in closing the book, notwithstanding the author's certificate that his heroine was then perfectly happy, is of the most cheerless and uncomfortable nature. Now we confess, we have a great dislike to a monotony of misery. We like to look at the bright side of things; and however doubtful we may conceive the usual axiom of novel writers to be," that virtue, even in this life, is its own reward,' we hold, that he forgets his duty to society, who, by representing virtue and goodness as perpetually contending with and vanquished by distress and misfortune, virtually inculcates an opposite doctrine.

The conception of these distresses, too, we think, does little credit to the ingenuity of the author. There is something in the idea of death so deeply and universally interesting, something which appeals so irresistibly to the general mind, that, even in the hands of the worst writer, it is scarcely possible that the description of the death of a fellow-creature should not, in some measure, excite our sympathy. But then, exactly in proportion to the certainty of its effects in all cases, must the merit of an author, who has recourse to this source of excitement, be diminished; for what any one can do, no one can claim any very great merit for performing. Now, this commonplace trick recurs perpetually. It is, in fact, the origin of almost all the trials to which Margaret Lindsay is exposed. The author cuts off his characters like a pestilence. The father and mother, the two sisters, the grand-uncle, one husband, and two lovers of Margaret Lindsay, are added to the bills of mortality in the course of this work,-" besides women and children," with whom the heroine happens to be rather disagreeably connected. All this, we confess, appears to us rather too much in the style of the amusements of Muley Bugentuf;" and we regret that one, who is so capable of better things, should have descended to the use of so hackneyed an expedient.

But disapproving, as we do, of some of the principles on which this novel is constructed, we feel that there is a charm about the work to which we should be sorry to be insensible. There is such a spirit of tender feel

ing breathed over the whole, it is so conversant with pure and gentle emotions,-it presents so many amiable views of the human heart, that we shut our eyes willingly to the occasional Germanisms, both of sentiment and expression, which a critical eye would easily detect in this sketch of Scottish manners. The heroine, Margaret Lyndsay, is a beautiful image of patient, enduring tenderness, a Scottish Una, still upheld in all her distresses by the spirit of truth and religion. The old miser, Daniel Craig, is well drawn, and the little sketch of the dying enthusiast of Lamington Braes is beautifully touching.

On the whole, we take leave of the work with feelings of kindness towards the author. It reads as if it were the production of a refined and amiable mind. Its greatest beauty

consists in its tenderness and delica cy, and its greatest drawback is a certain methodistical air, which occasionally suggests to us the ideas of an overgrown tract-Leigh Richmond, and the Dairyman's Daughter.

The last of these performances we are called upon to notice, at present, is "Reginald Dalton," incomparably the best of the three, and exhibiting talents, if not genius, of a very superior kind. To those who have dozed over the sombre prosing of "Valerius," or sickened at the gloating sensuality and cant of" Adam Blair," the volumes before us may present themselves in a questionable shape, and the unredeemed dulness of the one, and the disgust excited by the other, may conjure up prejudices likely, in some instances, at least, to deprive the author of his just meed of praise. But, in pronouncing an honest and impartial opinion, we must turn such intruders out of doors, and take care that we do not travel out of the record. Reginald Dalton is unquestionably a work of talent and merit, betraying acuteness and closeness of observation, written with spirit and vigour, and containing scenes, in point of dramatic effect, second only to some of the happiest and most successful in the works of the "Great Unknown" himself. With a few exceptions, the characters are brought

out and developed with discrimination and success; the style is, upon the whole, correct, nervous, and rather severe; the catastrophe is evol ved without much unnecessary trickery or perplexment; and the general tendency of the tale is, in our estimation, perfectly innocuous. The Vicar of Lannwell is really a redeeming impersonation, and entitled to the greater praise; as his character, which is preserved in perfect keeping throughout, in almost no instance that we recollect of runs into that of his archetype the Vicar of Wakefield, but possesses a complete and undoubted identity; which shows that the author had a just conception of the difficulties he had to encounter in following Goldsmith, and talents equal to the task of surmounting them. We pity the person, if such there be, who does not feel a deep sympathy for the quiet, unobtrusive virtue, and strong paternal affection, for which this good man is distinguished; and who can resist the influence of the scene-certainly the most powerful in the work-where the father visits the son in prison after his duel with Chisney?

At the same time, we cannot help feeling that Ralph Macdonald is a little overstrained and artificial; but his penetration is so great, his mother-wit so strong, his acuteness so keen, and so seldom at fault, that the reader cannot chuse but be surprised and pleased. The old priest is also a capital fellow in his way; while there is a purity, simplicity, and truth, combined with much of that passive heroism peculiar to the finer specimens of the female character, about Ellen Hesketh, which take hold of the imagination and the heart, and create a deep interest in her fortunes. The whole race of the Catlines belong to that wellknown tribe whom Novelists, from time immemorial, have held in a species of helotism; they are mere pieces of machinery, introduced first for the perplexment, and ultimately for the benefit of the leading characters, to whose higher destiny, of course, they yield, after their schemes have been baffled, their arts exposed, and their devices turned against themselves. Sir Charles, however, is one of the most timid, squeamish, un

enterprizing ruffians we have ever met with; and the vassalage in which his secret marriage bound him to the crafty Macdonald, seems to stand in the author's way, and certainly impairs the energy of the character in the detail of the story.

But Chisney is by far the most finished portrait of the group, and is sketched with a bold, free, and powerful hand. His interviews with young Dalton, and the artifices he practises to upset his resolutions of sobriety and application, are admirably given: his wit also is keen, sarcastic, and abundant; and he wields that dangerous but envied weapon, with the reckless and unthinking spirit, too common to those to whom nature has entrusted it. The Oxford Rows are likewise described so much con amore, and with the quorum-magna-pars-fui feeling, that this part of the work will hardly fail to be read with supreme delight on the other side of the Tweed, and by all who cherish pleasant recollections of those days of fun, frolic, and fagging, spent under the venerable shade of Alma Mater.

The

The faults of this production, like its merits, are prominent. reader is bored to death with Oxford and Oxonians, though, in his incessant eulogies, it is difficult to discover whether the author be serious or in jest; for, if his account of the system of University tuition, and the style of life pursued by all those students who have money in both pockets, be any thing near the truth, Oxford is precisely the last place in the universe where any parent would send his son to be educated. All the "calumnies against Oxford," which have been charged against the Edinburgh Review, were a joke to the picture drawn of that huge mass of over-fed pedantry and dulness exhibited in the volumes of Reginald Dalton. It is to be regretted, too, that in many places it betrays an asperity and bitterness of spirit, and a proneness to indulge in political vituperation, which, however they may be relished by the admirers of a certain periodical, are singularly misplaced in a work of this kind, and the more to be deplored, as they cannot but injure its popularity, and excite prejudices productive of no good to the author's

reputation. These overflowings of gall, it is true, are, in general, exceed ingly harmless; but they are not the less apparent on that account. We approach the tiger in his cage with perfect security; but we are not the less convinced of the innate ferocity of the animal in the crib: we trust not to him, but to the ribs of iron or steel with which he is restrained, and laugh at his growlings with composure and tranquillity. At the same time, we are aware that the author may plead great examples in his justification. If the Covenanters have been quietly held up to ridicule in a novel, there is no reason why the Whigs should fare better in a similar vehicle, and the sooth to say, they have fewer claims to indulgence, as they are commonly ready enough to pay back the obligation with interest: but there is little harm in suggesting to the author before us, (to whose general merits we have borne a hearty and willing testimony,) that he did wrong in appropriating, without acknowledgment, a repartee ascribed to Mr John Clerk, when addressing the highest law-officer in this United Kingdom, seeing he holds Whigs of all dimensions in such utter contempt and abhorrence, at least if he may be taken at his word, which, after all, is not, perhaps, what he intends.

In the next place, the moral effect of Reginald Dalton, (which, upon the whole, is good,) would not have in any degree been impaired, had the author manifested less sympathy with tippling, guzzling, gormandizing, and certain other practices which may be endured in a wild youth at Oxford, the proper place, according to the author, for the display of such accomplishments in perfection,-but which it is almost discreditable in one of the togati of our Courts of Law to chronicle with such fulness of heart and superabundance of glee. We are far from saying that there is any thing very wrong in all this, or from meaning to describe the author as de grege Epicuri porcum; but we do say, that, in this temperate region, people are disposed to make but small allowances for such vivid extacies, and such warm recollections.

Nor, in the last place, would it have been amiss had the author more

VOL. XIII.

carefully avoided identifying himself with certain articles which have appeared elsewhere, and which, from the freedom with which not only their tone and spirit, but even their jokes and witticisms have been transferred to the pages of the work before us, we must now consider, upon the best evidence, as from the pen of the author of "Valerius" and " Adam Blair." We are not of the number who view this sub luce malignâ : as a matter of vulgar, common-place prudence, it is more the affair of the author than any body else: he is entitled to bring into the light, or cast into the shade, whatever he pleases: but there are persons to whom Reginald Dalton would have afforded a more unmixed pleasure had it appeared in an individual and independent form, and been less (in many parts, at least) the echo of compositions which have made few men wiser, and no man better. As it is, however, it would be absolute drivelling, or worse, to deny the author his just modicum of praise. His range is limited, but within his peculiar sphere he is admirable. His dialogue is smart and piquant; his conception of character clear and distinct; the tone of his narrative sprightly, careless, and sarcastic. He has an eye for the oddities, eccentricities, and infirmities, rather than for the amiable and virtuous qualities of men; but when he chooses, he can touch a higher string, as he has evinced in the prison-scene already alluded to, which is a masterpiece of its kind,—and in several of the scenes where Ellen Hesketh figures in the fore-ground. It ought also to be mentioned, to his credit, that he seems to cherish an immeasureable contempt for that puling, sickening, sentimental cant, and those monstrosities of feeling and character, by means of which some of his contemporaries endeavour to produce effect, and to pass current as men of genius and "power." In a word, Reginald Dalton is, without all question, the best of this author's performances, and he, of all the tribe who have followed in the wake of the "Great Unknown," approaches the nearest, in spirit, force, and originality, to his unrivalled model and prototype. B

Nov. 15, 176—,

I BREAKFASTED yesterday with our Humanity Professor, Dr Bung. The company consisted of a German Doctor; a Mr Kelly, a student, from Ayrshire; and myself. Dr Schaevver, a true German, pot-bellied, piper-cheeked, and rosy-gilled, was in the midst of a long story, when I entered the room, of a brother Professor of his who had published a Greek Grammar. Though the story was a long one, as my watch confess ed-and capital, as Dr Bung often ejaculated-and tiresome, as I can bear witness-and indifferent, as Mr Kelly's eyes intimated; though its digressions, and episodes, and perorations, were innumerable-nay, though the German hinted, and winked, and shrugged, and beat the bush, and detailed, and abridged, and smiled, and nodded to admiration, of him or his story I cannot give you the smallest account. I was so much occupied in gazing at Mr Kelly, I heeded not his raven locks, his dark countenance, nor his majestic stature, though to any of these the proudest beauty of Åyrshire might have paid reverence; the gloomy lightning which played round his large black eyes engrossed my soul. It seemed not gnawing sorrow, nor black despair, nor withering hopelessness, but an insanity, composed of these ingredients, appeared to have fastened on his spirit, and to draw him down to the dust. Never did I see so striking an expression of countenance ! never did I feel so intense a desire to become acquainted with any body as with its owner!

Nov. 20, 176—, 'Twas the heir of Kellynch with with whom I breakfasted yesterday: who could have ever thought that plain Tom Fleming, of nothing, should have sat at the same table, and ate from the same dish, with the great, and the rich, and the proud Kelly of Kellynch? This learning is surely a good thing, since it knocks down the pretensions of rank in such a comfortable manner.

[In several intermediate letters, Mr Fleming describes the progress of his intimacy with Mr Kelly, and hints, that the melancholy of his friend is owing to an oppressive fear of death, which haunts him continually; as they are not of general interest, we shall omit them, and pass on to the following:]

April 5, 176—.

I supped with Mr Kelly last night. His tutor, being to preach at Crumnock to-morrow, had already set out, so that we had the whole evening to ourselves. After supper, as we sat in a careless, pick tooth way, over our wine, Kelly said, ""Tis a strange world this; every thing in it seems to be created only to be dissolved. But what is more strange, though every body believes that death is certain, few are seemingly disturbed by it. Blunt and dull must the feelings of the multitude be, who think lightly and seldom on so important a subject. I am always ('tis curious, Fleming) oppressed by a strange feeling, an earthy, clammy sensation, which continually reminds me of the grave, and curses me with a neverdying death. Once I flattered myself that this was owing to my Christian and well-governed intellect, which would never let me forget that life is short; but now a governing belief, arising from what I have heard and read, pervades me, that this melancholy is owing to a diseased state of my digestive organs, a constitutional malady which will soon bring me to an early tomb. Look at my countenance; 'tis black and bilious: nay, laugh not, Fleming, for I speak to you the words of truth and soberness; were the verity of this not deeply engrained in my soul, I would not even whisper it to you, to whom I know it must give pain. But as I cannot conceal from myself, I would not conceal from you, that my time on earth will be but short. To be sure, I have ever yet enjoyed the best health; but as my time will be short, my warning will probably be proportionally shorter.

Bilious fevers make but brief work. Oh, Fleming, death is awful! when I think of this body, fair as it is now, soon to be devoured by the worms, I cannot but shudder with horrible apprehension. When the vault at Kellynch was last unlocked, the coffin of my uncle was opened by mistake; it was opened six months after he died;-Good God! what a sight saw I there! his flesh had gone, his fat was just dissolving, his corpulence, on which he prided himself much when living, afforded a lodging-place to the most loathsome animals; worms innumerable were creeping in and out,-rats and moles were burrowing and feeding on his flesh.

"I see you would comfort me; I am past comfort; my thoughts are all cast in the same mould,-they are all alike melancholy, and gloomy, and ominous. I cannot smile, for I see Death continually hot in his pursuit of me: I try to put him to flight; I hunt, I study, I pray; but he rides quicker than I can; he mingles in every dance ;-when I pray, and attempt to fix my thoughts and affections in heaven, he pulls me down to hell, and shews me the devil in the distance. Every thing I put in practice which can procure me a present extacy, in lieu of a future woe; I drink wine to excess, but my revellings are all solitary and gloomy; I swallow opium, but this, which procures visions of phrenzied merriment to all, presents nothing to me but exaggerated horrors of sepulchres and charnel-houses. I study medicine, to make myself familiar with disease; but it has only added to the range of my contemplation: my strength and courage make me be welcome to the parties of medical students who exhumate the dead: willingly do I attend them in their midnight sacrileges, hoping to become familiar with death; but I have ever yet shrunk from the sight of a corpse. At our last meeting, while they (for I only attend with firearms) were preparing their instruments to disinter their victim, we were discovered by a party of watchmen. I fled to the cathedral, and when recovered from my consternation, found myself in the vast ceme

tery which stretches along under the floors of the two churches. As I wandered up and down between the massive pillars which support the vaulted arches of this place of sculls, I began to think on the vast expanse of corruption and dissolution on which I was treading,-on the unwholesome vapours which rise up continually from these receptacles of the dead:-and I had thoughts of re treating, when, on a sudden, I heard a rustling and shaking of earth_all around me. The graves seemed to be opening; in a short while, the dead began slowly to make their appearance, shaking the earth carefully from the remains of their bodies. The newly-buried, with pale, yellowish countenances, arranged their winding-sheets in drapery; the half-corrupted were picking the worms out of their bodies; and they whose bodies were only a large lump of moist putridity, were endeavouring to disengage their remains from the clods of earth which stuck to them, and to separate themselves from the neighbouring dust which now began to mingle itself with theirs.

"Insensibly they gathered them. selves around me ;-in solemn silence they arranged themselves for the dance;-slowly step they on, treading, at first, in a solemn measure ;-now they move quicker, making the most fearful gestures; as they whirl round with the rapidity of lightning, their winding-sheets flutter in the noisome vapours their own exertions had disturbed;-they shriek and howl fearful sounds, and the low-vaulted roof makes the shrill screams reecho in awful solemnity. But still, above the loudest echo of the loudest yell, were heard the wild notes of a funeral hymn, inviting the last of the Kellys to join the hideous roundelay.

"What think you of my case? Speak out, man; you say I am mad;be it so have I not cause,-dreadful cause? Am I not predestinated, and doomed, and marked down to die an early death? And what have I done to deserve this sign of wrath? Am not I the survivor of three noble brothers, all handsome, and bolder, and better than myself? and have they not all died ignoble deaths, fitter for the vassals than the heirs of