been smoothed off by polish, education, or fashion. This remark, we think, is quite justified by the manifest superiority in the drawing of Catherine Seyton over the portraiture of Mary Stuart. The little devoted attendant of the queen is, throughout, characteristic. Every word and gesture; every feeling and action; every

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Quip, and crank, and wanton wile,

“And nod, and beck, and wreathed smile;" denotes unsophisticated originality, and points her out as a distinct variety of that species, of which Mary is only the general representative. Nothing can be more beautifully true to nature, than the scene in which Catherine Seyton makes her first appearance; in which her naiveté, and archness, and turn for the ludicrous, are so admirably contrasted with the awkwardness and embarrassment of Roland Græme; nor does she lose a particle of her originality under all the lights and shades of her subsequent situations. Whether these be of a sportive, or grave, or terrifying cast; whether she be acting with native simplicity, or practising the little arts of female address,

or under the influence of devoted affection, and high-toned feeling; she is, from first to last, a personification of nature; a consistent and uniform exposition of human passions, energies, and actions.

It must be acknowledged, however, that this superiority with which the character of Catherine Seyton is "got up" and supported, is rather an unfortunate circumstance for the hero of the novel, Roland Græme; who stands by her side in helpless imbecility, little. adapted to excite that interest in his fortunes, which the prime agent in the drama ́should inspire; and useful only as a foil to set off, more conspicuously, the excellencies of his companion's acting. Dull, and weak, and vacillating, we meet in Roland's conduct little to interest, and less to esteem; nor are we sure that his character can quite clear itself from the charge of an immoral tendency, since it would require considerable casuistry to acquit him of prevarication, of breach of confidence, and of deviation from honourable action, on more than one occasion; and to reward the personage thus deficient in some

of the most important moral qualities, is not not a mere neglect of the rule of poetical justice, but a weakening of those sanctions, the general observance of which is absolutely essential to the security and welfare of human society. A periodical writer has favoured the public with a few very just remarks on this subject, which well merit attention.

"The hero, Roland Græme," says he, was to betray his trust, to desert the religion, of which he began to feel the truth, and to engage in schemes, the success of which endangered the safety of his country, and was certain to effect the ruin of the protectors of his infancy. Strong temptations were necessary, and strong temptations are applied: we feel that an older and more thinking mind than Roland's would not have resisted them. We admit the probability and the interest of the narrative, and yet we wish it could have been altered. The picture of stern duty opposed to violent temptation is only safe either where, as in the case of Jeannie Deans, duty prevails; or where its failure, as in that of Lucy Ashton, is followed by misfortunes,

which are to be the subjects of our sympathy. The rule of poetical justice has obtained such currency, that whatever the author rewards he is supposed to approve. Our author appears to have felt this objection, and to endeavour to obviate it by expedients, which strike us as aggravations. He makes Roland rejoice that Morton's interruption enabled him to part from the Regent, without plighting his truth to fulfil his orders; and to feel himself at liberty, without any breach, to contribute to the queen's escape, as soon as he has intimated to Dryfesdale that he refuses trust. But when he proceeded on his office, after a full explanation from the person who entrusted him with it, of the duties to which it was attached, it is mere jesuitism to say that he was not bound by its conditions, because he had given to them only a tacit consent; or that he could be released from them, after having acquired, by a long apparent acquiescence, the means of defeating them, by any declaration, even to his principal, much less to a subordinate agent. We do not deny that his situation was one of extreme difficulty;

that to have refused Murray's trust would have been immediate ruin; and that every motive which can soften, and subdue, and shake the firmest principle, and the clearest perception, was accumulated to induce him to betray it. In real life all would forgive, some would even admire, his conduct; but a writer of fiction has no right to dress what is fundamentally wrong in a covering that can attract sympathy or admiration. He is not exposed to the same difficulties as his heroes; and has no right to make their reward depend on that part of their conduct which does not deserve unmixed approbation. Still less has he a right to sanction a parley between duty and passion, and to countenance the sophistry which attacks the understanding through the heart."*

Whilst thus engaged in the unpleasant office of censuring a most delightful writer, (for our rule must be

"Still pleased to praise, but not afraid to blame,”) we cannot but advert to another defect in the

Quarterly Review, li. 141.