'Yes, depend upon it I will. Only let me get over the first can writers of fiction. Without venturing to subscribe shock.' 'Shock! Dreading her violence, and feeling myself bound to do the duties of a daughter, I kneeled at her feet, and said: 'Ever respected, ever venerable author of my being, I beg thy maternal blessing! My mother raised me from the ground, and hugged me to her heart, with such cruel vigor, that, almost crushed, I cried out stoutly, and struggled for release, implicitly to this latter supposition, we still think very highly of him who has written Calavar. Of this last mentioned work, and of the Infidel, we have already given our opinion, although not altogether as fully as we could have desired: and we regret that circumstances beyond our control have prevented us from noticing the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow until so late a day as the present. Had this novel reached us some years ago, with the title of, The Hawks of Hawk-Hollow: A Romance by the author of Waverley,' we should not perhaps have engaged And now,' said she, relaxing her grasp, let me tell you of my sufferings. Ten long years I have eaten nothing but bread. Oh, ye favorite pullets, oh, ye inimitable tit-bits, shall I never, never taste you more? It was but last night, that maddened by hunger, methought I beheld the Genius of Dinner in my dreams. His mantle was laced with silver eels, and his locks were drop-in its perusal with as much genuine eagerness, or with ping with soups. He had a crown of golden fishes upon his bead, and pheasants' wings at his shoulders. A flight of little tartlets fluttered about him, and the sky rained down comfits. As I gazed on him, he vanished in a sigh, that was impregnated with the fumes of brandy. Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle.' SO dogged a determination to be pleased with it at all events, as we have actually done upon receiving it with its proper title, and under really existing circumstances. But having read the book through, as undoubtedly we should have done, if only for the sake of Auld Lang Syne, and for the sake of certain pleasantly mirthful, or pleasantly mournful recollections connected with IvanPretty companion of my confinement!' cried she, apostro-hoe, with the Antiquary, with Kenilworth, and above all phizing an enormous toad which she pulled out of her bosom dear, spotted fondling, thou, next to my Cherubina, art worthy of my love. Embrace each other, my friends.' And she put the hideous pet into my hand. I screamed and dropped it. I stood shuddering, and hating her more and more every mo ment. Oh!' cried I, in a passion of despair, what madness possessed me to undertake this execrable enterprise!' and I began beating with my hand against the door. 'Do you want to leave your poor mother?' said she in a whimpering tone. 'Oh! I am so frightened!' cried I. "You will spend the night here, however,' said she; and your whole life too; for the ruffian who brought you hither was employed by Lady Gwyn to entrap you.' When I heard this terrible sentence, my blood ran cold, and I began crying bitterly. 'Come, my love!' said my mother, and let me clasp thee to my heart once more!' For goodness sake!' cried I, 'spare me!' 'What!' exclaimed she, do you spurn my proffered embrace again? ‘Dear, no, madam,' answered I. 'But—but indeed now, you squeeze one so!' My mother made a huge stride towards me; then stood groaning and rolling her eyes. 'Help!' cried I, half frantic, help! help!' with that most pure, perfect, and radiant gem of fictitious literature the Bride of Lammermuir-having, we say, on this account, and for the sake of these recollections read the novel from beginning to end, from Aleph to Tau, we should have pronounced our opinion of its merits somewhat in the following manner. "It is unnecessary to tell us that this novel is written by Sir Walter Scott; and we are really glad to find that he has at length ventured to turn his attention to American incidents, scenery, and manners. We repeat that it was a mere act of supererogation to place the words 'By the author of Waverley' in the title page. The book speaks for itself. The style vulgarly so called-the manner properly so called-the handling of the subject to speak pictorially, or graphically, or as a German would say plastically-in a word the general air, the tout ensemble, the prevailing character of the story, all proclaim, in words which one who runs may read, that these volumes were indited 'By the author of Waverley."" Having said thus much, we should resume our critique as follows. I was stopped by a suppressed titter of infernal laughter, as if from many demons; and on looking towards the black curtain, "The Hawks of Hawk-Hollow is, however, by no whence the sound came, I saw it agitated; while about twenty means in the best manner of its illustrious author. To terrific faces appeared peeping through slits in it, and making speak plainly it is a positive failure, and must take its place by the side of the Redgauntlets, the Monasteries, the Pirates, and the Saint Ronan's Wells." grins of a most diabolical nature. I hid my face with my hands. "Tis the banditti! cried my mother. As she spoke, the door opened, a bandage was flung over my eyes, and I was borne away half senseless, in some one's arms; till at length, I found myself alone in my own chamber. Such was the detestable adventure of to-night. Oh, that I should live to meet this mother of mine! How different from the mothers that other heroines rummage out in northern turrets and ruined chapels! I am out of all patience. Liberate her I must, of course, and make a suitable provision for her too, when I get my property; but positively, never will I sleep under the same roof with-(ye powers of filial love forgive me!) such a living mountain of human horror. Adieu. All this we should perhaps have been induced to say had the book been offered to us for perusal some few years ago, with the supposititious title, and under the supposititious circumstances aforesaid. But alas! for our critical independency, the case is very different indeed. There can be no mistake or misconception in the present instance, such as we have so fancifully imagined. The title page (here we have it) is clear, explanatory, and not to be misunderstood. The IIawks of Hawk Hollow, A Tradition of Pennsylvania, that is to say a | purpose of seduction, throws himself at once into the arms of his first love, and at length espouses her, a short time before the decease of Jessie, who dies in bringing a son into the world. The wrath of the brothers of Jessie, has doomed this child to destruction-but their mother, at this same pe brought about through the instrumentality of an old nurse Elsie Bell, who plays an anomalous part in the story, being half witch, and half gentlewoman. The effect of this exchange is that the still-born child of Mrs. Gilbert is buried as the offspring of Jessie, while her real offspring, is sent to the West Indies, to be nur. tured and educated by a sister of Mr. Gilbert. The boy thus sent was called Hyland, after one of the Hawks who perished in the rescue of Col. Falconer. Such are the events which, at the opening of the story, have broken up the family of the Gilberts, and ef novel, is written, so we are assured, not by the author of Waverley, but by the author of that very fine romance Calavar-not by Sir Walter Scott, Baronet, but by Robert M. Bird, M. D. Now Robert M. Bird is an American. We will endeavour to give an outline of the story.riod giving birth to a still-born infant, an exchange is In a little valley bordering upon the Delaware, and called Hawk-Hollow from a colony of hawks who time out of mind had maintained possession of a blasted tree at its embouchure, resided, some fifty years ago, one Gilbert, an English emigrant. He had seven sons, all of whom displayed in early life a spirit of desperate and reckless adventure, and a love of the wild life of the woods and mountains. Oran was the name of the eldest, and at the same time the most savage and intractable of the seven. The disposition thus evinced obtained for these young desperadoes the sobriquet of the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow. Gilbert, the father, falls heir to afected their ruin. rich estate in England, and after making a vain attempt "The sons no longer hunted with the young men to settle in that country and educate his children as of the county, but went, as in their war expeditions, gentlemen, returns at length to the valley of Hawk-alone: and when others thrust themselves into their Hollow, so much more congenial to the temper and company they quarrelled with them, so that they beA fine but fantastic manor-house is gan to be universally feared and detested. To crown all, as soon as the Revolution burst out they went erected, and the family acquire consideration in the over to the enemy: and, being distributed among the land. In the meantime Mr. Gilbert's first wife dying, wild and murderous bands of savages forming on the he weds another, who bears him a daughter, Jessie. At north-western frontiers, they soon obtained a dreadful notoriety for their deeds of daring and cruelty. Of the opening of the tale, however, a Captain Loring resides upon the estate, and in the mansion of the Gil-course this remarkable defection of the sons, caused the berts, holding them as the agent or tenant of a certain Col. Falconer, who is a second edition of Falkland in Caleb Williams,-and who has managed to possess himself of the property at Hawk-Hollow, upon its confiscation on account of the tory principles and conduct habits of his sons. of the Hawks. unlucky father to be suspected and watched. He was accused at last of aiding and abetting them in their treasonable practices, and soon, either from timidity or a consciousness of guilt, he fled, seeking refuge within the royal lines. This was sufficient for his ruin: for, after the usual legal preliminaries, he was formally outlawed, as his sons had been before, and his property confiscated. He died soon afterwards, either at New York, or Jamaica." During the happier days of the Gilberts, the life of this Falconer was preserved by three of them, Hyland, the son of Falconer by Jessie, but the supHe upon a certain occasion of imminent peril. posed youngest brother of the Hawks, returns after however, being badly wounded, they convey him to many years, to his native country with the intention of their father's house, and Jessie, their sister, attends accepting a British commission; but seeing more closehim in the character of nurse. She loves him. He ly, and with his own eyes, the true principles which returns her love with gratitude and perhaps some little actuated the colonists, he finally relinquishes that deactual affection, not however sufficient to banish from sign. In the meantime visiting the Hawk-Hollow his mind the charms or the wealth of a lady of whom under the assumed name of Herman Hunter, and in he had been previously enamored—the daughter of a the character of a painter, he becomes enamored of gentleman who had succored and patronised him at a Catherine, the daughter of Captain Loring. The attime when he needed aid, and who discarded him upon tachment is mutual, although the lady is already beperceiving the growing intimacy between his child trothed to Henry, the son of Col. Falconer, a rather and his protegé. Grateful however for the kindness gentlemanly, although a very dissipated and good-forand evident affection of Jessie, and intoxicated with nothing personage. Difficulties thicken of course. Miss her beauty, he marries her in a moment of madness and Harriet Falconer, a copy in many respects of Di Verpassion-prevailing upon her to keep the marriage a non, becomes, for some very trivial reason, a violent secret for a short time. At this critical juncture, Falco-enemy of Herman Hunter, and even goes so far as to ner, who has already risen to honors and consideration suspect him of being connected with the outlawed in the world, as an officer of the Colonial army, re- Hawks of the Hollow. Captain Loring, on the other ceives overtures of reconciliation both from his old pa-hand, is his firm friend-a circumstance which restron and his daughter. His former flame is rekindled tores matters to a more proper equilibrium, and much in his bosom. He puts off from day to day the publication of his marriage with Jessie, and, finally, goaded by love and ambition, and encouraged by the accidental death of the regimental chaplain who married him, as well as by that of the only witness to the ceremony, he flies from Jessie who is about to become a mother, and leaving herself and friends under the impression that the rite of marriage had been a mere mockery for the flirtation is consequently carried on, in and about the old mansion house and pleasure grounds of the Gilberts. In the meantime an attempt is made, by some unknown assassin, upon the life of Col. Falconer, at New York; and the county is thrown into a panic, by the rumor that Oran, the eldest brother of the Hawks, is not dead, as was supposed, but in existence near the Hollow with a desperate band of refugees, and ready to pounce upon the neighboring village of Hillborough. Miss Harriet | ly, to his fastnesses in the mountains, where, after a Falconer busies herself in a very unlady-like manner to lapse of many years, his bones and his rifle are identiferret out the assassin of her father. Plot and coun-fied. Thus ends the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow. terplot follow in rapid succession. New characters We have already spoken of the character of Elsie appear upon the scene. A tall disciple of Roscius called Bell. That of Harriet Falconer, is forced, unnatural, Sterling, is, among others, very conspicuous, thrusting and overstrained. Catherine Loring, however, is one his nose into every adventure, and assuming by turns, of the sweetest creations ever emanating from the fancy although in a very slovenly way, the character of a of poet, or of painter. Truly feminine in thought, in Methodist preacher, of a pedlar, of a Quaker, and of a manner, and in action, she is altogether a conception French dancing master. Elsie Bell, the old witch, pro- of which Dr. Bird has great reason to be proud. Phoebe, phecies, predicates, and prognosticates; and in short the waiting maid, (we have not thought it worth while matters begin to assume a very serious and inexplica- to mention her in our outline,) is a mere excrescence, and, ble aspect. Hyland Gilbert alias Herman Hunter, the like some other personages in the tale, introduced for painter, is drawn into an involuntary connection with no imaginable purpose. Of the male dramatis personæ his supposed brother Oran, the refugee, and some cir- some are good-some admirable-some execrable. cumstances coming to light not very much to his credit, Among the good, we may mention Captain Caliver of he is obliged to flee from the mansion of the gallant the Dragoons. Captain Loring is a chef d'œuvre. His Captain-not, however, until he has declared his pas-oddities, his infirmities, his enthusiasm, his petulancy, sion for the daughter, into the ear of the daughter herself. Through the instigation of Harriet Falconer, the day is at length fixed for the marriage of her brother Henry with Catherine Loring. Accident delays the ceremony until night, when, just as the lady is hesitating whether she shall say yes, or no, the tall gentleman ycleped Sterling who has managed, no one knows how, to install himself as major-domo, chief fiddler, and master of ceremonies at the wedding, takes the liberty of knocking the bridegroom on the head with his violin, while Oran, the refugee, jumps in at one window with a gang of his followers, and Hyland Gilbert, alias Herself, is not always to be false to Nature-still, in the man Hunter, the painter, popping in at another, carries present instance, Hyland Gilbert in prison, and in difoff the bride at a back door nemine contradicente. The ficulty, and Herman Hunter, in the opening of the novel, bird being flown, the hue and cry is presently raised, possess none of the same traits, and are not, in point of and the whole county starts in pursuit. But the affair fact, identical. Sterling is a mere mountebank, without ends very lamely. Precisely at the moment when Hy-even the merit of being an original one: and his deathland Gilbert, alias Herman Hunter, the painter, has bed repentance is too ludicrously ill-managed, and alcarried his mistress beyond any prospect of danger from together too manifestly out of place, to be mentioned pursuit, he suddenly takes it into his head, to change any farther. Squire Schlachtenschlager, the Magishis mind in relation to the entire business, and so, turn-trate, is the best personification of a little brief authority ing back as he came, very deliberately carries the lady in the person of a Dutchman, which it has ever been home again. He himself, however, being caught, is our good fortune to encounter. sentenced to be hung-all which is exceedingly just. But to be serious. his warm-heartedness, and his mutability of disposition, altogether make up a character which we may be permitted to consider original, inasmuch as we have never seen its prototype either in print, or in actual existence. It is however true to itself, and to propriety, and although at times verging upon the outré, is highly creditable to the genius of its author. Oran, the refugee, is well-but not excellently drawn. The hero Hyland, with whom we were much interested in the beginning of the book, proves inconsistent with himself in the end; and although to be inconsistent with one's In regard to that purely mechanical portion of Dr. Bird's novel, which it would now be fashionable to de-. The crime with which the young man is charged, is nominate its style, we have very few observations to the murder of Henry Falconer, who fell by a pistol shot make. In general it is faultless. Occasionally we meet in an affray during the pursuit. The criminal is lodged with a sentence ill-constructed--an inartificial adaptain jail at Hill borough-is tried-and, chiefly through the tion of the end to the beginning of a paragraph—a cirinstrumentality of Col. Falconer, is in danger of being cumlocutory mode of saying what might have been betfound guilty. But Elsie Bell now makes her appear-ter said, if said with brevity-now and then with a pleoance, and matters assume a new aspect. She reveals to nasm, as for example. "And if he wore a mask in his Col. Falconer the exchange of the two infants—a fact commerce with men, it was like that iron one of the Bastile, with which he had been hitherto unacquainted—and which when put on, was put on for life, and was at the consequently astounds him with the information that he same time of iron,"—not unfrequently with a bull prois seeking the death of his own son. A new turn is also per, videlicet. "As he spoke there came into the den, given to the evidence in the case of the murder by the eight men attired like the two first who were included in death-bed confession of Sterling, who owns that he him- the number." But we repeat that upon the whole the self shot the deceased Henry Falconer, and also attempt-style of the novel-if that may be called its style, which ed the assassination of the Colonel. The prisoner is ac- style is not-is at least equal to that of any American quitted by acclamation. Col. Falconer, is shot by mistake writer whatsoever. while visiting his son in prison. Harriet dies of grief In the style properly so called-that is to say in the at the exposure of her father's villainy, and of her own prevailing tone and manner which give character and consequent illegitimacy. Hyland Gilbert and Cathe-individuality to the book, we cannot bring ourselves to rine are united. Oran, the refugee, who fired the shot think that Dr. Bird has been equally fortunate. His by which Col. Falconer was accidentally killed, being subject appears always ready to fly away from him. hotly pursued, and dangerously wounded, escapes, final-He dallics with it continually-hovers incessantly round supposing the contrary, he should at once, in the language of one with whom he is no doubt well acquainted, Turn bard, and drop the play-wright and the novelist. it, and about it—and not until driven to exertion by the necessity of bringing his volumes to a close, does he finally grasp it with any appearance of energy or good will. The Hawks of Hawk-Hollow is composed with great inequality of manner-at times forcible and man-In evidence that we say nothing more than what is ably-at times sinking into the merest childishness and solutely just; we insert here the little poem of The imbecility. Some portions of the book, we surmise, Whippoorwill. were either not written by Dr. Bird, or were written by him in moments of the most utter mental exhaustion. On the other hand, the reader will not be disappointed, if he looks to find in the novel many-very many well sustained passages of great eloquence and beauty. We open the book at random, and one presents itself immediately to our notice. If Dr. Bird has a general manner at all-a question which we confess ourselves unable to decide the passage which we are about to quote is a very fair, although perhaps rather too favorable specimen of that manner. Sleep, sleep! be thine the sleep that throws Oh whippoorwill, oh whippoorwill! Sleep, sleep! and once again I'll tell Oh whippoorwill, oh whippoorwill! Sleep, sleep! the ship hath left the shore, Oh whippoorwill, oh whippoorwill! Sleep, sleep! the morrow hastens on; The sounds of joy may reach his ear; "Thus whiling away the fatigue of climbing over rocks, and creeping, through thickets with a gay rattle of discourse, the black-eyed maiden dragged her companion along until they reached a place where the stream was contracted by the projection on the one bank of a huge mass of slaty rock, and on the other, by the protrusion of the roots of a gigantic plane-tree-the syca more or button-wood of vulgar speech. Above them, and beyond the crag, the channel of the rivulet widened into a pool; and there was a plot of green turf betwixt the water and the hill, on the farther bank, whercon fairies, if such had ever made their way to the world of Twilight, might have loved to gambol under the light of the moon. A hill shut up the glen at its upper extremity; and it was hemmed in on the left, by the rocky and woody declivity over which the maidens had already passed. Over this, and just behind a black rounded shoulder that it thrust into the glen, a broad ray from the evening sun shot across the stream, and fell in a rich yellow flood over the vacant plot. There was something almost Arcadian in this little solitude; and In conclusion: The Hawks of Hawk-Hollow, if it add if instead of two well-bred maidens perched upon the a single bay to the already green wreath of Dr. Bird's poproots of the sycamore, on seats chosen with a due re- ular reputation, will not, at all events, among men whose gard to the claims of their dresses, there had been a decisions are entitled to consideration, advance the high batch of country girls romping in the water, a passing Acteon might have dreamed of the piny Gargaphy, its opinion previously entertained of his abilities. It has running well fons tenui perlucidus unda--and the bright no pretensions to originality of manner, or of style-for creatures of the mythic day that once animated the wa- we insist upon the distinction-and very few to origiters of that solitary grot. But the fairy and the wood-nality of matter. It is, in many respects, a bad imitanymph are alike unknown in America. Poetic illusion has not yet consecrated her glens and fountains; her forests nod in uninvaded gloom, her rivers roll in unsanctified silence, and even her ridgy mountains lift up their blue tops in unphantomed solitude. Association sleeps, or it reverts only to the vague mysteries of speculation. Perhaps A restless Indian queen, Pale Marian with the braided hair, Oh whippoorwill, oh whippoorwill! tion of Sir Walter Scott. Some of its characters, and for force, fidelity to nature, and power of exciting inone or two of its incidents, have seldom been surpassed, terest in the reader. It is altogether more worthy of its author in its scenes of hurry, of tumult, and confusion, than in those of a more quiet and philosophical nature. Like Calavar and The Infidel, it excels in the drama of action and passion, and fails in the drama of may wander at night by some highly favored spring; colloquy. It is inferior, as a whole, to the Infidel, and perhaps some tall and tawny hunter vastly inferior to Calavar. In vestments for the chase arrayed, may yet hunt the hart over certain distinguished ridges, or urge his barken canoe over some cypress-fringed pool; but all other places are left to the fancies of the utilitarian. A Greek would have invented a God to dwell under the watery arch of Niagara; an American is satisfied with a paper-mill clapped just above it." Of the songs and other poetic pieces interspersed throughout the book, and sometimes not aptly or gracefully introduced, we have a very high opinion. Some of them are of rare merit and beauty. If Dr. Bird can always write thus, and we see no reason for PEERAGE AND PEASANTRY. Tales of the Peerage and the Peasantry, Edited by Lady Dacre. New York: Harper & Brothers. We had been looking with much impatience for the republication of these volumes, and hencefoward we shall look with still greater anxiety for any thing announced as under the editorial supervision of Lady Dacre. But why, Lady Dacre, this excessive show of modesty, or rather this most unpardonable piece of affectation? Why deny having written volumes whose authorship would be an enviable and an honorable dis EDINBURGH REVIEW. The Edinburgh Review, No. CXXIV, for July 1835. American Edition, Vol. II, No. 2. New York: Theodore Foster. "The His tinction to the proudest literati of your land? And why, above all, announce yourself as editor in a titlepage, merely to proclaim yourself author in a preface? The Tales of the Peerage and the Peasantry are three in number. The first and the longest is Winifred, Coun- Article I in this number is a critique upon tess of Nithsdale, (have a care, Messieurs Harpers, you tory of the Revolution in England in 1688. Comprising have spelt it Nithsadle in the very heading of the very a View of the Reign of James the Second, from his initial chapter) a thrilling, and spirited story, rich with Accession to the Enterprise of the Prince of Orange. imagination, pathos, and passion, and in which the suc- By the late Right Honorable Sir James Mackintosh; cessful termination of a long series of exertions, and and completed to the Settlement of the Crown, by the trials, whereby the devoted Winifred finally rescues her Editor. To which is prefixed, a Notice of the Life, husband, the Earl of Nithsdale, from tyranny, prison, Writings, and Speeches of Sir James Mackintosh. 4to. and death, inspires the reader with scarely less heartfelt London, 1834." The Reviewer commences by instijoy and exultation than we can conceive experienced tuting a comparison between the work of Sir James, and by the happy pair themselves. But the absolute con- Fox's History of James the Second. Both books are clusion of this tale speaks volumes for the artist-like on the same subject-both were posthumously publishskill of the fair authoress. An every day writer would ed, and neither had received the last corrections. The have ended a story of continued sorrow and suffering, authors, likewise, belonged to the same political party, with a bright gleam of unalloyed happiness, and sun- and had the same opinions concerning the merits and shine-thus destroying, at a single blow, that indispen- defects of the English Constitution, and concerning most sable unity which has been rightly called the unity of of the prominent characters and events in English hiseffect, and throwing down, as it were, in a paragraph tory. The palm is awarded to the work of Mackintosh. what, perhaps, an entire volume has been laboring to "Indeed"-says the critic-"the superiority of Mr. establish. We repeat that Lady Dacre has given con- Fox to Sir James as an orator, is hardly more clear than clusive evidence of talent and skill, in the final senten- the superiority of Sir James to Mr. Fox as an historian. ces of the Countess of Nithsdale-evidence, however, Mr. Fox with a pen in his hand, and Sir James on his which will not be generally appreciated, or even very legs in the House of Commons were, we think, each extensively understood. We will transcribe the passa-out of his proper element. We could never read a page ges alluded to. sounds as "And dearer to my ears' said Lady Nithsdale 'the simple ballad of a Scottish maiden, than even these they are wafted to us over the waters!' They stopped to listen to the song as it died away; and, as they listened, another and more awful sound struck upon their ears. The bell of one of the small chapels often constructed on the shores of Catholic countries, was tolled for the soul of a departed mariner. As it happened, the tone was not unlike one of which they both retained only too vivid and painful a recollection. The Countess felt her husband's frame quiver beneath the stroke. There was no need of words. With a mutual pressure of the arm they returned upon their steps and sought their home. Unconsciously their pace quickened. They seemed to fly before the stroke of that bell! Such suffering as they had both experienced, leaves traces in the soul which time itself can never wholly efface." The Hampshire Cottage is next in order-a tale of the Peasantry; and the volumes conclude with Blanche, a tale of the Peerage. Both are admirable, and worthy of companionship with Winifred, Countess of Nithsdale. There can be no doubt that Lady Dacre is a writer of infinite genius, possessing great felicity of expression, a happy talent for working up a story, and, above all, a far more profound and philosophical knowledge of the hidden springs of the human heart, and a greater skill in availing herself of that knowledge, than any of her female contemporaries. This we say deliberately. We have not yet forgotten the Recollections of a Chaperon. No person, of even common sensibility, has ever perused the magic tale of Ellen Wareham without feeling the very soul of passion and imagination aroused and stirred up within him, as at the sound of a trumpet. Let Lady Dacre but give up her talents and energies, and especially her time to the exaltation of her literary fame, and we are sorely mistaken if, hereafter, she do not accomplish something which will not readily die. of Mr. Fox's writings-we could never listen for a quarter of an hour to the speaking of Sir James-without feeling that there was a constant effort, a tug up-hill. Mr. Fox wrote debates. Sir James Mackintosh spoke essays." The style of the fragment is highly complimented, and justly. Every body must agree with the Reviewer, that a History of England written throughout, in the manner of the History of the Revolution, would be the most fascinating book in the language. The printer and editor of the work are severely censured, but the censure is, in some respects, misapplied. Such errors as making the pension of 60,000 livres, which Lord Sunderland received from France, equivalent to 2,500 pounds sterling only, when, at the time Sunderland was in power, the livre was worth more than eighteen pence, are surely attributable to no one but the author-although the editor may come in for a small portion of the blame for not correcting an oversight so palpable. On the other hand the misprinting the name. of Thomas Burnet repeatedly throughout the book, both in the text and Index, is a blunder for which the editor is alone responsible. The name is invariably spelt Bennet. Thomas Burnet, Master of the Charter House, and author of the Theoria Sacra, is a personage of whom, or of whose works, the gentleman who undertook to edit the Fragment of Sir James Mackintosh has evidently never heard. The Memoir prefixed to the History, and its Continuation to the settlement of the Crown, both by the Editor of the Fragment, are unsparingly, but indeed most righteously, condemned. The Memoir is childish and imbecile, and the Continuation full of gross inaccuracies, and altogether unworthy of being appended to any thing from the pen of Mackintosh. Article II is a very clever Review of the "Archanenses of Aristophanes, with Notes Critical and Explanatory, adapted to the Use of Schools and Universities. |