"Forgiveness!' she said-' O mock me not, Mr Dalton! what have I to forgive?' "Forgive the words that were wrung from me in bitterness of soul-Forgive me-forgive the passionate, involuntary cries of my mad anguish.' “Oh, sir, you grieve, you wound me! -you know not how you wound me. I am a poor helpless orphan, and I shall soon have no friend to lean to.-How can I listen to such words as you have spoken ?-I am grateful; believe my tears, I am grateful indeed.' "Grateful! for the love of mercy, do not speak so-be calm, let me see you calm.' "How can I be calm? what can I say? Oh, Mr Dalton, it is your wild looks that have tortured me, for I thought I had been calm !—Oh, sir, I pray you, be yourself-do not go from me thus-I am young and friendless, and I know not what I should do or speak.-You, too, are young, and life is before you and I hope happiness-indeed I hope so.' become as pale as their love was purebut the fulness of their young hearts was too rich for utterance-and all seemed so like a dream, that neither had dared, even by a whisper, to hazard the dissolving of the dear melancholy charm." Reginald is now secured in that possession, which, to him, included all worth having in this life. He returns to his father's house, and there makes a confession, not of his love, but of his misdemeanours, and all his expensive follies. Nothing can be more beautiful and pathetic than the description of his father's entire forgiveness, and of the yearnings of his un"diminished, his increased affection towards his beloved Reginald. The feelings of Reginald, too, are all painted as well as may be; and the vicarage is a happier dwelling than it ever was before, in the light of forgiveness, contrition, and reassured confidence and hope. The father and son read toge"ther their favourite classics once more; in which Reginald now sees meanings and gleamings of passion that formerly were hidden; for even during these "few restless months his intellect had expanded and ripened, and from distress and delight, from perturbation "Neither for a few moments said any- "and blessedness, he had learnt to know thing at last, Ellen rubbed aside her something of himself, and of that natears with a hot and rapid hand-and ture to which he belonged. Mean'Hear me,' she said, 'hear me, Mr Dal-while the Vicar had contrived, limited ton. We are both too young—we are both inexperienced-and we have both our sorrows, and we should both think of other things. Go, sir, and do your duty in the world; and if it will lighten your heart to know, that you carry with you my warmest wishes for your welfare, do take them with you. Hereafter there I may come better days for us both, and then perhaps but no, no, sir, I know 'tis folly "Nay,' said Reginald, solemnly, not happiness-but I trust calmness to endure my misery. You may, but I cannot forget; and with this his tears also flowed, for hitherto not one drop had eased his burning eye-lids. "She bowed her head upon her knees -he drew her hand to his lips, and kissed it, and wept upon it, and whispered as none ever whispered twice, and was answered with a silence more eloquent even than all the whispers in the uni verse. "They sat together, their eyes never meeting, blushing, weeping, one in sorrow and one in joy. Thoughts too beautiful for words, thoughts of gentlest sadness, more precious than bliss, filled them both, and gushed over and mingled in their slow calm tears. "An hour passed away, and there they were still speechless-the tears indeed had ceased to flow, and their cheeks had as were his means, to raise a sum sufficient for the payment of his son's debts; and Reginald returns in due time to Oxford, with the certainty of freedom from his former degrading and intolerable bondage. But, alas! it is not so easy to carry into execution the best formed and severest resolutions of virtue, in spite of all the nameless and inconceivable obstacles and difficulties that former follies had created, and which remain still as stumbling-blocks, or pit-falls, or barriers, to the sorely beset individual who would fain turn from the errors of the way that has too long been trodden. So we have the history of new trials, new failures, and new falls; and Reginald Dalton-after many noble efforts to save himself from ruin, and among others à voluntary surrender of his status in the university, and descent from the rank of a commoner to that of a servitor, in order that he might retrieve his ruined fortunes-he unluckily engages in a duel with his old acquaintance Chisney, whom he discovers attempting a brutal assault on Helen Hesketh, wounds his antagonist, is imprisoned, and finally expelled the university. All these incidents, with all their accompanying causes and effects, are narrated with liveliness and vigour, and bring us to the end of the second volume. Now, whoever wishes to know what the third volume contains, will have the goodness to read it. All we shall say is this, that all Reginald's prospects in life are utterly ruined, and his love for Helen now seems hopeless. He determines to go to India; and they first swear eternal fidelity in each other's arms. But, after many chapters of accidents, the tragic scene shifts, and hope rises on the horizon. Hidden things are brought to light-histories of old times revived-secrets revealed -and affairs in general undergo many remarkable and important revolutions. There is throughout the greater part of the last volume an uncommon bustle, and running to and fro of all parties concerned. The wily are detected; the crafty confuted; the guilty punished; the good rise up from poverty, or obscurity, or danger; and, when the curtain falls, the head of Helen Hesketh is on the bosom of Reginald Dalton ;-and they are spending their honey-moon at GRYPHERWASTHALL, of which Helen Hesketh turned out to be heiress; and may Mrs Dalton long flourish, and give birth to at least three daughters, as fair and as good as their delightful mother. A long analysis of a popular novel in a Magazine or Review, is indeed a dull absurdity; and we have therefore done no more now, than merely state a few things that it was necessary to state, to bring out before our readers something of the character of this very original production. The extracts will speak for themselves; and it will be seen, from the glimpses of the story which we have given, that it is full of bustle, variety, interest, and passion. We beg therefore to conclude with a few sentences, summing up its general merits and demerits. In the first place, although neither this novel, nor any other novel we ever read, stands by itself, that is to say, belongs to no class, which we presume is what blockheads desire when they demand something wholly new, Reginald Dalton will be universally acknowledged to be a work of genius. The conception of it is both poetical and philosophical. It is, on the whole, a fine and a bold illustration of a segment of life's circle. It is a living moving picture-a sort of peristrephic panorama. In the second place, the main object of the work, namely, a delineation of the youth of a given individual, is attained, and well attained, and Reginald, with all his faults and transgressions, is a lad of such metal, that the more England contains of them the better-for the bar, the church, the army, and the navy. In the third place, a great deal of talent is shewn in the sketches of character throughout the three volumes, and for the most part they are true to nature. Of the priest Mr Keith, we may well say with Wordsworth. "That poor old man is richer than he seems;" and we have not been half so much in love with anybody since the short peace of 1801, as with Helen Hesketh. And, lastly, there is throughout, such a power of writing, beautifully, gracefully, vigorously, sarcastically, and wittily, at will, as will puzzle most of our acquaintances to equal, from the great Unknown down to Dominie Small-Text in Tom Campbell. Should any of them not think So, let them try. Now for the demerits. In the first place, the deep and vital interest of the history ceases with the conclusion of the second volume. The third, although we are involved in the curious and exciting progress of an uncommon and ingenious denouement, is to us frequently teazing and bothering. Let us, if possible, have no more wills and title-deeds, and cursed parchments of all sorts fluttering and creaking in novels. They are becoming a perfect nuisance. In the second place, there is not a due proportion preserved between the sad, serious, solemn, pathetic, and impassioned, and the light, airy, frolicsome, and absurd. There is rather too much of the latter. They sometimes seem to be the principal and prevailing character of the work. This is a pity, and obviously happened because the author wrote away without any very regular plan; and when sheets are printed off, pray, Mr Wiseacre, what is to be done? In the third place, not a few of the incidents are in themselves baddish. The duel between Reginald and Chisney, is no great shakes, and duels are dull affairs in modern novels. No duel should be fought, except with lance and sword, on horseback. The scenes in the prison-the Castle of Oxford-are very so so. Nobody could suppose for a moment, that Reginald was to be hanged; the passion is out of place and exaggerated, and the whole thing a failure. There can be no doubt of that-it is what our ingenious Hogg would call an Ipse dixit." In the fourth place, the author feels apparently the highest pleasure, and often puts out his highest powers, in describing characters, which to us are by no means agreeable to look upon or converse with their absence would be good company. Such is that interminable and everlasting bore, pest, and plague, Ralpho Macdonald, W. S. Confound that old scoundrel! Sir Charles Catline, too, is a painful personage and even Chisney is too often brought on the stage-for he is a disagreeable chap, and although gentlemanly enough in some things, on the whole a heartless and wicked scamp, and a little of such people goes a long way either in real or imaginary life. Finally, although this auth gene rally writes with most extraordinary power, and also with extreme elegance, he not seldom falls into ugly and vulgar expressions, in a way to us unaccountable. We have been told the book is full of Scotticisms, but we know nothing about Scotticisms, and have no doubt that they are most excellent things. We allude to lowish-or slang-whanging phrases-or hard-favoured or mean-gaited words intruding themselves; or, what is worse, seemingly being introduced on purpose into the company of all that is graceful and accomplished. But there is no end of this-we have just filled our tumbler, and could begin to praise and abuse this book, just as if we had not written a single syllable about it. So, instead of doing either the one or the other, we lay down our pen, and shall now read it over again, at least till old Christopher arrives. Come here is the Godstowscene between Reginald and Helen Hesketh !-what need the author of that care for criticism? That is indeed a strain that might "create a soul be neath the ribs of death.” NOTE. LET us finish off this article with a spirited note. The book which has been now so ably reviewed is one of those which the editor of the Edinburgh, in the plenitude of his perspicacity, slumps together in a heap about three feet high from the ground, as imitations of the novels of the author of Waverley. Really that worthy old gentleman has been indulging himself somewhat too freely of late years in the privileges of dotage. There cannot be a stronger proof of the dulling and deadening influence of time upon his discriminating faculties, than the unsuspecting assurance with which he looks upon objects as similar, which are essentially distinguished to all other eyes by the most prominent characteristics. The author of Waverley, &c. has written a number of the most admirable of all possible works on the character of Scotchmen, and the scenery of Scotland; therefore, all other men who write about Scotchmen and Scotland, are imitators of the author of Waverley. This is his logic. Now, it so happens, that the various writers whose various works he thus drivelled about with so vacant a countenance, are all distinguished, both in matter and in manner, from one another, and all most unlike, in almost every respect, from their alleged prototype. We believe that it would not be possible, in the whole range of British literature, to point out any fictitious narratives so separate from the Waverley novels, as the very ones which "this moping Owl does to the moon complain" of on the score of their similitude. If he would only take the trouble to scratch his head for a few moments, and think, the Šrall Known himself would VOL. XV. Q see this and acknowledge his stupidity. There have been several very clever imitations of the incomparable works alluded to; and because they were clever imitations, few persons cared about them a fortnight after their publication. But Valerius, Adam Blair, and Reginald Dalton, are creations, purely and entirely, of the mind of their author,-whoever he may be,-original in their conception, as powerful in their execution. Indeed, our little bat-eyed critic knocks himself against the truth, before he has flitted down half a page. For Valerius he altogether excepts from this imputed imitation, and voucheth, that, "such as it is, it is undoubtedly original." Reginald Dalton he nods to in his usual pert and familiar manner; but, beginning to suspect that he does not comprehend the Oxonian, he very prudently avoids any conversation with him, and hops into Mi Constable's shop. Adam Blair then, after all, is the only shadow of some worthy or other in the Waverley Novels; and do now, good Mr Jeffrey, just inform the public who it is you mean. Is it Dandie Dinmont, or Dominie Sampson, or Quentin Durward, or Balfour of Burley, or King Jamie, or George Heriot, or Meg Merrilies, or Mary Stuart Queen of Scots, or John Knox, or Flibbertigibbet, or Meg Dods? Why, my good fellow, you have just been letting little driblets of ink detach themselves from the point of your pen, without at all considering what you were about, and we only wonder that you have not long ere now set your house on fire; for what can be more dangerous than to fall asleep in this manner by candle-light? Valerius," such as it is," you are pleased to say, is undoubtedly original; and in proof of this, you immediately add, that the author has borrowed from the Travels of Anacharsis, the ancient romance of Heliodorus and Chariclea, and the later effusions of M. Chateaubriand. This is really distressing. You write," it would be more plausible to say so," that is, you hint that if yourself, or any other critic, were anxious to utter a detracting falsehood of Valerius, some such insinuation as this would be "plausible." How manly! But do you absolutely opine, that the Travels of Anacharsis are like the effusions of Chateaubriand? or either the one or the other like the Greek romance? Some wizard has thrown the glamour owre you-your optics are disordered-and if you go on at this rate, you will be incapable of distinguishing colours, and go to a funeral in a pea-green surtout. Valerius, "such as it is!" ay-ay-Mr Francis Jeffrey, Valerius, such as it is, is a work as far above your powers, as your article Beauty, in the Supplement, is above Macvey's article Bacon in the Transactions, and that is about a mile of perpendicular altitude. Valerius is the work of a consummate scholar, as familiar with the language of ancient Rome, as you are with the jargon of the Outer-House; as much master of the Roman spirit as ever you were master of any synod case before the General Assembly. Were you to be shut up in a tower, commanding a good view of the Frith and the coast of Fife, for six calendar months, and fed on the most exhilarating diet, on condition of producing, at the close of your confinement, a written composition on any subject equal to the worst chapter in the "Roman Story," or of being turned off over the battlements, à la Thurtell, then would the vertebræ of your neck be to be pitied, for dislocation would be inevitable. Now do you, can you in your heart, think this pert prating of yours to be clever? Are such sneaking insults to men so immeasurably your superiors, sincere or affected? Do you think that you add two or three inches to your stature, by thus raising yourself up on your toes, in order that you may be able to look pertly into the faces of gentlemen of more commanding stature? As to "Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life," and the "Trials of Margaret Lyndsay," Jeffrey speaks of them like a boarding-school Miss, rather than like an experienced person approaching threescore. The first of these volumes has become universally popular, on account of the beautiful union which it everywhere exhibits of a rich and fine poetical spirit, with a spirit of the homeliest and most human truth. The whole structure of the language, the whole character of the thought and feeling, the whole composition of incident and story, the whole conception of character and situation, are all essentially different from everything written by the Great Unknown, whatever the Small Known may mutter; nor is there an expression, or an image, or a description, that could lead any reader to suppose that the author of " Lights and Shadows," had even so much as seen a page of any one of the works of that Immortal. As to the Trials of Margaret Lyndsay-that is a humble tale of humble faith, and fortitude, and piety, written in a more subdued, and, as it appears to us, better style than the Lights and Shadows, but remote indeed from any resemblance to the said Novels; and we will add, a tale unsurpassed in our moral literature, possessing manifold and exquisite beauties, and, without a moment's pause of ennui or lassitude, carrying the whole spirit along with the fortunes of one single innocent girl, in a way decisive of a genius possessing prodigious mastery over the human heart. Indeed, almost all this is admitted by Mr Jeffrey, of a tale which, nevertheless, he characterizes in the same breath as an imitation of other writings, of a higher order certainly, but of an order wholly separate and distinct. But Mr Jeffrey has a theory of his own on this subject. He seriously believes, and declares his belief, after he has reached his grand climacteric, that a certain number of gentlemen-in this case it would appear three-meet together within the four corners of a room, and in the arduous task of imitating the great Novelist, they have apparently found it necessary to resort to the great principle of division of labour." What a Stot-like idea! It is fixed among them that one takes that arable field—another takes that meadow-ground; and a third that hill-side; and each is to raise his crop, and bring it to the best market he can. This is very fanciful, indeed, in our critical friend-quite ingenious; and he talks as if he had been present with these gentlemen, and had seen them falling to composition, each on his allotted sheet and subject. We cannot help getting somewhat melancholy when we think on such drivelling nonsense as this; and not having seen this political economist lately, we fear that all is not as it should be. If so, we beg leave to unsay all we have now written, as nothing could be farther from our intention now, or at any time, than to hurt the feelings of any creeping thing; and as we have always thought and said that he is a worthy little fellow, occasionally not without the appearance of considerable talent, and now and then, which, after such exhibitions of himself as these, puzzles us till we are provoked, by no means small beer in satire, and no contemptible expounder of the meanings of wiser men. Of the Annals of the Parish, Ayrshire Legatees, and all the other works of the same distinguished and excellent writer, we need say little. For our opinion of them, see the review of the Entail, and our answer to Philomag. That he is no imitator of the Great Unknown, one fact will prove that the Annals of the Parish was written before Waverley. That he may have tried to break a lance with the visored knight, is very probably true; and that there may be, latterly, also unconscious and unintentional fallings-in of the train of his thoughts with those of the Great Unknown, is most probable. Why not? But be that as it may, no critic of any true discernment or liberality, could ever have thought to de |