and at the end of his book he gives the text restored to what he conceives to have been its original form. There is a very good analysis of the work, and many valuable remarks are scattered up and down through the volume. Altogether it is a book that we feel confident the scholar will peruse with pleasure.

ART. XI. Sketches in Wales; or a Diary of Three Walking Excursions in that Principality, in the Years 1823, 1824, 1825. By the Rev. G. I. Freeman, LL.B. 8vo. pp. 272. 17. 18. Longman and Co. London. 1826.

THE reverend pedestrian before us can adduce no other reason' for publishing this volume than the almost contemporaneous suggestions of two partial friends,' who, being like himself, smit with the love of Welsh mountains and mutton, accompanied him on his Three Walking Excursions. Mr. Freeman seems to be a very good natured person, very fond of good living and fine writing, and not a little disposed to exaggerate the dangers of his adventures, and the moving accidents by floods— of rain, which he and his companions encountered in their progress.

He introduces himself to us in a very picturesque and interesting costume, viz. dressed in stout trowsers, and a shooting jacket, and bearing on his shoulders a knapsack containing his travelling necessaries. The worthy author's journal, from the first page to the last, reads very like a road book, only differing from that amusing publication in acquainting us with the inns at which he halted, the food which he ate, and the amount of his bills. Even the sublime mountain views,' of which the author speaks, acquire new beauty in his eyes from concomitant ideas of eating and drinking. 'I presently sat down in a room with a French window, which well commanded the landscape, to a delicious leg of mutton weighing four pounds, and made a gash in it not unlike that prodigious one in the hills which I saw before me, but which just now I much preferred even to that grand object.' (p. 31.) Again: Let me not disparage Llangollen. This place stands picturesquely enough to gratify any traveller, and moreover it contains two good inns. We were exceedingly glad to sit down to good fare, at Mr. Phillips's, at the Hand, about five o'clock.' (p. 63.) In pages 86 and 87 there is some prodigiously fine writing about dizzy paths, shuddering, thousand echoes, hen birds in the act of incubation, savage rocks, giddy precipices, the beauteous and sublime," &c. which end as usual in tea, cream, boiled ham, and hot cakes, which the the author recommends' along with the picturesque to every one.' In the next page he sets out in search of the picturesque after breakfast' with some of his friends, and after seeing Conway Castle the next thing to be done was to shake hands and part, a melancholy necessity which we deferred as long as we could. I took leave of Mr. and Mrs. B. at the water's edge. B. assisted in rowing them across. On his return to me at the inn, we both felt very dismal, and therefore had recourse to a very sensible remedy for sorrow-namely, some shrimps and porter, both of which we beg leave to recommend at the principal inn.' (p. 92.) We have no doubt but that this very cheap remedy for sorrow, will soon supersede that expensive one which is generally kept in sealed bottles as a resource against

the wretchedness of life, and seriously expect the thanks of our readers for extracting so valuable a piece of information from Mr. Freeman's book.

We intended to have given a sample of Mr. F.'s fine writing, but we really have not the beart to afflict either our readers or Mr. F. by quoting any more. It is doubtless a pleasant thing to enjoy Welsh scenery, mutton, ham, and ale; but nothing can be half so tiresome as a long description of these lofty matters, and of these this book is made. We are happy to see that the author has enough of subscribers to guarantee him against any loss, except of literary reputation, by his work. Some bad poetry is appended to the volume, and some miserable lithographic prints are scattered through it from the author's designs.

ART. XII. Vivian Grey. 2 Vols. post 8vo. 188. London. Colburn. 1826.

THIS novel is decidedly the cleverest of the class to which it belongs; but when we state that the class to which we allude is the same that has produced "Six Weeks at Long's," and similar ingenious works, we fear that our readers will consider our praise to be rather of an equivocal description. The politics and personality of Vivian Grey are in the taste of the John Bull-the literature of Blackwood's Magazine and the eternal affectation of extra-superfine gentility of both. The author is perpetually assuring us that no body is worthy of notice who wears a coat which is not of a peculiar colour and cut-who does not use silver forksor who lives in Russell-square. But, excepting these affectations, of which really fashionable people are never guilty, we must allow that the author has copied, with considerable fidelity, the tone of drawing-room life, and transmitted to us with great truth, by means of a few felicitous strokes, a number of portraits which will easily be recognized as résemblances of living originals.

Vivian Grey is represented as a young man of great talents (a character, by the way, not at all justified by the pitch of his conversation), who worships the empire of the intellect, and engages in a paltry political intrigue, having for its object the formation of a Cabinet Ministry, at the head of which is to be placed a very silly old Marquis-of Carabas. Grey is employed to negotiate with a certain eloquent Mr. Cleveland, who joins the party-but its plans are defeated through the devices of a Mrs. Felix Lorraine, who appears to have been the mistress of half the people in the book. The marquis now calls his monstrous clever young friend' an adventurer, a swindler, a scoundrel, a liar, and a villain, adding the complimentary epithets of base, fawning, &c. &c. to which Grey replies only My Lord!' and quits the room to vent his rage on the fair Mrs. Felix Lorraine. He addresses her in a long speech, and she bursts a blood vessel-through impatience we suppose. The hero then proceeds to Cleveland's, finds that respectable statesman very drunk, is kicked by him, sends a challenge, shoots Cleveland through the heart, and goes to Germany to hunt wild boars instead of place-hunting at home.

It is quite plain, that, from the outline of the story, the author is not gifted with marvellous invention. His forte is in satire, and in boldly bringing out a character by a single dash of his pencil. Thus he repre

sents Vivacity Dull, who is an easily-recognizable ex-M. P., in the following spirited manner :—

We have had that unendurable bore, Vivacity Dull, with us for a whole fortnight. A report of the death of the Lord Chancellor, or a rumour of the production of a new tragedy, has carried him up to town: but whether it be to ask for the seals, or to indite an ingenious prologue to a play which will be condemned the first night, I cannot inform you. However, he is capable of doing either.'-Vol. ii. p. 131.

We have some very unlucky attempts at eloquence and wit, and a good deal of prosing about virtuous cottagers, a little sneering at "liberal prin ciples," and not a little vulgarity. A writer who pretends to such ultrafashion as the author of Vivian Grey, should be less familiar with Ben Burn and the slang dictionary, and should avoid talking of invites,' &c. His fictitious characters are drawn with extreme feebleness-it is only when he is personal that he shows any power. Mrs. Felix Lorraine figures in every German novel and tragedy that ever was written.

The dedication of this book presents an example of failure in a violent attempt to be antithetical, which is too ludicrous not to be quoted :"To the best and greatest of men

I dedicate these volumes.

He for whom it is intended will accept and appreciate
the compliment. Those for whom it is not intended
Will-do the same!'

ART. XIII. ments.

The Labours of Idleness; or, Seven Nights EntertainBy Guy Pénseval. Post 8vo. 98. 6d. London. Taylor. 1826.

We do not know very well what to say of this book. There is unquestionably considerable talent about it, and the author has both poetry and humour in his composition: but his taste is sometimes so false, and his affectations so monstrous, and there is so much flippancy mixed up with both his fancy and his drollery, that we are alternately tempted to read the volume and to throw it down.

The author's prose is all poetical: but we think his fancies look better in verse.

We've danced and sung on yonder glade
Whilst Pan on his rush organ played,
And Satyr gambol'd, and young Faun
Whirled us around the reeling lawn,
Till Echo, whooping under ground,
Bid us to cease our antic round,

Else she would raise the hill with noise,
And spread to heaven her traiterous voice.
Then why should we for Tempe mourn,
Although we never can return?

This torrent rolls a wave as sweet
As ever Peneus uttered yet:
This father oak which shelters me,
Hath not his peer in Thessaly:
This vale as deep, as wild, as green,
As Tempe is, or e'er hath been;
So like in wood, and stream, and air,
That oft we seem re-exiled there:
And scare a Dryad here has flown,

But takes this Tempe for her own!

The volume consists of seven tales, of which one or two, in spite of the author's numberless affectations, display considerable elegance of language and tenderness of description,

ART. XIV. William Douglas; or, the Scottish Exiles. A Historical Novel. 3 Vols. 12mo. 218. London. Longman and Co. 1826.

THE first page of this historical novel' told us what we had to dread another imitation of Sir Walter Scott, and a new inundation of eloquent presbyterians, ferocious covenanters, heroic young ladies and old gentlemen, generous officers in red coats, and a whole army of saints and martyrs, together with an idiot of the Davie Gellatley breed, an ancient gentlewoman like Mause Headrigg, or a mysterious Sybil in a black cloak, so indispensable to a Scotch novel.

It was therefore without surprise that we encountered all these personages in our progress through these volumes, together with their natural accompaniments of caves, hill-sides, sermons, violations, murders, and psalm-singing. The author is so faithful a copyist of his master, that he has even given us an imitation of the famous storm in the Antiquary.

The first part of this novel is occupied with the details of the cruelties and oppressions exercised in Scotland by the episcopalian faction, the persecutions and sermons of the covenanters, and the adventures of a certain Ensign Forshaw, who falls in love with a young lady in consequence of her talent for preaching. The second part relates the banishment of Douglas and some of his friends, on account of his religious opinions, which gives its second title to the novel; and the third volume winds up the story, by the arrival of the Prince of Orange in England, and the abdication of James II. The troubles of

Scotland, and the discontents of England, are appeased: Sir Sholto Douglas, the father of the hero, has his forfeited estate restored to him; Douglas returns to his country, and Forshaw is united to his lecturing beloved.

This novel might have been readable, if it had appeared before Sir W. Scott presented us with his vigorous pictures of the struggles of this period, and threw over the covenanters and their foes the enchanting lights and shadows of his genius; but "William Douglas" will not do after "Old Mortality." It is but fair to say, however, that the author is by no means a contemptible imitator, that he writes with considerable ele gance, and occasionally with energy.

ART. XV. Rejected Articles. Post 8vo. 108. 6d. London. Colburn. 1826.

THERE are three kinds of imitation in acting which will serve to illustrate the class of illustrative writing, to which the book before us belongs. There is Matthews's imitation of Kemble, which excites laughter from the slight exaggeration of the actor's peculiarities, and the collection of them all into a small space. There is Young's imitation of Kemble, which excites no laughter, because the peculiarities of his acting are not all exaggerated; and there is any bad actor's imitation of Kemble, which is exceedingly dull, and full of the said bad actor's own peculiarities alone. The Rejected Addresses belong to the first of these classes, the Poetic Mirror (by Mr. Hogg) to the second, and the volume before us to the third. We hold it to be needless to say that the present work is not written by the Smiths; for the author confesses that two out of his ten articles are genuine Rejected Articles, written by a certain P.G.P. If these are true initials, we profess ourselves utterly unable to guess what name is meant and luckily the dulness of the book renders it needless to inquire.

We conceive it to be almost as necessary that a jeu d'esprit should be short as that it should be witty. A joke of 60 pages (the average length of each of these Rejected Articles) becomes a very serious affair. Who would ever have read the "Loves of the Triangles," if that brilliant production had been as long as the Botanic Garden? The writer of the Rejected Articles is as long as his originals, and is, unfortunately, not at all like them. There is none of that characteristic variety in his style which enables one at once to discover the originals of the Rejected Addresses; even the prefixed initials might be completely changed, without any prejudice to the resemblance.

The present volume professes to consist of imitations of C. Lamb, Cobbett, the Smiths, Professor Wilson, Hazlitt, Jeffrey, Leigh Hunt, and P.G.P. Mr. Lamb is an original, pathetic, and eloquent writer, who throws an air of quaintness over his style by the occasional, but rare use, of antique words, and an affectation of the stately march of the sentences of some favourite old prose-writer. He has no other peculiarities, and certainly not one of those ascribed to him in this author's imitation of him, which looks more like a bad parody of Johnson.