and controlling influence,) ever contemplates such a method of release from trial; and thus the obituary of the year teems with cases of female consumption and heart-complaint. Ay, truly, 'tis no misnomer--heart-complaint! Where the thread is most worn, there it breaks; and the weaker vessel' carries her sorrows with her to the grave, and hides them there.

"But the word grave has startled me! I have no intention to moralize. My life contains its own moral. I will leave men to their self-satisfied view of the economy of human nature. It is, at best, a very harmless egotism; for they are no sooner in care or in necessity, than they, one and all, recant their error--at least until they no longer require counsel or consolation; and this fact may well make women smile at their delusion, and forgive it. (vol. i. pp. 5-7.)

And now we will make a few remarks on the tendency of the modern novel. We have seen that this kind of reading is the only one in which many thousands indulge, and if it be true that we are peculiarly a reading nation, it must be because among us men read the newspaper, and women read novels; that is, one sex read the faults, follies, and crimes of the world as it is, and the other sex pursue a similar course in fiction. Happily for us, the human mind is not so very tender as some philosophers assert, for surely if it were, this rather unwholesome diet would permanently derange it; yet it is impossible that so many thousands of volumes should be read by so many millions of people without some result, and the result will of course depend upon the nature of the material supplied. The time is past when so unmitigated a scoundrel as Peregrine Pickle would be a favourite hero; when lords would be introduced but as walking tailors' blocks, equally destitute of talent and principle; when a Sir Charles Grandison stalks solemnly through seven volumes, or a Pamela simpers through five. The silver-fork school of literature has become almost, if not altogether, extinct; and in place of these enormities, we have historical novels after the manner of Scott, and what are called philosophical novels after that of Bulwer. Then we have the tales of Pigault le Brun purified and retailed, and occasionally a raid into the regions of Alsatia and the rookeries of St. Giles. All these, save the last, are well enough in their way, and we well remember two instances in which the love for novel-reading elicited very singular mistakes. A retired tradesman, who derived his philosophy from Sir Edward, happened to meet with a remark in some magazine about the philosophical spirit of Justinian's novels: he immediately ordered the work for a bookclub of which he was a member, and we may judge his astonishment when his eye first met the awful page of the great lawgiver.

Another similar instance was that when Mr. Faber first published his "Mysteries of the Cabiri;" not a few ladies ordered the book, supposing it to be a sort of sequel to the " Mysteries of Udolpho." These cases are sufficient to show, that if any thing is to be received well and extensively read, it must come in the shape of "three vols. post 8vo." Some time ago, a not very wise person wished to celebrate a sort of apotheosis of Dr. Hook. He accordingly made him the hero of a novel, and the public rejoiced in Dr. Hookwell, or the Anglo-Catholic Family. When Mr. D'Israeli wished to propound any new theory, he does it in the same way; and we suppose that, before long, Faraday will announce his discoveries and Colonel Pasley his inventions through the same kind of medium. "Electro-Magnetism," a novel, by the author of " Hydrocyanic Acid," would be a novel indeed; nor can we imagine that even the "Confessions of a Pretty Woman" would attract more readers than "The Broad Gauge," by the author of "the Stoke Pogis and Little Peddlington Grand Junction." Seriously, however, it becomes the writers of novels to think that they are no longer furnishing the entre mets, but the pièce de résistance; no longer the recreation, but the instruction; and if we found a few more novels like this of Miss Pardoe's, we should be less inclined to regret the turn which literary affairs have taken.

Bulwer, too, while we laugh at "Eugene Aram," has given the world "Zanoni," the finest and most philosophical romance of late years; and the author of "Cecil" has established a far greater claim upon our gratitude than if the same truths had been presented to the world in any other form. As it is, they are read, and re-read; whereas they would otherwise have been consigned at once uncut to pepper and spices. It is said by some that Mrs. Gore has written these books, "Cecil the Coxcomb," and "Cecil the Peer;" and if this be true, (which we do not believe,) it would go far to make amends for her other very mischievous works. The writings of this lady are not only cold, and bright, and sceptical, but they tend to make others so; if she depicts the social infidel, the disbeliever in virtue, and affection, and religion, she depicts him or her as none the worse, but rather the better, by reason of having more wisdom, for this practical infidelity. While, however, we have "Ellen Middleton and the "Confessions of a Pretty Woman," we will dismiss from our thoughts "Preferment, or My Uncle the Earl."

We have left ourselves no space to speak of Dickens or Ainsworth, but surely "Martin Chuzzlewit" is a great work; and if we cannot highly praise the "Cricket," or the "Pictures from Italy," or the "American Notes," we can only the more ear

nestly exhort their author to go back to the path in which he has already gathered so many laurels.

Captain Marryatt, again, had he only written "Peter Simple," would have done good service to society; and since novels are, and apparently are to be, the chief reading of our age, we are glad to find that so few are bad and so many good: and especially are we glad to have works in this genre from the pen of one so qualified as Miss Pardoe.

It is indeed quite delightful in these days of artificial life, when every thing is chiselled and polished into such a degree of smoothness, that, together with the rough surface, all which bore the stamp of nature and originality is removed, to meet with any thing fresh and genuine, and which appears to come from the heart rather than the head: in other words, which speaks the language of sentiment and feeling, rather than that of cold and dry reason. We have far too much of the latter. We live in an atmosphere of matter of fact, the gloom and dreariness of which we seldom allow to be dispelled by the genial warmth of the imagination. Every thing is grounded upon calculation, and that of the lowest kind. Every step in our progress, every move in the journey of life, is made with utilitarian views alone, with the prospect only of temporal gain or loss. We plod our weary way along, not like pilgrims and sojourners in a world of trial, but like denizens of a country which is to be ours for ever, beyond which there is no hope. We rise up betimes in the morning, and late at night do we take our rest; and upon what are our waking thoughts and our last reflections employed but upon gain, mean and selfish gain? The "age of chivalry is gone," and the poetry of life has fled." Every thing around us is hard, and dry, and calculating; thus even our works of imagination partake of this strongly marked character of the present period, and exhibit its results in striking colours. Intellectual triumphs rather than appeals to the feelings or the imagination are sought after and desired, and their pages more frequently display sparkling wit, pointed irony, and clever sarcasm, the feats of intellectual skill, than attempts to lay bare the recesses of the human heart, and to analyze those mighty secrets which it contains.

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Such is not the case with any of the volumes before us. They are full of nature in all her freshness and originality. Immersed in the cares and occupations of ordinary life as are some of the most prominent characters which they describe, their authors have yet contrived to connect those details with the moral dignity and elevated interest which they in truth possess. And how have they done this? We have seen how Miss Pardoe has done it. The author of "Emilia Wyndham " has effected his purpose by

showing that what are usually termed the petty cares and anxieties of ordinary life,-of that kind of life, let it be remembered, in which we all take part whatever be our station or position, may be borne in such a manner, may be sustained with such patience and endurance from a consciousness of duty, as to exhibit examples of the most elevated heroism and virtue. The character of Emilia Wyndham is one of those exquisite delineations of the female mind in its best and purest form, which can proceed from genius of a high order alone. Amid much of sorrow and of woe, placed in situations of difficulty and distress, exposed to adventures attended with hazard and danger, in adversity and prosperity, through evil report and good report,-through all these does the heroine pass alike uninjured and unscathed, from the firm and consistent resolve which she imposes upon herself to fulfil her duty in every situation and circumstance. Conscious of her own weakness, and therefore most strong in truth where others, more confident in their own powers, are weak, she presents a picture of a spirit lofty, yet humble; patient and enduring, yet neither tame nor mean-spirited; calm and serene, yet full of feeling and enthusiasm. And she has her reward. The character of Danby, also, is an equally striking delineation. The outline is equally strong and vigorous, and the colouring is as fine and as brilliant. Perhaps it is more original, and has more distinctive marks about it; and yet it possesses a truthfulness and genuineness which all can appreciate and understand. It has less of passive suffering, and therefore does not call for so much of our compassion. We do not sympathize with it so much, because the cares, and anxieties, and distresses which it has to encounter are more of its own finding out and seeking, and yet we enter fully and entirely into each and all of them. The picture of this grave and reserved lounger of middle age, who has spent his life apart from society in the solitude of his chambers, immersed in legal investigations, is admirable in its conception, and perfect in its execution; every touch is effective, every tint is in harmony, and the keeping of the whole is faultless. To all outward appearance hard, and dry, and cold, full of sharp and caustic humour, yet is this man within filled with the fresh and warm feelings of early youth. Under the rough exterior of the mere man of business, does he hide a world of kindly and affectionate thoughts and sentiments, a spirit of enthusiasm and romance, a rich vein of what may almost be called true poetical life.

Let us now trace out, in the author's own words, some of the workings of this singular character, as it gradually developes itself. He is thus introduced to our notice :

* *

*

"This gentleman-though rather an uncouth one he was-practised in some one of those branches of the profession which confine men to their chambers, and never summon them forth to plead in public, or, indeed, to mingle much with men in general. "Mr. Danby was a thin spare man, whose clothes rather hung upon than dressed him; his hair was either rusted or grizzled, it was difficult to say which, but fell in a sort of uncouth disorder over a long and thin face, very pale, and only illuminated by a slow, but bright and piercing eye; his manner was not vulgar, for he was never in the slightest degree occupied with himself; it was uncouth, yet not disagreeable, because it was so perfectly plain, and that of a thoroughly sensible man. The only thing unpleasant about him was the expression of his mouth, and his sardonic smile; there was something cynical and suspicious in both, which was displeasing."

Such a description as this, perhaps, does not appear a very promising foundation for a superstructure of romance or sentiment. Let us wait a little and see:

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They all stood in the large window, looking out upon the beautiful starry night; the moon tinting the trees of the shrubberies, and throwing deep, heavy shadows on the grass-plat. It was a most delightful evening; a heavenly scene of silence, harmony, and peace. There was a general pause. 'I do not wonder that Miss Wyndham

cannot endure London,' said a voice, at length, close behind her. She looked up: it was Mr. Danby. He was looking at her with a softness that quite altered the expression of his face. The man of business even sighed as he said, 'This is indeed a very different sort of existence: it is very beautiful.' 'We are very fond of this window,' said Mrs. Wyndham; 'it opens to the ground, and gives us such a perfect view of what we esteem one of the prettiest points about the grounds. Emilia, give me my shawl: it is such a lovely night, that I am inclined to take a walk on the grass-plat.' Emilia followed, and Mr. Danby with her. He walked by her side some time in silence: he seemed, as indeed he was, full of the influences of the society and the scene; it was something new, it was something unexpected. In that dry and withered heart-dry as the parchments upon which he endorsed his conveyances-a sort of soft, lifebreathing influence and warmth began to diffuse itself,-a charm equally unexpected, unintelligible, and ineffable. He had never experienced such sensations before in the forty-five years of his life; for he had spent existence chiefly in his chambers: he had not been in the company of young ladies for years. The man before us was not, however, of the ordinary stamp; he was a man of very superior abilities, and had deep feelings, quite unknown to himself, lying, as it were, congealed within his breast. He had that species of imagination which belongs to intellect and passion united; but it had so rarely been excited, that nothing would have astonished him more than to have been suspected of possessing it. He looked upon him