And seem'd to my astonished view, The Scottish humour is there, playful as the dancing waves of the sea in Summer-or rioting in fun or caustic, satirical and grave: the heroism of his country is there, her august, lion-like port in scenes of danger-her froward independence in debate-her calmness and solemnity in scenes of suffering: the intellect of his country is there, sheer, keen, and penetrative-fond of analytic investigation-quick to discover relations and glorying in stiff ratiocinative processes the sensibility of his country is there, delicate, intense, and comprehensive-called into play by a mountain daisy, or the grand panorama of a Highland landscape,-by a simple cottar reading the "big ha' Bible," or a monarch inaugurated amid the pageantry of national homage and the swellings of the coronation-anthem: the earnestness of his country is there, calm and solemn like an awe-inspiring temple-or flitting playfully like a lambent flame-or wrapt, energetic and lofty, like the face of devotion: the ideality of his country is there, glowing to the touch of poesy-or clothing high thoughts in images of beauty-or telling the visions of sunny hope, or the spiritual aspirations of humanity in words of melody, like the carolling of birds, or the voices of the far-sounding sea. His country lives in him, and though an Episcopalian, the sufferings of the Covenanters at once touch the springs of his sympathy; and he writes as if from the Manse of the Presbyterian pastor. Let Mr. Aytoun go and do likewise, if he expects to endear himself to Scotchmen, instead of whining over the pretended injuries and virtues of his Archbishop Sharpes, and John Grahams. We do not object to a threnode for Montrose, partly because of the heroism of his death, and partly because we are inclined to think that he returned in his last moments to the Presbyterian faith, from which he had apostatized, and so to some extent atoned for his apostacy; but to set about glorifying Claverse and his dragoons-or as Claverse himself more appropriately styles them, his dragons-and vilifying the old worthies whose names are cherished and their faith inherited by nineteen-twentieths of the people of Scotland, would have been an offence to his country had not nature provided a corrective for the lean and ill-favoured purpose in the feeble innocence of its execution. Dogberry could not rest in peace till he got himself writ down an ass, and Claverse, with equal honesty, has writ himself and men down dragons, thereby owning the dark relationship which most of his Scottish cotemporaries suspected; and we take the freedom to assure Mr. Aytoun, that he will never make the people of Scotland think well of the Dragon-seed by a hundred " burial marches" and such like rhyming ware; no, though he were backed and pricked on to sing by a whole wilderness of ballad-singers. THE NOVELS OF THE DAY. Without sharing at all in that spirit which has led some moralists to condemn, without qualification or discrimination, the reading of works of fiction, we yet think that there is something not very creditable to the intellect of the age in the insatiable demand which is made for novels of all sorts and sizes by the present and the rising generation of readers. Novels would appear to be read, not because they are good, but because they are novels-and fiction appears to be hunted after, not because it is ingenious, or instructive, or imaginative, but simply because it is not fact. The injudicious passion for such reading this omnivarous appetite for light reading-while the great bulk of what by courtesy receives this title, is, to a mind trained in good reading, really the heaviest of all reading-is certainly evidence enough of much frivolity and of little understanding. Fiction requires the highest literary merit to recommend its perusal, yet it is the department to which talent of every kind, including the most ordinary and the lowest is directed, just because it is in demand. This demand also spoils good writers and degrades their genius. A writer gives to the world a well written novel, which has popularity enough to make it pay the bookseller. From that time the bookseller and the novel writer continue to trade on that stock of popularity till it is exhausted -the writer vainly endeavouring to paint new characters and contrive new incidents, and succeeding merely in producing again and again fainter and fainter repetitions of his original sketches. That the passion for this reading is indiscriminating, is proved by this circumstance alone that it is not the best novel yet unread which is thirsted after, but the novel that has last come from the press, as if in truth the novels of Heliodorus and Longus are not to him that has not read them as new as the novel that only came to light yesterday, and to a sound mind as much an object of curiosity. So far is this notion of looking out for the last issued piece of fiction, as if it had the recommendation of the newest work of science, carried, that on enquiry it will be found that many, whose novel reading is quite up to the latest productions in the line, are ignorant of the great masters in the art, and ill read in Lesage, and Fielding, and Smollett. The great genius and great success of Sir Walter Scott have had an ill effect on novel writing in producing whole floods of that spurious order of novel-the historical novel, which he has made peculiarly his own. This sort of novel, in which historical facts, coloured or perverted, as may suit the writer's purpose and complexion of mind, form the ground work of the tales, is in every way, if we may so speak it, more false than the genuine legitimate fiction, which, compared with it, is a record of truth-as the historical novel is also in every way a lower class of fiction, considered in a literary point of view. The followers of Sir Walter Scott have been taught by him to deal rather in the description of times, and manners, and customs, than in the description of men and women, as they are and have been in all times, and as they are pourtrayed by Lesage, and Fielding, and Smollett. In this line also there is a greater temptation to mediocrity offering its services, as there seems to be no limit to the extent to which historical records may be laid hold of and hashed up to the public under the title of a new novel; while the writer and his readers too may be imagining that he is lending a charm to his narrative by the richness of his imagination, at the very time that he is merely conferring dulness on the brilliant details furnished to him by authentic history. * We have before us four new novels, two of them of the historical kind, and two of what we shall take the liberty of regarding as specimens of the legitimate novel. The reverend author of "Mina, a Tale of the Days of Nero and the Early Christians," writes with an amount of ability which might have produced something much better worthy of the gratitude of the public than this long story of four hundred closely printed octavo pages. What object is the fiction, or mixture of facts and fiction expected to serve, which would not have been twice as well served by the compiling of a history" of the Days of Nero and the Early Christians?" The subject is of deep interest, and well deserving of investigation, as the spirit of fiction, under the name of history, has been very diligent in obscuring and confusing it. Mr. Ross has given a good portraiture of Nero, such as we gather him from history to have been. Nero was rather capriciously than studiously wicked-his crimes look like those of a madman, rather than of a deliberate villain. In this respect, both he and Caligula stand a favourable comparison with Tiberius-we, of course, mean the Tiberius of Tacitus, and not as he is flattered by Velleius Paterculus. In Tiberius we have a man of great abilities and cunning, constantly cruel, cold-blooded, and malignant-constantly hating, suspecting, and fearing all around him. Nero and Caligula, we can believe, occasionally did good and generous actions. Tiberius put people to death, when their looks did not please him, or when they shed a tear over the fate of any of his victims. Nero, like Augustus, could pardon a fair joke directed against himself. Tiberius loved nobody. Nero, there need be no doubt, loved the beautiful Poppaa, and Caligula loved that Cæsonia who, we are told, was neither young nor beautiful— neque facie insigni neque ætate integra-(Suetonius-Caligula, 25.) Nobody lamented Tiberius, but a kindly hand continued for years to adorn the tomb of Nero with the flowers of the spring and summer. The plot of" Mina" is noways entitled to credit for any ingenuity. There is a good deal of bloodshed and mischief in the course of the story, which however concludes with two good marriages. In a historical novel, the plot of which is laid in the days of Nero, *Mina: a Tale of the days of Nero and the Early Christians. By the Rev. Andrew Ross, minister of the United Presbyterian Church, Pitcairn. Perth: Thomas Richardson. Raymond Revilloyd. A Romance. By Grace Webster. London: Bentley. Owen Glendower; or the Prince in Wales. London Richard Bentley. An Historical Romance. In two volumes. Sir Edward Graham, By Miss Sinclair. London: Longman. much of the merit must consist in the fidelity with which the writer represents the spirit and manners of the times, and a great deal of gratuitous imagination will be forgiven, if the writer is careful not to fall into any positive offence against known facts. In this respect Mr. Ross has been tolerably successful, though there are some modern notions in his tale, which jar with the antique character which he has, upon the whole, succeeded in bestowing upon it. The introduction of the Frank name of "Clovis," at Rome, in the first century of the Christian era, is unhappy. We are told, also, that Nero was "handsome in person," (p. 15,)—and again, that "his person and carriage are alike handsome," (p. 59.) We know, historically that, like Caligula, Nero had a pot belly, ill supported by spindle-shanks-a combination which has never been thought either handsome or graceful. Besides this, his neck was thick, his body spotted and unsightly, and his grey eyes were heavy. His hair, indeed, was of the yellow, admired by the ancients, and there was some merit about his face which is not easy to be understood-as we are told that it was rather pulcher than venustus—and the distinction between the apparent synonyms we do not profess to understand, unless there is thought to be a face which is beautiful rather than comely.-(Suetonius Nero, 51.) Here Mr. Ross sins against ancient facts-in some other cases he sins against ancient opinion. He reprepresents Clemens as gazing with admiration on the lofty brow of Virginia. The prejudice in favour of a lofty brow is modern-and in the case of a lady the ancients thought it a deformity, their passion for female beauty leading them to sigh for a low and narrow forehead. But in this matter, as in some others, we are afraid that the nonsense of phrenology has had something to do with Mr. Ross's descriptions. Thus of the Apostle Paul, who figures in this novel, we are told "His head was nearly altogether bald, and large in proportion to his body, his brow high and prominent," &c. Now, Mr. Ross might have learned this from that pot-headed authority, Dr. Gall, or some of his thick-skulled disciples; but it is not a little remarkable, that the traditional description of St. Paul, as embodied by Nicephorus, in his ecclesiastical history, where some other very curious portraits, which are, undoubtedly, of high antiquity are preserved, has told us nothing of this ugly large head of the great Apostle of the Gentiles-and Nicephorus speaks with all ecclesiastical antiquity at his back. This shows what nonsense people will be plunged into, who receive the theories of quack doctors, in opposition to real facts, as all the disciples of phrenology are bound to do. On a work of this character, these criticisms are not unimportant. It is in the great amount of accuracy, in all such matters, which has been displayed by the Abbé Barthelemy, that the value of his Voyage du Jeune Anacharsis, as a picture of ancient Greece, depends. "Raymond Revilloyd, a Romance by Grace Webster," is a novel of the legitimate order, and an excellent specimen of the class. Though it is not founded on history, and does not deal in the names of real persons, it is eminently a true work, and the truth is here pourtrayed with great vigour, Mr. Nugent, and Mr. and Mrs. Redman, and the still greater characters, Mr. Atterbury and Miss Molly Gripeman, are people whom we meet with in the world every day. But these characters are not merely faithfully drawn; they are characters of the highest interest. The Atterburys and the Miss Gripemans are the plagues of our age, and it is well to have them drawn at full length, as they are drawn by Miss Webster, who makes them act and speak and look as they do in the real world. We are all aware that with many it will be reckoned a great fault in this novel that it describes the prevailing sins of the age, and holds them up to our detestation, and that there are many feeling sore from consciousness that "mutato nomine de te fabula narratur." who would have been better pleased if Miss Webster had chosen to waste her genius uselessly writing novels about the old persecutions of the Pagans and Papists, which would give offence to nobody. Mr. Nugent of Ravensdale is the grandfather of Raymond Revilloyd, the hero of this story. Nugent is a character, though an insipid one; the hero Raymond has hardly any character at all, being a sort of "pious Æneas" in the epic; at different times throughout the tale, his misfortunes really appear to be owing to a listlessness which hangs about him, and indeed the only symptom of energy which he displays, is in falling in love, which he does with some spirit, and to some effect. Mr. Nugent and his grandson are destined to suffer a series of heavy calamities. Mr. Nugent's two daughters "who had become restless from ennui," are deluded away by some adventurers belonging to the sect called "the Plymouth Brethren," and the two, the elder being a widow and the mother of Raymond, get themselves married to two functionaries belonging to the tabernacle. This affliction Mr. Nugent feels, as many a worthy parent in our days has felt the apostacy of his daughters to the Free Church. With his heart torn with anguish, Mr. Nugent leaves England along with his grandson for Italy, entrusting his house and his estate, and the management of all his affairs to the villain of the piece, Mr. Atterbury, a rich lawyer, who "Had a fair name in the world, because his contemporaries were afraid to give him the bad name that he deserved; and throughout the course of his life, which was pretty far advanced, for he was now turned of sixty, none had ever attempted to injure his reputation with impunity. He had obtained several sweeping sums of money, in early life, from those who had tried to open the world's eyes with respect to him. He had always the right string to his bow, and the community in which he lived were obliged to concede to the verdict that he was a worthy and an honest man.” On the voyage to Italy, Mr. Erasmus Crawford, a Scotch gentleman, in search of relief from the religious wranglings of his own country, makes himself acquainted with Raymond, and as far as acquaintanceship could be made, with such a starched-up old fellow as Mr. Nugentwith Mrs. Nugent also, to both of whom he afterwards renders the most important services. Mr. Nugent arrives in Italy, but instead of taking up his residence at Leghorn, as he had arranged at first, he hires a house at some distance from Pisa, in order to get clear of the society of Mr. Crawford, who had fixed himself in Leghorn. In this seques |