Had this novel reached us some years ago, with the title of, '_The Hawks of Hawk-Hollow: A Romance by the author of Waverley_,' we should not perhaps have engaged in its perusal with as much genuine eagerness, or with so dogged a determination to be pleased with it at all events, as we have actually done upon receiving it with its proper title, and under really existing circumstances. But having read the book _through_, as undoubtedly we should have done, if only for the sake of Auld Lang Syne, and for the sake of certain pleasantly mirthful, or pleasantly mournful recollections connected with _Ivanhoe_, with the _Antiquary_, with _Kenilworth_, and above all with that most pure, perfect, and radiant gem of fictitious literature the _Bride of Lammermuir_--having, we say, on this account, and for the sake of these recollections read the novel from beginning to end, from Aleph to Tau, we should have pronounced our opinion of its merits somewhat in the following manner. "It is unnecessary to tell us that this novel is written by Sir Walter Scott; and we are really glad to find that he has at length ventured to turn his attention to American incidents, scenery, and manners. We repeat that it was a mere act of supererogation to place the words 'By the author of Waverley' in the title page. The book speaks for itself. The style vulgarly so called--the manner properly so called--the handling of the subject to speak pictorially, or graphically, or as a German would say plastically--in a word the general air, the _tout ensemble_, the prevailing character of the story, all proclaim, in words which one who runs may read, that these volumes were indited 'By the author of Waverley.'" Having said thus much, we should resume our _critique_ as follows. "The Hawks of Hawk-Hollow is, however, by no means in the _best_ manner of its illustrious author. To speak plainly it is a positive failure, and must take its place by the side of the Redgauntlets, the Monasteries, the Pirates, and the Saint Ronan's Wells." All this we should perhaps have been induced to say had the book been offered to us for perusal some few years ago, with the supposititious title, and under the supposititious circumstances aforesaid. But alas! for our critical independency, the case is very different indeed. There can be no mistake or misconception in the present instance, such as we have so fancifully imagined. The title page (here we have it) is clear, explanatory, and not to be misunderstood. The Hawks of {44} Hawk-Hollow, A Tradition of Pennsylvania, that is to say a novel, is written, so we are assured, not by the author of Waverley, but by the author of that very fine romance Calavar--not by Sir Walter Scott, Baronet, but by Robert M. Bird, M.D. Now Robert M. Bird is an American.