defence of the first, indeed, he might have alleged the high authority of Smollett, and the second was perhaps only an over-extension of that liberty of embellishment which, to a certain extent, must be conceded to the Novelist in every case, and which, in this instance, was rendered excusable, if not necessary, by the prevalence of the very vulgarity which rendered the over-refinement of particular passages so striking and inconsistent. In spite of these blemishes, therefore, the public were disposed to be pleased with Mr Galt's early productions. They enjoyed a laugh over the "Ayrshire Legatees," and they were grateful to the author who furnished the stimulus.

But to this ambitious personage the praise of success in one department was not enough. A sally into the regions of the sublime and beautiful was determined on, and accordingly "The Earthquake" appeared brimful of old-established horrors, after "the Italian method," and the first models of the Minerva Press. But by some unlucky fatality, the public and Mr Galt now seemed to misunderstand each other; for, though the author wrote with the gravity of a mute, and the pathos of a chief-mourner, his composition still excited as much risibility as before, though the ludicrous emotion was now excited by rather different means, and directed to a different object. This unlucky contre-temps seemed for a time to produce its proper effect. Mr Galt quitted Sicily with a commendable expedition, and again took up his humbler quarters in Scotland. Still, however, he seemed to be haunted by some vague longings after the terrible; and in the midst of the vulgar absurdities of Sir Andrew Wylie, there was a visible attempt to copy the stern painting of Godwin,though, unfortunately, it happened to exhibit the most complete ignorance of familiar occurrences, and wellknown facts, as well as of the workings of passion, and the springs and motives of human action. This straining after effect-this attempt to take the feelings by storm, is also the prevailing feature of the present very dull performance; and, of course, those who are acquainted with Mr Galt will easily anticipate the

result. It is true, this attempt is not quite so outrageous as "The Earthquake." The personages of this novel do not turn "ashy pale," or "livid," so often as the cameleon-like Castagnello, nor are they quite so terrific as Corneli and Don Birbone; but still it has rather more than enough of the faults of its predecessor, while, unfortunately, not a few must be added to the list, of which it enjoys a very unenviable monopoly.

In point of plot, the novels of this author have always been remarkably deficient, but the present is preeminently so. To say the truth, though we have called it a novel, we can see no pretensions which it has to the title. It is neither history nor novel, but combines, by some felicity of misconception, the defects of both-the flippancy of fiction without its interest, and the dulness of a chronicle without its veracity. To analyze the incidents would be out of the question; are they not all written in Kirkton and Wodrow ? The work is a mere detail of historical facts, as Mr G. is pleased to term them, relative to the Covenanters, from the reign of the Regent Mary of Lorraine, down to the battle of Killicrankie,—and a detail of the barest and most inartificial nature. To accomplish this, the author is obliged to have recourse to the expedient of detailing the separate adventures of the grandfather and father of his hero, with whose history they have no more connection than with the administration of Prester John: and, what is odd enough, the adventures of the grandfather, which have no bearing whatever on the story of Ringan Gilhaize, constitute by far the most interesting portion of the book. He is placed among scenes which it would indeed be difficult to describe, without awakening some feelings of a pleasing nature. From the confidential situation which he holds in the house of the Earl of Glencairn, he is brought into contact with almost all the magnates of the time: the Queen-Regent, the unfortunate Mary, Darnley, Murray, and Knox, are introduced; but they are touched, in general, with a feeble and a trembling hand. As to the episode of Marion Ruet, (an unfortunate mistress of the Archbishop of St

Andrew's,) it appears to us to be conceived and executed in the worst taste. This part of the novel, however, really contains some spirited scenes; and had the book terminated here, we should not, perhaps, have had much to complain of. But then comes the father of the hero. Luckily his career is brief, and we recollect little of his movements, save that he died and was buried some time about the Restoration of Charles II. Ringan Gilhaize is himself a Covenanter; he is engaged in most of the bloody scenes of that period; and latterly becomes a person of some importance among his own party. He is the representative of the suffering Covenanters, whose miseries it is the object of the book to describe; and it is to the incidents connected with his life, that the author seems to have devoted his greatest efforts, and in which he has most conspicuously failed.

The inartificial nature of the arrangement, however, which must be evident from this sketch of the materials of the story, is by no means the worst fault of "The Covenanters." It is liable to the stronger objection of an insufferable monotony. In fact, the influence of religious enthusiasm, though, in conjunction with other feelings, it may, no doubt, afford to the Novelist occasional opportunities of striking display, does appear to us, when exhibited in an insulated shape, to be one of the most unmanageable and uninteresting principles which could well be selected as the basis of a novel. If the example of our Great Novelist led Mr Galt to the adoption of the present subject, he should have paused a little to reflect, that, in the novels alluded to, it is used only as a contrast to other principles of a nature totally different; that the transition is from the banquet to the conventicle-from the careless chivalry of the Cavalier, to the stern endurance of the Covenanter; and that light and shadow are blended together throughout the whole in a harmonious variety. Here there is no repose-no relief; all is deep-settled gloom, illuminated only, at times, by the "lightning of war."

But not only has the author confined himself to the exhibition of but one class of feelings and incidents; these scenes and these feel

ings are unfortunately in themselves positively disagreeable, even disgusting.

The scaffold, the stake, the prison-battle, rape, famine, fire, murder, and sudden death, are the staple of the book. The selection of such topics seems to us indicative of the coarsest notions with regard to the proper object of fictitious writing. It is not that such incidents are unfounded or unnatural. On the contrary, we contend that this very reality is the principal objection to their introduction. We may tolerate the horrors of the Greek tragedies, and those which Alfieri has founded on the same subjects, where they are represented, not as the natural consequences of human passions, but as the offspring of a blind and irresistible fatality. With us that idea is powerless. We know that the bloody banquet of Thyestes is over; that the innocent offences of Edipus, the murderous quarrels of Polynices and Eteocles, and the long catalogue of the crimes which sully the annals of the Atridæ, are gone, never to return. But it is a very different case when these horrors are the result, not of a supernatural impulse, but of the evil passions of man; and when we reflect, that, in similar circumstances, similar atrocities may be repeated. These, we must always feel, are too real, too probable, to form the legitimate subject of fictitious narrative; and we shrink from them, as from the newspaper account of an execution. To take a case in point: What would Mr Galt think of writing a novel on the present troubles in Ireland? Captain Rock is rather a superior ruffian in his way, and the abduction of Miss Goold a very dramatic incident; not to mention the opportunity of exhibiting his legal knowledge, which a trial at the Limerick Assizes would afford to one who had already displayed such an intimate acquaintance with the law of the sister country. But can any one believe that the thing would be tolerated for a moment? And yet, where is the difference in principle between the one case and the other? Will it be gravely maintained, that the lapse of a few years can render that pleasing, or even tolerable, in a novel, which every human being must feel at this

moment to be fitted only for the dreary columns of the Newgate Calendar?

We are quite aware, that the usual answer to charges of this nature, on the part of the admirers of strong excitement, is, that such descriptions display great power; and this unmeaning phrase seems, by the initiated, to be regarded as a sufficient apology for any absurdity. Thus, if a clergyman commit a faux pas, and behave, first like a fool, and then like a madman, we are told the description is very powerful;-if a Baronet commit murder for an offence given twenty years before, and then break his neck over a two-pair-of-stairs window, this is a powerful incident; -if a man, on coming up to his old friend's cottage, finds the owner staring him in the face over a stile, all the while as dead as Hector,-still the answer is," Why, to be sure, all this is rather absurd; but then, Sir, consider the power." Now, with all due consideration, we must confess we are as far as ever from perceiving in what the merit of such descriptions consists. If power means merely the capacity of producing a physical effect on the nerves, we can understand the grounds of the defence, and then the Novelist would share his honours with the executioner and the anatomical dissector, both very powerful personages in the same line; but if, as we suppose is the case, it be meant to imply the power of vanquishing difficulties, or the possession of any uncommon talent on the part of the author, we protest entirely against the inference. We are convinced that Hercules' vein is really more easily assumed than almost any other; and we recollect that Lord Byron (a competent judge, it will be admitted,) makes some such avowal in one of his letters to Bowles. Indeed, we have always understood that fustian was one of the cheapest of commodities; though some people wear their dresses with such an air, that a casual observer might not suspect the poverty of the materials. We regret the more that the author of the "Ayrshire Legatees" should have adopted this hackneyed trick, because we think he real ly possesses considerable powers of pathos. We assure him, that there

was more power displayed in two or three short passages of his earlier works, than in all the raving of "The Covenanters ;" and that we should thank him more for one scene of broad humour or quiet feeling, than for a revival of all the enormities that ever polluted the pages of Massinger or Shirley.

A word or two before parting, on the views which Mr Galt's work exhibits of the Covenanters. And here we must say, that if we had no other means of judging than what the work itself contains, we should almost be tempted to accuse the author of a design to libel the character of that respectable sect. Our readers will recollect the accusations of prejudice and injustice with which our Great Novelist was assailed, when, in his Old Mortality, he ventured to bring forward some of the ridiculous features of the Covenanters. We confess we never saw the justice of the charge. But be that as it may, we can conscientiously say, that we entertain a higher opinion of them, from the sketches of that prejudiced assailant, than from the elaborate picture of Mr Galt, their avowed advocate and eulogist. In the former work, we perceived something of that talent and address which the Covenanters undoubtedly possessed, as well as courage,-some union of the wisdom of the serpent with the harmlessness of the dove, which unquestionably went far, in our opinion, to exalt the noble, and diminish the ludicrous features of their character. But, in the present, we see only a blind and sullen spirit of resistance, united to the narrowest prejudices, and an intellect that would have been barely sufficient for the sack of a hen-roost; we see this unfortunate sect concealing themselves from pursuit in woods and caves, and yet taking every means to discover their retreat, by the loudest and most unguarded celebration of their religious rites. We trust we are not insensible to the nobleness of religious constancy; but we ask, if these people were so ambitious of the crown of martyrdom, why did they fly at all? If they did fly, why were they so perversely ingenious in rendering their flight ineffectual? To take another example or two from the conduct of the hero,

who is, of course, the representative of the beau-ideal of the covenant: Ringan Gilhaize, after the death of his whole family, save one son, begins to feel reluctant to expose him to the perils of warfare and persecution. In this uncertainty he takes his Bible, and turns up the first text he can find; but not being pleased with its tenor, he tries his fortune a second and third time. (By the way, this is represented as a common practice among his party.) He then submits the result of these Sortes Evangelica to Mr Cargill, a clergyman, who actually approves of the experiment, and declares that Providence had manifested its intentions by this species of revelation. We really know not whether to admire most the good sense that dictated the expedient, the honesty that sanctioned it, or the amiable candour and modesty which could talk in the same breath of the superstitious doctrines and priestly impostures of the English Church."O miseras hominum mentes, o pectora cœeca!" Nor is the hero less selfish than superstitious. Take, for instance, his escape from the jail of Irvine. This feat he accomplishes by working on the weakness of a kind and crazy jailor, who allows his wife to visit him in prison. Ringan changes clothes with his wife, and with that amiable regard for self which distinguishes his proceedings, shuffles off, leaving his wife and the unfortunate jailor to share the consequences between them. The Apostle Paul, in similar circumstances, treated his jailor differently, though he was under no such obligation to him, and though Heaven itself had interposed by an earthquake for his deliverance.

Our Presbyterian friends are perhaps not yet aware of the full extent of their obligations to Ringan Gilhaize; we therefore hasten to inform them, that it is to the unparalleled intrepidity of this gentleman that the death of Claverhouse was owing. This is accomplished in the following manner: Mr Gilhaize, who had been watching his movements during the battle, from the windows of Renrorie House, descends at last takes up a strong position behind an old garden-wall, with a goose-pool in front-shoots at him three several

times, and then walks off as usual, leaving his unlucky comrades, on whom the suspicion of the shot had fallen, to shift for themselves. But the whole passage is so characteristic, that we must take the liberty of extracting it. Ringan witnesses the defeat of Mackay:

I ran to and fro on the brow of the

hill-and I stampt with my feet-and I beat my breast and I rubbed my hands with the fury of despair-and I threw myself on the ground, and all the sufferings of which I have written returned upon me and I started up and I cried aloud the blasphemy of the fool, “There is no God !"

But scarcely had the dreadful words escaped my profane lips, when I heard, as it were, thunders in the heavens, and the voice of an oracle crying in the ears of my soul," The victory of this day is given into thy hands!" and strange wonder and awe fell upon me, and a mighty spirit entered into mine, and I felt as if I was in that moment clothed with the armour of divine might.

The garden in which I then stood was surrounded by a low wall. A small goose-pool lay on the outside, between which and the garden I perceived that Claverhouse would pass.

I prepared my flint, and examined my firelock, and I walked towards the top of the garden with a firm step. The ground was buoyant to my tread, and the vigour I thought that those for whom I had so of youth was renewed in my aged limbs : mourned walked before me that they

smiled and beckoned me to come on, and

that a glorious light shone around me.

Claverhouse was coming forward--several officers were near him; but his men were still a little behind, and seemed inclined to go down the hill, and he chided at their reluctance. I rested my carabine on the garden-wall-I bent my knee, and knelt upon the ground-I aimed and fired, but when the smoke cleared away, I beheld the oppressor still proudly

on his war-horse.

I loaded again-again I knelt-and again I rested my carabine upon the wall, and fired a second time, and was again disappointed.

Then I remembered that I had not implored the help of Heaven-and I prepared for the third time, and when all was ready, and Claverhouse was coming forward, I took off my bonnet, and kneeling with the gun in my hand, cried, "Lord, remember David and all his afflictions!"-and having so prayed, I took