MAGAZINE WRITING.-PETER SNOOK.

IN a late number of the "Democratic Review" there appeared a very excellent paper (by Mr. Duyckinck) on the subject of Magazine Literature-a subject much less thoroughly comprehended here than either in France or in England. In America we compose now and then agreeable essays and other matters of that character, but we have not yet caught the true Magazine spirit-a thing neither to be defined nor described. Mr. Duyckinck's article, although piquant, is not altogether to our mind. We think he places too low an estimate on the capability of the Magazine paper. He is inclined to undervalue its power, to limit unnecessarily its province, which is illimitable. In fact, it is in the extent of subject, and not less in the extent or variety of tone, that the French and English surpass us to so good a purpose. How very rarely are we struck with

an

American Magazine article as with an absolute novelty how frequently the foreign articles so affect us! We are so circumstanced as to be unable to pay for elaborate compositions and, after all, the true invention is elaborate. There is no greater mistake than the supposition that a true originality is a mere matter of impulse or inspiration. To originate, is carefully, patiently, and understandingly to combine. The few American Magazinists who ever think of this elaboration at all, cannot afford to carry it into practice for the paltry prices offered them by our periodical publishers. For this and other glaring reasons we are behind the age in a very important branch of literature, a branch which, moreover, is daily growing in importance, and which, in the end (not far distant) will be the most influential of all the departments of Letters.

We are lamentably deficient not only in invention proper, but in that which is more strictly art. What American, for instance, in penning a criticism ever supposes

himself called upon to present his readers with more than the exact stipulation of his title to present them with a criticism and something beyond? Who thinks of making his critique a work of art in itself, independently of its critical opinions? a work of art, such as are all the more elaborate and most effective reviews of Macaulay? Yet these reviews we have evinced no incapacity to appreciate when presented. The best American review ever penned is miserably ineffective when compared with the notice of Montagu's Bacon, and yet this latter is, in general, a piece of tawdry sophistry, owing everything to a consummate, to an exquisite arrangement—to a thorough and just sufficiently comprehensive diffuseness, to a masterly climaxing of points-to a style which dazzles the understanding with its brilliancy, but not more than it misleads it by its perspicuity, causing us so distinctly to comprehend that we fancy we coincidein a word, to the perfection of art—of all the art which a Macaulay can wield, or which is applicable to any criticism that a Macaulay could write.

It is, however, in the composition of that class of Magazine papers which come properly under the head of Tales that we evince the most remarkable deficiency in skill. If we except, first, Mr. Hawthorne, secondly, Mr. Simms, thirdly, Mr. Willis, and fourthly, one or two others whom we may as well put mentally together without naming them, there is not even a respectably skilful tale-writer on this side the Atlantic. We have seen, to be sure, many very well-constructed stories-individual specimens—the work of American Magazinists, but these specimens have invariably appeared to be happy accidents of construction, their authors in subsequent tales having always evinced an incapacity to construct.

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We have been led to a comparison of the American with the British ability in tale-writing by a perusal of some Magazine papers, the composition of the author of Chartley" and "The Invisible Gentleman." He is one of the best of the English journalists, and has some of the happiest peculiarities of Dickens, whom he preceded in the popular favour. The longest and best of his tales, properly

so-called, is "Peter Snook," and this presents so many striking points for the consideration of the Magazinist, that we feel disposed to give an account of it in full.

Peter Snook, the hero, and the beau idéal of a Cockney, is a retail linen-draper in Bishopsgate Street. He is of course a stupid and conceited, although at bottom a very good little fellow, and "always looks as if he was frightened." Matters go on very thrivingly with him until he becomes acquainted with Miss Clarinda Bodkin, " a young lady owning to almost thirty, and withal a great proficient in the mysteries of millinery and mantua-making." Love and ambition, however, set the little gentleman somewhat beside himself. "If Miss Clarinda would but have me," says he, "we might divide the shop, and have a linendrapery side, and a haberdashery and millinery side, and one would help the other. There'd be only one rent to pay, and a double business-and it would be so comfortable, too!" Thinking thus, Peter commences a flirtation, to which Miss Clarinda but doubtfully responds. He escorts the lady to White Conduit House, Bagnigge Wells, and other genteel places of public resort-and, finally, is so rash as to accede to the proposition, on her part, of a trip to Margate. At this epoch of the narrative, the writer observes that the subsequent proceedings of the hero are gathered from accounts rendered by himself, when called upon, after the trip, for explanation.

It is agreed that Miss Clarinda shall set out alone for Margate Mr. Snook following her, after some indispensable arrangements. These occupy him until the middle of July, at which period, taking passage in the "Rose in June," he safely reaches his destination. But various misfortunes here await him- misfortunes admirably adapted to the meridian of Cockney feeling, and the capacity of Cockney endurance. His umbrella, for example, and a large brown paper parcel, containing a new pea-green coat and flowerpatterned embroidered silk waistcoat, are tumbled into the water at the landing-place, and Miss Bodkin forbids him. her presence in his old clothes. By a tumble of his own, too, the skin is rubbed from both his shins for several VOL. III.

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inches, and the surgeon, having no regard to the lover's cotillon engagements, enjoins on him a total abstinence from dancing. A cockchafer, moreover, is at the trouble of flying into one of his eyes, and (worse than all) a tall militarylooking shoemaker, Mr. Last, has taken advantage of the linen-draper's delay in reaching Margate, to ingratiate himself with his mistress. Finally, he is cut by Last, and rejected by the lady, and has nothing left for it but to secure a homeward passage in the "Rose in June."

In the evening of the second day after his departure, the vessel drops anchor off Greenwich. Most of the passengers go ashore, with the view of taking the stage to the city. Peter, however, who considers that he has already spent money enough to no purpose, prefers remaining on board. "We shall get to Billingsgate," says he, "while I am sleeping, and I shall have plenty of time to go home and dress, and go into the city and borrow the trifle I may want for Pester and Company's bill, that comes due the day after to-morrow." This determination is a source of much trouble to our hero, as will be seen in the sequel. Some shopmen who remain with him in the packet, tempt him to unusual indulgences, in the way, first, of brown stout, and, secondly, of positive French Brandy. The consequence is that Mr. Snook falls, thirdly, asleep, and, fourthly, overboard.

About dawn on the morning after this event, Ephraim Hobson, the confidential clerk and factotum of Mr. Peter Snook, is disturbed from a sound sleep by the sudden appearance of his master. That gentleman seems to be quite in a bustle, and delights Ephraim with an account of a whacking wholesale order for exportation just received. "Not a word to anybody about the matter!" exclaims Peter, with unusual emphasis. "It's such an opportunity as don't come often in a man's life-time. There's a captain of a ship-he's the owner of her, too; but never mind! there an't time to enter into particulars now, but you'll know all by-and-by- all you have to do, is to do as I tell you-so, come along!"

Setting Ephraim to work, with directions to pack up

immediately all the goods in the shop, with the exception of a few trifling articles, the master avows his intention of going into the city, "to borrow enough money to make up Pester's bill, due to-morrow." "I don't think you'll want much, sir," replied Mr. Hobson with a self-complacent air. "I've been looking about long-winded 'uns, you see, since you've been gone, and I've got Shy's money and Slack's account, which we'd pretty well given up for a bad job, and one or two more. There there's the list-and there's the key to the strong box, where you'll find the money, besides what I've took at the counter." Peter, at this, seems well pleased, and shortly afterwards goes out, saying, he cannot tell when he'll be back, and giving directions that whatever goods may be sent in during his absence shall be left untouched till his return.

It appears that, after leaving his shop, Mr. Snook proceeded to that of Jobb, Flashbill and Co. (one of whose clerks, on board the "Rose in June," had been very liberal in supplying our hero with brandy on the night of his ducking), looked over a large quantity of ducks and other goods, and finally made purchase of "a choice assortment," to be delivered the same day. His next visit was to Mr. Bluff, the managing partner in the banking-house where he usually kept his cash. His business now was to request permission to overdraw a hundred pounds for a few days.

"Humph," said Mr. Bluff, "money is very scarce; but-bless me! -yes-it's he! Excuse me a minute, Mr. Snook, there's a gentleman at the front counter whom I want particularly to speak to-I'll be back with you directly." As he uttered these words, he rushed out, and in passing one of the clerks on his way forward he whispered, "Tell Scribe to look at Snook's account, and let me know directly." He then went to the front counter, where several people were waiting to pay and receive money. "Fine weather this, Mr. Butt. What! you're not out of town like the rest of them?"

"No," replied Mr. Butt, who kept a thriving gin-shop, "no, I sticks to my business-make hay while the sun shines-that's my maxim. Wife up at night-I up early in the morning."

The banker chatted and listened with great apparent interest, till the closing of a huge book on which he kept his eye, told him that his whispered order had been attended to. He then took a gracious leave