There is another capital defect in our author, which if he ever hopes for success, must be first overcome. He leaves his pictures, both of character and incident, altogether unfinished,--and darts with a meteor-like swiftness from subject to subject,--reminding the reader of a show-box,--in which the eye scarcely lights upon one spectacle, before it vanishes,--and is substituted by another and a different one. This perpetual flash and glare, without even the merit of distinctness, is far more painful than agreeable;--and the author would do well, if he bestowed more pains in separating the several parts of his story,--and a little more skill in the arrangement and harmony of his coloring. In truth, if he intends to repeat his efforts; and is really a _bona fide_ candidate for fame, we would advise him to put more oil into his lamp, and expend some additional labor in fitting his offspring for public exhibition. He does not employ sufficient _thought_ in the composition of his narrative,--but suffers his imagination (rich and vivid enough,) to run riot without restraint or limit. The conduct of Bacon, after the interruption of the marriage ceremony, as described in the first chapter of the second volume--is the conduct of a bedlamite, rather than of a rational being; and the whole scene of his mounting his fiery courser,--plunging into the river and swimming to the opposite shore,--his head bared to the "pitiless storm"--"the monsters of the deep his playmates, and the ill-omened birds of night his fellows;" is such a tissue of exaggeration and sublime fustian,--that what was evidently intended for great effect, is in reality extremely ludicrous. The hero indeed, acts so little like a man of sense, in this nocturnal aquatic excursion, that the reader feels much more sympathy for "the white silk breeches and graceful blue cloak," (which were likely to be spoiled by the half saline element,) than for the poor unfortunate wight of a bridegroom himself.