But the principal characters in the novel, (at least those which were intended by the author to be the most prominent,) are not natural, but ideal beings. In fact, they are not so properly characters (that is, distinct individuals) as the vehicles of certain general sentiments, or machines put into action, as an experiment to shew how these general principles would operate in particular situations. Frank Henley, and Anna St. Ives, are the philosophical hero and heroine of the work. They are the organs through which the voice of truth and reason is to breathe, and whose every action is to be inspired by the pure love of justice.—Mr Holcroft, by embodying his general principles in individual characters, no doubt, gained some advantages, which he could not otherwise have done; such as shewing the possibility of his plan, by actually reducing it to practice, and also pointing out how persons convinced of the truths he wishes to impress, both may and ought to act in the present state of society. For instance, duelling is held to be criminal; and to shew that declining a duel is no proof of cowardice, Frank Henley, who receives a blow from Coke Clifton, will not fight with him, but the very next day leaps into the water after him, and saves his life at the imminent hazard of his own: thus by an act of true heroism rising superior to the prejudices of false honour. But though the author has gained in point of argument by throwing his reasonings into a narrative form, perhaps he has lost in point of the general impression produced upon the mind. It was Mr Holcroft’s business to make his characters not only consistent, but interesting and amiable: and he has done nearly all that was possible to accomplish this end. But it seems as if the difficulty of the undertaking, from the very nature of it, was too great to be overcome. For in spite of all the appeals that are made to reason, and though we strive ever so much to suspend our invidious prepossessions, yet the old adage of ‘A faultless monster, which the world ne’er saw,’ continually obtrudes itself upon us, and poisons our satisfaction. It is true, our dislike may be irrational, but still it is dislike. That which, if left in generals, we might believe and admire, if brought to a nearer view, and exhibited in all its circumstances of improbability, we begin to distrust, and for that reason to hate: _quod sic mihi ostendis, incredulus odi_. Perfect virtue, the pure disinterested love of justice, an unshaken zeal for truth, regardless of all petty consequences, a superiority to false modesty, a contempt for the opinion of the world, when reason and conscience are on our side, all these are fine things, and easily conceived, while they remain, what they are, the pure creatures of the understanding, mere abstract essences, which cannot kindle too warm a glow of enthusiasm in the breast. But when these airy nothings are made reluctantly to assume a local habitation and a name, called Frank, or