Che ebbs and flows of whose single intellect "are tides to the rest of mankind," who knows his strength, and in whose brilliant eye shines the majesty of the soul within, and on whose patrician brow thought sits crowned and queen

The Disowned; By the Author of " Pelham." 4 vols. like, it is a noble and a heavenly sight to see such a being London; Henry Colburn. 1829.

established in the centre of his domestic affections, the more worthy of inspiring admiration, the more he surrenders himself to all the nameless trifles which the overflowing of the joyous spirit within him may prompt. Will the cold and the worldly-minded dare to sneer? There exist who will, the dregs-the worms of the earth. Yet persons, withal, who carry their heads high, and, in the priggish conceit of their own contracted littleness, affect to lament what they are pleased to denominate the weaknesses and the aberrations of genius. These human machines swarm in society, and rank high in it too. They perk themselves up on their own perch, and flapping their vulgar wings, they crow with a shrill discordant voice, and then look round for applause. Too often do they obtain it; they become the cocks of their own circle, and they arrogantly lord it over the feeble and the ignorant, till some more powerful hand plucks off the feathers from their loathsome carcass, and consigns them, in shivering leanness, to the contempt they merit.

We are not quite sure whether the indulgent reader may have exactly followed our train of reasoning. We believe we meant to prove that there are times and seasous when all men, with properly regulated dispositions, ought to be able to relish a good novel. Let us beware, however, of the opposite extreme. We grieve to say it, but this is far too much of a novel-reading generation. Those who live in great towns, and have stated employ. ments to which they must give their attention, are scarcely aware of the extent of the evil. But in villages

We do not envy the man who is continually reading novels; but far less do we envy him who never reads a novel at all. True, they often dissipate without instructing the mind; but we are not sure that we ought always to be in that pounds, shillings, and pence mood which disposes us to lay our time out to usury, and calculate its value only by the quantity of information received during any of those periods into which it may be divided. We are not sure that this intellectual avarice would He attended with the results which might be anticipated. The heart must be cultivated as well as the intellect. Abstract knowledge has, in too many instances, been fband to make a man sullen, morose, and callous. And there is surely not a more disgusting spectacle in nature than a person, known to be a very tower of learning, locking himself up in its unsocial and selfish pursuits, and either shunning entirely the gentler humanities of life, or, if accidental circumstances have brought him necessarily into contact with them,-if he be the father of a family perhaps,-shunning all the chaste delights of parental and conjugal endearment,-inspiring awe, but not affection,-looked up to as a prodigy of learning, but felt,-painfully, bitterly felt,-to be unloved and unloveable. Of what value to the miserable ascetic are all the stores he has so carefully hoarded? The ploughboy, whistling behind his team, is a brighter and a better link in the great chain of creation. Take even the most favourable view of the matter. Suppose that he communicates his knowledge to others, and gains for himself a in country quarters-in the Baths and Cheltenhams of name as one of the benefactors of the species. Is there the day-in every corner where there are ladies who have any answering thrill of delight that awakens the dor- nothing to do, and gentlemen who have spare hours to mant sensibility of his bosom? Does the sunshine of dispose of, (and where are those two classes not to be human happiness penetrate through the cold marble of met with ?) a novel is the grand panacea—the happy alhis constitution? Does a single pulse beat quicker ?—or ternative-the sine qua non. The minds of these perdoes he hold on the same plodding tenor of his way, con- sons, if they had any minds, would be perfect circulascious of his own superiority, but unconscious of the ex- ting libraries; and if you take away one shelf from every quisite pleasure to be derived from participating in the circulating library in existence, what is it that you sympathy of his fellow-creatures? He is not a great leave ?-a dead sea of words-a heterogeneous mass of man. There never was a great man who was not full uninspired ideas-a desert of vulgarism and insipidity. of benevolence, charity, and brotherly love; who has not No wonder that an utter destruction of the faculty of had his hours, his days, his weeks of relaxation; who memory is the invariable lot of the novel-devourer. did not cultivate anxiously-passionately all kindly" One reads so many of these books, that really the last feelings; who could not at times be pleased with a rattle, and tickled with a straw; who could not become, in all simplicity and sincerity, the friend and playmate of innocent children; who could not willingly and easily float down the stream of fiction offered to him by the poet or the novelist, share in the imaginary griefs and joys of the beings whom they call into existence, and bend over their pages, till all the external world was forgot, and the golden hours flew by uncounted. It is a noble and a godlike sight to see the monarch of a nation's opinions,

drives that which preceded it out of the head," is a remark which may be heard every day; but to us it suggests notions particularly repulsive. It seems to imply not only that the book has been read for the mere sake of the momentary excitation, as one might take a dram of opium or of ardent spitits, but that the vicious indulgence has become a habit, and that, in consequence, the mind has been rendered totally unfit for the exertion of the most common-place activity. We have far too many modifications of a Lydia Languish both in our fashion

and which seem to have been introduced for the sole purpose of contributing to the production of four volumes. Another fault is, that half-a-dozen plots, or narratives, are carried on at the same time, scarcely in the least interwoven with each other, and none of them, so far as we can see, possessing any very extraordinary interest. Another fault is, that the hero and heroine are profoundly

able and unfashionable society, both among our men "The Disowned." One of the chief faults of the book and our women-for there is little distinction of sex is, that it is three-fourths too long; and it is spun out among those who read only the trash of circulating li- to this length by means of a hundred dull and hasty braries. But these novels, we are told, have so much im-scenes, which have no connexion whatever with the story, proved of late, it is quite a duty to peruse them now, they are so full of instruction, and exhibit so extensive a knowledge of real life! This is another wretched fallacy. The stuff we used to have about the beginning of the present century was not one whit worse than much of the stuff that has been poured out upon us within the last five years. Its features may be somewhat changed;-passion is more the order of the day-common-place and insipid; and that the other characters strong unnatural contrasts-lights and shades splashed on in such a manner as to produce the portraits of monsters-preposterous views of individual character, and mawkish sketches of general society-these are the distinguishing ingredients of all second-rate and fiftiethrate modern novels. Our predecessors were content to dribble out inanity more quietly; three volumes of babble picked up at a milliner's tea-table, and spiced with an occasional infusion of immorality, constituted their dish of fiction. We are by no means sure that the change has been for the better. Now, there are more pretensions and false bloom outside, but the core is as rotten as ever; we would as soon put the Leadenhall-deficiency of judgment, but a very considerable supply street novels of 1800 as of 1828 into the hands of our daughters.

It may be gathered from these observations, that while we are prepared to do justice to any novel which will bear the test of critical examination, we are at the same tine determined to extend no mercy whatever to any in ferior work of this kind to which our notice may be directed. The existing rage for novel-writing should be checked; and the best way to do this, is to make a few examples of the most notorious and hardened offenders. -We come now to speak of " The Disowned."

The author of this novel, a Mr Bulwer, is, we think, a clever man ; but his book, on the whole, is a piece of great absurdity. Patiently have we waded through it--four long, thick volumes--and we must confess we should not like to have te task to perform over again. The plot (and though some authors affect to despise a plot, it is of the first importance in a novel) is the most disjointed and rambling thing imaginable; and even were we to consent to lay no great stress on this objection, and look upon the book as only a succession of individual scenes, we should still have to say, that these were, in many instances, forced and unnatural, and conveyed no distinct picture of actual and existing life. But still we are inclined to separate the work from its author, who, we suspect, has miscalculated his own powers, and, from a wish to do too much, has done next to nothing. Your modern novel-writer is by no means contented to be simple and impressive. he must be overpowering and sublime. Nor is it sufficient for him to display a moderate share of acquaintance with different grades of society, and of knowledge generally, he must affect complete familiarity with all things in heaven and earth; science, and philosophy, and history, must be his play-things; the very highest circles must be open to him, and he must have studied human nature in the very lowest dens of vice and misery. Heaven bless him! does he know what he is about? It is no light thing to set up for a Shakspeare, at least, we are among those who entertain the old-fashioned prejudice, that a Shakspeare, or an Admirable Crichton, makes his appearance only once in the revolution of centuries. The author of "The Disowned" is a clever man-young, we presume, with a good deal of unpruned genius about him; but, if ever his mamma. or his grandmamma, told him he was a Shakspeare, we beg, most positively, to contradict the excellent old la. dies.

We have not read "Pelham," which, we are informed, has sold well, and contains some powerful passages; but we should have expected a more successful second effort than

are much over-coloured, and, in several instances, directly opposed to the truth of nature. Another fault is, that the sketches of high life are not the least 1 ke high life, or, at all events, want that vividness and minuteness of delineation which would have given them force and interest. Another fault is, that the principal incidents outrage all probability. It would not be difficult to state more faults, but these may suffice.

Now, it is quite possible that a book may be a stupid book as a book, and yet the author may make it evident, in the course of it, that he has talents worth cultivating. This is the case at present before us. There is a great

of cleverness, in "The Disowned." We suspect, however, the success which has attended "Pelham," and the praises of his friends, have induced our author to think himself a greater man than he really is. He writes rather too much as if he had been born to set the world on fire. He fancies he has a far more comprehensive mind, than, with all deference, we believe him to have. Had he been contented to concentrate his powers upon one theme and object, he would, in all probability, have distinguished himself; but, having scattered them over a thousand, it is only here and there that we discover the seeds of what is really valuable. High life, low life, middle life, all sorts of life; passion, principle, feeling, virtue, vice, sentiment, humour, pathos, metaphysics, poetry, are all jumbled together in the sublimity of com. plete confusion. In his next effort,-for it is evident that he will spin many a long yarn yet,-let him limit himself to one design; let him despise the stage-trick of sudden transitions and violent contrasts; let him look a little more at ordinary human nature, and eschew those anomalous productions he has set before us under the name of men and women; let him bridle in his struggling and over-mettlesome imagination, and be less grand and more common-place, and he will write a book which will be more liked, and better understood by sensible men. Meantime, we shall pay him a compliment, which we think his four volumes deserve, by selecting a favourable specimen of his style of sketching character; and shall entitle it

A BREAKFAST SCENE.

"In about an hour Mrs Copperas descended, and mutual compliments were exchanged; to her succeeded Mr Copperas, who was well scolded for his laziness; and to them Master Adolphus Copperas, who was also chidingly termed a naughty darling, for the same offence. Now, then, Mrs Copperas prepared the tea, which she did in the approved method, adopted by all ladies to whom economy is dearer than renown, viz. the least possible quantity or hot water; after this mixture had become as black and as bitter as it could possibly be, without any adjunct from the apothecary's skill, it was suddenly drenched with a copious diffusion, and as suddenly poured forth, weak, washy, and abominable, into four cups, severally appertaining unto the four par takers of the matutinal nectar.

"Then the conversation began to flow. Mrs Copperas was a fine lady, and a sentimentalist; very observant of the little niceties of phrase and manner. Mr Copperas was a stock-jobber, and a wit; loved a good

"And pray, why not, Mr Copperas? I have known many a butler bungle more at a cork than he does; and There is one thing to be said in favour of "The Disprav, tell me, who did you ever see wait better at din-owned." The reader is inclined to go on with it after

1057,) the history of Scotland is involved in obscurity" if not absolutely manifest, it is, at least, highly proand fable. Ritson appears to have been far from satisfied with this sweeping conclusion; and with his accustomed spirit of laborious research, he undertook to remove some of that obscurity, and to convert into historical truth much, which to others had appeared little better than romance. Accordingly, in the present work, he has extended the limits of authentic history for many centuries, and his labours only end where those of Lord Hailes begin.

bable, that the whole island of Britain was originally peopled by the Celts or Gauls," whom, Tacitus says, the Britons universally resembled in their religion, Inguage, and manners; although, it must be confessed, the historian himself rather favours the opinion of our German descent. Be this as it may, it is certain that the Caledonians were a distinct people at the time of Agricola's invasion of this country, and from their inhabiting the extreme northern districts of the island, beIt must not, however, be supposed, that either Rit-tween the Murray Frith and Cape Wrath, it would seem son, or any one else, from the scanty materials re- not improbable that they were, as Pinkerton supposes, maining from which to glean information, could fur- a horde of Cimbri or Cimmerii who had not come, like nish a full and complete narrative of the aboriginal in- the other Celts, through Gaul, but had crossed from habitants of this country. All that can reasonably be Jutland. Spreading southwards, the Caledonians rapidexpected, is some glimpses of additional light,-a few ly gained ground; and the celebrated battle fought on distinct notions regarding those remote ancestors from the confines of their dominions between Galgacus and whom we have sprung, and some notices of the state Agricola, "ad montem Grampium," seems to have of society existing among them. Of the Caledonians, taken place in Aberdeenshire, and, probably, in that part who were of a race perfectly distinct from either the of it called Buchan. The great walls afterwards built by Scots or the Picts, and who were certainly the most an- the Emperors Hadrian, Antoninus, and Severus, appear cient, if not the indigenous, inhabitants of this coun- to have been intended to prevent the Caledonians from try, the only genuine account is to be found in the wri-making incursions into that part of the island which the tings or remains of Tacitus, Dio Cassius, and one or two Romans had conquered; for the Caledonians themselves others of less note, who were also Roman citizens, and, they were never able to subdue. In the reign of the Emof course, wrote in Latin; and to these may be added, peror Maximilian, the Romans, harassed and weakened the Chronicles of Richard of Cirencester, a monk of with civil dissensions, could pay little attention to so Westminster, in the fifteenth century, "into whose hands distant a conquest as Britain, and the consequence was, had fallen certain collections of a Roman general, and that a general revolt took place throughout the whole whose compilation, including a curious ancient map of island; and, as the old historian Procopius informs us, Britain, was originally printed at Copenhagen, in 1757." "the Romans were never able to recover Britain, but The information to be obtained concerning the Picts and from that time it was in the rule of tyrants." In other Scots is still more meagre and doubtful; and the two words, the island was divided into a number of petty kingauthors, in particular, who enter most into details,-doms and tribes, who waged perpetual war against each John de Fordun, who wrote the Scoti-chronicon, and Andrew of Wyntown, who wrote the "Oryginale Chronykil of Scotland,"-are well known to be both gross forgers and falsificators, so that little or no reliance can be placed on their statements. The plan, however, which Mr Rit- In Scotland there seem, about this time, to have been son has adopted in these "Annals," is simple and good. three nations, who divided the country among themHe treats successively of distinct tribes and districts, and, selves, and were each independent. These were the after a few introductory remarks on each, he proceeds to Caledonians, the Picts, and the Scots. Of the Caledocollect, from various sources, and arrange chronologically, nians we have already spoken. The earliest mention such extracts and passages from ancient writers, as tend made of the Picts is by a Latin author of inferior note, to elucidate the history of the times, always subjoining in the year 296. It seems quite certain that the Picts translations. It is impossible to attempt any thing like an were not known in Britain till the third century. Whence analysis of all the materials he has thus collected, which, they came is matter of complete dubiety, though it is indeed, in many instances, abound much more in anti-probable that they were of a more southern origin than quarian lore, than in facts calculated to instruct and please the general reader; but a few of the leading results of his researches are important, and ought to be communicated to our readers, who may not choose to peruse the whole work with that care which we have bestowed upon it.

64

other, in the hope of increasing their respective power, and only occasionally, like the states of Greece, entered into a general confederacy when threatened by any foreign invasion from the Danes or others.

The

the Caledonians. Ritson does not think that they derived the name of Picts from the circumstance of their being picti, or painted. The practice of painting the body prevailed almost universally among the barbarous nations of antiquity, and no distinguishing appellation It appears, then, that the earliest mention to be found could be derived from a custom so very common. any where of the British Islands is in the ancient treatise Roman poets are continually speaking of tribes which Of the World," usually ascribed to Aristotle. By him they describe as picti, virides, cærulei, and all these they are classed under the general name of Albion; but epithets, in addition to those of infecti and flavi, may that this appellation was suggested by some early mari- be found applied to the Britons generally. Pinkerton is ner, who happened to sail near some of the high chalky of opinion that Pict is a corruption of Peht or Pet, and cliffs which here and there line the coast, is improbable, that Pet is equivalent to Vet, and that therefore this as Xuxe, and not albus, is the Greek word signifying people must have come from Vetland, which he mainwhite. Tacitus introduces us to the name Britain, and tains is the same as Jutland in Norway. This is a tohe is the first writer who attempts any description of the lerably ingenious specimen of the power of etymology; northern part of the island, which he calls Caledonia. but if this species of reasoning were admitted, the Picts Whether this designation has any connexion with Caly- might be made to have come from any corner of the don, an ancient and famous city of Ætolia, in Greece, is globe. Wherever they came from, they were a bold and not known. A very fierce dispute rages among antiquari-hardy race, and had probably made more progress in the ans as to the manner in which not only Caledonia, but all Britain, was originally peopled. It is, on all hands, allowed to be unphilosophical (though we confess we do not exactly see why) to talk of indigenous inhabitants even on a continent, and much more so on an island. One party is clear that the Caledonians came originally from Germany, and the other is no less certain that they came from Gaul, and are of Celtic origin. Ritson thinks that

art of war than the Caledonians, whom they speedily supplanted in their ancient possessions, and reduced almost to the condition of a conquered nation. It was on the Orkney Islands that the Picts first landed, and from thence they speedily found their way over to the mainland. To add to the animosity with which their wars were carried on with the Caledonians and Scots, their religious feelings were as directly opposed as their inte