or a woman who can find
anything to shock his or her feelings in the description of Youwarkee's
bridal night deserves the commiseration of sensible people. Very
charming is the picture of the children sitting round the fire on the
long winter evenings listening wide-eyed to the ever-fresh story of
their father's marvellous adventures. The wholesome morality, the
charitableness and homely piety apparent throughout, give the narrative
a charm denied to many works of greater literary pretension. When Peter
Wilkins leaves his solitary home to live among the winged people, the
interest of the story, it must be confessed, is somewhat diminished.
The author's obligations to Swift in the latter part of the book are
considerable; and of course in describing how Peter Wilkins ordered his
life on the lonely island, he was largely indebted to Defoe. But the
creation of the winged beings is Paltock's own. It has been suggested
that he named his hero after John Wilkins, Bishop of Chester, who, among
other curious theories, had seriously discussed the question whether men
could acquire the art of flying. In the second part of his "Mathematical
Magick," the Bishop writes: "Those things that seem very difficult
and fearfull at the first may grow very facil after frequent trial and
exercise: And therefore he that would effect any thing in this kind
must be brought up to the constant practice of it from his Youth; trying
first only to use his wings in running on the ground, as an Estrich or
tame geese will do, touching the earth with his toes; and so by degrees
learn to rise higher till he shall attain unto skill and confidence.
I have heard it from credible testimony that one of our nation hath
proceeded so far in this experiment that he was able by the help of
wings to skip constantly ten yards at a time." Youwarkee spread wide her
graundee, and in an instant was lost in the clouds. Had the author given
her the motion of a goose, or even of an ostrich--bah! the thought is
too dreadful.

Judicious reader, the long winter evenings have come round, and you have
now abundance of leisure. Let the poets stand idle on the shelves
till the return of spring, unless perchance you would fain resume
acquaintance with the "Seasons," which you have not read since a boy,
or would divert yourself with Prior or be grave with Crabbe. Now is the
time to feel once more the charm of Lamb's peerless and unique essays;
now is the time to listen to the honied