ME. TUPPER'S TALES.

FROM ARISTOTLE to BACON, natural philosophy was pursued by books and brain-spinning, instead of observation and experiment. The truths originally collected by the great Grecian, and occasion? ally added to his store were so altered or overlaid by hypotheses and invention, that wit had once been true in fact ceased to be so in representation ; and the more marvellous any thing was reported, the more it was esteemed. This not only diverted the mind from the study of nature, but perverted its power of perception : ob- servation upon principle was a lost art ; and even those occasional remarks upon scattered facts' which could not be avoided by any one with eyes, almost ceased to be useful to philosophers. Nature was put aside for the bold fiction of a compiler, or her exceptional facts transmogrified and magnified into general laws. Hence

"Men whose heads

Do grow beneath their shoulders,"

with all the other standing miracles, and frequent portents; that abound in old books of natural history and physical science; abso- lute lies, or truths perverted into fictions.

The practice discarded by philosophy is still continued in lite- rature, more especially by versifiers and novelists. Most of their books are made out of books or brains, instead of by a close and repeated observation of nature, such as even the tyro in natural science undertakes, to verify received truth. The shelves of a cir- culating library become the world of the novelist' and he changes into an incongruous whole the discordant morsels he picks from each. If the representations of life he substitutes for life itself were all of one kind, the method would still be bad ; because Nature is constantly changing her form, and is herself in some measure changed by the artist, in obedience to the laws of his art. But the models we speak of have none of this originality. They have themselves been made from other books, which were made from other books before them ; so that such obvious things as customs, manners, and modes of speech, are not unfrequently those of some former age, whilst conduct, character, and incidents, are still more unlike life.

Excluding playwrights, who have long since ceased even to prow fess any consideration for reality, and, like the artist, object to Nature as "putting them out," Mr. FARQUHAR TUPPER is one of the most extraordinary existing examples of native powers and lite. rary ability resorting to this mode of book-and-brain-spinning. What renders it stranger in him is, that he mostly fixes upon some

contemporary social evil, and professes to expose it by a didactic tale. The Crock of Gold handled the present state of agricultural labourers; and in the volumes before us, Heart inveighs against the material and money-making spirit of the age. When a man of real ability takes for his theme subjects so purely contemporary, be ought to have studied the persons and conduct connected with the practices he sought to reform by depicting, instead of exhibit- ing general speculations, such as an under-graduate might conceive for a prize essay. Yet nothing of this labour is visible in Mr. Tor- Pales novels. Books, books, books—and chiefly comedy, farce, and melodrama, or novels imitated from them—have furnished his events and dramatis personm. Even when current facts or his own observations have produced some original matter, its truth is changed by the habit of his mind; and what was once real ceases to be so in his representation. The only things truly his own are sentiment and composition—the opinions deduced from reflection, or the sty le in which he conveys his own ideas to the minds of other persons.

It may be said, indeed, that a didactic fiction is not favourable to the production of a good novel, because the writer is tempted to sacrifice probability of conduct to his peculiar object, and is more- over apt to introduce too much reflection, and merge the story- teller in the lecturer. Both these faults are to be fund in Mr. TUPPER, especially the last ; but they are not so conspicuous as a disten ted exaggeration which renders every thing unreal. Even when an event or character has been derived from existence, it is tortured into melodrama, and sometimes melodrama that the gods of a minor theatre would pronounce improbable. In Heart, use has been made of the "great will-forgeries "—and such a distor- tion! The elder son in The Twins, though somewhat too black and melodramatic, is still a character, not very uncommon, but out of place. He is the product of low town life, in low and adverse circumstances, and could scarcely have existed in the grade of a gentleman. These failings evidently spring from something more than a want of judgment, as they are active rather than passive. Mr. Tupeea's mind does not seem to have the slightest idea of repose. Every thing must be startling, staring, and in strong contrast : even his composition is not free from these faults.

The avowed object of The Twins is to show the misery entailed by adultery; the two brothers falling in love with a natural daugh- ter of their father, brought home from India under another name. As this child, however, turns out not to be his daughter, but a changeling, and the favoured lover marries and is happy, the in- tended lesson of the author breaks down. The true moral ele- ments contained in the story are much more numerous and ge- neral. The Twins would illustrate the folly of hasty and ill- assorted marriages, the social crime of husband and wife consent- ing to live separate for some selfish indulgence under the weak plea of future money-benefit, the evils that flow from spoiling children, the necessity of personal and special education for each individual, and the manner in which the vices of the parents influence their children. As the thin fair-complexioned youth turns out well in spite of adverse circumstances, part of these ethics are not supported: still, as the morals are inherent in the nature of the story, they cannot be altogether got rid of. The Twins also possesses variety, and some incidental passages of great power, and some scenes resembling life, together eith more matter than the author makes use of.

Heart, so far as story is concerned, is a monstrous caricature front beginning to end. A rich City knight and muckworm- drawn from old comedies or novels, and no longer existing in life— disowns his daughter for marrying a young barrister with only some two hundred a year. This money is lost by the rascality of the knight's son, who has also brought about the marriage ; and the young couple are for a time plunged into the deepest distress—the villain being eventually transported for the "will-forgery." The whole tale, however, is a tissue of absurdity beneath criticism ; though possessing, like The Twins, isolated passages of eloquence and power. As in The Crock of Gold, the merit of the book consists in scenes taken separately from the context ; and in descriptive or reflective passages, such as this on OLD MAIDS.

"Let her die an old maid." An old maid! how many unrecorded Borrows, how much of cruel disappointment and heart-cankering delay, how oftentimes unwritten tragedies are hidden in that thoughtless little phrase! Oh the mass of blighted hopes, of slighted affections, of cold neglect, and foolish contumely, wrapped up in those three syllables! Kind heart, kind heart, never use them ; neither lightly as in scorn, nor sadly as in pity : spare that ungenerous re- proach. What! canst thou think that from a feminine breast the lover, the wife, the mother, can be utterly sponged away without long yeara of bitterness ? Can Nature's mounds be cieatrized, or her soft feelings seared, without a thou- sand secret pangs? Bath it been no trial to see youthful bloom departing, and middle age creep on, without some intimate one to share the solitude of life? Ay. and the coming prospect too, bath it greater consolations than the -retrospect? Flow faintly common friends can fitl that hollow of the heart! how feebly can their kindness, at the warmest, imitate the sympathies and love of married 11:e ! And in the days of sickness, or the hour of death—to be lonely, childless, husbandless, to be lightly cared for, little missed—who can wonder that all those bruised and broken yearnings should ferment within the solitary mind, and sometimes sour up the milk of human kindness ? Be more considerate, more just, more loving to that injured heart of woman : it bath loved deeply in its day ; but imperative duty or untoward circumstances nipped those early blossoms; and often generosity towards others, or the constancy of youthful blighted love, has made it thus alone. There was an age in this world's history, and may be yet again, (if Heart is ever to be monarch of this social sphere,) when those who lived and died asJeplatha's daughter were reckoned worthily with saints and many rs. Heed thou thus of many such ; for they have offered up their hundred warm yearnings, a hecatomb of human love, to God, the betrothed of their affections ; and they move up and down among this inconsiderate world, doing good, Sisters of Charity, full of pure bene- volence, and beneficent beyond the widow's mite. Heed kinder then, and blush for very shame. 0 man and woman, looking on this noble band of ill-requited virgins, remember all their trials, and imitate their deeds; for among the legion of that unregarded sisterhood, whom you coldly call old maids, are often seen the world's chief almoners of warm unselfish sympathy, generous in mind if not in means, and blooming with the immortal youth of charity and kindliness.

There is humour, though rather artificial, in the following de- scription of a small watering-place, with a touch of Boa towards the close.

A SOUTH OP ENGLAND WATERING-PLACE,

Burleigh Singleton is a pleasant little watering-place on the Southern coast of England, entirely suitable for those who have small incomes and good consciences. The latter, to residents especially, are at least as indispensable as the former : seeing that, however just the reputation of their growing little town for superior cheapness in matters of meat and drink, its character in things regarding men and manners is quite as undeniable for preeminent dulness.

Not but that it has its varieties of scene, and more or less of circumstances too : there are, on one flank, the breezy heights, with flag-staff and panorama; on the other, broad and level water-meadows, skirted by the dark flowing Mullet running to the sea between its tortuous banks : for neighbourhood, Pacton Park is one great attraction, the pretty market-town of Eyemouth another, the everlasting never-tiring sea a third ; and, at high summer, when the Devonshire lanes are not knee-deep in mire, the nevertheless immeasurably filthy though picturesque mud-built village of Oxton.

Then, again, (and really as I enumerate these multitudinous advantages I begin to relent for having called it dull,) you may pick up curious agate pebbles on the beach, as well as coral-lines and scarce sea-weeds, good for gumming on front parlour-windows ; you may &blor whitings in the bay, and occasionally catch them ; you may wade in huge caoutcbouc boots among the muddy shal- lows of the Mullet, and shoot at cormorants and curlews ; you may walk to satiety between high-banked and rather dirty cross-roads; and, if you wilt scramble up the badge-row, may get now and then peeps of undulated country landscape.

Moreover, you have free liberty to drop in anywhere to " tiffin "—Burleigh being very indianized, and a guest always welcome: indeed, so lndianized is it, so populous in jaundiced cheeks and ailing livers, that you may openly assert, without fear of being misunderstood, (if you wish to vary your common phrase of loyalty.) that Victoria sits upon the" musnud "of Great Britain ; you may order curry in the smallest pot-house, and still be sure to get the rice well- cooked ; you may call your house-maid " ayah," without risk of warning for impertinence ; you may vent your wrath against indolent waiters in the elo- quence of " jaa, soostee "; and, finally, you may go to the library, and besides the advantage of the day before yesterday's Times, you may behold in bilious presence an affable but authoritative old gentleman, who introduces himself, "Sir, you see in me the hero of Puttymuddyfudgepoor."

Neither tale being sufficient to fill a volume, Mr. TUPPER says he has been obliged by his publisher to eke out space by additional matter. This consists of tales and articles, sometimes little better than quaint word-spinning, and sometimes ludicrous, though rather in the style of the comic song.