Bullfrog must be literary, of course. Here
is a brave but tender-hearted Christian
gentlewoman, who sits down and writes us a
good book upon a subject that must
come home to every Christian man and
woman in this working world. Suppose
we call the book the great Patagonian
novel. Bullfrog is on the alert. He has his
pen ready nibbed, his distending apparatus
in first-rate working order. He covers the
dead walls and hoardings with gigantic
announcements of the forthcoming publication
of the great trans-Patagonian novel
—the Scavenger. Twelve million copies
sold in twelve weeks. Fifty-five thousand
cambric pocket-handerchiefs, and forty-eight
thousand phials of sal-volatile purchased in
trans-Patagonia on the first day of publication.
Everybody ought to read the
Scavenger. I read it, and don't like it.
I don't think much of the other great
Patagonian novel—the Mudlark, though it
contains that exquisitely-sentimental lyric,
Little Dirty's Song of the Rushlight. I
don't care for Gauze and Guilt, Mrs. Modely's
great Grim-Tartar novel. I yawn over Miss
Wiredraw's Passion and Pantomime, ninety-seven
thousand four hundred and eighty-six
copies of which were disposed of in the
space of three days, four hours, nine minutes,
and twelve seconds. I fall asleep over
Miss Ada Johnnycake's Tears, Treacle, and
Terror. I find in all these great novels
little but platitudes, wishy-washy sentiment,
contemptible and transparent imitations
of great exemplars, and endless, drouthy,
watery-eyed, maudlin "talkee." I reverence
real pathos and real sentiment; but
I scorn Bullfrog hiding his fat foolish face
in a pocket handkerchief (squinting over
the corner thereof at the publisher's
ledger), and weeping sham tears enough
for that larger reptile friend of his, the
crocodile.

Bullfrog is a noisome pest in every field of
literature. Young Flackus, for instance
(Horace is his Christian name), is a poet.
He writes the most delicious ditties, the most
captivating sonnets. He flings flowers of
grace, and loveliness, and humour, and
pathos, around him with the most delightful
caprice, bless him! But sometimes he has
what the French call lubies. He is dark
mysterious, hazy, vehement about nothing.
He is occasionally nonsensical. He grinds
his teeth, and is spasmodic. Bullfrog
beholds him, and instantly has the stomach-ache,
and foams at the mouth. His friends
Ragg, and Tatters, and Bævius, and Mævius,
have frightful spasms, roll on the hearthrug,
and make poetry hideous by their howlings.
Bad grammar, involved style, foggy ideas,
incoherent declamation, wordy bombast, pass (at
least, Bullfrog endeavours to make them pass)
current for poetry. Thus, too, because Viking,
the great Nordt-konig of philosophy, is strong
and terrible to look upon; because he writes
with an adamantine stylet upon a plate of
seven-times tempered steel; because he
knows what Thor said and Odin thought;
because he has so many good words and good
thoughts at his command that he is
occasionally troubled with the embarras de
richesses, and becomes complicated; Bullfrog,
who has nothing whatever to say, except
"Croak," attempts to conceal his ignorance
by the assuming to be complicated.

You are not to suppose, Bullfrog, if I
only adduce one more instance of your
ubiquity, that I am at all at a loss for
subjects, on which to vent my just indignation
against you. There are things I know about
you, my friend, connected with the Beer
question, the general Sunday question, the
Education question, the Colonisation question,
the Prison discipline question—things in
which you have manifested enough rancour,
ignorance, and presumption, to bring you a
thousand times to shame, if shame you had,
or knew, or ever heard of.

In common with many other free-born
Britons I have great liking and respect for
public amusements. I like the sound, sterling,
nervous English drama—the good play, played
by good actors. But if my friend Charles
Bodger chooses to get up the second part of
Henry the Sixth, at the Royal Pantechnicon,
with the most gorgeous accessories of scenery,
costume, and decorative furniture in general,
I will not quarrel with him, nor will I stand
out for the text, the mere text, and nothing
but the text. I am for catholicity; but for
toleration in catholicity. Rope dancing is
good in its place. Tumbling and posturing
are good (though painful) in their place. I
like to see the clown steal sausages at
Christmas, but not in the awful play
scene in Hamlet. Richardson's show is
admirable; Horse-riding is capital. Let
Bullfrog fool himself with fire-eaters,
sword-swallowers, ribbon-vomiters, conjurors, acrobats,
learned pigs, live armadillos, and spotted
girls. But do not let Bullfrog tell me that the
drama is to be revived through the agency of
the live armadillo, or that the only hope
of the admirers of Shakespeare, rests on the
spotted girl. Neither shall Bullfrog revive
the drama by crystal curtains, distributions of
soup, coals, and counterpanes to the ruffians
of Low Lane, or presentations of a glass
of ale and a sandwich to every visitor to
the pit, and a boiled leg of mutton and
trimmings to every occupant of a private
box. Herein, as in his other presentments,
Bullfrog swells and swells exceedingly; and
when he is swollen to his largest dimensions
—bursts!

  Next Week will be Published the THIRTEENTH PART of
                         NORTH AND SOUTH
            By the AUTHOR OF MARY BARTON.