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HAD we been requested to stand godfather to the Work before us, we think we could have suggested a more apposite title in these words," Sketches of the leading Political Events, with Illustrations of the State of Society and Manners in Scotland, from 1638 till 1660." Mr Chambers is himself aware, and has mentioned more than once in his prefaces, that he does not write "history, of the legitimate description." It is perhaps difficult to explain exactly what "history of the legitimate description" is; but it seems to us that its general features ought to be these,-a dignified and impartial narrative of all the public events which distinguished the period it undertakes to illustrate,-comprehensive views of all those collateral circumstances, whether immediate or more remote, whether of indigenous or exotic growth, which conspired in bringing about the accomplishment of any important end, and an enlarged spirit of philosophical inquiry (founded on the most accurate study of our common nature) into those secret springs of human conduct, which, though unseen and not easily understood by the superficial observer, so frequently and so materially influence both national and individual destinies. Added to these qualifications, the historian should possess a library of knowledge within himself, judiciously selected, and carefully arranged; and he should be endowed, too, with the power of conveying his information to others with a clearness of diction, and a force of thought, which will satisfy the most scrupulous, of its great increase in value from having passed through the alembick of his mind. These are no slight talents and attainments; and it is not, therefore, to be wondered, that to the great historian mankind in all ages have been willing to assign the very first rewards in the intellectual arena the very innermost place in the temple of fame. We cannot, therefore, for a moment consent to countenance Mr Chambers in the depreciating manner in which he occasionally ventures to talk of the high and solemn nature of history. Those only ought to descend from what he jocularly terms its stilts," who find that their heads grow giddy when raised to that unaccustomed elevation.

While we thus vindicate the most majestic species of composition with which literature is acquainted from taunts, which its own strength enables it to throw off and despise as the mighty rock throws off the idle waves of a summer sea, we are by no means disposed to close our eyes to the merits of an humbler but still exceedingly useful species of writing, which, to a certain extent,

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borrows the garb of history, though perhaps scarcely entitled to assume its name. We are perfectly willing to admit with Mr Chambers, that it is more easy ❝ to peal to the moral faculties of the select few." interest the imaginations of ordinary readers, than apmit further, that history is in general necessarily more conversant with events than with men,-that it speaks feelings and sympathies of ordinary existence, and that, more to the reasoning and reflective powers, than to the striding like a giant from hill to hill-from peak to peak-from one great landmark to another, it is apt to overlook the lowlier valleys that intervene, with all their garniture of grove and stream. The past, as described by our best historians, seems to move before us like a splendid peristrephic panorama. We see its empires, its cities, its armies, its kings, its conquerors, its revolutions, its triumphs, its overthrows; we learn what the fates of man have been when congregated together in multitudes-in nations; we ascertain those grand marks of distinction which have their origin in government, in religion, in climate, in situation ;—we observe under what circumstances wars arise, arts flourish, or commerce increases ;-we are carried away from the little circle to which we are ourselves confined, and taught to understand how the operations of ten thousand small communities, such as that with which we are connected, all bear a reference to the great whole, and are working together for good or for evil. But these momentous and ennobling views, interesting as they at first sight are, may be felt ere long to want sufficient minuteness and accuracy of detail to satisfy the laborious and attentive inquirer. Like the Spaniard in the story, we may not choose to rest contented with seeing merely the streets and squares of the populous town spread out like a map beneath us; we may wish also to have the roofs of the houses removed, and that which is going on within exposed to view. Here it is evident that both a new faculty and a new species of observation are required; and it will be found that in these the great distinction between pure history, and a more desultory and familiar style of writing, consists. Perhaps it is possible to mingle both successfully, but this is an undertaking which has never yet been achieved. History is apt to look upon the minutiae of personal incident, and more circumscribed and private adventure, as beneath its notice; while the painter of national and individual habits and manners has seldom the abilities requisite to invest his productions with the additional interest they would possess, were they considered in connexion with the great phasis of surrounding society. In the one case, we see the streets and squares and general aspect of the town; in the other, we remain comparatively ignorant of its external appearance, but look into the dining-rooms and drawing-rooms of its separate houses.

In his account of the Rebellion of Forty-five, Mr Chambers presented us with a vivid picture, well filled up, of those extraordinary scenes which for a season left even the sober and steady mind of Scotland" perplexed in the extreme." A visible leaning, it is true, might

be discovered in his narrative of these events, to the Stewart party; but whether this leaning was overstrained or not, it was at the worst a failing that "leaned to virtue's side." He espoused the cause of the brave and the unfortunate; and this is a cause which Scotsmen have been known to espouse more than once. The success of this work, of which we believe about eight thousand copies have already been sold, induced Mr Chambers to attempt the present, "in a style of as minute detail," and in the hope that he might be able to send it forth "gemmed with as many circumstances of interest."

Following out his own peculiar ideas, Mr Chambers has written an entertaining, and on the whole, a valuable book; but he appears to have made two miscalculations, which we suspect may materially affect the success of his labours. The first of these arises from this circumstance, that the events of the period, of which he here treats, are not only "more remote from the memories and sympathies of the present generation," but in so far as Scotland is concerned, never admitted of that continuousness of narrative, that compactness of arrangement, and that breathlessness of interest, which distinguished the brilliant, though short career of Charles Edward. There is, no doubt, ample scope for powerful delineations of character and manners during the troublous times of religious struggling, which marked the middle of the seventeenth century; but, as Mr Chambers himself is obliged to confess at the commencement of his 12th chapter, in volume first, Scotland, after the campaign of 1640, acted but a secondary part in the disputes between the King and the Commons; and we are not aware that the transactions of the next twenty years were of so important a nature, as to make it particularly desirable that our author should expend much time in endeavouring to throw additional light upon them. The other miscalculation to which we allude, consists in the extension of that Jacobitical spirit which characterised (and perhaps wisely) the History of the Rebellion in Forty-five, to the contests of a previous century, when we fear it is scarcely to be denied, that, but for the simultaneous resistance of an outraged people to the gross and indecent increase of the royal prerogative, the laws and religion of their fathers would have been trampled under foot. We enter not upon the question which involves the expediency of bringing the unhappy Charles to the scaffold, inclined, as we are, to believe that a milder course might have been pursued, with equal safety and more constitutionally; but whilst we avoid this oft-disputed theme, we cannot but protest against the little weight which our author seems to attach to the motives that induced the people of Scotland to take up armsmotives which were unquestionably the purest that could influence any belligerent party-an anxiety to preserve their freedom of thought, and the purity of their religion-all that gave life a value, and divested death of its terrors. Though philosophy, in its self-arrogated superiority, may, if it so please, affect to ridicule a nation's stubborn attachment to a creed, whose imperfections that very nation may have subsequently confessed, casuistry itself will not assert, that any individual has a right to annihilate that creed, and to force upon the consciences of its professors a new set of doctrines of his own. We do not say that Mr Chambers has attempted to maintain so hopeless a position; but we are afraid he is chargeable with the sin of having palliated the severity and injustice of Charles, and magnified the errors and improprieties committed by the Covenanters. We are afraid that he has not seen, in its proper light, the treacherous and tyrannical conduct of the monarch, nor duly estimated the long forbearance, the resolute fortitude, and heroic energy, of the people. In the one case, he has spoken of faults too transiently, and given credit for virtues too hastily; and, in the other, he has too frequently represented the indignation of outraged

feeling as indicative of inherent and brutal cruelty, and endeavoured to excite suspicion of the motives which prompted the noblest actions.

There is another fault with which the work is chargeable, and to which, as we are speaking of its faults, we think it necessary to allude. There is a want throughout of general and comprehensive views of the subject. We see that the civil war breaks out; we see that its rage is for a while intermitted; we see it again renewed; and, finally, we are conducted to its conclusion; but we are never once completely and satisfactorily informed of the exact relative positions of the contending parties, of the circumstances which principally influ enced their conduct, of their precise wishes and demands hopes and fears. We are kept too much like soldiers engaged at one particular corner of the battle; we know well enough how the matter is going where we ourselves are; but whether the centre has been beaten or not; whether the right wing has been broken, or has maintained its ground, is matter of profound dubiety. Now, the historian ought to stand, like the commanderin-chief, on an elevated site, and view the whole engage. ment; and the reader, like one of his staff-officers, should stand beside him, and be able to cast his glance over all the field, arresting his attention wherever the finger of the general pointed.

It will be observed, however, that all these objections chiefly apply to this work when considered as a History. But, though called a History, we can hardly look upon it as such; and it is certainly not as a History that it reflects most credit on its author. It is calculated to illustrate, and in many respects to enrich, the history of the times of which it treats. It is an admirable subsidiary to history, but it is not history itself. With the industry and persevering research of Mr Chambers, the public is already well acquainted; and the volumes before us fully bear out the reputation he has established in this respect. Nor do we greatly object to the trifling nature of some of his stories, nor to the occasional credulity with which he seems to swallow all oral traditions, as well as the asseverations of familiar chroniclers; for it is his peculiar genius to discover anecdotes and traits of the times of which he writes, that either escape others, or are rejected from motives of taste, but which, if selected with any tolerable skill, fulfil the interesting and important purpose of elucidating human nature, its actions, its emotions, and its sufferings.' Mr Chambers is thus both a very excellent pioneer over a country which has not yet been traversed, and a highly useful gleaner of fields, which less careful observers have pronounced already bare.

It would be easy, if it were necessary, to produce from these volumes many examples both of the faults and the merits we have enumerated; but as they are widely circulated, and will be extensively read, the judgment of each individual will easily lead to their discovery. Mr Chambers's over-anxious defence of Charles,

his enthusiastic and preposterous admiration of Montrose,—his neglect or depreciation of the good qualities of Leslie, and the other leaders of the "Covenant," and his total indifference to the great and glorious cause for which his forefathers fought, and to the sufferings they endured on its account, will be remarked at almost every page. While, on the other hand, his intimate acquaintance with the customs and manners of the period, his vivid pictures of national and individual peculiarities,-his graphic and minute delineations of scenes both in quiet and active life, in public and in private, at civil assemblies and in hostile rencontres, will be no less conspicuous, and will not fail to render his lucubrations exceedingly interesting.

In general, our author writes in a plain narrative style, with little ornament, and little pretence; but, when he chooses, he can call to his aid the higher powers of composition, and become animated and impressive. We

select one specimen, which will be read with pleasure, they should pass another mountainous tract; after which and shall entitle it

MONTROSE'S HIGHLAND MARCH. "THE movement which Montrose determined upon in this emergency, was, both in its conception and execution, perhaps the most remarkable he ever performed. His army was much diminished; the greater part of the Highlanders having gone home to deposit the spoils of Argyle. He scarcely mustered one half of the forces which report gave to his enemy. He was also aware that the man he had to oppose must be animated against him with all the feelings of the bitterest hatred and revenge; yet, as he supposed it likely that Argyle had not resolved upon directly fighting him, but rather followed for the purpose of simply driving him forward to destruction at Inverness, he judged that, even with his inadequate forces, his best course would be to fall back upon him, and endeavour to surprise his troops, a victory over whom at this crisis might cause the northern army to disperse of its own accord, while the eclat of such a triumph would probably encourage the loyal clans, thereby for ever relieved from the terror of Argyle, to join him in even greater numbers than hitherto. A thousand dangers and distresses were involved in the project; but these, together with the romantic character of the exploit, and the prospect which it presented of giving another blow to the hated Argyle, seem to have only recommended it with greater force to the enterprising genius of Montrose.

they would fall in upon the river Spean, and so along the skirts of Ben Nevis to Inverlochy. The tracks he pointed out had hitherto been traversed almost exclusively by the wild deer, or by the scarcely less wild adventurers who hunted them. The heights which it skirted or over-passed were as desert and lonely as the peaks of primeval chaos. The vast convulsed face of the country was as white and still as death, or only darkened in narrow black streaks by the irregular and far-extending lines of the marching soldiery. It must have been a scene of the greatest sublimity to see these lonely human beings, so diminutive as compared to the wildernesses around them, hurrying and struggling on through hill and vale, and bank and pass; their arms either glancing fitfully and flickeringly under the low winter sun, or their persons obscured to a visionary and uncertain semblance by the snow-storm or the twilight, and, all the while, the bloody purpose which animated them, and which gleamed in every face and eye, contrasting so strangely in its transitory and unimportant nature, with the majestic and eternal solemnity of the mighty scene around them."-Vol. II. p. 9—11.

Mr Chambers is a young author, exceedingly industrious, and exceedingly useful, which is better, perhaps, than being either brilliant or profound. His books sell, and are read; and, so long as this is the case, he has probably no objection that others should be admired and neglected.

Scenes of War, and other Poems. By John Malcolm.
Oliver and Boyd, Edinburgh, pp. 191.

It is known to almost every body who has ever been in the Highlands of Scotland, that the distance between Kilcummin, in Abertarf, where Montrose received his intelligence, and Inverlochy, in Lochaber, where he understood that Argyle had taken up his quarters, is about thirty miles, and that the way lies along that wonderful natural chasm, or furrow of the country, which POETRY, like cotton, is looking up, and prices may the natives term the Great Glen of Albin, and which now be quoted a shade higher. Two years ago no bookhas latterly formed the bed of the Caledonian Canal. seller would even glance at the article. The most ingeAlong this tract, although it was not then provided with nuous young author, with that faint fluctuating colour on the smooth military road which now renders it so con- his cheek which is one of the decided symptoms of gevenient, Montrose had just come, on his way to the nius and consumption, was received with the most chillnorth; and he could easily have retraced his steps by ing indifference; and as soon as his neat manuscript the same route. There was, however, a reason for his volume was produced, a hasty "good morning" was not doing so. That way, he felt assured, must now be pronounced by the bibliopole, and the ingenuous young so completely possessed and watched by Argyle's scouts, author walked down stairs profoundly convinced of the that it would be totally impossible for him to make by utter nothingness of life. But, if he went home and died it the insidious approach to Inverlochy, upon which he of a broken heart, he was decidedly wrong. The literary mainly calculated for the means of victory. It was ne- market is just like the market for sugars, rums, oils, cessary to adopt some more circuitous, some less obvi-hops, coffees, or brandies. To-day it is as dull and heavy ous, some altogether unsuspected and unguarded path. Here lay the great difficulty of the enterprise. In a country so mountainous as the Highlands, the reader must be aware that there are not many tracts of ground calculated for the formation of roads; he is also aware, that, if there are at this day few roads to choose among in this wild region, there were still fewer at the time under review. To increase the difficulty, the few paths which the natives used amongst the hills, and which then formed the only roads, were now, by the nature of the season, obscured and obstructed by deep snow. Altogether it seemed totally impossible that Montrose should advance upon Inverlochy by any other path than the peculiarly low and easy one which he had just traversed in a contrary direction.

"Contra audentior ito,' however, had all along been the heart-motto of Montrose; he resolved, at all hazards, to assume a path of the nature described. Having first taken pains to acquaint himself with the route, and having sounded the resolution and ability of his men to endure the march, he gave orders that they should strike off to the south, up a narrow glen formed by the little river Tarf; that they should then climb over the hills of Lairie Thurard, and descend upon the wild vale at the head of the Spey; then, traversing Glenroy, that

as can be, but if you have patience you will find it brisk enough ere long. Besides, when goods of a better quality are in the field before you, they must be sold off before you can expect to meet with any buyers. Two years ago the echoes of Byron's harp were still ringing through the land, and its very echoes were more thrilling than the first and fullest tones of others. The birds are silent when the thunder roars; for a mightier voice is in the sky than theirs, and little marvel that booksellers looked cold and stately as icebergs to young poets, for so long as the full moon was careering among them, they twinkled with a pale and sickly light.

But an interregnum has at length taken place. The prince is dead, and his successor has not yet been appointed. It is a popular election, the competition is open to all, and the candidates can hardly fail to be numerous. It is not impossible but that the government may be vested not in one, but in a body of men. In the meantime, public curiosity is awakened,-the bugle is hung up, as in the fairy tale, at the dead king's gate, and whoever can blow it shall reign in his stead; if the achievement can be performed by none, then must there be a band of musicians substituted in his place.

It is idle to tell us that people will ever grow tired of poetry, or that we have had so much of it of late that

there is no occasion for any more for a long while to come. Because the hills and the plains were covered last summer with a thousand flowers, shall we welcome less joyfully the return of the sunny spring "with her kirtle of lilies around her glancing,"shall we hold in less estimation the unbought treasures of green and gold she scatters over the glorious earth? The affections of the heart, the delights of the senses, the perception of the beautiful, must cease,-human nature must be changed, -the soul must be taken out, and the body left to walk on without it, before that species of composition which appeals to the feelings and the fancy, to the intellect and the judgment, will become uninteresting, and of little value. True, prose is the great staple commodity of life; and without prose, libraries would dwindle down into very small dimensions, and periodical works be comprised in a very few leaves. True also, the mind may be wearied out with poetry, and for a time may turn away from it, like the bee from the blossom, satiated with sweets. But not on these accounts will one of the purest pleasures left to fallen humanity be resigned the pleasure which the Peri experiences at the gates of paradise,-catching glimpses of a brighter state of existence, and with the aid of imagination gradually inducing forgetfulness of personal exclusion.

In all seasons, times, and places, we take up a volume of poetry with pleasure-nay, though it be only a volume of rhyme, it is apt to soften down the asperity of our nature, and make us feel less of the critic and more of the man. When we condemn a volume of prose, we are subjected to far fewer compunctious visitings than when we see it necessary to treat severely the fledgling of a bashful muse. There is something sturdy and substantial about prose-something that smacks of worldly wisdom and the tear and wear of everyday life, and which seems to fit it well for encountering the buffetings of fortune, and the whips and scorns of criticism. But not so with poetry. Timid as a virgin on her bridal morn, it comes forth to meet the gaze of those who wait without, and like her, too, its charms are often veiled at first from the vulgar eye. They shrink into concealment from the rude touch of doubt or curiosity; but the soft voice of encouragement, and the gentle hand of affection, may soon succeed in withdrawing the filmy covering, and beauty stands revealed in its noonday blaze. Never, while you live, breathe with harshness a poet's name. If he has awakened one deeper feeling, one finer emotion, one nobler aspiration, he has not written in vain. Far distant he may shine, on the very verge of the horizon; but so did the sun itself when it first broke on the gloom of night. Let the pseudo-pretender to the name of minstrel be whipt back into his original obscurity; but if in his bosom there lurk one spark of the diviner essence, cherish it as the fire of an altar which may yet kindle into a broad and purifying flame.

The mightiest lyres have for a time been unstrung or silent, but others have been wooing the public ear not unsuccessfully. Three of these have sent forth their voices from Scotland,-Pollok, Kennedy, and Malcolm. Though frequently too verbose and tautological in diction, and in conception too unvaried and almost tedious, "The Course of Time" is a very wonderful production for so young a man as the author was when he wrote it; and though we are not quite sure that Pollok would ever have risen to any thing much beyond it, there is every cause to regret that his untimely death should have deprived both himself and his country of the honours they promised mutually to confer on each other. The author of "Fitful Fancies" is alive, and in all the freshness and vigour of manhood. Of some new and yet more sustained effort of his genius, we hope soon to be called on to express a more than merely laudatory opinion. At present, it is Malcolm who has come before us, and his style is very different from that of either of the two we have already mentioned.

Mr Malcolm is not one of those writers who take the mind by storm, or who wrap the feelings as in a whirlwind. All that he pretends to is that gentle influence over the heart which steals upon it imperceptibly, and which, like the light of evening, is loved the more, simply because it wants the brilliancy of noon-because it is more feeble, and therefore the sooner likely to pass away. Mr Malcolm's is peculiarly the poetry of sentiment, in opposition to that of conception. There is a great deal of sentiment in the poetry of Mrs Hemans, but there is also a great deal of flowery embellishment; her rich Italian fancy enables her to wreathe garlands round the feelings, and while she thus adds to their beauty, she perhaps detracts a little from their sincerity There are innumerable small imitators of Mrs Hemans, whose lines are made up of "gleams of golden hair," "gushing streams," ," "the dead, the dead," "the bold and free," they have gone in silence down," and such little pieces of floridness, but who, wanting the fine musical ear, and delicate taste of their prototype, are mere tinsel and emptiness from beginning to end. Mr Malcolm is no imitator; he goes straight forward to his purpose, and expresses natural feelings in natural and simple language. The smooth and pleasant flow of his heroic verse reminds us a good deal of Goldsmith and Rogers. The first and longest poem in the present volume is in this measure. It is entitled "The Campaign," and describes very touchingly and unaffectedly some of the scenes of the Peninsular war. A good number of the minor poems have already appeared in the "Literary Souvenir" and other periodicals. Some of them we like extremely; others are a little commonplace. Our chief favourites are "The Soldier's Funeral,' "The North-Wester," "The Vesper Bell," "My Birth-Day," and "The Poet's Death-Bed." Of one or two of these our readers shall judge for themselves.

MY BIRTH-DAY.

Time shakes his glass, and swiftly run

Life's sands, still ebbing grain by grain ;For weary, wan, autumnal sun

Brings round my birthday once again ;And lights me, like the fading bloom Of pale October, to the tomb.

My birth-day!-Each revolving year It seems to me a darker day; Whose dying flowers and leaflets sere

With solemn warning seem to say, That all on earth like shadows fly ;That nought abideth 'neath the sky.

My birth-day!-Where, when life was young,
Is now each promise which it gave?
Hope's early wreaths have long been hung,—
Pale faded garlands,-o'er its grave,
Where Memory waters with her tears,
Those relics of departed years.

My birth-day!-Where the loved ones now, On whom in happier times it dawn'd?Each beaming eye and sunny brow

Low in the dark and dreamless land Now sleep-where I shall slumber soon, Like all beneath the sun and moon.

My birth-day!-Once I loved to hear

These words by friendship echoed round; But now they fall upon mine ear

With thoughts too mournful and profound,Fraught with a sad and solemn spell, And startling as a wailing knell,

Not less soft and beautiful, and, on the whole, more original and striking, is—

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Their evening hymn, that wont to bless my solitary hours: That choral anthem, warbled wild upon the leafy spray, Will glad this ear, that to the strain must soon be deaf for aye.

And blame me not, that, called away unto a land of bliss, I fondly linger on the shores of such a world as this; And better love than aught I know of bright immortal spheres,

This earth, so lovely in her woe, so beautiful in tears.

Ye say that songs of triumph swell, and flowers eternal

wave,

Along the streams of life that flow'mid scenes beyond the grave;

But shall I love the fadeless blooms and songs of endless joy,

Like strains that make it bliss to weep, and flowers that bloom to die!

And now I give the parting kiss, and wave the parting hand,

My passing spirit's on the wing to seek the distant land, Ye loved ones of my heart, with whom I may no longer dwell, And thou green earth, with all thy streams, woods, songs, and flowers,-farewell!'

"The Wake" is a very sweet poem, and is one of those, moreover, which show how poetical minds can turn into gold all they touch. After describing the delights of The Wake," and the exquisite pleasure derived from music heard in the silence of the night, the author's imagination carries him a little further, and he adds,

"Now, through the silence deep and wide,
The soft aerial accents swoon,
Like some lone spirit's anthem sigh'd
Beneath the midnight moon.'

We suspect the English reader will be a little puzzled to discover what kind of music is meant by this description; and it is indeed melancholy to perceive the difference which there is in this instance, as in so many others, between poetry and reality. The "wake," be it understood, consists commonly of a couple of hautboys, and a bassoon, played by three blind musicians in the dark evenings, for six weeks or so before the new year, in the hope of obtaining some little perquisite for their pains. So far from

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being "lone spirits," they are particularly jovial spirits, and are observed to be fondest of playing in the immediate vicinity of whisky shops, as it is natural that "spirits" should. So far from their ever sighing tish ear with such airs as " Duncan Gray," "Jenny's anthems," they are commonly found soothing the ScotFife." They may possibly be "beneath the midnight bawbee," "Aiken Drum," and "The East Neuk o' moon," though it is much more likely that they are beneath a gas lamp. But it is ever thus that prose-cold, calculating, heartless prose-attempts to disenchant the creations of poesy.-Out on the foul fiend!

We trust that Mr Malcolm will long continue to write, as he has been doing, strains which must ever please "the gentle and the good," and that, in our literary progress, of sweet and bitter fancies." we shall meet with him again anon, " chewing the cud

Diversions of Hollycot; or, The Mother's Art of Thinking. By the Author of "Clan-Albin," and "Elizabeth de Bruce." Oliver and Boyd, Edinburgh, 1828. Pp. 350. (Published this day.)

THIS is one of those books whose numbers cannot be too much multiplied. It is intended for the rising generation, and is full of that useful knowledge, conveyed tainment at once a duty and a pleasure. We are not in that easy and familiar manner, which makes its atamong those who approve of the entire exclusion of all imaginative writing from the nursery; nor are we disposed greatly to commend those dry catalogues and catechisms, those abstract questions and answers, which are in many cases more apt to burden the memory than to store the mind. Besides, they make children little artificial things, who reply to you by rote, and who have no ideas, and very few feelings, of their own. All the gentler humanities of their nature ought to be cultivated as carefully as their intellectual faculties; for without the former, the latter will be of little avail towards the securing of happiness.

Mrs Herbert super

A lady of Mrs Johnstone's varied reading, and solid and extensive acquirements, seems peculiarly adapted for rescuing her juvenile friends at once from the enervating and prejudicial effects of mere fiction, and the uninteresting barrenness of plain hard statements of fact. In the "Diversions of Hollycot," (a title scarcely explicit enough,) she has presented us with the first of a series of works intended exclusively for the improvement of the young. Hollycot is a cottage in England, inhabited by Mrs Herbert, a widow lady, with her three sons and two daughters, of whom the oldest is thirteen and the youngest seven. intends the education of her children; and her judicious instructions are for the most part conveyed under the form of family conversations, and are interspersed with various little incidents and anecdotes calculated to win the attention of youth. On the whole, the plan is pretty similar to that of Miss Edgeworth's "Harry and Lucy,' and executed with nearly as much ability. The titles of the chapters are as follows:-I. "Introduction." II. "Quizzing-The Boast of Knowledge-Rational Reading The Nutting Excursion." III. "Saturday Night at Hollycot-Memoir of Grisell Baillie." "Sunday at Hollycot." V." Lights and Shadows of Juvenile Life." VI. "Style and Vulgarity-Courage and Humanity." VII. "The Ship Launch." VIII. "True Charity-Instinct of Birds.' IX. "Punctuality-Visit to a Cottage." X. "The Juvenile Debate

IV.

Beauty or Utility." XI. "Infirmity of PurposePhilosophy of Daily Life." XII. "The GeysersThe Cuttle-fish-Knowledge is Power-Young Casa Bianca Christmas-A Home-Holydays."

In one of these chapters we are introduced to a species of mental exercise, called "Rational Readings," which,

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