the nonsense verses of Du Bartas.
The Moneyed Man. By Horace Smith. Two Volumes. Philadelphia: Lea and Blanchard.
This is a good book, and well worth the re-publication. The story is skilfully constructed, and conveys an excellent moral. Horace Smith is one of the authors of the “Rejected Addresses.” He is, perhaps, the most erudite of all the English novelists, and unquestionably one of the best in every respect. His style is peculiarly good.
The Science of Government. Founded on Natural Law. By Clinton Roosevelt. New York: Dean and Trevett. Philadelphia: Drew and Scammel.
Will any one be kind enough to tell us who is Mr. Clinton Roosevelt? We wish to know, of course. Mr. Roosevelt has published a little book. It consists of a hundred little pages. Ten of these pages would make one of our own. But a clever man may do a great thing in a small way, and Mr. Roosevelt is unquestionably a clever man. For this we have his own word, and who should know all about it better than he? Hear him!—
“Learned men have long contended that it was impossible for any human intellect to grasp what has been here attempted;—that a Cyclopædia only could embrace in one view all the arts and sciences which minister to man’s necessity and happiness—and that they give but little credit for, as a Cyclopædia is a mere arbitary [we follow Mr. R.’s spelling as in duty bound] alphabetical arrangement. We [Mr. Roosevelt is a we] would not say we have done even what we have without much toil and sacrifice. It has cost the best ten years of the writer’s life to settle its great principles, and give it form and substance. The great interests of man were in a state of chaos, and this science [Mr. Roosevelt’s] is to harmonise them, and run side by side with true religion so far as that is meant ‘to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and make on earth peace and good will to man.’ ”
Ah!—we begin to breathe freely once more. We had thought that the world and all in it (this hot weather) were going to the dogs,—“proceeding to the canines,” as Bilberry has it—but here is Mr. Roosevelt, and we feel more assured. We entrench ourselves in security behind his little book. “A larger work,” says he, “would have been more imposing in appearance, but the truth is, large works and long speeches are rarely made by men of powerful thought.” Never was anything more true. “As to boasting,” he continues, very continuously, “the writer is well aware that it is the worst policy imaginable.” In this opinion we do not so entirely acquiesce. “The little man”—says he—the reader will perceive that we are so rapt in admiration of Mr. Roosevelt that we quote him at random—“The little man may say this book was not done secundum artem—not nicely or critically.” He must be a very little man indeed, who would say so. We think he has done it quite nicely. “My tone”—we here go on with Mr. Roosevelt—“may seem not strictly according to bien science.” Oh, yes is it, Mr. Roosevelt; don’t distress yourself now—it is, we assure you, very strictly according to bien science, (good heavens!) and to every thing else.
“These remarks,” he observes, “are made that none may lightly damn the work.” Of course; any one who should damn it lightly should be damned himself. “But liberal criticism [ah! that is the thing,] will be accepted as a favor, [the smallest favors thankfully accepted] and writers who may undertake the task will confer an obligation by directing a copy of their articles to the author, at New York, from England, France or Germany, or any part of our own country where this work may reach.” Certainly; no critic could do less—no liberal critic. We shall send Mr. Roosevelt a copy of our criticism from Philadelphia, and we would do the same thing if we were living at Timbuctoo.