THE SPECTATOR'S LIBRARY.

THE authoress of Marriage and The Inheritance has received long since the paternal imprimatur of the father of modern fiction, which was abundantly' confirmed by the favour of the reading

public : the only disadvantage; therefore, under which she again

-appears, is lest she should not in any new work write up to the expectations of the world. In her last production of Destiny (with which Destiny has as little to do as with any thing else), our readers will find a treat such as they might have expected to have had prepared for them : the quality of the novel is the same as that of :Marriage, and the materials are drawn from nearly the same sources. Modern Highland manners and prejudices are again,

as before, represented to the life, and individual character is painted with the Same force and truth. The authoress draws portraits with

a staring likeness to reality, and in the case of her happiest efforts -the impression is such that time alone can erase it ; and time, in some instances, has only the effect of confounding these eidola with our remembrances of characters and persons that have had a more substantial existence than in the gossamer pages of the modern lady-novel. The materials on which this authoress draws are in general the present degenerate, or at least the vastly changed representatives of the Highland chiefs "sixty years ago," their families, their humble connexions, and their relations with English life, which is thus brought into strong; contrast with the authoress's view of Highland society. In Destiny the authoress has not been so fortunate as before in the choice of -her characters : they are portrayed with undiminished power, but they have not proved, under her hands, of the same rich ore—not susceptible of the same degree of extreme polish, as several of her happiest efforts: They are true to nature—equally true ; but they are neither so amusing nor so striking : indeed, unless it be the eternal Mr. M'Dow, the persevering and coarse-grained minister, we scarcely recollect one portrait which will long retain its vivid place with the heroes and heroines of Marriage and The Inheritance. The pompous Highland chief Glenroy, and his shadow, Benbowie; are certainly masterly inventions ; so is the idea of Inch Orran. We shall assuredly long retain a respect for the powers that can so faithfully, depict the whole heart and mind of a man, in all their shades, and in all the various modes of exhibiting their differences, as exemplified in the description of the opening prospects and the pomposity of Glenroy, and in the subsequent changes of his wayward temper under the visitations he is afflicted with, and at last, the saddest change of all, to aberration of intellect, and all the unmeaning and almost disgusting imbecility of paralysis, contending with, the remains of an ungovernable temperament and a despotic will. The character of Destiny will be best understood by the admirers of Pride and Prejudice and Northanger Abbey, when we say that the authoress is entitled to the high distinction of being called, without qualification or drawback, the Miss AUSTIN. of Scotland.

The following extract contains the introduction and part of the character of the Minister M'Dow, of whom we have made honourable Mention: it is indeed a masterpiece; though a full notion of this disagreeable man is only to be had by the perusal of the entire volumes.

"The Reverend Duncan M'Dow was a large, loud-spoken, splay-footed man, whose chief characteristics were his bad preaching, his love of eating, his rapacity for augmentations (or, as he termed it, mcgmentations), and a want of tact in all the biensjances of life, which would have driven Lord Chesterfield frantic. His hands and feet were in everybody's.way : the former, indeed, like huge grappling irons, seized upon every thing they could possibly lay hold of ; while the latter were commonly to be seen sprawling at an immeasurable distance from his body, and projecting into the very middle of the room, like two prodigious moles or bastions. He dealt much in stale jokes and bad puns ; he had an immense horselaugh, which nothing ever restrained ; and an enormous appetite, which nothing seemed to damp, and which he took care always to supply with the best things at table. He used a great quantity of snuff, and was for ever handing about his mull, an ugly cow's horn, with a foul dingy cairngorm set in silver on the top. To sum up his personal enormities, when he spoke he had a practice of always advancing his face as close as possible to the person he was addressing. Although a strong-bodied, sturdy man, he was extremely careful of his health ; and even in a fine summer's day was to be seen in a huge woolly great-coat that reached to his heels, trotting along on a stout dun poney, just high enough to keep its Master's feet off the ground. "Such were the outward man and beast : the i nward man was very much of the same stamp. Mr. M`Dow's principal Object in this world was self, and his constant and habitual thoughts had naturally operated on his outward manners to such a'degree as to blunt all the nicer perceptions of human' nature; and render him, in very truth, his own microcosm. He was no dissembler ; for a selfish dissembler is aware, that in order to please, one must appear to think of others, and forget self. This fictitious politeness he had neither the tact to acquire, nor the cunning to feign ; consequently be was devoid of all the means of pleasing. Not that we mean to recommend dissimulation, or to insinuate that Mr. M'Dow would in reality have been a better man had he been able and Willing to form him. self on the model of the Chesterfield school. He wouldjmerity have been less offensive in the ordinary intercourse of life, and would hate" sinned less against the common observances of society. But had he been earnest in his calling, had he sought to have his mind enlightened by the knowledge of those divine truths which he professed to teach, their unction would have softened and refined even the ruggedness of his nature, and have rendered him an object of respect, instead of a subject of ridicule. " From the moment he was 'ordained' minister of the gospel, Mr. M'Dow had done nothing but make demands for augmentation of stipend, enlargement of glebe, additions to the manse, new offices, and so on. Now there was no way in which his money could go that was so unsatisfactory to Glenroy, as when it was claimed as a matter of right, more especially by the clergy, whom he looked upon. as the worst species of land-tax. Besides, like all idle, indolent people, he had an utter abhorrence of every thing that occasioned trouble, or was a bore, and Mr. Duncan M'Dow was a bore that beset him on all sides. He was a stumblingblock in his path, a thorn in his side, a weed that had taken root in the very heart of his estate, and which it was impossible for him to extirpate. True, he was not molested with spiritual admonitions, plans for building churches, subscriptions for establishing schools, or scheme's for employing the industrious, or relieving the indigent, or reclaiming the wicked : but then he was haunted with estimates for enlarging the manse, and repairing the barn, or hints for rebuilding both house and offices ; or he was beset with a copy of the new locality, or an extract of the last de

creet, or a notice of a second summons for augmentation, or an interlocutor of the Teind Court, in favour of some other Minister ; one or other, if not all of which missiles, Mr. M'Dow bore as constantly about his per son as a highwayman does his pistols. But what provoked Glenroy even more than all this, was the utter impossibility of overawing the minister, or keeping him at a proper distance ; for Mr. M'Dow possessed that sort of callous goodnature which rendered him quite invulnerable to all rebuffs : as well might a needle have been applied to the skin of a rhinoceros, as a gibe or a taunt to the feelings of the minister ; they were all received as good jokes, which only called forth roars of laughter in return. Besides, the impression was so completely implanted in his brain, of Glenroy's extreme predilection for him, from having appointed him his pastor in spite of all opposition, that any thing he now said or did, could not possibly remove it. In a word. Henry the Second and Thomas A Becket were a joke to Glenroy and Mr. Duncan M'Dow."

A conversation of the chief with his favourite dependant, whose pleasure it was eternally to abuse the thoroughly goodnatured, warm-hearted Mrs. Moggy Macauley—an admirable character—is extracted as a specimen of the authoress's manner of bringing out peculiarities. It is a lengthy style, like that of Miss AUSTIN, but it is in its result most effective—it may be called the guttalim style. It is by drops that the hard stone may be hollowed : it is by drops that writers of this class finally end in weaving into the reader's brain the exact fac simile of the character or objects they wish to

impress upon it.

"'Providence !—appoint !—what is it you mean, Mrs. Macauley ; do you know what it is you are saying ?' cried Glenroy, furiously.

" 'Deed I do, Glenroy, and Pin sure so do you, that it is Providence that appoints our lot—'

"'Providence !—appoint i—lot !—do you mean to make my children predestinarians ?' cried Glenroy, passionately. I thought you had been merely a simpleton, but I see you're a most mischievous creature, and I cannot suffer you in my family if you sport such doctrines as these.'

" Well, Glenroy, if you think so, I cannot help it;' and poor Mrs. Macauley's heart rose at the thoughts of having to choose between her chief and her conscience.

" But I don't believe you know yourself what it is you mean,' cried he, somewhat Mollified at sight of her distress.

" "Deed, then, but I know very well, Glenroy.'

"'Then I say you are a very dangerous and mischievous woman,' cried Glenroy, enraged that she would not take advantage of the loophole he had opened for her escape.

" Well, may be I am, Glenroy,' was the humble reply; but I'm very sure I do not mean it.'

" You are really not fit to associate with either men or children,' cried the chief, striking his crutch on the floor as he spoke.

"'Well, may be not ;' was said in a very dejected tone; but you may say what you please of me, Glenroy, for there's no harm in that; but I do not like to hear you casting out with Providence.'

" Who's casting out, as you call it, with Providence, you old goose ?'

" Well, I really thought you was affronted at my saying that wedid not get every thing our own way in this world, but that Providence appoints our lot for us.' "Then I tell you again, Mrs. Macauley, that I will -not suffer such doctrines in my family ; I'm for none of your predestinarian notions here. I suppose you'll have my servants cutting my throat, and saying it was appointed. I—I—it's really a most infamous doctrine.' " Oh! Glenroy, that is notthe Christian notion of the thing at all ; it's only poor ignorant heathen craaters, or them who do not take pains to read their Bible, who can misuse it that way ; for how can we think we are appointed to do mischief to one another, when does not He tell us that we are to love our neighbour as ourselves? 'Deed, if an angel were to tell me the contrary. I would not believe it.'

"'You really—you know nothing about the matter, and I desire I may hear no more such doctrines ; there's no knowing where it would end.' " 'Deed, then, I think it would just end in our being of contented minds, and learnirigto walk humbly with God, casting all our care upon Him who careth for us.' " Oh, you are setting up for a saint, too ! but I'm for no saints in this house, remember.' '

" Well, you know if you wish me to go my way, cannot help it ; it is my duty to go.' Here tears streamed down Mrs. Macauley's cheeks. " Yes, yes, you are ready to go, and leave me at the very time when you might be of some use; you might at least have the discretion to stay till I have got somebody to take your place ; but do as you please.'

"'Oh, Glenroy, how can you think it would please me to' leave you and your children!' cried poor Mrs. Macauley, quite overcome.

"'Well, stay where you are,' cried Glenroy, somewhat softened ; only don't go and fill the children's heads with these pernicious doctrines of yours.' Mrs. Macauley's face fell at the conclusion of this sentence. " I must speak the truth to them, Glenroy,'. said she, with a sigh, 'whatever may come of it ; and I think we are such curious craaters, and know so little, that we cannot tell what may happen to us. It may be God's will to raise us up, or to cast us down.' " Are you at it again,' interrupted Glenroy furiously; I when I tell you, Mrs. Macauley, I will not suffer these doctrines in my family ?'

" I Well, Glenroy, I am sorry it should be my lot to displease you, for! owe you a great deal of kindness, and I would lay down the hair of my head for you and your childer, but! cannot give up my principles.'

" Who's meddling with your principles t' demanded Glenroy, again softened at sight of her distress.

" ' Well, I thought it was not like you to do it ; you who have such good principles of your own.' " It's my opinion,' said Glenroy, you know nothing about principles. I don't believe you know what they are ; are they flesh and blood, or are they skin and bone ?'

" Oh ! Glenroy, I wonder to hear you, who have so much good sense, speak that way, when you know what respectable things firinciples are, and what poor craaters we would be without them. No, Glenroy, when I die, I will leave those things behind me ; but I expect to carry my principles along with me, for no doubt they will be of use to me in the next world.'

"'That's very true,' said Benbowie, waking out of a doze ; on my conscience, we should keep all we can.' " I don't believe there's a man on earth but myself that could put up with two such idiots,' muttered Glenroy. " ' Oh ! 'deed, we have all our, appointed trials, Glenroy,' said Mrs. Macauley, looking in his face with the most perfect good-nature and sympathy ; but we have all a great deal to be thankful for, too, and myself most of all, for "man proposes but God disposes," and so He has disposed you to be a good and kind friend to me, Glenroy.'

" ' You speak a great deal of nonsense,' said the chief, whose wrath, having had its full swing, now evaporated; 'but I don't believe you know what you say, and I dare say you mean well ; and there's the children calling you.' And he graciously extended his hand, which received a kindly pressure from the placable Mrs. Macauley. " 0, Glenroy!' cried she, while tears of joy twinkled in her eyes, is it not a great blessing that you have not cast out with me, and that from no power in me to hinder you! Well, my dears, I'm coming,' as another call from the children made her hasten to join them in a little excursion."

On many other occasions, the conversation between these two peculiar persons is renewed, greatly to the amusement of the reader. After the Chief has lost his son and heir, and his temper and his mind are somewhat affected, he is introduced as saying— "'You've been all very ill employed in wandering after preachers, and leaving me here with no other company than these two creatures," pointing to Benbowie and Mrs. Macauley ; the one squirting tobacco in any face all day, the other deaving me with her impertinent trash of sermons.'

" 0 now, Glenroy ! (cries Mrs. Macauley) how can you speak that way, when you know the only sermon I've read to you to-day is that beautiful discourse on meekness, by —' " And what the plague have I to do with discourses on meekness ?' stamping with his crutch as he spoke. "'That's true—very true, on my conscience,' said Benbowie, roused by the stroke of the crutch. " Meekness !' rejoined Glenroy; hall, a pretty like thing, to be sure, for a Highland Chief; he would cut a pretty figure with meekness, indeed! Meekness—meekness ?—meanness!'

6" Ah, Glenroy, for all that I wish I saw you clothed in meekness I' sighed Mrs. Macauley.

" ' Clothed in meekness ! pretty like clothing, indeed, for a Highland Chief l' cried Glenroy, furiously. "''Deed then, Glenroy, l'm thinking, after all, Highland Chiefs are but human creators,' said Mrs. Macauley, looking as if the idea had for the first time entered her mind.

"'You really—there's no bearing this ! I desire, Molly Macauley, you'll take that methodistical-looking book out of my sight this moment, and never let me see or hear of it again. These puritanical books are enough to drive a man out of his senses. I hate meekness ! by Jove, if I had not the patience of Job, I would not submit to this Benbowie, ring the bell—ring it louder. It's very hard that I can't get a word of my own nephew in my own house.'"

The heroine is carried by the course of events to London, among s citizen's family ; where the scenes and characters depicted show the authoress's resemblance to Miss AUSTIN in a still more striking point of view. The merit of the original germ of the following passage is undoubtedly in Paul Pry, with his "pies on a Monday !" there is still enough of talent in the drawing to entitle it to the only remaining space we can give to these very clever volumes.

"It was Mr. Ribley's regular practice, every morning after breakfast, to take his station at the parlour window, to spy all that could be spied, and to communicate the knowledge so acquired to Kitty my dear, as she sat at her work; not that he confined himself to that particular time for taking his observations, for he was one of those restless, fidgetty bodies, who never can be still, and his head was to be seen poking out at the window, or peering over the Venetian-blinds,all the hours of the day; but that was a favourite hour with him, as the one in which the various tradespeople were, with true English punctuality, making the rounds of the village, to supply their customers with provisions for the day. This was a high treat to Mr. Ribley, and thus was he wont to impart his information to his lady.

"'Kitty, my dear, here's the butcher's boy with some lamb chops and a loin of very nice-looking veal ; is that right?' " 'Quite right, thank you, Mr. Ribley.' "'And a shoulder of mutton for the servants, eh ?' "'Perfectly, Mr. Ribley.' "'Kitty, my dear, I suspect the Moggs have taken possession of Myrtle Grove : I saw the butcher's boy band in just now a very fine-looking fillet of veal.'

" Indeed, that does look as if they had arrived. Mr. Ribley.'

"'And, Kitty, my dear, there's a loin of pork, si calf's head, and a rump steak gone to Mrs. Martha Budgell; what can she be doing with three meats? Single lady—bad health—only two servants—very rich, to be sure, and three meats. Very odd, a'n't it Kitty, my dear ? '

"''Tis, indeed, Mr. Ribley; there must be sad waste, I fear, with the servants.'

"'There's a shin of beef and brisket of veal to the Blackets, and only a scrag of mutton for poor Miss Mudge! Sad thing is a scrag of mutton ; a'n't it, Kitty, my dear?'

" "Tis indeed, sad to those who have known better, Mr. Ribley.'

"'There's such a noble sirloin going to our neighbour, Mr. Claridge— thirty pound weight, I'm sure ! why, it does one's heart good to see such a sirloin ! Sure they must be going to have a party 1

"I think it very probable, Mr. Ribley..

"'But here's the poulterer: a pair of most beautiful plump ducklings for ourselves ; and now he has given in a green goose to Mr. Claridge; and there, there, I declare, is a delicious little turkey poult to Mr. Mogg ! Sure there must be some mistake there! white meat, white fowl ! brown meat, brown fowl ! Now, you may depend upon it, the poulterer has made a mistake—the turkey must have been for Mr, Claridge, the green goose for Mr. Mogg : then all would be right ; there's white meat, brown bird—brown meat, white bird; but if they don't find out the mistake, only conceive how awkward it will be. Don't you think so Kitty, my dear ? '

" Uncommonly so, indeed, Mr. Ribley; but perhaps something may depend upon the fish they are to have.' " 'That's very true, Kitty, my dear, something may depend upon that. A very fine pullet, and half-a-dozen plovers' eggs, for Mrs. Martha—sure she must be picking up I' "

When fishermen have selected from their nets, after a successful cast, the large and full-grown prey, they generously return the small fry into the water, that they may live and thrive, and be caught another time. We wish we could do so with our new books : we hate to kill and eat the small authors—the fry of early attempts, first lines, and experimental essays. To sit in judgment upon them, seems to have nothing of justice in it but its harshness ; and perhaps we might evade the duty, but the fry will be cooked—they cry, " I dare you to kill me ; you despise me—only eat and try : my flavour is delicious, my promise is not my only merit, and it is no fault of mine that I am small." Would thart we could throw such authorlings back to their native element ! it would be a reprieve to them and a relief to us. But the scriptores minores must be reviewed ; and though we have many before us whose claims, at least in point of bulk, are of a superior order, it behoves us to be" off with the old [work) before we are on with the new:' In poetry, we find among the claimants upon our attention, no fewer than five, a quintet of poet' tninimi—otherwise minnows in verse. First comes Mr. CORKINDALE, with his Sketches of Genius; in the painting of which, assuredly, genius itself has had little to do. Probably /dr. CORKINDALR isyoung, and though he is not much of a poet, he is possibly a sensible and a well-informed young man : we recommend him to turn unto some other occupation than that of tagging rhymes.

The author of the Didoniad is, or was, a sailor: he probably writes verse at the rate of ten knots an hour. We never saw verses that bore so many marks of rapid composition ; and they most strikingly show the correctness of the saw, that "easy writing is hard reading." The Didoniad is, as well as we can make out, intended to be a humorous poem: if there be any humour in it, it is too broad to be seen,—like some rivers, which are so wide that the passengers cannot tell whether they are rivers or not. It is not a discreditable employment for a naval lieutenant on halfpay to write verses,—many of them do worse ; but, assuredly, Mr. HEIDIGER could employ his time better. The Didoniad is a collection of rhymes, pretty nearly as long as the Iliad. Some poets may have the satisfaction of having written poems, not one line of which, in dying, they would wish to blot. Mr. HEIDIGER will probably live to wish the inkstand had been turned over his verses. We do not mean they are of an improper character—they are simply of a character improper for the press. VIRGIL, we are told, left strict instructions that the iHneid should be committed to the flames ; Mr. HEIDIGER has printed the Dido. niad, and his publisher has adorned it with a covering of bright green cotton.

Mr. AVBEAN, of all the poetic minnows, is the one which puzzles us most. What on earth can have persuaded him to imagine that he could write poetry ? He cannot even write verse. And original poems, too !—There he is right: his poems are neither imitated from, nor to be imitated by, others. For example, the opening of the poem called the "Watchman's Round."

"One summer's night, a watchman thus did say, As leaning o'er the balustrades he lay: How sweetly sheds the moon her silver gleams Across the river's many-mingled streams, As through the arches of this bridge they flow, To meet and part and meet again below. Ah ! well it takes its name from Waterloo."

Ah ! well, this is fine stuff, and there is plenty of it ! Yet, in spite of the utter imbecility of three parts of the book, there are lines of terseness, of sense, and force ; and this it is which creates the puzzle. Is Mr. M‘BEAN more than sixteen years of age ? If he is not, there are hopes. There are many couplets as well expressed as the following ; and we are not sure but in the ordinary run of CRABBE, as bad or as good may be found.

" Thus we observe the sparrow in the street Prefers another of his race to greet, And chirp with him his ever tuneless note, And gaze untired upon his old brown coat, Deaf to the song and to the plumage blind

Of every bulfinch to the grove assign'd. * • *a * *

Shark loves a shark, and toad admires a toad, The loathsome inmates of the same abode."

The Albanians is by Mr. GEORGE J. BENNET, of Covent Garden Theatre; an actor of merit, whom we have always considered a man of education and reflection, on the evidence only of his acting,—which, though not without great faults, certainly indicates a thorough understanding of his author and a right conception of his part The Albanians is a dramatic version of a story connected with the history of Am PAcnA : we discover most .merit

in the minor poems at the end ; more especially an lush thing, called the " Legend of Glendaloch."

The Assassin of the Paradise is a chapter out of the history of the Old Man of the Mountain. This poem is in the heroic measure, and is composed of high-sounding and well-sustained verse. The author has an ear, and has had a very different education from the " original" Mr. M‘BEAN. The Assassin is a story of some interest, and is written with energy. Our praise must end here; for though it he true that the author's descriptions are written with sudden three, it would be difficult to find an idea of his own, from one end to the other ; and the tone is as closely borrowed from BYRON as the ideas are general and common to all the world—as are the letters of the alphabet.

To this group of poets, we will add the author of a little book, which, though not in verse, is of a poetical cast. The Sailor's Bride is a tale of much elegance, and considerable pathos. The incidents are those which daily beset us in this world of care; and the persons, if they are not too good, are such as it does one good to meet with, and such as we sometimes find: we thank the author for affording us an hour or two of saddened pleasure—that melancholy satisfaction a bruised spirit loves to repose upon as a congenial relief from more agitating sorrow. The Sailor's Bride we would strongly recommend as a gift-book for uhildren from twelve to fifteen.