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importance to the nation. In this respect the genius of the author of Waverley is displayed in a favourable light. In his novels we read of events which we have seen described in real history, we see characters pass before us who, we know, actually existed, and when we recollect that this is in a fictitious narrative, the interest that is excited becomes the greater. It is seldom, if ever, that our author perverts real history. A great deal of fiction is of course mingled with reality, but the fictitious is used merely to give relief and additional interest to the story, and what actually happened is recorded with the fidelity of an historian. There is nothing indeed in which our author excels more than in the amalgamation of fiction and reality-it is done with so much skill that in union they appear perfectly natural and probable, and at the same time have so much the air of romance about them, that they become doubly interesting. It is, then, by the incidents which the author of Waverley collects around his plots that they excite the greatest attention. His characters are placed in such situations that how they are to be extricated becomes a matter of the most intense curiosity. His fable, therefore, although, when we consider it gravely, it is apparently short and simple, and capable of giving but small scope to the author, is yet, after all, rendered highly interesting, and I need hardly say that it is always fully developed, and for the most part satisfactorily. I say for the most part, because several instances may be pointed out in which our author is not so successful as usual. When the Novelist winds up his tales and disposes of his principal characters in a certain manner, we are of course bound to believe him, and to take matters just as they stand; but sometimes we are obliged, in our author's works, to do so at the expense of probability. The catastrophe in the Heart of Mid Lothian comes upon us quite unexpectedly, and in proportion as we are startled at it, do we regard it as unnatural and improbable. St. Ronan's Well is of the same description-we cannot for a moment believe that such a catastrophe could take place it is too tragic to be regarded as the result of events mentioned before. In this particular, also, the Antiquary is in some measure defective. In this novel we meet with a great number of well-drawn characters, but it is far from being so interesting as many of the author's other productions. It is however in the denouement of the plot that the Novelist chiefly fails. The tragic story of the lord' is told in a style of the most pathetic beauty, but we cannot help thinking that it is improbable, and however much the reader must rejoice in the fortune of the hero, still the thought must rise in his mind,—that the catastrophe is rather too improbable to be real, and at the same time rather common-place. The winding up therefore of our author's plots, although they are always full of ingenuity, cannot be represented as always fortunate. This remark, I have shewn, may be applied in several instances, but it becomes of less importance when we consider the great number of his productions.

The incidents in these novels flow on in a current unbroken except where it is indispensably necessary to act otherwise. Yet even when he is obliged to make such an interruption in the story, he generally contrives to make us consider it rather as a relief, while at the same time it explains something upon which our curiosity has been already

awakened. Thus the appearance of the Black Knight in the lists of Ashby-de-la-Zouche is rather mysterious at first-we desire to become better acquainted with him, and our wish is fully gratified by the Novelist breaking in upon the proper narrative in order to follow his adventures. The skill which our author manifests in making such interruptions is in my opinion greater than that displayed by any preceding novelist. The thread of the story, for example, in Tom Jones is perpetually broken, and that with a bad grace. The fortunes of the hero have scarce arrived at their most interesting point, when the narrative is interrupted all of a sudden in order to relate the story of the heroine.

The method of carrying on a narrative by means of letters is particularly subject to the objection of which I have been speaking, but to that our author has had recourse only on one occasion-in the first volume of Redgauntlet. Our author soon experienced its disadvantages, and he is therefore not long in abandoning it.

Another interruption to the real story, to which the older novelists sometimes subjected themselves, consists in making some one of the characters give an account of the former part of his life. Thus Smollet in Roderick Random relates at great length the history of Miss Williams, and the same author in Peregrine Pickle expatiates on the Memoirs of a Lady of Quality. Now, by most readers these are no doubt felt as disagreeable interruptions;-but a similar charge, if I recollect right, cannot be brought against the author of Waverley. Something of the kind indeed takes place in Redgauntlet, where Wandering Willie gives a recital of some remarkable circumstances in the life of his grandfather. This however cannot come under the objection of being uninteresting, but on the contrary it adds considerably to the developement of the plot, while at the same time, both in manner, matter and language, it is most characteristic.

Though the majority of our author's novels are comic, that is, end favourably to the hero and heroine, still several of them are decidedly tragic. In the comic novels the author is in general sprightly and exhilarating, but in the tragic we must perceive a tone of melancholy running through them which the gaiety he sometimes assumes cannot effectually conceal. In Kenilworth, amid all the splendour that adorns the royal progress, the reader can scarce be prevented from feeling that the ill-fated Amy must at last fall beneath the machinations of the villain Varney; and in the Bride of Lammermoor, the calm melancholy of the opening scene, the pathetic touches as the story advances, and the terrific forebodings of the witches, are all in the style of deep tragedy, and lead us to suspect some fearful catastrophe. It has been said that the introduction of the ridiculous exploits of Caleb Balderstone into the last mentioned novel must be regarded as a fiction. To this I cannot assent. Among all the terrors that crowd around us in reading that tragic fiction, the mind pants for some relief. I admit that the beautiful rather than the ridiculous is to be employed to relieve the terrible, but in a work, like that before us, of some length, beauty alone would be inadequate for that purpose. Before the mind is presented with a new scene of terror, there must be something to lighten it of a great part of its former load, and this is abundantly provided in the present case by the adventures of the wily but affec

tionate steward. All the tragic tales of our author display beauties of the very highest kind, but somehow or other they do not appear to be in so great repute as those in which the principal characters are in the end fortunate. There seems to be always so much excellence, so much worthy of esteem, in the hero or heroine, that our nature shudders at the thought that they are devoted to a tragic end. In the Bride of Lammermoor the lovers are surrounded with so many perfections, are made by the peculiar skill of our author so to steal in upon our affections, that we deplore the unhappy circumstances in which they are placed, and when at last the fearful catastrophe is announced, we shut the book with feelings of the deepest sorrow.

Let us now turn to consider our author's power in describing scenes in nature as well as his skill in recounting the events of active life. No other writer, perhaps, that has appeared since the days of our immortal Dramatist, is worthy of being put in competition with the author of Waverley in the art of description. Whether he describes the sublimely enchanting scenery of the mountains of Scotland, the noise, confusion and bloodshed of the battles of Preston, Drumclog or Bothwell Bridge, the awful sea and storm scenes in the Antiquary or the Pirate, or the magnificent pageantry of the tournaments of the olden time, we find him equally at home, equally capable of doing justice to every subject. When the scenes of nature are the subjects of his descriptive powers, they are painted with like truth and beauty. It has indeed been asserted by some, that several of these descriptions are more vivid than those of nature. Perhaps there may be some grounds for such an affirmation, but the instances of exaggerated descriptions are of unfrequent occurrence, and even those that are pointed out as such are so uniformly beautiful, and even exquisite, that to find fault with them would be the very tameness of criticism. Besides, in order to give effect to descriptions of this sort, nature will not unfrequently be required to be relieved or heightened, and I am firmly convinced that many of those pieces, which in every age have been regarded as most beautifully descriptive, owe not a small part of their celebrity to their containing portions more highly coloured than a comparison with nature will justify. Setting aside therefore this objection, which after all is of little importance, we will find in our author's descriptions of nature sufficient cause for high admiration. They are one and all executed in the most spirited manner, are full of poetry, feeling and imagination. It would indeed be difficult to tell whether the author of Waverley succeeds most in picturing nature in her state of calm beauty or when she is enveloped in terror and sublimity. It is certain that in both the art of the describer is seen to great advantage. Who, for instance, can peruse without the utmost pleasure the delightful opening description in Ivanhoe, or feel not his mind elevated into awe and sublimity as he reads in the Antiquary the account of the night-storm among the rocks, or in the Pirate that of the waves chafing against the cliffs at Jarlshoff and hurrying the devoted ship to destruction.

In descriptions of active life the author of Waverley excels. He is equally powerful, whether his scene is laid in the humble cot, in the bustle of the city, or amid the pomp of courts and splendour of royalty. In reading his novels we know not which to admire more—the powers

of observation by which alone he could have been so accurate in picturing the actions of men, or his talent in bringing them powerfully before the mind. It is seldom that he describes impossibilities;-the only scenes of this sort I recollect as worth mentioning are those in which the White Lady of Avenel appears. But, who, for the reason I have just stated, would quarrel with the romantic though somewhat Judicrous account of the moon-light crossing of the Tweed, or read without pleasure the description of the descent into the bowels of the earth of the Lady and Halbert Glendinning? With this exception, the stream of his descriptions of action and incident may be said to flow in a course perfectly true to nature. Not only so they are also well told, and the action or situation rises up before the mind full and perfect. Who can read the account of the tournament in Ivanhoe, or of the splendid pageants at Kenilworth, without conceiving himself in a manner a spectator of them? When the attack on the whale in the Pirate is described, who does not almost suppose that the whole takes place in his presence? In all descriptions of active life our author is particularly happy, but never more so than when he is engaged upon something lofty or grand, calculated to give scope to his imagination. Of this kind is the fearfully interesting combat between Burley and Bothwell in Old Mortality; and the attack upon Jorquilstone Castle in Ivanhoe is one of the most magnificent things ever written.

In terrific description the author of Waverley displays great talent. The cave scene in Guy Mannering and the death of Meg Merrilies are painted in colours truly terrible, and nothing can be more awfully sublime than the description of the burning of Jorquilstone Castle, the death of Front-de-Bœuf, and the fiendish song of Ulrica as she sinks amid the flames of the conflagration.

To the ludicrous our author has frequent recourse, and of that species of writing every reader of his works must allow him to be a complete master. To prove my assertion, I need only allude to the humorous dinner-scene in Old Mortality between the old and avaricious Milnwood and the dragoons of Claverhouse, or to the comic scene between King Richard and Friar Juck in the hermitage of Copmanhurst. Through all his writings our author displays a great love for the ridiculous, and scenes of that sort he paints with inimitable spirit, and now and then we may even observe an approach to the satire, but on no occasion does he employ invectives or abuse. His wit is playful, and his humours sprightly and pleasing, but it would require the microscopic eye of a fault-searching critic to discover an instance of sarcastic bitterness or merciless satire. It is true he has endeavoured to throw a shade of ridicule over the Covenanters, but this is palliated by the manner in which be exposes the violence and blood-thirstiness of their enemies. Those parts in the characters of the Cameronians, at which he laughs, are certainly ridiculous enough, and we know that for the most part they were founded on truth, but we are led also to admire their heroism and to regard them with emotions of pity.

Pathetic descriptions are of frequent occurrence in the author of Waverley, and they are always beautiful in the extreme. Our author is possessed of a feeling heart, and he knows well how to excite pity

in the hearts of his readers, and to generate that melancholy sadness so exquisitely pleasing to every sensitive mind. The mournfully told death of Fergus in his first great production is a proof of this, and so are the pathetic trial of Effie Deans in the Heart of Mid Lothian, and the scene in Lochleven Castle between the unfortunate Mary and her relentless nobles. This last scene in particular is conducted with the greatest skill; our pity is strongly excited towards the ill-fated and oppressed princess, while on the other hand we are ready to execrate the harsh and unmanly nobles, and we rise from a perusal of the passage without a doubt of Mary's innocence-guilty only through

the machinations of her enemies.

To be concluded in our next.

DAVID'S LAMENT.

Vide 2 SAMUEL, CH. 1.

IN Ziklag once was heard a royal mourner thus complain

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Thy beautiful, O Israël,-thy beautiful is slain;

<Arrested in his mighty speed, on Judah's hills he fellThy beautiful, O Israël,-thy beautiful Gazelle ! *

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Tell not in Gath the tidings, nor in Askelon proclaim,

That death hath spoil'd thee of thy best-the chosen of thy name,

< Lest the uncircumcis'd exult, and, of our sorrows proud,

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Their daughters triumph when they hear, how Isra'l weeps aloud.

Ye mountains of Gilboa ! may the kindly dew no more

Light on thy tops to crown thee with the harvest's golden store !
For there, as though no sacred oil had on his brow been shed,

The shield of Saul ignobly dropp'd,-the warrior's spirit fled.
Ne'er from the bow of Jonathan the arrow sped in vain,
But oft as flew the weapon forth, a foeman bit the plain;
'Ne'er shrank in fight the arm of Saul his trusty blade to wield,

Till many a chieftain's corse lay strewn upon the battle-field.

Oh! pleasant were they, ere the streams of life had ceas'd to run,— Death parted not the links of love that made their spirits one ;Swifter than eagles to the prey, they to the onset sprang,<Like lions, side by side, they fought amid the hostile clang.

< Ye maids of stricken Israel! let tears your grief confess

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For Saul, whose vict'ries cloth'd you with the luxuries of dress.

How are the mighty fallen 'mid the battle's mailed throng!

< Thou, too, on Judah's hills hast sunk-the slaughter'd hosts among;—

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'O Jonathan! such pangs, as rend a brother's heart, are mine, For woman's breast less warmly felt affection's glow than thine.How are the mighty fallen now beneath the deadly stroke!

< Perish'd the warrior and the lance he bore-in pieces broke!

AER.

This rendering is in accordance with the translation of an eminent theologian.

VOL. I.

2 M

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