much the same way by all his friends, and gained more knowledge of the world in half a day than he did all the rest of his life.

6

As he was thus plunged into the blackest despair, he saw advancing an old-fashioned sort of calash or tilted-cart, with leather curtains, which was followed by four enormous waggons well loaded. In the chaise was a young man coarsely clothed; he had a countenance round and fresh, breathing all the complacency of cheerfulness: his wife, a little brunette, fat, but not disagreeably so, was jolted in beside him; the vehicle did not move like the carriage of a petit-maitre, but afforded the traveller sufficient time to contemplate the Marquis, motionless and abyssed in grief as he stood. Eh! good God!' cried the, rider, I do think that is Jeannot.' At this name the Marquis lifted up his eyes; the chaise stopped. It is too true, it is Jeannot,' sighed the Marquis. The fat little fellow made but one jump of it, and flew to embrace his old schoolfellow. Jeannot recognized Colin; and shame and tears covered his face. You have abandoned me,' said Colin; but though you are a great Lord, I will love you for ever.' Jeannot, confused and heart-broken, related to him with many sobs a part of his story. Come to the inn where I lodge, and tell me the rest there,' said Colin; 'embrace my little wife, and then let's go and dine together.'

They all three set forward on foot, their baggage following behind. What is the meaning of all this equipage? is it yours?' says Jeannot. Yes, it is all mine and my wife's. We are just arrived from the country, where I have the management of a good manufactory of tin and copper; I have married the daughter of a rich dealer in utensils which are necessary both to great and small: we work hard; God has prospered us: we have never changed our condition; we are happy; and we will assist our friend Jeannot. Be a Marquis no longer; all the greatness in the world is not to be compared to a friend. You shall go back into the country with me; I will teach you our trade; it is not very difficult; I will make you my partner, and we will live merrily in the very corner of the earth where we were born.'

The astonished Jeannot felt himself divided between grief and joy, between affection and shame; and said to himself: All my fashionable friends have betrayed me, and Colin, whom I despised, alone comes to my relief.' What an in

struction!

The goodness of Colin's soul elicited from the

breast of Jeannot a spark of nature which all the world had not yet stifled; he felt himself unable to abandon his father and mother. 'We'll take care of your mother,' said Colin; ' and as to your father, who is in prison, I understand those matters a little; his creditors, when they see he has nothing to pay, will make up matters for a very trifle; I'll undertake to manage the whole business.' Colin quickly released the father from prison; Jeannot returned to the country with his parents, who resumed their former profession; he married a sister of Colin's, who, being of the same disposition as her brother, made him very happy; and Jeannot the father, Jeannot the mother, and Jeannot the son, now saw that happiness was not to be found in vanity.

J. G. LOCKHART.

THE time has long since passed away, when the labours of the poet would have been looked upon as ignoble in comparison with those exercises which make us joyous in the performance, and vigorous in the consequences." The 'squire of other days, following, on his paternal acres, those robust pursuits which had constituted the enjoyment of each successive sire and son, may have viewed, with contempt, an art which, in his opinion, seemed to limit its followers to the dignified alternative of counting their fingers for a verse, or-scratching their heads for a rhyme; but even in classes the least intellectual, a very different opinion has long been entertained regarding performances which have immortalized their authors. It is doubtful whether the same remark will apply, with equal force, to that species of literature constituting the most valuable addition made in modern times to the literary treasures invented from the Greeks and Romans. Fictions intended to represent the manners and character of mankind at large, affecting us by the relation of misfortunes which may befall ourselves or those around us, and composed in a style intelligible by every capacity, might be expected to meet with approbation from the unlettered as well as the learned, the rigid sectarian as well as the enlightened philosopher. But thousands may be found who regard a NOVEL as the most unfailing substitute yet selected by the arch-fiend, since he thought fit to discontinue his visits to this earth in proper person. To account for what we are disposed to consider an uncharitable prejudice, is inconsistent with our present May it not, in a great measure, be owing to the

purpose.

insipidity and trifling which characterize the countless host still dustily arrayed on the shelves of circulating Libraries? One volume in a thousand of these may, indeed, repay the toil of perusal, by presenting occasional beauties: but to their admirers, if any such there be, we would take the liberty of applying the description given by love-lorn Musidorus in the Arcadia, when comparing his thoughts to sheep, he says,

On barren sweets they feed, and feeding starve.

At all events, many of the ephemeral productions called into light by the splendid success of those who can rank with Fielding or Mackenzie, had now been undeserving of notice, were it not that, in some quarters, they have been instrumental in attaching undeserved odium to the works of our Standard Novelists. Within the last ten years, however, this prejudice has been fast giving way: and few have more successfully contributed to its final removal, than the author of VALERIUS. Should the report which attributes this work to MR LOCKHART be founded in truth, Glasgow may be proud to reckon him amongst her sons. The familiarity with ancient customs, the intimacy with every nook of the Eternal City, and the critical as well as philosophical acquaintance with Latin writers displayed in this (well named) Roman Story, might have qualified its author for composing tomes that would have entitled him to rank among the most illustrious of German illustrators. Happily for the general reader, he has chosen the less dignified, though more difficult task of imparting the result of his acquirements in a form which almost raises the mere English scholar to a level with the most refined cultivator of the languages of antiquity. In perusing it, we feel as when introduced to some stately gallery. The mouldering banners, the massive armour,— the frowning portraits of those who have long slumbered in the dust, transport the beholder to the scenes of other years.

So, in Valerius, the curtain which shadows the past seems to be withdrawn. The magnificence, the stateliness of ancient Rome, pass in review before us. The barbarities exhibited for the amusement of its populace, the studied luxury of its palaces, the stir and tumult of its forum-are seen in colouring so vivid as to fall little short of reality.

REGINALD DALTON, by the same author, we have somewhere seen pronounced to be, of all the novels which have appeared of late years, the one which comes nearest to Ivanhoe and Anastasius. But it is absurd to institute a comparison, where there can be no resemblance. Though possessed of surpassing merits, it can never rival two productions, which, if we except Hajji Baba, are unequalled for conveying an exact delineation of national manners. Its chief merit seems to lie in the animated sketches given of manners as they exist at one of the English universities. These are said to be so faithful, that, in the same way as the Present for an Apprentice is put into the hands of inexperienced youths when first about to encounter the temptations of the metropolis, the trials of Reginald may warn an embryo Oxonian of the dangers likely to beset him in the course of his noviciate. Of Helen Hesketh, the heroine,who makes us acquainted with the beautiful lines beginning,

The Rhine! the Rhine! be blessings on the Rhine!
St Rochus bless the land of love and wine!-

said to have become, through the genius of the immortal Haydn, the God-Save-the-King of Germany,-every reader will long retain a remembrance: and seldom will he visit Caroline Park, where Reginald first told his 'tale of love," without thinking of the work in which that lovely scene is mentioned.

With some defects in style, ADAM BLAIR can boast of merits which amply atone for the absence of minor graces. We here meet with little variety of character or incident;