BOOKS.

AN AMERICAN STUDY AFTER DICKENS.* IF the writer of this book is making one of his earliest literary efforts, as we should gather from its being anonymous, there can be no question that he shows very considerable promise of future excellence ;—if, on the other hand, it is the work of an experienced writer, we should regard it only as a story containing a good share of off-hand talent and some real humour, out with- out any pretension to outlive the ephemeral life of any other bundle of amusing, but sketchy, miscellaneous, ill-arranged scenes from New York life, which fade away, moreover,

Round the Block. An American Novel, with Illustrations. New York : Appleton, Broadway. London : 18 Little Britain. 1864.

towards the and into sentimental common-place. We are in- clined, howe'ver, to ascribe it to a beginner who is thoroughly infected with the humour and general spirit of Dickens tales, and has determined to apply the same method, if we may so call it, to the great miscellaneous city where so many heterogeneous features of both American and European cities are strangely united. If so, it is certainly a tale of promise and not merely of imitative skill, for though the method, and treatment, and even many of the outlines of character, seem borrowed from Dickens, the minute detail and the whole costume are of genuine New York origin,—the superficial resemblance never extending beyond the general mode of treatment or the skeleton of charaoter, and serving rather as a hint to the writer how to use his quick power of observatio❑ than as a model to copy from.

And if this book be any fair test of the author's powers, there is in him not only some shadow of Dickens' peculiar fadulty for observation and humour, but a very similar relation between the two powers. Dickens' humour arises, we believe, from his wonderful skill in distilling, as it were, an essence, a soul, out of - the most highly artificial dialects of highly technical life, and substituting that distilled essence of monthly nurse, or smart cockney serving-man, or impudent young thief, or professional Pharisee, or whatever it may be, instead of real human beings, in • such inimitably real and technical phantoms as Mrs. Gamp, Sam Weller, the Artful Dodger, Pecksniff, and the rest. Those who find fault with Mr. Dickens for never having drawn a real character in his life, find fault with the very secret of his genius, which consists in getting by minute and exhaustive observation so extraordinary a grasp of one particular trait or situation which no one could have understood except through the most vigilant observation, that he can make that single trait or situation walk about, as it were, on two legs, and do infinitely more characteristic things and say infinitely more amusing sayings than any real person distinguished by that trait of character or living in that situation could ever have done or said, though such characters have really furnished all the hints to Mr. Dickens' mag- nifying and multiplying genius. It is this kind of talent, though, of course, indefinitely inferior in degree, that is possessed by the author of Round the Block. There is as little trace in the book as in Mr. Dickens' many volumes, either of the power or desire to draw any real character completely. But there is a good deal of cleverness in getting hold of an amusing trait of character or shifty situation, and painting for us its characteristic humour and highly technical patois. Without possessing the subtle tact in caricature or the inexhaustible power of infinitely varying the form, without altering the ludicrous essence, of his idea which are Dickens great literary weapons, there is quite enough to show something more than a mere imitative student of the same school.

The idea of the book seems at its commencement to have been partially modelled upon " Pickwick," and like " Pickwick " it begins in a much more farcical, and altogether louder, key than it attempts to keep up throughout. It commences with three bachelor friends, who strongly suggest sobered and modulated equivalents for Mr. Pickwick and two of his followers ; at least Mr. Maltboy strongly suggests Mr. Tupman, and Mr. Overtop, though he is transformed into a shrewd and sensible lawyer as the tale goes on, starts in a vein of transcendental sentiment which rivals Mr. Snodgrass. Then we are quickly introduced to a Mrs. Slapman, who, both in herself and in her distinguished circle of guests, recalls Mrs. Leo Hunter, though there is also a dash in her of Sir E. Bnlwer Lytton's Mrs. Colonel Poyntz (also evidently a study after Dickens) in the " Strange Story." There is a Mr. Wesley Tiffles, who is a sort of cross between Mr. Jingle and Mr. Montagu Tigg, though he, too, is toned down towards the conclusion into a colourless, disinterested sort of person, and there is a boy Bog, a bill-sticker,---in the early portion, one of the very best sketches in the book,—who, both by his manners and relation to the heroine, recalls Kit in the '° Old Curiosity-Shop," but who, with shameless disregard both to the probabilities and the reader's feelings, is educated and polished up into a very sentimental, nambypamby young gentleman (simply in order that he may marry the heroine) at the end. Let us give Bog's account of his first successful speculation in bill- posting.

" You've been very busy of late, haven't you, Bog ?' asked Pet, charitably anticipating an excuse for the boy's long absence.—'You'd better believe it,' replied Bog, not looking at her, but studying the pattern of his left boot. The day alter I called here last, Mr. Fink he got a job to stick up bills for a new hair-dye, all the way from here to Dunkirk, on the Erie Railroad. Well, he couldn't go, cos he had lots o'

city posting, ye see ; so ho hires me to do it for ten dollars a week and', expenses. The pay was good, he said, because the work was extry hard. The bills was to be posted on new whitewashed fences, new houses, and places generally where there was signs up telling people not to "post no bills."'—' That was a singular direction, Bog,' said Mr. Minford.— So I told Mr. Fink,' replied the boy, but he said as how them were the hair-dye man's orders. Ho said the idea was to make folks look at bills who wouldn't notice 'em if they was on a place all covered over with adv'tisements. They was to be posted up high and strong, so that the owner of the property couldn't tear 'em down easy. Mr. Fink thought the idea was a good one ; but he owned it was a little risky.'— 'Perhaps that is why he didn't care to do it himself,' suggested Marcus Wilkeson.—' Mebbe,' said Bog. . . . . I made out to go all through the State, and stick up six thousand bills, every one on.'em on a new house, shop, or fence. Lemme see—I was chased seven times by big dogs that was set on me, shot at three times--" Why, poor Bog !' inter-

rupted Pet ; you wasn't hurt, I hope No, Miss Minford ; I wasn't hurt,' answered Bog, looking her in the face for the first time since he entered the house, though I got one through my old cap.'—' I'm so glad it was no worse, Bog.'—These words of sympathy from the young girl flustered the poor boy for a minute. Then he rallied Besides that, I was took up four times by the perlice, and was carried afore justices of the peace. When they asked what I had to say why I shouldn't be fined, I told 'em the whole truth about it, and they all laughed except one, and said it was really funny, and they hadn't no doubt the hair-dye was a very good thing to take, but could tell better after they had tried some. I told 'em that the hair-dye man would send 'em a dozen bottles apiece. Mr. Fink had d'rected me to say this, if I was 'rested and brought afore a justice. The justices—that is, all of 'em but one—then said they didn't want to be hard on me ; and as that was my first offence they would let mo go without any fine. And they did, after giving me their names, and tellin' me to be sure to have the bottles sent on jest as soon as could be. Ye see, they were all as bald on the top o' their heads as punkins. But the fourth justice that I was took to, he wasn't bald, but had a crop o' hair like a picter ; and when I offered to put down his name for a dozen bottles, he swore, and fined me five dollars for what he said was a insult to the dignity of justice, and five dollars for postin' up bills in places where it was agin the law. Mr. Fink had give me money from the hair-dye man to pay fines, as well as my board ; so I didn't care. But —but I am talking too much."

This is very well told, but it suggests to us what Mr. Dickens would have made of a similar hero, how he would have mastered the inner essence of a bill-poster's view of life, and applied its language to every department of practice and sentiment, en- grafting metaphors taken from that occupation, from the size and colour of the type, the numbers of the bills, from the mode in which they are posted, and the character of the appeals they convey, on all the ordinary usages and actions of life, till Bog's language had become as complete a system of professional philosophy and- sentiment as Mrs. Gamp's. The author of Round the Block has not yet developed any such wonderful kaleidoscopic power of combining and recombining the same circle of associations into an infinite variety of images essentially the same in cast and origin,—so he neglects his brilliant opportunity of picturing for us an ideal bill-sticker and unscrupulously (not to use a stronger expression to describe this wilful waste) tapers Bog away into a self-educated young gentleman of the highest refinement and the most utter insipidity.

Something of the same kind happens to Mr. Wesley Talks, but here we are less disposed to grumble, as the excellence of the sketch lies not so much in this gentleman's occupation or cha- racter as in one of his inventive ideas. He forms the conception of preparing and exhibiting a cheap panorama of a part of Africa,— of course without the remotest approximation to any experience either of his own or any one else's,—and there is great humour shown in the description of his devices to cheapen the painting without depriving it of all materials of popular interest. Indeed, the night of the first public exhibition to a shrewd Yankee audi- ence, anxious above everything not to have less than 25 cents.' worth for their quarter dollar, is a scene of which Mr. Dickens himself need not have been ashamed. The artist employed to 'paint it,—one Patching, who prides himself on the austere simplicity of his style, but who is ashamed of such work as daubing a hasty panorama,—is a good sketch in Dickens' school. In the following passage, Mr. Wesley Tiffies, the originator of the scheme, the austere artist, and a mutual friend who is to lend money to the projector, are looking at the great work still in course of completion in Mr. Tiffies' attic. Mr. 'riffles has concealed all his African animals " in the depths of their native jungles," only indicating them by the ends of their tails, or trunks, or tusks, in order to avoid the expense of paint- ing them. Mr. Patching has reconciled himself to this device on the ground that it suits his severe simplicity of style:— "Wesley Tiffies whispered something about the eccentricities of genius, and then said Mr. Patching. Allow me. Mr. Wilkeson. . A capitalist, who thinks of taking a small interest in the panorama. Confidential, of course—The artist turned round during these remarks, and presented the original of a portrait which Marcus remembered to have seen—dressing-gown, hat, and all—in a small print-shop window

in the Sixth Avenue. Touching the face he might have had doubt, but there was no mistaking the pattern of the dressing-gown and the amazing hat. He also had a faint recollection of the thin face, the Vandyke beard, and the long, tangled hair at Mrs. Slapman's, on New Year's day, but was not positive as to their identity. Mr. Patching's individuality lay chiefly in his hat. The artist placed a moist hand, with one long finger-nail like a claw, at the disposal of Marcus Wilkeson. The latter gentleman shook the member feebly, and distinctly felt the sharp edge of the long finger-nail in his palm. It was an unpleasant sensation Patching shrugged his shoulders, and made a contemptuous gesture toward the canvas with his outstretched brush. 'A mere daub,' said he. 'One step higher than painting abarn or a board fence—that's all. Yet the true artist adorns what he touches,' said Marcus.—Patching accepted the homage calmly, as one who knew that he deserved it. ' A very just and discriminating remark, Sir, I have no doubt that a person thoroughly familiar with my style would say, looking at the panorama, "It has the severe simplicity of a Patching."—I consented to paint it, as Tiffies well remembers, only on condition that I should not wholly abuse myself by abandoning the style upon which I have built up my reputa- tion.'—Tiffies, thus appealed to, corroborated the statement with a solemn bow.—The artist continued, 'Fortunately, the subject is one peculiarly adapted to my genius. For instance, the desert of Sahara

is a dead level of sand. It is a perfect type of severe simplicity in the highest sense. It exhibits no common display of gorgeous colours, such as poor artists and the ignorant crowd rejoice in. As far as the eye can see, there is a serene stretch of yellow sand, without even a blade of grass to break its awful immensity.' (The artist, being on his favourite theme, took his pipe out of his month for the first time, and spoke with warmth.) Look at that bit of desert, now. Does it not convoy a perfect idea of solitude and desolation?'—Marcos Wilke- son glanced at about ten feet of straight yellow paint (which was all of the desert of Sahara not rolled up in the canvas),

and said that it did—which was perfectly true You will note the severe simplicity here,' observed Patching No

meretricious effects. Nothing but strokes of green paint, up and down, representing the density of an African jungle. Yet how admirably these seemingly careless strokes, laid on by the hand of genius, convey the idea of DEPTH! You do not fail to notice the DEPTH, I presume?'—' I see it,' said Marcus.—' That is severe simpli- city,' replied the artist.—At this point, Marcus noticed a brown some- thing bearing a strong resemblance to the swamp stalk known among boys at the cat-taiL Excuse my ignorance of African plants,' said he ; `but what is that ?'—The artist smiled. Another happy illustration of my theory,' said he. It is the tail of alien bounding through his native jungles. Why? The effect of suggesting the lion, so to speak, is much more thrilling than that of painting him at full length. Genius ac- complishes by hints what mere talent fails to achieve by the utmost elaboration. You will not deny that that vague revelation of the lion's tail inspires a feeling of mystery and terror which would not be caused

by a full-length portrait of that king of beasts ? More lions' and elephants' tails, you observe,' continued the artist ; also more rhinoceroses' tusks. It is well to have enough of them, to illustrate the teeming life of the African jungle. Also the head of a boa con- strictor. Likewise the tail of one. Here we come to a change of scene. Mark how wonderfully a few strokes of dark-green paint, put on by the hand of genius, impart the idea of a pestiferous swamp. That odd-looking object, like a rock, is the head of a hippopotamus. A few feet beyond, you notice two things like the stumps of aquatic weeds. Those are the tails of two hippopotamuses engaged in deadly strife at the bottom of the swamp. The heads of crocodiles are thrust up here and there. Severe simplicity again.' " How utterly this allusive or suggestive style of painting failed to satisfy the exacting Yankee public we will give just a hint by one brief extract from the first public audience's re- marks:— " 'Have you no full views of alligators, Sir ?' asked a voice which Tifiles presumed, from its solemn inflection, to come from a clergyman. None at all, Sir. The African alligator persists in keeping out of sight. You never see anything but his head—except his tail, as re- presented here.' Tittles pointed with his wand to something that looked like the end of a fence rail sticking out of the water. True art, Sir, sacrifices effect for truth.'—' Certainly, Sir. Truth is what we aro all atter,' replied the clergyman. But there was an indefinable something in his voice that indicated a wish for more alligator—much more."

No one who reads these passages can fail to see a genuine and clever pupil of Dickens. Indeed, there are many other sketches in the same book, such as that of the old man who rings the fire alarm bell for the seventh district (Uncle Ith), and the sketch of the coroner's inquest as a whole, which recall most forcibly his manner and his genius. The author, too, has that tendency to slide off into the sentimental,—that delight in merrymaking, and " jolli ty,"—th at desire to get his old gentlemen into country dances and other rather inappropriate conditions for their venerablesinews, —that faint impression that there is something positively praise- worthy about fat good humour, that high moral appreciation of the desire to flirt with pretty girls (though kissing behind the door does not appear to be indigenous to the New York circle of ideas on this subject, and has consequently to be omitted from the list of sentimental particulars marked with this writer's special approbation), all of which permeate and colour Mr. Dickens' characteristic bonhommie. The greatest fault of the story is that it fades away into mere sentimentality at the end ; but if it be the first production, or one of the first productions of a young writer, it gives fair promise, with all its shortcomings and defects, of adding a humourist of some calibre and an

observer of very keen perceptions, to the literary notabilities of the Northern States of America.