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the frank naïveté and warm-heartedness, which are united to these unpromising ingredients, and above all, perhaps, the Hieland blude of him that warms at thae daft tales o'venturesome deeds and escapes -tho' they are all sinfu' vanities,' and makes him affirm before the council that Rob Roy set apart what he had dune again the law o' the country, and the hership o' the Lennox' (i. e. the laying waste and plundering a whole country), and the misfortune o' some folk losing life by him, was an honester man than stude on any o' their shanks, make him both original and interesting in the highest degree. Rashleigh is among the best portraits of that difficult subject, a well-drawn villain, that we recollect. The reader feels that his hypocrisy might have deceived that of the common fictitious rascal would only disgust. Rob Roy himself well answers our preconceptions of his character. The man who, without rank or fortune, could for thirty or forty years set all law at defiance, who, though peculiarly obnoxious to the government, not merely as breaking its laws and plundering its subjects, but as a rebel and a traitor, and at deadly feud with the great men on whose property he lived, could resist all their power, and elude all their stratagems, without being ever overwhelmed by superior force, or betrayed by the treachery of his own companions—taken, as many of them must have been, from among the least trust-worthy of men-must have been a man of extraordinary talents and, mixed with his great vices, of extraordinary virtues. He must have had the first in order to play his own part well, the second in order to retain in devoted fidelity his associates.

And he must have been a man of extraordinary courage. Some of our readers may perhaps be surprized at hearing that the last has been doubted; and, certainly, on the occasions which are the most usual tests of courage, he behaved ill. He fought two duels, and in both of them yielded almost immediately, in no very honourable

And, at Sheriff Muir, on the only occasion in which, with the teniporary command of the clan, he had an opportunity of showing at once his spirit and his devotion,

• He never advanced

From the place he was stanced

Till nae mair was to do there at a' man.' But the fact is, that no two things can be more different than the courage of an outlaw and that of a soldier. The first is founded on familiarity with danger,—it is the virtue of rude times, and can be obtained only by repeated exposure to peril. The second is founded on the point of honour—it can exist only in a most artificial state of society, and is so far from requiring repeated exposure, that it is often most perfectly exhibited by men who were never in danger before in their lives. The first arises from the con

tempt

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tempt which is the proverbial result of familiarity. A man who has been often in danger has learnt to distinguish its real, from its apparent, symptomsmto fear the lightning, not the thunder. He has learnt to balance the hazards of different modes of escape-to wait the opportunity for putting in practice that which appears most promising, and to snatch that opportunity when, on the whole, it appears probable that a better will not offer. All this supposes great calmness and presence of mind—but is compatible with a thorough detestation of all unnecessary risk. It not only is compatible with such a detestation, but its natural tendency, if uncounteracted by other causes, must be to produce it. The constant association, in such a man's mind, with danger has been, that it is a thing to be as much as possible avoided. His constant meditation has been, how shall I attain my object with the least hazard, and, having attained it, how shall I best provide for my safety ? Such habits fit him admirably for avoiding danger-and for encountering it when it it cannot be avoided; but very ill for thrusting himself into it when it can-or for continuing in it when any mode of escape is open. No man can show more calmness in danger, than a North American Indian, or try more frightful modes of escape, if they are the best that offer,--or fight more desperately if he is absolutely forced to fight. But he will not fight unless he is forced. He will rather endure any fatigue, cold, sleeplessness, and famine, to surprize his deadliest enemy, than meet him on fair, or nearly fair, terms.

Military courage is founded on the glory attached to the endurance of danger, and to the infamy attached to undue fear. And, as no natural bounds can be assigned to qualities, which are themselves unnatural, the necessary endurance was first raised to insensibility, and, at last, to delight, in danger. In that most artificial period which followed both the English and the French civil wars, when the minds of men, deprived of the violent sources of excitement to which they had been accustomed, ran into every sort of affectation and absurdity, a gentleman seems to have been bound to hold any opportunity of encountering danger a source of unalloyed enjoyment. Any ulterior purpose, however frivolous, was not to be required. A man who was so fortunate as to receive, or to have a fair opportunity of giving, a challenge, had the patronage of inviting three or four friends to partake in the amusement; and while the principals, who might be supposed to have some object in it, were fighting, the seconds, instead of minding their duty as un pires, fought too, to show how much they enjoyed a chance of being wounded or killed. The story is well known of the man who offered to Lord Stair such an opportunity, provided he would exercise this patronage in his favour; and who refused to interfere furVOL. XXVI. NO. LI.

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ther when he found he could derive no advantage from the transac tion, as his lordship’s list was full for his next three affairs. The story is probably coloured, but it shows what were the feelings, at least the cant, of the times in which it could be circulated. A man so trained would have shone on those occasions, on which we have described Rob Roy as failing—but it may be questioned whether he would have heard, with the saine presence of mind, the Baillie's step on the Tolbooth's stairs; and whether, if strapped, like him, to Evan Bigg, he would have had sufficient boldness to plan his escape, sufficient composure to execute it, or sufficient patience to delay it to the most favourable instant.

But what of • Die Vernon, the heath-bell of Cheviot, the blossom of the Border?" To say the truth we had rather say nothing, for we fear we may not be impartial judges. We are now old and grey-headed, and, even when young, we do not recollect that we ever were in love ; a passion, of which Bacon remarks that great and worthy persons are unsusceptible. But if we could suspect ourselves of admitting a feeling so inconsistent with our age and situation, we should believe ourselves in love with Die Vernon. We have what has always been considered as the first and most fatal symptom— We like her faults as much as if they were our own.' We acknowledge that her debutis coarse and unnatural—that her telling Osbaldistone, in the first five minutes of their acquaintance, that she thinks him handsome, is shocking—that her selecting their first meeting at dinner, when all eyes and ears would naturally be open upon the stranger, to abuse the whole family seriatim, by name, is absolutely impossible. And yet we dwell upon all these passages with pleasure. But certainly the damage was not done on the first day. The next we were very much amused. We were delighted with her during her side to Justice Inglewood's, and still more during her return-laughed most heartily at her meeting with Jobson, sympathised with her three subjects of pity, envied Osbaldistone his situation as her confidant and counsellor, - tho' he was to know nothing of her affairs;' admired her collection of treasures, and were pleased even with her blue-isın, so different was it from any to which we had been accustomed. By this time we probably were in some danger, but we are not sure whether she completed our conquest in the masterly scene, in which she drew from Osbaldistone the account of Rashleigh's falsehoods, or in that, perhaps still finer, in which, after her unsuccessful defence of the mysterious glove, she baffled her cousiu's curiosity, and defied his jealousy, without diminishing one shade of his esteem or his love. We have heard the character called unnatural throughout. She ought, perhaps, to be somewhat older, twenty-two would have been better than eighteen; but grant the author what he has always a right to claim for his heroine, if

be

he is bold enough to think he can support them, great talents and excellence of disposition, and add, what certainly is possible, an education perfectly unfemale, under the superintendance of two men of talent and learning, and add the pride of high birth, and the enthusiasın of an adherent to a persecuted religion and an exiled king -exclude her from the ordinary wishes and schenies of young girls by predestining her to a hateful object or a cloister, and give her, instead of their ordinary amusements and employments, political intrigues, Greek and Latin, and field-sports, and you have the rough outlines of the portrait, to which our author has given such relief and colouring.

But we must hasten to the HEART OF Mid LOTHIAN, with the exception perhaps of Waverley, the most perfect of the whole set. And we are not sure that even Waverley may not owe the superiority in our eyes, which, on reconsideration, we still feel that it possesses, to the circumstances under which we first read it. We shall never forget the disappointment and listlessness with which, in the middle of a watering-place long vacation, we tumbled a new, untalked of, anonymous novel out of the box, which came to us from our faithless librarian, filled with substitutes for every thing we had ordered. Any where else we might have returned it uncut; but a wateringplace makes a man acquainted with strange companions for his reading, as well as his talking, hours. So we opened ity at bazard, in the second volume, and instantly found ourselves, wiih as much surprise as Waverley himself, and with about the same effect, in the centre of the Chevalier's court. Little did we suspect, while we wondered who this literary giant might be, that seven years after, we should be reviewing so many more of bis volumes in one article, and that the mystery would be, except by internal evidence, as dark as ever.

But, abstracting from Waverley the advantage of its primogeniture, the two novels, different as they appear, have many points in common; they are unequalled in the happiness of their subjects. The story of Prince Charles is a piece of the wildest romance, in the midst of the dullest Aats of history, as if the cave of Staffa could rise in the middle of the Zuyder Zee. The Heart of Mid Lothian is as fortunately chosen. The escape of Robertson, the murder of Porteous, and the pardon of Effie, though the principal facts of the last are true, and even the minutest details of the two former, are as marvellous in their way as the enterprise of Prince Charles ; and the characters in both novels derive the same advantage from our imperfect knowledge of the class from which they are taken. All our author's readers must have observed how much better he paints beggars, gipsies, smugglers, and peasants, the favourites of kings and queens, and kings and queens themselves, H 2

the

the very lowest and the very highest ranks of society, than that rank to which he must himself belong. How superior is Effie Deans to Lady Staunton, and Daddie Ratton to Sir George? How much bulder, and how much more accurate, appears to us the pencil that struck out Dandie Dinmont than that which drew, though with far more elaboration, Mr. Pleydell? How much more do his Mary of Scotland and Elizabeth of England appear to resemble queens, than his Julia Mannering does, a young lady? How comes he to copy more correctly what he know's imperfectly, than what he knows well ?

Our first answer is, “We doot the fact. We suspect that his gentlemen and ladies are, in truth, more faithful portraits than his princes, his beggars, or his rustics; but that the familiarity of his readers with the originals makes their examination of his faithfulness too severe. They are more struck by the deficiencies than by the merits; hy what varies from their own standard, than by what coincides with it. No jockey was ever satisfied with the horses even of Phidias. But when the author paints a peasant, a cowfeeder, or a queen, he takes from a class with which the reader is so little acquainted, that, if the figure be but spirited and consistent, and contain nothing obviously incompatible with its supposed situation, we are willing, indeed we are forced, to take its resemblance upon trust. And perhaps the author's consciousness of the reliavce of his reader is even more valuable to him than that reliance itself. It leaves him at liberty to dress his characters, not in the most appropriate, but the most picturesque, babiliments. If he draws from his own sphere of life, it is from a finished model, where every detail is prescribed to bim. If from any other, it is from a sketch of which only one or two leading features are marked, and bis imagination may supply, as he likes best, the remainder. He has the same advantage which Dryden translating Chaucer had over Dryden translating Virgil. He is saved too from the danger of losing general resemblance in too close a copy of the individuals with whom he is intimate; and from that of introducing something of effort, something of overcolouring and caricature, into his figures, in his endeavours to render striking, the representations of a wellknown class. A painter may be tempted to put horses and cows into some studied attitude, or to group them too artificially, who would not think of any thing more than an unaffected resenıblance of an hippopotamus.

Our general admiration of the story of the Heart of Mid Lothain does not, of course, extend to the management of all the details. The beginning, or rather the beginnings, for there are half a dozen of them, are singularly careless. The author, in his premature anxiety to get in medias res, introduces us at the point where the

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