brow, the dim eye, the withered cheek, the wasted limbs, that cannot bear without additional support, even that thin frame, which bends over them to the earth that is soon to receive all that is not yet wholly dead and consumed in the half living skeleton; could we say to him, as he gazes, almost with terror, on this mixed semblance of death and life, the form on which you are now looking is your own, how incredulous would be his little heart to our prophetic intimation!"—

We regret, that we have not seen Mr. Browne's volume. But judging even from the specimen before us, (though perhaps it is not the one which we should have selected as the best) we consider him a man of fine feeling and a most accomplished versifier.

Apart from the injustice which is done to works of genius, from this passion for humour, it has another effect equally obvious. It leads the critic to pounce on inferior writers, as they furnish him with the best subjects for the favourite exercise of his professional sagacity. This, indeed, is not attended with any injury to the public, except so far as it re-acts on their taste,—but it does no good. We might furnish our readers with abundant instances from modern reviews. We think, however, that they will at once admit our assertion, and accept of the following morceau from Mr. Rymer as an equivalent. The passage on which he animadverts, is as follows,

"Cependant le soleil se couche dans son lit,
Que luimême de pourpre et de laque embellit;
Et la nuit qui survient aussi triste que sombre,
De toutes les couleurs ne fait qu'une grand' ombre,

Avec le sommeil le silence la suit,

L'un ami du repos, l'autre ennemi du bruit”-Le Moyne. "Here again," says our old friend, "are words in abundance. He cannot tell us that 'tis midnight, till he first have informed us, that the Sun is gone to bed, to a fine bed of his own trimming; and this is matter enough for the first two verses. Then we are told, that the Night of all colours makes but one great shade; and this suffices for the second couplet. Aussi triste que sombre is an expression the French are so delighted with, they can scarce name any thing of night without it. The third couplet is much what—as in a bill of fare

Item-Beaf and Mustard,

That friend to the stomach, this a foe to th' nose—

the second line in both being alike impertinent." Poor Le Moyne was not worth noticing.

2. There is another consideration that materially affects the deci sions of our literary censors. We mean political feelings. This is so obvious, indeed, that it requires no proof. But we think, that the best way to express our abhorrence of such a system, is to mention its effects on John Keats, whose beautiful poems, though they have not yet risen to that degree of celebrity, which they are ultimately sure of, may probably be familiar to many of our readers. We do not deny, that they have considerable defects. But these might certainly have been forgiven in so young a man,-particularly, as they are far more than overbalanced by beauties. Unfortunately, he happened to be on very intimate terms with Mr. Leigh Hunt, and to hold what are call

ed "liberal opinions" in politics; and this was quite enough, in some influential quarters, to decide the fate of his poetry. He was sneered at for being an apothecary, &c. and misrepresented beyond all bounds, while his sensibility was so acute that "at the recital of a noble action or a beautiful thought, his eyes would suffuse with tears and his mouth trembled *.' But he had few to take his part, for he "had no rent-roll," only "the fairest flowers o' the spring, daffodils, pale primroses, carnations and streak'd gillyflowers;" and, if his life was not shortened by the constant persecution, to which he was exposed, it was, at least, rendered miserable. Reader! the subject of such acrimony was a young man, scarcely twenty, who could write lines like these ;

"A CASEMENT high and triple-arch'd there was,
All garlanded with carven imag'ries

Of fruits and flowers and bunches of knot-grass,
And diamonded with panes of quaint device,
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings;
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries,
And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,

A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings.
"Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast,
As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon;
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest;
And on her silver cross, pale amethyst,
And on her hair, a glory, like a saint;
She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest,
Save wings, for heaven;-Porphyro grew faint;
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.
"Anon his heart revives; her vespers done,
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;
Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees ;
Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weeds,
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees,
In fancy, fair Saint Agnes in her bed,
But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled.

"Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay,
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;
Flown like a thought until the morrow-day
Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain;
Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray;
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,
As though a rose should shut and be a bud again."

• Hunt's Life of Byron.

3. A third cause for the perversion of criticism is equally obviousthe influence of "that metall whereby," as old Froissart says, "love is attayned both of gentlemen and pore souldiers *." This, we believe, is carried to an extent, which no man with a good heart could form any idea of in detail. Publishers contrive not only to get their own works praised, but to make pretty severe reprisals on their competitors. The principle of Wakefield's dislike to Porson-viz. “ quod occasionem quæ subvenerit, meos labores collaudandi, omnino prætermisit," has its weight in such cases, though all critics may not admit it so freely.

Now, what has been the consequence of so many abuses, but a general distrust in the criticism of the present day? The public, notwithstanding the wit, scarcely know what they should believe, even in our most respectable reviews; for, we have some notorious instances, that men of talents are not superior to the influence of private and political interests. We are far from denying, that some of the finest criticisms which were ever written, on works addressed to the imagination, have appeared in our times. But the defects, which we have dwelt on, are extremely prevalent, and we fear that it will be long before they are got rid of.

SONG. TUNE-" Bonnie Dundee."

BY D. J. LIETCH.

AWAY Wi' the maddening joys o' the city,

Where folly drives faster than mirth can come speed,
Gie me a sweet hour in the gloamin wi' Katie
'Mang the auld castle woods on the banks o' the Tweed.
My faulden plaid round her,
Her cheek press'd to mine,

And the bright glance o' love, streamin' saft frae her e'e!
Oh! what can compare wi'

The bliss that I share wi'

My sweet blooming Kate, in the woodland sae free!

We needna to speak, for the mavis is telling

The theme o' our love in the warm wooded vale ;
And I feel her heart beating, her saft bosom swelling,
As aften we linger to listen the tale.

In yon auld ruin'd castle, †

Mid revel and wassal,

What knights hae been joyous, and ladies been gay!
But could they compare wi'

The bliss that I share wi'

My sweet blooming Kate, at the close o' the day!

• Lord Berners' Translation.

† Norham-the old extensive ruin of a once formidable border Castle.

AN INQUIRY INTO THE MERITS OF THE SCOTTISH

NOVELS.

Continued from page 277.

IF our author is nearly faultless in the conduct of his novels, full of poetry and nature in his descriptions, in his delineation of character he is admirable. In this point of view, by no author ancient or modern, I will not even except our great Dramatist himself, has he been surpassed. I say this of the generality of his characters, but let us enquire into particulars, and, first into his manner of delineating his heroes and heroines. In the choice of these he is far more fortunate than any of the great novelists who have preceded him. Many of their heroes have but an indifferent character. Tom Jones is by no means a model for imitation, and Roderick Random, to say the best of him, is little better; Joseph Andrews is a serving man of not exceedingly good repute, and Humphrey Clinker a curious compound of simplicity, activity and methodism. Sometimes, indeed, a novelist makes his hero more respectable, but then, in many cases, the error lies on the other side, and he is made a paragon of excellence. It was left to the author of Waverley to restore his heroes to a state more conformable to nature-to surround them with qualities really estimable, but not to such a degree as to make us believe, that it would be in vain to look for the like among mankind. It has often been asserted, that between the different heroes of these novels there exists a very great similarity; that Waverley-Ivanhoe-Morton-Quentin Durward-Julian Peveril-Mordaunt Merton, are just copies of the same individual placed in different circumstances. Now, in some respects, a rigid critic may certainly perceive a sameness in their tone of thinking, but I am persuaded that critics go too far when they make the assertion alluded to, and that it ought to be received only with some limitations. Among our author's heroes there are certain points in which their characters coincide, and even the current of their lives and fortunes is not always unlike. In most cases we find a young man setting out in the world-meeting with various accidents in his career-but at last finishing it in much the same manner. Now, upon these prominent similarities, the mind lays firm hold, is always comparing one hero with another, and, by consequence, we are hardly to wonder at the circumstance of its finding them more alike than they really are, discovering or fancying it discovers resemblances where they do not exist. But let us call up before our minds any two heroes of our author, let us place them in juxtaposition, and then ask ourselves the question whether we may fearlessly call them alike. When we read of Waverley among the mountains of Scotland, is the idea we have of him at all similar to our conceived notion of the mailed warrior at the lists of Ashby-dela-Zouche? or can we think of the Scottish adventurer Q. Durward and the young man at the court of king James and pronounce them to be the same individual? As I have already hinted, it requires but little ingenuity to discover between them some points of resemblance, but they that are so disposed may find grounds for making a similar remark with regard to the heroes of Shakespeare himself; may say

VOL. I.

2 F

that Macbeth and Richard are much alike, and that Romeo would have acted just as Hamlet did, had he been placed in similar circum

stances.

But after all, it must be allowed that the characters of his heroes are not always the best drawn-our author's genius appears to greater advantage in delineating the other Dramatis Persona' who act in his novels. His characters are not few in number-they are scattered about with all the profuseness and variety of nature. They do not come upon us as so many duplicates of the same original-each has his own point of difference from another, the tones of thinking among them are perfectly distinct, each speaks in a language fitted only to his own condition. Our author's talent at personal delineation is really wonderful, but never more so than when he touches upon any one that figures in history. Take for example king James as he is depicted in the Fortunes of Nigel, and there will be found sufficient reason for this remark. The self-important yet kind-hearted monarch starts up before the imagination in the very manner we conceive he appeared in real life, surrounded with all his foibles and weaknesses, and not unattended by the virtues we know existed in his curiously compounded character. We see him not only as a king, but, divested of the splendour of royalty, we can view him as a man. No character was ever more exquisitely drawn than this;-we see not only the grand traits and predominating features of his mind, but each singu larity attracts our notice, and conspires to render our ideas of this monarch still more perfect and natural. England's Elizabeth also appears as a woman, as well as a stately and decisive queen; and the eleventh Louis of France rises before us in form as palpable, as when he existed on earth, with all his superstitious fears, mistrustful suspicions and political cunning. There is something, too, in such characters which renders them particularly attractive. We know that they actually existed, we have read the events of their reigns, we desire to become more closely intimate with their individual character-and this excites an interest superior to that we feel for such as are purely fictitious.

The inferior, though no less important characters, in these novels are all drawn by the same masterly hand, and with equal originality of delineation. Whether he represents cold-blooded villany in the shape of a Varney or Rashleigh Osbaldiston, honest rusticity as a Dandie Dinmont, learning and absence of mind as a Dominie Samson, a purseproud yet good-natured merchant as a Scroggie Touchwood, the foppery of the Elizabethan age as a Sir Percie Shafton, a projecting agriculturist as a Triptolemus Yellowley, or hypocrisy as an Andrew Fairservice, we must equally admire the accuracy of the deline ations, and the powers of the mind which could strike out so much variety. In the grotesque way our author is inimitable, although his attempts in this are not very numerous. The taciturn Dumbiedykes is ludicrous in the extreme, and so is the redoubted captain of Knockdunder. But no personification of the ludicrous that was ever yet attempted can surpass that of Dugald Dalgetty in the Legend of Montrose. That worthy is ludicrous enough, take him just as he appears in the novel-a grotesque mixture of intrepid daring, conceit and self-sufficiency, but how increased must our desire to smile become,