Of “The Tower of London” we have read only some detached passages—enough to assure us, however, that the “_work_,” like Yankee razors, has been manufactured merely “to sell.” “Guy Fawkes,” the book now lying before us, and the last completed production of its author, is positively beneath criticism and beneath contempt. The design of Mr. Ainsworth has been to fill, for a certain sum of money, a stipulated number of pages. There existed a necessity of _engaging_ the readers whom especially he now addresses—that is to say the lowest order of the lettered mob—a necessity of enticing them into the commencement of a perusal. For this end the title “Guy Fawkes or The Gunpowder Plot” was all sufficient, at least within the regions of Cockaigne. As for fulfilling any reasonable expectations, derived either from the _ad captandum_ title, or from his own notoriety (we dare not say reputation) as a novelist—as for exerting himself for the permanent or continuous amusement of the poor flies whom he had inveigled into his trap—all this, with him, has been a consideration of no moment. He had a _task_ to perform, and not a duty. What were his readers to Mr. Ainsworth?—“What Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba?” The result of such a state of affairs is self-evident. With his _best_ exertions, in his earliest efforts, with all the goadings of a sickening vanity which stood him well instead of nobler ambition—with all this, he _could_ do—he _has done_—but little; and without them he has now accomplished exactly nothing at all. If ever, indeed, a novel were _less_ than nothing, then that novel is “Guy Fawkes.” To say a word about it in the way of serious criticism, would be to prove ourselves as great a blockhead as its author. _Macte virtute_, my dear sir—proceed and flourish. In the meantime we bid you a final farewell. Your next volume, which will have some such appellation as “The Ghost of Cock-Lane,” we shall take the liberty of throwing unopened out of the window. Our pigs are not all of the description called learned, but they will have more leisure for its examination than we. * * * * * _The Gift: A Christmas and New-Year’s Present for 1842. Carey and Hart: Philadelphia._