mark that the depression of the mercury in the barometer usually indicates only such changes as are of an extensive nature; and that the instrument is often of no value as an index of local storms. He likewise arrives at the conclusions, that contemporary observations, for the determination of altitudes, are least worthy of reliance in proportion to the horizontal distance of the stations; and that observations, which are not contemporary, are not to be depended on absolutely because one of the observed instruments has for a given time maintained a steady elevation; since the corresponding one may have nevertheless undergone considerable fluctuation.'

The structure of Mull, like its shape, is complicated and irregular. Granite, which, except in the form of veins, is not found in any other of the Hebrides, occupies a part of the western and southern point; being elevated into numerous round hills, of no considerable height, and presenting several varieties. In some places, it is of a decidedly laminar structure, and might on a first inspection be supposed to be stratified; the laminæ being very large, and apt to split by fissures in various directions, so as frequently to indicate an approach to crystalline forms. The felspar is either of a pale flesh or of a high red colour, and the mica is black; and the mass is well suited to the purposes of architecture. To the granite succeed, on a long and interesting line of junction, thin beds of quartz rock and mica-slate, or schistose gneiss; the granite being found sometimes in contact with quartz, and sometimes with the mica-slate. The junc

tion of these primary strata with the trap is less distinctly traceable, the points of contact being often overwhelmed with rubbish: but here, as in other cases, the trap-veins which penetrate the strata proceed from the main body of the secondary strata, which are presented in a very obscure and confused manner. The lime-stone, which is presumed to be the lowest, is in some parts highly indurated; and, where most visible, it contains no organic remains. Nearly allied to it in position is a bed of sand-stone, analogous to that which occurs in Sky and Rasay. Other beds of limestone, containing gryphites, terebratula, and belemnites, are to be found near Achnacrosh; and sand-stone is again present on the western shore of Gribon. Coal has been discovered, connected with the trap, in two different places, though of so limited an extent as not to defray the expense of working: - but the largest portion of the island is occupied by the trap-rocks, among which columnar forms are not uncommon; and some of a remarkable character may be seen on the shores opposite to Loch Laigh. These are for the

most part curved and implicated in various intricate directions, generally surrounding the openings of two or three small caves that occur in these cliffs. They pass gradually into the amorphous basalt which constitutes the body of the hill. Among them are to be found some groupes of straight columns of a small size, being from six to nine inches in diameter, and of great regularity and beauty; constituting specimens of convenient dimensions for collectors of minerals.' -After having described the carbonized wood contained in a vein of trap-conglomerate, Dr. M. thus proceeds:

'The phenomenon of wood in basalt has been often quoted as an argument against the igneous origin of that substance. Whatever conclusions are to be drawn from this fact, it is at least necessary to be accurate in stating it; and I believe that in all the instances hitherto described, the wood has, as in the present case, been found in a conglomerate or in some other rock, either lying under, or entangled in the basalt, and not in the basalt itself. In none of these cases does it appear to prove any thing either for or against that theory. Wood, it is well known, can be carbonized by the action of water as well as by fire, and as yet no instance of this nature has been brought forward in which the action of either might not equally have produced the effect.'

In opposition, also, to a doctrine which has been much maintained by geologists, namely, the recognition of rocks by their appropriate outline, Dr. M. shews, by an enumeration of examples, that it can by no means be adopted as a general rule. The amygdaloids of this island contain analcyme, mesotype, prehnite, calcareous spar, and an undescribed powder resembling silica, but very fusible, which the Doctor provisionally denominates conite.

The smaller neighbouring islands, Ulva, Colonsay, &c. having the same geological structure as Mull, are more cursorily reviewed.

[To be concluded in our next Number.]

ART. III. Tales of the Heart; by Mrs. Opie. 4 Vols. 12mo. 11. 8s. Boards. Longman and Co. 1820.

IT

T is the fate of our craft to be frequently assailed by feelings that interfere with the cool and deliberate exercise of our judgment; and this is a predicament which happens chiefly when a female writer is before us. We cannot speak harshly, or judge austerely, of authors in muslin and sarsenet: gallantry, or sometimes a tenderer sentiment, interposes, and blots out an ungracious criticism or an uncourtly sentence;

Bb 4

and

and the female errors that fall to her share are instantly forgotten, as our fancy calls up to us the face or the figure of the fair poet, or novelist, who has condescended to

amuse us.

We make these confessions that justice may be done to us, when we are absolutely impelled to pronounce an unfavourable opinion on the productions of that amiable sex. In the present instance, such an opinion is given not only with reluctance but with regret. The tale of "The Father and Daughter" was so tender and affecting that it drew tears, and those not of iron, down our cheeks; and while we were reading the stories now under examination, those prepossessions in favour of their author, which the remembrance of that little work naturally called into action, maintained rather a strong conflict with our taste and our reason. Still we must deal out impartial justice, and, referring neither to the sex nor to the reputation of the writer, tell our readers fairly and honestly what we think of her performance.

This duty is the more rigidly exacted from us, because the customers of the Circulating Library have voracious and undistinguishing appetites; and it is of the utmost importance, therefore, that articles of such general consumption should be accurately inspected, and their weights and measures superintended by a vigilant police, especially when previous reputation may give a sort of sanction to the things that are vended. Above all, we are bound in conscience to see whether the goods offered to the public are manufactured merely for sale; and whether the author, more intent on profit than ambitious of fame, has any other solicitude than

66 nummum in loculos demittere; post hoc Securus, cadat, an recto stet fabula talo." (HOR.) We cannot put down, nor confine within any assignable limits, this species of writing: we can only see that it is composed of wholesome ingredients, and bears some proportion in value to the price which is asked for it.

As a writer of this class, Mrs. Opie has a peculiarity which is honourable to her. She does not deal in that diseased sentiment which some authors have imagined to be love, and have taught so many boarding-school misses and milliner's apprentices to imagine to be love also. Her pages do not abound with those exaggerations of passion which leave nature and common sense behind them. Her ladies and gentlemen are neither immoderately good nor immoderately bad: they talk the language of every-day life; and sometimes, we

are

are compelled to say, they are as heavy and dull as people in every-day life are frequently found to be. The interest which she excites is drawn from ordinary and not from artificial sources. She does not soar into the regions of fancy, nor revel in the wilds of romance. She does not wing her flight like the lark into clouds. She keeps on the ground; and her humble and unaspiring occupation is that of drawing from the world as it is, and from manners as they are, those incidents which, though of rare occurrence in real life, have sufficient probability to fascinate and amuse us. When all this is skilfully done, we are well recompensed for the absence of those splendid impossibilities, and that glare of sentiment, which in so many of our modern novels are revolting to the moral as well as the literary taste of sensible and discerning readers.

Still it is evident that, though this task may seem to be easy, it is attended by great difficulty. When a writer forms his groupes and combines his events from common life, he has much to do before he can make them pleasing. Exactness of copy is not of itself sufficient in any of the imitative arts. The figure of the sculptor must have a superadded grace, and adventitious beauty :-the landscape must not be a tame imitation, like those of Paul Brill, but must have clumps and shades and tints imparted to it by the genius of the painter. Of common life, also, the imitations must be select; its coarse realities must be avoided; great skill and judgment must be, displayed in the choice of character and the management of dialogue; and the utmost caution should be employed in keeping clear of those insipidities, both of character and dialogue, which make us yawn in real society. Powers, in short, of no ordinary kind, are required to blend the charms of fiction with the imitation of nature; to divest a tale of romance, and yet to preserve interest.

The title-page, Tales of the Heart,' misled us in the first instance; and we began to anticipate from the perusal of them a series of incidents calculated to awaken the sentiments, and stir up the emotions, which flutter in that part of our organization. On proceeding, however, we found that region wholly undisturbed; and, though some of the stories interested us, scarcely an incident, or a character, or an expression, reached the precincts of the heart. The handkerchief, which we usually deposit ready on our table when we have a work of feeling or pathos to peruse, was quietly returned to its more usual place, and we journeyed along from tale to tale without the slightest occasion to recall it. How has this happened? Mrs. Opie must pardon us, but we

The fault lies in the struc

think that we can account for it. ture, in the conduct, and in the sketching of her stories. Her personages not only do not talk well, but positively talk ill. The author endeavours to make them interesting by their benevolence, and other amiable qualities; and they give away their money (those, at least, who have money to dispense) freely and liberally :- but, when they open their lips, they speak so much common-place, and in so bad a taste, that we feel downright fatigue in their company. Elegant nothings, polished trifling, graceful badinage, all this we can endure, and not unfrequently relish: but, when insipidity is inelegant, and that which is trivial is next to vulgar, we become unquiet in our chairs. Even the fiction ceases to carry us along: we take a turn or two across the room: but this will not do; we vainly endeavour to resume the book, and at length throw it by in despair. We do not require these assertions to be gratuitously admitted, for we will give a specimen of a conversation or two in fashionable life, and then take our leave of so unpleasant a part of the subject. We select a discussion after a ball:

The young Baronet, who was by no means a man of words, and from a sort of mauvaise honte, only too common to Englishmen, was never quite at ease with strangers, only bowed in return for his host's civility; and the party sat down to supper.

It was now increased by the presence of a lady whom Miss Wallington had graciously gone to summon, and now as graciously supported on her arm into the room; for youth and beauty appeared, she well knew, to great advantage while lending their aid to infirmity.

This lady, on being introduced to Sir William by the name of Mrs. Norman, took care to call his attention to this trifling piece of benevolence, by observing,

"My sweet young friend's angelic attention makes me not feel my lameness;" while the sweet young friend seated her by herself, and, patting her on the shoulder, insisted on her making a good supper, as she had been so foolish as to sit up on purpose to hear all about the ball.

"Well, but you have told me nothing yet."

"No, nor can, till I have supped. Sir William, be so good as to help me to a leg of that chicken."

He obeyed. In the mean while the lame lady was still questioning Miss Wallington, and [asking] whether she and her sister had made any new conquests.

"Nonsense!" cried both the young ladies at once; but Mrs. Norman, who knew such questions were usually welcome, had not tact enough to feel that they might be ill-timed in the presence of a stranger; and she still went on with,

"Well! and was the handsome young baronet Sir William Dormer there ?"

"No;