ROMANCES—THE ROBBER, BY AIR. JAMES; NOURMAHAL, WV MR. QUIN.

WHERE is the world of romance ? In our minds. The horn rest. lessness—the discontent with the actual—the " pleasures of hope" —which impelled men in the days of alchemy, witchcraft, aid geographical ignorance, to pursue objects rendered unattainable by the laws of nature, and which in every age has turned the de. sires of the multitude towards the trustful hope of another world or the absurd vagaries of' superstition—is the same feeling which peoples

" the realms of faery,

Where we behold what never is to be."

In early youth, this feeling is so strong as to form altegethera visionary world of' love, friendship, and the excitement of dangerous or difficult adventures, to be followed by the excitement of suc- cess. Experience and age, as they gradually steal upon us, first shock, then modify, then limit it ; but the feeling is rarely de. stroyed whilst our faculties remain unimpaired. The man wile smiles at the visions of youth, has his own dreams about the futurity of his own pursuits, which, if put forth, would be pro. flounced as unlikely, if not so extravagant, as those of his son. When the mind is unoccupied, it finds nothing gratifying in the present. It therefore draws upon the future ; and paints it, not with the pencil of Experiences, hut of Hope; each individual varying the scene according to his views and circumstances. It is this hopeful longing for something more gratifying than the' actual, with an "absurd presumption in their own good fortune," which renders men the dupes of delusion in all ages. The cool and crafty pleader, dreaming of a judge's wig—the veteran, trusting to his services for reward—the outcast, or the adventurer expecting fame and fortune in foreign service—the political enthusiast, looking for public improvement in the virtue of public men—the dupe, em- barking in foreign loans or speculative joint stock companies—or the Marquis, expecting medical miracles from St. JOHN LONG— are all, without suspecting it, essentially as romantic as a school- girl. For romance consists of the possible bent to our longings, not fashioned accortz:ng to the probable : and in this it differs from poetry, which vivifies the essences of real things, and thus renders them more pleasing and more enduring than individual things themselves ; or from novels, which should give a transcript of common life.

But, it may be argued, if the principles of the romantic are so deeply seated in our nature, ought not romances to take a higher rank in literature, and possess a longer endurance ? Distinctly excepting those fictions which use fantastic forms as a vehicle for painting life with more sarcastic severity—allowing fur those deeper incidental truths which many romances contain— we answer, no. Man is so constituted, that his mind, when uubiassed by self, is only pleased for long with supposed truth. Hence, though we nourish our own visions with parental affection, there is nothing we regard with more ridicule or pity than the visions of others; and the visions of romance cease to delight us when we know they are unsubstantial,—a principle that is the cause, of the different feelings with which youth and age regard fictitious pic- tures of life.

In fine, romances proper can be drawn from no prototype in nature. Strictly, they cannot be drawn from any prototype in a temporary condition of society. Accompanied by its concomitants, any kind of life is too natural—" too severely true "—fur the pur- poses of romance: for to an official of the Holy Office, even the mysterious Inquisition was commonplace. Hence, the writer of this class of fictions is always driven to distant times or places, and very often to both, for even the extraordinary accidents of his own rera cannot serve his purposes. At present, the quar- ries of our romancers are the feudal times, and the adven- turous age from the discovery of America and the circumnaviga- tion of the world down to the end of the last century and the last highwayman ; which appear to teem with romance. But the writers who addressed those ages could not avail themselves of knights or barons bold, or bravoes and buccaneers—even "proven witches" or the student of forbidden arts, with all the varieties of fortune consequent upon an irregular and unsettled state of society, were of no service to the then romancer. He was compelled to pass the boundaries of nature—" to invigorate his readers w.ith a giant or a dwarf"—to raise up enchanted castles, which vanished before a knight bold enough to blow a horn—to beset beauty with dragons and gorgons—and to rescue his hero from dangers " be• you(' compare of mortal prowess," by the magic of his virtue, or the visible interference of heavenly hosts. When knowledge was increased and life more settled, tales of enchantment, after a popu- lar existence of many centuries, gave way to ghosts and the moral monsters of Italy. These in turn were superseded by mysteries

• Wealth of Nations, Book I. Chap.10.

Ras apparitions, to " be cleared up " at the end. Getting still la- ore matter-of fact in our views and experience, but the craving isrer something more exciting than reality still continuing, the public mind was turned by Scorr to what was called the histori. Calroinance,—meaning, we imagine, a romance in which historical characters are introduced, or whose incidents and costumes are got at from some authority. And the results of his knowledge

and experience, animated by a composition which though super- ficial was always full of life, rapidity, and images, proved the soundness of the change ; although sometimes his manners+ had little more resemblance to actual life than the dragons of knight- errantry to a production of nature. This may sound absurd to many, and overcharged to most ; but

those who can compare, so far as such points are comparable, the physical ignorance or past ages, with the historical ignorance of the multitude of the present day, will not perhaps find us so grievously out. If it be said, see the circolation of Scorr's orks —we answer, see the multitude of readers. If the approval of the present age be alleged, we may reply that the present age, though very boastful, is very far from critical ; that the present is pleased by a delusion similar to that which delighted the past ; or, sheltering ourselves under authority, we may say that the works in Which CHAUCER, SPENsER, MILTON, amid COLLINS delighted, which the fastidious GRAY had read, and with which most of the classics of the seventeenth century were familiar, could not be ill adapted to the then circumstances of the human mind. The conclusion from the whole is, that whilst the romantic in some shape will most probably be permanent, each class of ro- mances will perish—their very success hastening their end. As soon as geographical discovery and a knowledge of physical science demonstrated the impossibilities of monsters and enchantments, the tales narrating them rapidly sunk in estimation. Witch- craft and ghosts followed, and far more quickly declined. It re- quired but .little learning to detect the want of truth in Mrs. RADCLIFFE s romances; and, apart from other circumstances for- merly alluded to, SCOTT'S success had no sooner directed inquiry towards the periods he treated of, than the torch of historical criti- cism flashed light upon his perversions, not favourable, if not fatal, to the pleasure they would afford.

The two works which have furnished the immediate occasion for these remarks, both more or less illustrate them.

THE ROBBER.

The scene of The Robber is laid in the days of Charles the Second. The mainspring of the story is the not very novel incident, of a nobleman, Lord Danemore, wishing to conceal a first and private marriage, for the valid reason of having contracted a second, by which he has a son, and, as he supposes, an heir to his title and estates. The moving power of the tale is the determination of the first-born, passing under the name of Captain Longford, to procure from the parent, yet unconscious of his existence, the proofs of his mother's marriage, by which the son can clear up her fame, and possess his grandfather's title and estates in France, leaving matters as they are in England. A passion that springs up in Longford's uresss• 4-s'oe his sojourn in the neighbourhood ss, s castle, for the moss of

alter Herbert, to

whom his younger brother is also atUs:os9 W comes minni tunely fo increase the interest and complicate- il-s71te:sW; which is further thickened by Sir Walter being in Lord Danemore s Metaphysically speaking, some of the characters, and to a cer- tain extent the events in which they are engaged, d, are conceived with knowledge and art. Lord Danemore, a ma:gale' strong passions, is described as having plunged himself amongst the Buccaneers, during the poverty and idleness following the confiscation of his property and the pursuit of his life during the rule of Cromwell : and we are shown, by partial rising s of the curtain, glimpses of the doings on the Spanish Main. Franklin Gray' the highway- man, and a former follower of Lord Danemore, is also well con- ceived: the brave and skilful soldier, if without rank and of un- governable temper, often, in those days of irregular pay and no standing armies, took to the high seas or the high road when the wars were over. Longford, the rightful heir, is also a possible character: early difficulties, much travel, active military service, leisure passed in reading and a fine natural disposition, would doubtless turn out an accomplished man either for action or dis- course. But in the filling-up of these sketches, the unreality of

the romantic world is seen* e

TI courtier of the times of the Second Charles, distressed by lexile, hardened in war and Piracy, and corrupted by the licence of the Restoration, might have been quite is criminal and unscrupulous as Lord Dane- more ; but not so dignified, so chivalrous, or with such nice honour and deep affections at the bottom—he would have been more worldly, more mean, and with less of saving grace. The regard of Franklin Gray. for his old soldier comrade, Longford— his ardent love for his wife—anti his jealousy, with its fatal result —are all truly conceived; but the character has too lofty and me- lodramatic an air about it—the soldier cutpurse of those days was I coarser blade. Passing Longford as a lover, we know from his- tory, comedy, and contemporary essayists, that the country gen- tleman then and for a century afterwards, if he were not Polished and corrupted in town, was la mere hard-drinking, fox-hunting, co arse sensualist ; but Sir v alter Herbert might pass for the Nye use this word in the ancient sense; which did not so mach mean mere peaar wur, as the effects of climate and custom upon the natural disposition. Perhaps national character le the nearest word. beau idAal of a clergyman even of our straitlaced days. The he- roine herself is too accomplished—smacks too much of a finishing- academy--for the days of Charles : and Silly John, a wandering lunatic, is not only made the machine to remove all difficulties, contrary alike to rule and reason, but this personage of romance is an imitation of one of the worst absurdities of Scorr. There arc other incongruities, with many improbabilities designed for effect, or for the convenience of the writer : the skeleton drawn from the past—form and colour compounded of the present and the fanciful.

Still, The Robber is the best of Mr. JAMES'S romances. It ex- hibits, throughout, mai ks of considerable care ; many of its scenes and many of its landscapes are drawn with remarkable force; and it displays no mean amount of metaphysical skill. A little more spirit and raphlity of motion, would have placed it on a level with many of Scorr's. But the narrative drags very often, as if thu writer were not pouring it out, but pumping it out. This is better perceived in continuous reading. It may, how- ever, be traced even in isolated parts. The following night-piece, distinct, forcible, and artistical as it is, pissesses a touch of too visible art and heaviness. The reflections that fitllow it are un- necessary to narrative, but they are ton beautiful to wish away.

The moon had not risen ; the sun had gone down ; the sky, which for near a month had been as calm and serene as a goad mind, wag covered over with long lines of dark gray cloud, heavy, :old near the earth, when a solitrry horse- man took his station under a broad old tree upon the wide ivaste called l'pping- ton moor, and gazed forth as well as the growing darkness would km him. It was a dim and bonihre scene, unsatisfactory to the eye, but exciting to the ima- gination. Every thing was vague and undefined iu the shadows of that hour ; and the long streaks of deeper and fainter brown which varied the eurface of the nun r, spoke merely of undulations in the ground, masking the great extent of the plain towards the horizon. A tall, solitary, mouruful tree might be seen here and there, adding to the feeling of vastness and solitude ; and about the middle of the moor, as one looked towards the west, was a small detached grove, or rather clump of large beeches, presenting a black irregular maga, at the side of which the lingering gleam of the nortlowestern sky was reflected in some silvery lines upon what stenied a considerable piece of water. That was the only light which the landscape contained ; and it would have cut harsh with the gloomy and ominous view around, had not a thin mist, rising over the whole, softened the features of the scene, and left them still more indistinct and melaneholy.

It was an hour and a place fit for sad thoughts and dark forebodings; and the horseman sat upon his tall powerful gelding in the attitude of one full of medi- tation. Ile had suffered the bridle to drop, his head was slightly bent forward, and his eye strainedeupon the scene before him ; while his mind seemed to drink in from its solemn and cheerless aspect feelings as dark and dismal as itself. He sat there rbout a quarter of an hour, and not a sound had been heard upon the moor but the deep port of sobbing creaking of a neighbouring marsh, or the shrill cry of some bird of night as it skimmed by with downy end noiseless wings. There was not a breath of air stirring, there was no change took place in the aspect of the sky or the earth ; it was as if natute were dead ; and the feeling seemed to become oppressive, for the horseman at length gently touched Iris beast with his heel, and made him move slowly out front under the branches of the tree.

ASSOCIATIONS.

According to the differences of our different natures, there is for each mates heart a key, as it were, to be found in come one of the senses. With one Matt it is the grosser sense of the palate, and the things that he has tasted : the Cup that he has drunk in particular lands and severs, will, whets again inlet with, carry back the mind to earlier days and the feelings thereof; the affections, the hopes, the fears, will crowd upon him like planters front the grave, conjured up by objects that seem to have no apparent connexion with them. To others. again, certain sweet odours, the perfume of a flower or the mingled sweetness of the morning's breath, will have the same effect. White to others, the sight of some peculiar effect of light and shade, and to others a strain of musk, a tone of voice, the carol of a bird, or the living hum of morning, will call up scenes long past, reawaken memories and affections that have slumbered for years, and give us back the gentleness of our youth. But when the chord of association is thus struck, let the sensations produced be joyful or be melancholy, there is something in the first bursting forth of the past upon the present—there is sonaethin; in the rapid drawing back of the dim curtain of years from between our actual feelings and the feelings long lost, too thrilling to be experienced without deep emotion; and our natural impulse is to melt in tears.

APPETITE ANIMATED.

There was something more in his feelings on this occasion than the mere gratification of an appetite ; though the satisfaction of hunger has proved a magnificent theme in the hands of our greatest epic poets. .There were other feelings ; and thete must always lie other feelings mingling with our animal impulses, in order to dignify and elevate the needs that unite us with the brute creation : there must be something which links the earthly por- tion to the unearthly—something that leads the thoughts from the mere act of the clay to things less coarse, to brighter and purer affections. In ancient days, they wreathed the wine-cup with flowers, and strewed the festal board with bloseoms. Sweet sounda and grateful °dolma have in all times accompanied the banquet ; but few of those who drank and feasted have knoon why ; few have understood that the immortal nrind craved occupation of a higher kind, while the body supplied its necessities. The brightest and the tenderest friend of our earthly being is that imagination which lends its splendid colouring to all we do, and which, like the beneficent hand of nature itself, clothes dust and ashes and clouds and vapours in beauty and brightness not their own. The hypercritic might find some other points of objection, so far as regards truth. Mr. JAMES makes it legal to seize the sup- posed property, in the hands of third parties, of a person merely accused of felony ; and speaks of a man hanged for forgery in the days of Charles the Second, though the crime was not death, we believe, till the reign of George the Third.

NOURSIAHAL.

The d6nouement of Mr. Quises Oriental romance is the- mar- riage of Nourmahal to Ulm, or Jebanguire,the son of Aebar and Monarch of Ilindostan. The subject of the book is a biography of the father and mother of the bride ; a partial sketch of the history of India during the reigns of the two sovereigns„ with descriptions of their characters, ministers, and exploits, inter- mingled with such pictures of landscapes and Hindoo customs as may be gleaned from any book of travels. The tale itself consists of the privations of Nourmahal's parents; her own birth, and

risk of death, in the desert ; the subsequent struggles of her father at the court of Acbar ; her love for Selim, heir apparent ; her union with a noble, who afterwards joins in a rebellion, t and is assassinated; and her final marriage to Jellanguire,—for it turns out that " the light of the Harem " was a widow.

It is needless to observe, that so continued, complex, and di- gressive a story, must be deficient in the unity necessary to any fiction, whilst the episodical sketches of national customs and na. tural history rather impede the narrative than relieve it. Nor is this defect redeemed by any poetical power in the composition, or by any happy representations of Oriental life. We see it stated, in certain notices, that Mr. QUIN is familiar with Eastern manners, and versed in Eastern literature. It may be so; but, judging by the book before us, we very much doubt it. We are quite sure that in his fiction he has failed to convey a correct idea of Oriental habits or character. He has, indeed, somewhat forcibly introduced several Superstitions and practices of the people. We have magic springs, that fill a valley when certain echoes are called into action ; a fountain that communicates with every stream in India, and car- ries whatsoever may be thrown into it, from a valley in Cashmere to any river beyond the mountains; and in Nourmahal, a bou- quet gets into the right one, which fulfils the purpose of a general post: besides which, there are subterraneous caverns, gates of rock that open on the approach of the magician, and cities buried beneath transparent lakes. In addition to these phantasies of superstition, there are royal armies, encampments, and hunts; Indian jugglers and gymnastics ; descriptions of a burial, and a horde of pilgrims ; together with sufferings in the desert, aggra- vated by an accouchement ; the tormenting deception of the mi- rage; an apparent death, and all but a burial. Yet these neither raise our wonder nor excite our interest. Independently of the small relation which they bear to the natural current of the story, and their obvious contrtvance, they are told with the dry minute- ness of a chronicle, or the literal inflation of a police report writer. As specific occurrences, where their truth was vouched for, they would read well enough ; but they are no more Oriental romance, than the naked facts of an "accident or offence," presented to a Hindoo audience with Oriental colouring, would form an Euro- pean novel. We believe (for we have not reckoned the pages) that these interludes form the bulk of the volumes ; but the parts which more directly contribute to advance the story are no better. Distress upon distress is heaped upon the persons; but we feel no interest in them or their fortunes, because the characters them- selves are merely puppets, their troubles unlikely, and, considering Oriental life, impossible, whilst their narrative is dry, lifeless and to those who have read the travels of CONOLLY, or the fictions of MORIER and of the author of the English in India, evidently untrue.

To support these opinions by examples, would be rather tedi- ous, because the most conclusive evidence would weary the reader : but we will give a few. If there be one fact better established than another, it is the selfishness induced during desert-travelling. From the hardships and risks encountered, coupled with the Oriental indifference to human suffering and

life, a hardness of heart is displayed, which scarcely meets a parallel in Europe during a retreat or the famine Of be- sieged city. Throughout the whole breadth of Africa and Asia

—from the Eastern shores of the Atlantic to the borders of the Pacific Ocean—" the De% il take the hindmost" is the motto of the caravan. Wandering tribes, it' just then enjoying a superfluity,

may assist their brethren; but strangers, who have tumbled down, must get up again ; and, in cases of urgency, the most precious

things are abandoned. Merchants leave their camels and commo-

dities; masters their slaves ; and, at a pinch, Arabs their horses. Yet Mr. QUIN gives this account of the rescue of Nourmalial's

father and mother, then penniless adventurers, from a desert di- lemma in which he has placed them. The infant spoken of is the heroine herself, who, such is the distress, has been left to die.

" While the parents were examining their infant, in order to assure themselves that the snake had done it no injury, a group of horsemen galloped towards them ; who saw, from their appearance, that they were in a condition of the most deplorable misery. The straugers, alighting from their steeds, produced from the wallets which were attached to their saddles an abundance of delici- ous dates and figs, together with clusters of half-dried grapes of Ghazni, the test which are yielded by the vineyards of Asia. Their caravan, they said, which was coining from Fergliana, bound for Kabul, would soon be in sight, and the unhappy travellers might expect every assistance it could afford. " had the inexpressible pleasure to see Mungeli look once more like her- self, when, refreshed by the food she had taken, she busied herself about her in- fant, whom she was feeding with some mare's milk, which the kind strangers bad given her. Towards noon, the great body of the caravan appeared in sight, followed by an immense number of horses, destined to be exchanged at

Kabul for the:cloths, the sugars, the drugs and spices of Hindostan. As soon as the principal members of the caravan learned the sad intelligence which the horsemen told concerning the wanderers, who had nearly fallen victims to famine in the desert, a tent was pitched, in which rich carpets were spread, and assigned immediately to the use of Mangeli. A skilful female slave was also appointed to attend her ; who administered to her such medicinal care as her situation required. The great body of the caravan moved forward, after having rested during the heat of the day ; but a small party was ordered to re- main behind, until Maugeli was in a condition to travel without pain or incon- venience."

"Whatever is necessary is therefore defensible," says JOHNSON; and the rescue was necessary to Mr. QUIN, for, had the principal persons died in the middle of the first volume, the tale must have come to an untimely end. But there was no necessity to have placed them there. The travellers might have waited, like other people, till they could have joined a caravan. The following is a sample of dialogue. Nourrnahal, the daughter of a superior officer of the Mahometan Emperor Acbar, and betrothed o a nobleman of a court proverbially jealous of its women, cage dances, and acts in a sort of tableau meant at a public banquet: during which she contrives to fascinate Selim, heir apparent. who thus discourses the next morning to his confidant, the id, lain of the piece, though,—in his judgment of Nourmaltal, think Sahib Bochari quite right.

" I am glad you have come at last, my dear Bochari. I wish von would go to the apartments of the Emperor, and !cam whether I can see bin 4„. methately." "Not in this dress, at all events; at such an hour of the morning, he wig think you mad if you appear before him in this manner."

"What do you mean?'

" Loek at your turban, your satin vest, your cincture with these malaise tassels, your robe of silver tissue, and your silk stockings flowered with gale; nay, vou have not even changed your slippers since we parted last night. What can lie the cause of all this ?"

"1 shall tell the Emperor every thing." " What ! you will tell the Emperor every thing ? Am I, then, no longer worthy of your confidence? But I can easily understand it all. I lee yot have not slept much during the night. You seem scarcely to know whet you say."

" Yes, Bochari, I well know what I say, and what I feel too. If yoth however, refuse me your assistance on the present occasion, I shall not know what to do. You are toy best of friends; you will, I am sure, aid me with your inexhaustible resources on the present occasion—perhaps the most impos tent of my life."

" You surely cannot think of marrying 31her-UI-Nisia!"

" Why not?'.

" I thought I was not deceived! I knew all this last night, when that faith. less and artful woman threw off her veil so indecently in your presence, is the presence of a crowd of guests."

" What words are these, Bochari ? Faithless, did you say ? To whom?"

" To her betrothed husband, the Subah of Cashmere ! Is It possible you did not feel, what every other person in the saloon must have felt, that Mlier-1:1. Nissa, though her faith was solemnly plighted to Afkun, put forth all her powers last night, in order to involve you in her dangerous toils . " But how am I to know that she has been betrothed, as you say ?"

" I hear it from Kuhn Ayes; and in order to assure myself on that point— out of mere curiosity, for it never occurred to me that you would feel any Mrs rest in the question,-1 ascertained the fact from from the Kaili, in whose pre- sence the ceremony was solemnized."

" Base wretch, away from my presence for ever ! No; you will sow snake me believe that Notirmahal has promised to be the consort of another." " I shall go hence as you desire, although this is not the treatment which I had expected, after so many years of faithful service!" " No, no—stay, Bochari—I am half mad—forgive me—stay—yes—we hare been children together.' " But we are not to remain children for ever. You are now a man; though I can hardly call you such, if you thus suffer your feelings to be mastered by a woman ; who, if she were married to you to-day, would probably elope with some other lover before the dawn to.morrow."

" Oh, Bochari, spare my feelings at this moment ; do not thus speak of Nourmahal. She cannot be the wretch you would represent her."

" Judge for yourself. She is bound by ties of an indissoluble nature to Afkun. atriug hi a absence, caused, as we all know, by cireunistances which lie could not control, she appears before a crowd of her father's guests—she sim-rii —she dances—and when she thinks she has excited the feelings of another person—of the Prince Selini—to the highest degree, she, as if by arvideot, lets her veil fall at his fret, and completes her conquest t What security can you have for the affections of such a woman as this? Think von else loves your for

yourself? Not she; the throne is the sole or her ambition: give up

The Prince, who WWI air.; lei"fro71;litteuslaeehilile7swriuig'lit be eau that, and you will soon find liervtuerl reembled from head te rt. .0 %V., It e Bochari uttered these unguarded phrases

foaming witt..„,e.guised mortification.

The extracts might be extended to every point we have dicated in the criticism ; but these are enough. In some of the combats, got up like an Irish row for the sake of fighting, Mr.

Qu matter-of-fact style gives distinctness, and imparts even a kind of interest. But, in attempting romance, be has mistaken his forte altogether; which is reporting, not inventing. The un- real is indeed essential to romance ; but unreality alone will not suffice—we must have its brilliancy and airiness as well as its

hollowness.