The Press.
London, England, 1858-08-28 00:00:00

826

property as regards strangers. The only fault
we have to find is with the map, which appears
to be that of the U. K. Society ; it is on the
scale of only one-third of an inch to a mile, which
is far too small for any real convenience to a
tourist, especially if' he follows the author's advice
about pedestrian excursions.

The idea of making a handbook to the cathe-
drals of England was a good one, and it has been
well carried out by Mr. Walcott. It is so com-
mon for a traveller to stop just long enough in a
city to see its cathedral—and, indeed, there are
so many cities where there is but little else to
see except for an artist or a regular antiquarian—.
that this little book will answer the purpose of a
`guide to objects of interest' for a great part of
England. It makes no pretence of being a hand-
book to anything but the edifices themselves, and
therefore no such practical information as we
have above commended is to be found in it ; but
what it professes to do is done with conciseness,
accuracy, and good taste. In a future edition we
should recommend the author to add a slight
sketch, in a couple of pages, of the periods of
Gothic architecture ; and something in the way
of a very brief glossary would also be desirable.
Many persons would he glad to slip this slender
volume into their pocket who have no acquaint-
ance with the technical terms of architecture,
and never think of such matters except when
they come in their way, while those who under-
take a regular steeple-chase probably know
nearly as much as Mr. Walcott has to tell then.

We have great pleasure in recommending these
books, and consider that they do credit, on the
whole, to both authors and publisher.

Every Man his Own Trumpeter. By G. W.
Thornbury. Three Vols. London : Hurst
and Blackett.

No one conversant with Mr. Thornbury's
writings could have mistaken the parentage of
these three volumes, even had the author's name
not been prefixed to them. The helter-skelter
style of narrative—the jingle of spurs, helmets,
and rapiers—the gleam and glitter of velvet,
silk, and cloth of gold—the blue, orange, and
white feathers—the duels, mill6es, and escapes—
all bespeak the author of the Jacobite ballads
and lays of the Cavaliers and Roundheads. The
present novel, in fact, is one of Mr. Thornhury's
ballads iu prose. There is no attempt at pre-
serving probability—no pretence of historic
accuracy—a noble scorn of the unities, and a
reckless abnegation of the art of construction,
which challenge forgiveness by their very auda-
city. His sin is small because it is so great. We
are not obliged anxiously to balance Mr. Thorn-
bury's transgressions against his merits. The
former are so marked and flagrant, that if not
entirely condoned they would bury the latter
altogether. We must either make up our minds
at once to class Mr. Thornbury with the Pierce
Egan school of novelists, and give him up for
good, or consent to believe that his extravagances
are merely the result of high spirits and hasty
composition, and will gradually disappear as he
grows older, while his merits are intrinsic, and
will shine brighter as they are less and less
overlaid with gaudy embroidery. We cer-
tainly have derived as much pleasure from the
perusal of Mr. Thornbury's book as deters us
from pronouncing the harsher of the two verdicts.
The overwhelming censure that would follow
from a very literal and critical view of his per-
formance we somehow feel that he would scarcely
deserve. So we toss this theory of his story on
one side, and adopt the more merciful interpre-
tation, because we really have not courage to
adopt the other.
M. Caesar [De Mirabel is a "young gentle-
man of Gascony," who arrives at Paris in the
year 1687, to seek a commission in the King's
service. This he obtains—spends a season or so
in Paris as a fast young Mousquetaire—falls in
love with his cousin—joins the French army in
Italy under Catinat—distinguishes himself in the
regular way—is traduced according to rule—is
set right by a flash of lightning—marries the
pretty cousin—settles down at the chateau—and
about, as we must suppose, the year 1692 or 1693,
when France was at the height of glory and
prosperity, both externally and internally, foresees
every hour too many dreadful proofs of an
ilnpending earthquake, wkiek, ii' things do not

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