ing some of the lineaments and spirit of his race. We will not mar the plea sure our readers must derive from this admirable delineation, by mingling in our cursory notice any of the acidulating virus of political controversy: but we do wish that the character of Old Rowley had been painted a little more in the shade, were it only for the indelible disgrace he entailed on his memory by his ingratitude to those brave and loyal men who bled and suffered so freely in his cause, and the inexpiable ignominy of receiving a pension from France. A moralist would lay at his door charges of a still deeper dye, and point him out as the great corruptor of the morals, as well as sacrificer of the independence of his country, and as the main author of the subsequent misfortunes of his House. Waiving these subjects, however, no reader can perceive, without feeling a sense of burning shame, the difficulty with which he is brought to interest himself in behalf of his brave and gallant friends, when in danger of becoming the victims of the Popish Plot, hatched and brought forward to serve as an agent for exterminating the firm and loyal supporters of his throne. We allude, particularly, to the pusillanimous manner in which he conducted himself in the trial of that brave old Cavalier, Sir Geoffrey Peveril, who, after all, owed his safety more to his enemy Bridgenorth's refusing to give evidence against him, than to the King's underhand tampering with that judicial ruffian, or madman, Scroggs. This, we believe, is a faithful picture of his character and policy, if his conduct merit such an epithet: but we wish our author had marked it with the expressions which he must feel it so richly merits. This base truckling, trimming, time-serving spirit, excites the keener indignation, when we reflect on the character of the chivalrous and heroic veteran, who had so often exposed himself in the brunt of the battle, both in the cause of the King and his father; who, in the evil times of the Commonwealth, when so many had gone over to the stronger side, had remained as immoveable in his loyalty as the rock on which his ancient castle

was built; and, who, after his duty to his God, had not a thought upon earth but to support his King to the last gasp, and to curse, as in duty bound, the crop-eared scoundrels of Roundheads. We love and reverence the impetuous and high-spirited old man, the beau-ideal of the genuine Cavalier.

We regret that the author has not given us more of the court, and of the prominent characters of the time; for example, of "Erin's high Ormond," and the accomplished, philosophic, and intriguing Shaftesbury. The former appears but seldom on the scene, and is rather a spectator than an actor: of the latter we almost see nothing, although it is notorious that he was deeply implicated in the unutterable villanies of the Popish Plot. It would have given another charm to this admirable tale had these two eminent men been somehow interwoven in its texture, and contributed, by the fine contrast which their opposite characters must have furnished, to accelerate or retard the denouement. It is right, however, to state, that as far as Ormond does act, or rather advise, it is in perfect harmony with that inexpugnable integrity, chivalrous hohour, and lofty spirit, to which history has already rendered justice.

We rejoice, however, to find, that the author has employed his great powers in unmasking the machinery of the Popish Plot, and in exposing the dreadful perjuries of a set of the most diabolical villains who ever sold blood for gold, or trafficked in public frenzy and delusion; and that another brand of immortal infamy has been fixed on the names of Oates and of Bedloe. The picture of the reverend ruffian is perfect, and is every way worthy of the cause of which he was the ostensible mouth-piece, and ever-willing witness. It is a melancholy fact, and serves to illustrate the character of those fearful times, that the great, virtuous, and patriotic Lord Russel, was a staunch believer in the reality of the plot, and in the statements of Oates and Bedloe!

Of the females brought upon the scene, we are not very competent to speak. Woman is a riddle which it might puzzle Edipus himself to resolve. They are, however, painted

in the true spirit of gallantry, and, we think though we would not be positive in the matter-happily discriminated. Alice Bridgenorth is really a lovely little puritan; and Lady Peveril is all that is kindhearted, motherly, and generous, with a slight spice of the dignity and pride so proper and becoming in a titled dame. But the most extravagant, and perhaps the most original of these creations, is in the little fairy elf Fenella, or Zarah, of whom, with all reverence be it spoken, we really know not what to think or what to make; and, what is worse, we half suspect the author has felt a little in the same way. She first appears as a dumb-girl, in the service of the Countess of Derby, and we are told that that French Simeramis had bought her of a Dutch mountebank, who had trained her up as a ropedancer. She soon, however, turns out to be a spy of Ned Christian's, and, like Cadwallader Crabtree, in Peregrine Pickle, feigns herself deaf as well as dumb, that she might disarm suspicion, and get possession of her lady's secrets. Next, we find that she had been thrown in the way of the Countess, by Christian, who had tutored her into her cue, and secured her fidelity by interesting her revenge, he having persuaded her that she was the daughter of his brother, whom the Countess, her mistress, had put to death for the high crime of treason against her Manx Majesty. And last of all, if we may believe the veracious Ned himself, she is none other than his own daughter. In all this, there is certainly a sufficient degree of perplexment, which is only encreased by the little treacherous imp falling in love with Julian Peveril, during his residence in Man, with his relations the Countess of Derby and her son. It cannot, at the same time, be denied, that she is instrumental in enucleating the plot; that, admitting her to be such as the author has imagined, nothing can surpass the skill and address with which she seconds the schemes of her worthy unclefather; that, excepting so far as her love for Julian Peveril interposes, she is a very unscrupulous agent in the furtherance of the designs with which she had been entrusted; and

that, after she disappears from the service of the Countess of Derby, and resumes the use of speech, she employs that faculty in such a manner as at once to astonish and delight. The keen encounter of wit, raillery, and repartee, between her and Buckingham,-when the latter discovers her in his Harem in place of Alice Bridgenorth, whose escape Christian had contrived, after he found that Buckingham meant to retain for himself the morceau which had been designed for his master,—is one of the parts of this work which will be read with most general admiration. Her final escape by the window is also perfectly in character. As to the Countess of Derby, again, she is a perfect she-devil, and queens it away at such a rate, in her pigmy island, that it is not easy to endure her with patience. Her wrongs were, no doubt, great, and the iniquitous execution of her brave and gallant husband, at Bolton-le-Moor, will naturally lead us to excuse much, and bear with more; but we have no notion of a female ordering a poor devil to dangle in a rope's end, merely upon the ground of constructive treason against her own authority. Besides, as Talleyrand or Fouché-we don't remember which-used to say, upon some similar occasions, "it was worse than a crime, it was a fault;" and, considering that she was a papist, and consequently exposed to the ever-watchful hatred and malice of a powerful faction, must have been prompted by a feeling of vengeance, strong enough to set every suggestion of prudence at defiance. This, however, is best explained and defended by referring to the times when she lived, and the wrongs she had suffered; and was perhaps meant to verify the well-known maxim, that insignificant and precarious power is ever prone to suspicion and cruelty.

Where there is so much general excellence, it would be difficult, and perhaps somewhat dangerous, to particularize; but it has appeared to us, that in every scene where Buckingham appears,-whether in his revels,

in his tête-à-têtes with Christian, in his confidential chit-chat with Jerningham, the minister of his pleasures,-at Court,-or on public occasions, the powers of this great

writer show peculiarly transcendent. The conclave of fanatics at Bridgenorth's, on the night when the attack is made by Lance Outram, at the head of the Miners, and under the conduct of Julian Peveril, is most felicitously and graphically described. The came observation applies to the trial of the Peverils, father and son, on the charge of being concerned in the Popish Plot, were it not for the presence of that odious baboon of a dwarf, Sir Geoffrey Hudson, whom we consider as a mere excrescence on the surface of the story, and whose pranks and antics throw a ludicrous air on what, in our opinion, is a very improper subject for such an accompaniment a father and son on trial for life, upon one of the most dangerous and fatal accusations which could at that time have been preferred against them. The subsequent incident of the bass-viol is also violent and improbable, as is the charge of high treason against Buckingham, which follows the deliverance of the mannikin from the womb of the instrument; but it is more than redeemed by the examination of Buckingham, in presence of his enemy, Ormond and others, and by the inimitable display of character, both on the part of the king and his favourite, which that remarkable occasion elicits.

As Scotchmen, we cannot suppress a regret that "Peveril of the Peak" contains no specimens of that national painting, in which the "Author of Waverley" is without a competitor or rival. But we must confess, that it would have been out of place; and we are more than indemnified by discovering, that there is no shade, or diversity of human character, how ever modified by time and circumstance, which he cannot represent with power, fidelity, and effect. Taken as a whole, we are much mistaken if" Peveril" be not considered equal to some of his happiest efforts. From the time, the historical personages introduced, and the main incidents of the plot, it was impossible that the author should borrow from himself; and hence, one of the broad and prominent merits of the novel before us, is the freshness and originality which pervade it. Fenella is an entirely new creation, and has

nothing in common with Annot Lyle, or Catherine Seton. The same observation, we conceive, applies to Bridgenorth, Christian, Buckingham, and others; and though the hero, Julian Peveril, is somewhat tame and feeble, compared with other figures on the canvass, we think the author has succeeded in rendering him more decided, and consequently more interesting than the majority of the previous personages whom he has thought fit to elevate to the same rank. Young Derby promises to be a chip of the cld block, notwithstanding his affected smartness, flippancy, and nonchalance: we regret we have not more of him: we should not have been sorry to find him taking some strong measures to revenge his father's murder. Lance Outram is a noble fellow in his way. He coaxes the Miners to his purpose, with admirable, though rustic skill and tact ; and his fidelity to his master is above all praise. In short, we consider "Peveril of the Peak" a performance every way worthy to be classed with the best and happiest efforts of the "Author of Waverley." f.

Some men there are, indeed, who never know it

(I mean the vis põetica) save in yon Untangible, ideal, shapeless thing, Hight Fancy-but without it I can sing.

My Muse was born within a crowded city, And never knew a streamlet or a grove : You'll doubtless think that circumstance a pity,

As she knows naught of shepherds, birds, -or love;

No matter; she hath been accounted witty; For a town education must remove

Those awkward airs and struts to which they're liable

By nature, making them more pert and pliable.

Nurs'd in a weekly newspaper was she,
And in a magazine provincial cradled ;
In both of which she squall'd in treble
key,

As children generally do when swaddled :
In course of time she left the parent knee,
And, by diploma, got her courser saddled,
On which she rides an hour or so per day,
Making her observations by the way.

I say thus much by way of making known
My Muse's high pretensions to the art;
I would be mute if such gifts were mine

own,

Being a little modest-(jest apart).-
But now our pilgrim hero must be shewn,
For be is waiting anxiously to start :-
I'll sketch his picture ere I loose his tether,
And then we'll walk on sociably together.
There was a man of meikle love and pride,
The son of many ancestors was he,
Who in a lonely hovel did abide,
Somewhere between the rivers Don and
Dee;

Waiting the rise of fortune's lazy tide
Which seem'd to settle at a low degree;-
I said there was-I should have said is,
rather,

But as brings me to speak about his father.

He (that's the father) was a curious wight, Having some shrewdness, and a deal of taste;

(By taste I mean that laudable delightThat zest of nature-not of pies or paste ;) He was indeed a man whose genius might An easier way of living well havegraced:But where lived he? in Aberdeen, so populous,

Which, by ingenious artifice, he tied, With whip-cord, so it dangled from a hook.

I may observe, although it matters little, He lived 'twixt Old and New Town, call'd the Spittal.

He talk'd broad Scotch, and understood some Erse,

And was esteem'd a famous politician; I'm told his mem'ry had a store of verse, And plenty of prosaic erudition:

'Tis likewise said, he could with ease re

hearse

A king's speech, where he shew'd the rhetorician :

These, with some qualities I can't be telling of,

For a poor weaver in the North were well enough.

His wife had knitted stockings of all hues, Which is, or was, the trade of that good town;

But I suspect there are not many "blues" Under the fringes of the northern gown. This worthy matron for herself did use, In general, a pair 'twixt grey and brown; And yet she ne'er indulged the dull brown-study,

But was, as neighbours said, "a merry body."

Their son, our hero, was a hopeful lad, His name was Duffe-Dan Duffe I mean to style him;

Dan Sol and Dan Apollo we have had
In many tales and stories, written whilom:
While with his wise harangues he did be-
Dan Duffe, I say, would listen to his dad.

guile him

Into a love of reading, like himself,
Leaving all other work upon the shelf.

And he did pore on many a poet's page,
So many, that I do not care to name;
Suffice it, that they were of every age,
And, in their day, the every pets of fame,
But men and things both cease to be "the
rage"

When other men and things our praises claim;

And e'en the great poetic immortality
Is found to be of somewhat brittle quality.
At sixteen years our hero fell in love -
A proper age for such a silly passion;
Yet, 'tis the first thing that begins to move
The youthful pen to scribble rhyming
trash on;

metropolis.

He was a weaver to his trade, and plied The shuttle to some purpose; and did look (For he was what rude people call squinteyed)

Both on his web and on a favourite book!

shion;

So did Dan Duffe, and measur'd, in his

slumbers,

Love's softest, sweetest, chastest, purest

numbers.

scene,

Where Don's pure waves through Grandholm's fields meander,

And where the citizens of Aberdeen Oft, on a Sunday evening, love to wander. 'Tis beautiful! and, in the morning's sheen,

Whoe'er admires it not-is but a gander. It charm'd Dan Duffe each time he look'd upon it,

For 'twas the subject of his second sonnet.

Until there came about a sorry change, Yet not uncommon in these sinful times: Let not the reader cry aloud, "O strange!" Where there are mortals, still there will

be crimes,

The lady of his love (a cobler's daughter) Forsook him for a beau of the first water!

And then his father died-and then his mother!

Waves follow waves, and tears must course down tears,

And, in our griefs, another and another Fall on, and push us down the gulf of years.

Without a sister-and without a brother, His friends went from him on his parent's

biers,

Save an old aunt, whose tale goes thus (to shorten it-)

She liv'd-fell sick-and died within a fortnight!

She died-but then she left more earth behind

Than the old sexton's spade could heap upon her :

And either she or fortune had been kind Dan got the land, whichever was the do

nor:

Yea, he was laird; and, though he seem'd design'd

For a more immaterial sort of honour,
Yet terra firma's fully as delightful

As Fairy-land of flower, and fruit, and spritefull.

But small, and poor, and barren was the spot,

Denying every plant save whins and hea

ther,

And seldom useful for the spit or pot, Save in the fattening of Christmas wether, Or when the sportsman chose to take a shot

At grouse or black-cock, and such kind of feather;

Besides some thirty acres of plantation,
And as much in a state of cultivation,