346 MONTHLY REVIEW OF LITERATURE. 



questions which we are, unfortunately, too much in the habit of meeting with 

 in other more legitimate quarters. Now, to be inveigled into such unprofitable 

 and endless arguments to be intruded upon at our leisure moments, when we 

 have purposely escaped, or sought to escape, from these annoyances, and to 

 " add insult to injury," by causing us to expect a rational amusement in the 

 shape of an agreeable fiction, is, to say the least of it, neither considerate nor 

 humane. We believe our author, nevertheless, to be a humane and sensible 

 man ; his exposure of the infamous system on which Ireland is misgoverned, 

 declare him to be both ; but we entreat him, for the future, to^find another vent 

 for the promulgation of his peculiar opinions upon philosophy and legislation ; 

 and to give us, what we believe him to be capable of writing, an] interesting 

 novel. 



It is almost impossible to detail the plot of the~present work. The"changes 

 of situation are so insignificant, and occur at such long intervals, and are dwelt 

 upon so slightly, that we must frankly confess we were almost forgetting the first 

 volume before we entered upon the third. It seems, however, to be shortly this. 

 A Mr. Elrington, an English barrister, has become the agent in Ireland of Lord 

 Vanessy, a large landed proprietor, and, at the commencement of the novel, is 

 returning to England, having thrown up his situation in disgust at the legal 

 severities resorted to against the tenantry. On his way to Dublin, however, he 

 picks up a little child, whose ostensible "mother has just expired. The mystery 

 of the child's birth is kept up until, as in the most approved precedents, she is, 

 after " a double trial/' recognized satisfactorily, and proved to be the daughter 

 of a noble family. A great many characters are introduced during the progress 

 of the work, and there is a sufficiency of that kind of material which is most 

 available in the composition of novels; but we cannot hold out a prospect of 

 very great entertainment to the mere reader of such ware. 



We would dissuade the author from the composition of verse, for which he is 

 by no means qualified, and of which he furnishes us with a tolerably long spe- 

 cimen, in a version of " The Spectre Hunt in the Pine] Forest," so exquisitely 

 told by Bocaccio. He is the more unfortunate, as a version of the same story 

 has been made in a most masterly style by Dry den, under the title of "Theodore 

 and Honoria." We would also fain inquire, why the poem at the end of the 

 novel, and called " The Grade," is inserted ? 



FORT RISBANE ; OR, THREE DAYS' QUARANTINE. BY A DETENU. 

 LONDON : SMITH, ELDER, & Co. 1832. 



THIS little volume is a pleasant imitation of Crotchet Castle, and of one or 

 two similar works by the same author. We are doubtful, however, whether it 

 be written by Mr. Peacock ; for, although the style is smart and lively enough, 

 there is, perhaps, less pretension and display than in the more elaborate Kit-cat 

 Sketches by the author of Headlong Hall. 



The author supposes himself and his characters detained for three days at Fort 

 Risbane, by the Calais quarantine regulations ; and the volume is made up of 

 the conversations that occur during that period, carried on by a number of ano- 

 malous persons, who could never, by any possibility, have met together in the 

 same packet. 



A work of this nature, when smartly written, as the present trifle is, is a 

 pleasant weapon wherewith to slay a heavy hour, but is not calculated to leave 

 any impression behind it. We can feel no interest for characters of the descrip- 

 tion here outlined ; whose sole individuality is marked by the constant advocacy 

 of some ancient twaddle or modern absurdity, and with whom every subject is 

 converted into 



" A quintain a mere lifeless block" 



at which they may tilt with their still more inanimate and stolid skulls. There 

 is no flesh and blood in these figures they are not persons, but things mere 

 wire-drawn puppets, which our cool, but Quixotic author, mows down without 

 remorse or profit to himself or others. Away with them ! Although no Utilita- 



