practice. Sir Walter Scott! can I forget how, in my school-boy and college days, my heart bounded at the very mention of thy name? When I first became possessed of" Waverley," "Guy Mannering," and "Rob Roy,'

"I leaped for joy, and admiring still,

And still admiring, with regret supposed

The joy half lost, because not sooner found;"

and when the charm was still repeated, and anew, in rapid succession, in the by-gone glories of "Kenilworth," in the heart-rending fate of poor Amy Robsart and Lucy Ashton, in the proud submission of Rebecca, in the melancholy tales and heroic perseverance of the "Covenanters," in the magic wonders of "The Talisman," in the portraiture of the iron-nerved Cromwell, and the reckless cavaliers, and a hundred others which I have partly forgotten, and, at all events, have not leisure to enumerate, I acknowledge I am now almost ashamed of the power they once possessed over my mind. Many an hour was stolen from sleep to wander in this enchanted region; many, many an hour that ought to have been, and was, perhaps, supposed to have been, bestowed upon. graver and very different studies, was devoted to these fascinating tales.

After this confession of my own experience, perhaps I may be allowed to speak of the matter as it now appears to me. It would be absurd to deny, that the works of such a genius as Walter Scott are pre-eminently fascinating; but view a love for novel-reading in its just light, mark the effects of it upon the youthful mind, stimulating and then enervating, giving a disrelish for wholesome food to the appetite long used to cates and delicacies. It cannot be expected that the young student who has formed his idea of Queen Elizabeth and Coeur de Leon from "Kenilworth" and "The Talisman," should care much to trace their real characters in Hume; and he will be quite satisfied with the account of Mary in "The Abbot," without troubling himself to consult the historic

pages of Robertson. Much less could it be hoped, that Livy, and Tacitus, Herodotus, and Thucydides should have their due share in the studious hours of him who indulges in his free and unrestrained access to novels. This is in itself a serious consideration, when it is reflected that the time thus spent ought to be devoted to the acquirement of that knowledge, without which no man can ever attain to eminence in his profession.

"Would you then (it may be asked) prune one's imagination, and prohibit the perusal of novels altogether?" Perhaps, in a religious point of view, it ought to be answered, "Yes ;" perhaps it would be found, in this case, that the real happiness and enjoyment of the world was not diminished; that " truth, strange, much stranger than fiction," affords ample entertainment; and that there are enough of real joys and sorrows to elevate and depress the mind, without allowing the imagination to rove after phantoms of its own creation. And perhaps it would be found, that the young female, who, instead of devoting days and nights. to the poring over the emanations of a circulating-library, resolutely abstained from such indulgence, lost little of genuine pleasure, and gained much in the power of regulating her temper and affections, and exercising habits of self-control. But, I believe, this is not to be expected and it would be no inconsiderable advantage gained, if those to whom the guidance of others in any respect is entrusted, such as parents or teachers, would exert their authority in giving a proper bias to, and keeping under due regulation, this propensity for novelreading.

The imagination is a delightful faculty, and if not suffered to run wild, but kept within legitimate bounds, is a source of great pleasure, and may become the instrument of many advantages to the possessor. Great and anxious care, therefore, ought to be taken in guarding against the book of vicious tendency, and promoting or recommending the innocent and good. What father,

unless his own moral sense were totally depraved, would not be vexed at the heart, on finding his son familiar with "Peregrine Pickle" and "Tom Jones?"-and what father would not rejoice at seeing him turn over the pages of one of the most delightful tales, the "Vicar of Wakefield?"

This is so remarkably the age of novels, romances, and works of fiction of every kind, and they form such an important item in the reading of almost all, whilst, alas! they constitute the sole studies of thousands, that I am convinced a vast benefit would be conferred upon society, if this subject were taken up and discussed with the importance it deserves, by some distinguished writer, actuated by what he knew to be pleasing in the sight of God, and beneficial to his fellow-men. Fletcher of Saltoun has recorded it as the saying of a wise man, "Give him the making of the ballads of a nation, and he would allow any one that pleased to make the laws." This is said with great knowledge of human nature and may be well applied to the subject I treat of. The novel, at first view, seems the most insignificant of all writings, and scarcely deserving the sober thoughts of the philosopher; but when we consider the influence it bears upon the morals and taste of a vast part of the population, the insignificance vanishes away, and its importance stands forth, and appears in its true proportions. I remember to have read of the imminent inundation of a large portion of Holland, by the unperceived or disregarded inroads of a small worm, which was gradually and incessantly boring its way through the vast ramparts, which guarded that sea-reclaimed country. A timely precaution, also, may be necessary to check the floods of licentiousness which overspread this land from an ever-teeming press.

I have endeavoured, throughout my observations, to show that it is not the nature of such compositions, but the vicious execution of them, that can bring them into disgrace. We find in the "Essays of Lord Bacon❞ a

curious remark about this kind of writing, which none, probably, but a genius like him could have made. Lord Bacon considers our taste for fiction as an evidence of the greatness and dignity of the human mind. He argues, that there is found so much dissatisfaction in the course of this world, in the manners and conduct of men, and the tide of events; the guilty too often unpunished, and even flourishing, whilst their innocent victims suffer unavenged; the whole system of rewards and punishments so utterly disproportioned; that sick, and wearied, and disgusted with this state of things, we are glad to escape from it in our own imaginations, and form a world of our own, agreeably to our fancy, where the balance shall be evenly adjusted, and vice and virtue shall meet with their proportionate reward. This is very ingenious; but how much easier is the Christian's solution of such a difficulty-how much nobler his aspirations-how much more delightful, too, the field of his imagination, where he can expatiate on things "eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor heart of man ceived," and yet, we are assured, "God hath prepared for them that love Him." O, for some Christian Bacon to take up this, and other matters of fashion and taste of the present day, in the spirit of true philosophy, with the learning that would add dignity to their opinions, and the Christian spirit which ought alone to entitle to our respect any learning, however great, any philosophy, however profound!

con

CHAPTER IV.

ON SCANDAL AND GOSSIPING.

I WAS visiting lately at the house of an acquaintance, and our conversation happened to turn on the conduct of a neighbouring family on a particular occasion, when a certain individual, who was in the company, gave a version of a story, then in circulation, so damaging to their character, if true, and which I knew at the time to be totally at variance with truth, that I could scarcely repress my indignation. On my way home I felt quite distressed, when I reflected on the dreadful havoc of happiness that this abominable system of detraction caused in the world. Go into what society you will, with few exceptions, you will find its baneful and venomous influence. There is Mr. Downright, who, with the most unblushing effrontery, relates a tale about his neighbour, which he must know in his very heart, at the instant he is uttering it, to be untrue; and the next moment he goes out, and meets with the warmest cordiality the very man whose reputation he has been striving to blast. Go into the next house, and you will find Mrs. Candour hoping, and almost certain, indeed quite sure, that that sad thing she has just heard about her dear friend is not true: yet what a dreadful thing, how shocking it would be, if it were! Who could have

ever imagined her capable of being guilty of the like! Talk with Mr. Plausible, and you will hear him lamenting the necessity of being obliged to speak of such a matter, and furnishing the most ingenious apology for his erring friend, when a little inquiry would have proved to him that the error had never happened at all. Mr. Timid just ventures to hint, and whisper his opinion