fancy ourselves as much at home with the foreigner of four centuries back, as with a contemporary of our own native land.

The charm and popularity of Quentin Durward (as well as of most other productions of our author) may, we conceive, be sufficiently explained by the application of these principles to them, without searching deeper into the secrets of perfect composition. There are a truth, and distinctness, and individuality, in the drawing of this author, which invest every person, and incident, and situation, with reality; which bring us at once into familiarity and friendliness with his characters; and link us, by the bond of sympathy, with all their adventures and concerns.

Our author has exhibited much of this power in the introduction to Quentin Durward, which is a literary morsel of high flavour. The vivid, minute, and particular enumeration of appropriate circumstances, wafts us at once into the ruined chateau of Heautlieu; and brings our heart into contact with the venerable owner of the mansion. It has touches, also, of deep feeling and delicate

taste, which may bear a comparison with one of Sterne's happiest efforts, in the line of affecting description-the resumption, by the Marquis, of his long-dormant sword. The same peculiar charm pervades the novel itself. All its business is transacted before the eye : and a rapid succession of marked and wellsupported contrasts, in characters, dialogues, incidents, and situations, give to the story the magical effect of a good dramatic representation.

Large, however, as the meed of praise is, which may deservedly be bestowed on Quentin Durward, speaking of it as a whole; yet, with respect to some of its parts, we cannot justly hold the same language of eulogy. It is stamped with the marks of imperfection which attach to every thing human, and has its great defects. Homer nods: Shakespeare puns: and the author of our novel has violated the principles of correct taste, and approached the confines of imbecility and absurdity. Instances of the first deviation from the canons of good writing will be found in the accounts of the murder of the Bishop of Liege, and of the hunting of the mock herald: and of the last

error, in his desertion of his hero at the very moment when the laurel should have been awarded to him, and giving to a subordinate character the merit of an atchievement, which ought, in all reason and propriety, to have been reserved for Quentin Dunward alone. Roscommon, in his "Essay on Translated Verse," has judiciously observed, that

"Foul descriptions are offensive still,
"Either for being like or being ill:

"For who, without a qualm, hath ever look'd
“On holy garbage, tho' by Homer cook'd?”

And, in truth, in all representations, whether descriptive or pictorial, which are intended to awaken the emotions of pity or sympathy, it is essential to the production of this effect, not to be too circumstantial. If a particular exhibition of horrors be presented to the unbrutalized mind, it shrinks back from it appalled or nauseated: it is harrowed, and not softened; and instead of a tender and improving melancholy, the impression produced is that of unqualified disgust. Who, when he reads the minutiae of brutal butchery which attended the murder of the Bishop of Liege;

or the detail of cruelties practised upon the hunted, worried, and torn Heyraddin; does not turn from the scenes with the most painful feelings? The descriptions, it is allowed, are exquisitely spirited and vivacious; but they are likenesses of things with which the mind. revolts from any contact or acquaintance; and, like some of the subjects of Spagnioletti, though set off by the finest drawing, and most sublime colouring, are still objects of horror rather than delight.

A no less egregious want of judgment is evinced in the conclusion of the novel before us. Unmarked as the character of the hero is by any of those striking points, which make an immediate, irresistible, and permanent impression on the imagination of the reader; yet, frank and bold, faithful and sincere, he soon contrives to interest us deeply in his fortunes. We quickly become participators in his hopes, sharers in his adventures, and personally anxious for his success; and, in the fondness of partiality, naturally anticipate that the lustre of the denouement should be thrown upon the fate of our favourite, and the palm of

triumph be eventually carried off by him. Instead of the gratification of this reasonable wish, however, we have nothing but miserable disappointment. In order to bring about the completion of a ridiculous prophecy, the glory of De la Mark's discomfiture and destruction (the condition of the possession of the Countess of Croye) is transferred from Quentin Durward to his coarse and semi-barbarous unele; and the hero, after having been so loftily supported throughout, is, at the last, reduced to accept, as a boon, that guerdon, which he had so well deserved to snatch with his own right hand, by his perilous services-gallant bearing -and honest, persevering fidelity.

"Oh! most lame and impotent conclusion."