In 1821 _The Ayrshire Legatees_ was followed up by the _Annals of the Parish_, which displayed Galt’s singular and original genius in fuller perfection. That his epic failed, and the _Annals_ marked a literary success, is much to the credit of his contemporaries. Perhaps if Crabbe had not perversely insisted on being a poet we might have had country tales of his as worthy of immortality as the _Annals of the Parish_. The book is commonly said to be Galt’s masterpiece: which it is not. But it is unique and perfect. That _The Entail_ is really Galt’s masterpiece seems to me clear: nevertheless there are weak parts in it, and the less good chapters are lamentably unequal to the best: whereas the _Annals of the Parish_ has no weak chapters, and the balance of excellence is maintained throughout. But there is no story in the _Annals_; and, though it is a long gallery of perfect portraits, it has no characters that can even be compared with Watty and the Leddy o’ Grippy.
Where the _Annals_ peculiarly excel is in the rare quality of _charm_: it has no hero, and the central figure is enriched with foibles that do not lean to heroism’s side: but they are quaintly attractive, and no one but Galt has given to literature any one like him. Of pathos Galt is shy in the _Annals_; nowhere is he at all disposed to ‘wallow’ in it: but he draws reverently near, and moves away as reverently. Nor is he boisterously funny: his wit is all his own, and it crops up at every corner, but not noisily: it cuts few capers, and has a pawky discretion. It is singularly void of malice and haughtiness, and has a Shakespearian humanity and blandness that fails to remind one of Thackeray. The _Annals of the Parish_ prove that a great writer can make a whole book intensely amusing and extraordinarily amiable: that perfectly clear sight need not be merciless, nor wit remorselessly cruel.
The great and just success of the _Annals of the Parish_ made Galt prolific: and in rapid sequence came _Sir Andrew Wylie_, _The Entail_, _The Steamboat_, _The Provost_, _Ringan Gilhaize_, _The Spaewife_, _Rothelan_, and _The Omen_.
Almost all of these are worth reading, and to read them is no trouble: but they are of very unequal merit: and only one of them is worthy of being grouped with _The Ayrshire Legatees_ and the _Annals_. _Sir Andrew Wylie_ is extremely good, and much of it shows Galt in his best vein. The more romantic tales, _Ringan Gilhaize_, _The Spaewife_, _Rothelan_, and _The Omen_, have the defects of their qualities, and the more Galt submits to those qualities the less we are pleased. To be romantic was, perhaps, a pardonable compliance with fashion: but Galt had little to make with romance, and idealism was his easiest road to failure. To be Ossianic may have seemed to him a literary duty, but the performance of some duties is hard on the public: as the district-visited might plead, to whom the perfecting of district-visitors appeals less than it ought. Galt had not a rich imagination; what he possessed in a rare degree was the faculty of representation. In his works of fiction we find a gallery of portraits of singular variety and perfection: of all of them he had seen the originals. When he chose to add characters invented by himself his success was not great. It must not, however, be supposed that he could only reproduce with pedestrian fidelity: there can be no doubt that from a mere hint in actual experience he could draw a vivid portrait of absolute and convincing reality.