"English criticism has generally been unappreciative and brutal; it has dissected butterflies and humming-birds with mallet and cleaver--witness the review that murdered Keats, and witness in the letters of Charlotte Bronté the perplexity into which sensitive, conscientious genius was thrown by obstreperous, conflicting criticism. The most helpful, because most appreciative reviews, she says, came to her from France." "I suppose," said I, "that it is the dramatic element in the French character that fits them to be good literary critics. They can enter into another individuality. One would think it a matter of mere common sense, that in order to criticise justly you must put yourself for the time being as nearly as possible at the author's point of sight; form a sympathetic estimate of what he is striving to do, and then you can tell how nearly he attains his purpose. Of this delicate constructive criticism, we have as yet, it seems to me, almost no specimens in the English language. St. Beuve has left models in French, in this respect, which we should do well to imitate. We Americans are a good-natured set, and our criticism inclines to comity and good-fellowship far more than to the rude bluntness of our English neighbors; and if we could make this discriminating, as well as urbane, we should get about the right thing." Our conversation was interrupted here by Jim Fellows, who came thundering up-stairs, singing at the top of his lungs-- "If an engine meet an engine Coming round a curve,-- If it smash both train and tender, What does It deserve? Not a penny--paid to any, So far as I observe--" "Gracious, Jim! what a noise!" said I, as he entered the room with a perfect war-whoop on the chorus. "Bless my soul, man, why arn't you dressing? Arn't you going up to the garden of Eden with me to night, to see the woman, and the serpent, and all that?" he said, collaring me without ceremony. "Come away to your bower, and curl your nut-brown hair; for Time roils along, Nor waits for mortal care or bliss, We'll take our staff and travel on, Till we arrive where the pretty gals is." And thus singing, Jim whirled me down the stairs, and tumbled me into my room, and went into his, where I heard him accompanying his toilet operations with very loud selections from the last comic opera, beating time with his hair-brush in a bewildering manner. Jim was certainly a natural curiosity in respect to the eternal, unceasing vivacity of his animal spirits, which were in a state of effervesence from morning to night, frothing out in some odd freak of drollery or buffoonery. There was not the smallest use in trying remonstrance or putting on a sober face; his persistence, and the endless variety of his queer conceits, would have overcome the gravity of the saddest hermit that ever wore sackcloth and ashes.