plished Professor of English Literature at Belfast College, is an excellent instance of what a young lady's imagination can produce when allowed to run riot. The main thread of the narrative-the career of a strong-minded young governess-is adopted boldly from Jane Eyre; so boldly as almost to rob the action of the crime of plagiarism. But, having possessed herself of this one ingredient, Miss Craik has gone to work in a perfectly original spirit. The flavour of the whole story is not Brontesque it is genial, graceful, and feminine; and, in a brief outline of its contents, we hope to inspire our reader with sufficient curiosity to ensure it a place in their next order from Mudie. The story may be divided broadly into three parts, although the second of the three admits of subdivision. Miss Honor Haig, a very pretty, and, as the sequel will shew, uncommonly clever girl, of some one or two and twenty years of age, is governess in the family of Mr. and Mrs. Wynter, resident at Riverston Hall, in Sussex. The family consists of three daughters-Honor's pupil, Effie, a little girl; Helen, the second, about nineteen; and Sydney, the eldest, a year or two older. The first part of the story is taken up with the progress of a courtship between Helen and a young clergyman of the neighbourhood, Mr. Edward Beresford. The affair terminates in a tragedy, and the two principal actors in it are practically expunged from the story. This brings us

down to the middle of the first volume. From the middle of the first volume to nearly the middle of the third, Sydney Wynter is the heroine; the other dramatis persone being the two suitors for her hand, a Mr. Rupert and Mr. Leslie, and a new housekeeper lately installed at Riverston, (recommended by Mr. Rupert)-young, pretty, mysterious, and impenetrably cold in her demeanour.

The various attitudes which these four characters assume, and their changing relations to each other, form the staple interest of the book, Honor all the while playing the part of the Greek chorus, and furnishing the appropriate moral reflections, advice, and piety; though the latter, it must be admitted, is of a somewhat thorny and intractable character. The last scene of all, which ends this really "strange eventful history," is the courtship and marriage of Honor herself, with an ugly middle-aged gentleman, whom from a misogynist she has converted into her slave. It is not without a great deal of biting and scratching that the "little vixen," as her lover gallantly dubs her, permits herself at last to be taken captive; nor without considerable laceration of the ugly one's feelings, through a very natural fit of jealousy on detecting her intimacy

with one Frank Wynter, a young seaman of prepossessing exterior. All blows over, however, at last, and Honor "finds the shelter which has never failed her since."

We would advise all our readers who are not already acquainted with Riverston, to pause at this point, and recur to our review when they shall have finished the novel, otherwise we fear their interest will be spoiled.

Miss Craik seems to possess a mind capable of receiving deep and clear impressions, and to have been gifted by nature with the power of reproducing them effectively. What she wants are just the two things which she might be expected to want-greater knowledge of the world and of human nature, and longer study of her art; in the latter respect Riverston is most faulty. Helen and her hapless love might be altogether obliterated from the story for all they do to forward it; and we think if Miss Craik had commenced at the eleventh chapter of the first volume, and left off at the fifth chapter of the third, she would have produced a more praiseworthy work. The transition in each case to the succeeding limb of the story is as bald and rude as it can be; and the authoress seems to have absolutely no excuse for so deliberate a violation of one of the most rational rules of composition. Nor can we look upon the introduction of Frank Wynter in the middle of the third volume with at all more lenient eyes. He comes in as an artificial stimulant when the story had begun to flag. It was necessary to do something to prevent the settlement of Honor and Uncle Gilbert till the requisite number of pages had been filled up. The jealousy "lay" had not been yet worked; so that favourite device was called in, and not permitted to disappear till its work was accomplished, and the third volume concluded. Now we are not so presumptuous as to assert that this was deliberately planned by the fair authoress; that would be taking too much upon ourselves. But we would warn Miss Craik, as friends, that this is very much the appearance of the thing to the ordinary reader. character in a novel should belong to the story; and none should be taken on, like an extra hand, just to help it over a difficulty. Let Miss Craik keep this law in mind; it is one too constantly violated by the mass of novelists to make it worth while to say any thing at all about it in the majority of instances. But we think so well of Miss Craik as to hope she will not only excuse us for pointing out one of those defects which it is difficult for a beginner to escape, but also that she will do more-have the kindness, both to herself and her readers, to profit by it.

Every

Constructive deficiencies are not, however,

peculiar to any age or sex. We have now to notice errors which spring more directly from those two circumstances. We cannot help thinking that the character of Edward Beresford is highly unreal. Young ladies who know little more of young gentlemen than what they can gather in the course of a ball-room conversation, or a romantic moonlight stroll, are not unnaturally prone to exaggerate the consequences of a lady's unkindness. Far be it from us to provoke the enmity of the sex by denying the omnipotence of their charms. But-per Jovem-life is life. All that a man hath he will give for it. And, more than that, there is no class of men so openly despondent, nor so secretly sanguine, as rejected lovers-and the weaker the more sanguine. This, by the by, is a truth that holds good in many other walks of life as well as the myrtle groves of Paphos. Excessive hope is not the characteristic of a strong nature. He is strong who looks every possibility in the face, makes his dispositions calmly, and fights doggedly while there is a chance left; but not when all chance is gone. Weak men, on the contrary, generally shut their ears to the truth-refuse to believe the evidences of their senses-will never, to use a forcible vulgarism, "take no for an answer;" but waste their lives in a pursuit as idle as that of the philosopher's stone, rather than incur the pain of acknowledging to themselves that the chase is hopeless. But independently of this consideration, we doubt if a truly weak man would ever commit suicide in such a case. Death is horrible, and it requires no ordinary strength of mind to bring a man to face it with calmness. But let us suppose this difficulty overcome that, so far, despair has made the weak man strong; we have still the physical fear and the religious fear left-both strongest and the most difficult to be shaken off in the weakest natures. Much is frequently attributed to the force of sudden and ungovernable impulses. But we do not believe in sudden and ungovernable impulses in your ordinary decent, educated, clerical Englishman. Finally, therefore, the only supposition upon which suicide from passion is sufliciently probable to justify its use in fiction, is either where madness is superinduced, or where, in presence of a strong will and a keen sense of honour, there is a total absence of religious belief.

The style in which the episode of Leslie and Mrs. Hammond is handled, shews the danger awaiting inexperienced performers in their treatment of such topics. Quite unconsciously and unwittingly, we are certain, has Miss Craik offended against the laws of taste. it cannot be denied that there is something painfully coarse and rank in the narrative of

But

the seduction. Passion-and it is hard not to use a still plainer word-is throughout so exclusively and obtrusively prominent in the lady's behaviour, as to render her sudden change into the icicle of propriety she appeared at Riverston a very improbable metamorphosis.

Of the warmth and durability of female friendships, Miss Craik must, of course, be a better judge than ourselves; yet the rupture of an engagement between a young lady and her affianced, for words spoken by the latter derogatory to one of her married friends, certainly seems a quixotic excess of devotion. This, as well as the two or three previous faults we have indicated, all spring from inexperience, and imaginary views of the duties and realities of life. We do not say that we have exhausted the catalogue of errors even now; but it is sufficient, we hope, to have aroused Miss Craik's attention to the class of faults against which she must be specially on her guard, without marking every one separately, like a schoolmaster correcting an exercise.

The position of a governess, as described in the novel now before us, stands in strong contrast to the gloomy pictures presented to us in several recent works. If Miss Craik's object has been simply to correct the balance, by running into the other extreme-or if only an amiable effort to soften down the miseries of a career which so many are compelled to adopt-she deserves our thanks and our sympathy. No doubt, such declamations against the behaviour of ladies of rank towards this class of dependants, as are contained for instance in Anne Sherwood, convey a partially unjust impression of aristocratic manners; and whoever aids in rescuing any class in the community from the smallest fraction of unmerited reproach, may be said to deserve our thanks. No doubt, too, it is possible that the pain and reluctance with which many young women force themselves to accept these situations, may be enhanced by such startling features of the wretchedness they will have to undergo; and we can appreciate the kindness of heart that would lead a young authoress to paint their future in such attractive hues as Miss Craik has shed around it. But for the absolute truthfulness of the representation, we fear we must prefer Anne Sherwood to Riverston. The former is certainly exaggerated; but the latter is entirely abnormal. In the one, the governess's miseries are above the average. In the latter, they stand in no appreciable ratio to even the lowest possible standard of disagreeableness. The fact is, there are certain practical inconveniences attending the position of either a tutor or governess, which, in the case of young people brought up as "gentle," can

not fail to be acutely felt. A governess or a tutor, belonging by birth and breeding to the same social class among whom their vocation is to be exercised, must feel themselves in a false position; and we fear there is no help for it. A gentleman or lady without that first essential of a corresponding deportment-independence: an Englishman without that necessity to every Englishman's self-respect-his castle-young and high-spirited, but unable to talk of, much less indulge in, the pleasures of society, without incurring the charge of bad taste or presumption: the unfortunate youth or maiden,

condemned for their parents' sins or their own, to pursue a life of tuition-will, we must warn them, encounter a life of perpetual annoyances, into which novels afford very little insight. The lad, who gets but a pound a week at a merchant's office; the scribbler, who scrapes together double by cheap literature; the barrister, who starves in his chambers, can each look his fellows in the face, and is as good as they. The amount of his income is no matter to them. But the tutor or governess has no associates at all but those who feel that he or she is not one of themselves—but those who know that her position is, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the result of a descent in the social scale-but those who have conspired to point out that position as the one most humiliating confession of poverty which English society affords. A person so situated

can

never wholly escape a sort of uneasy suspicion, that either he or his friends must have done something wrong, or else he would not be there. These constitute the true miseries which embitter the tutorial career. Instances of direct insolence and oppression, we hope, are rare. The real sting is the publicity of inferiority involved in it. No kindness or considerateness on the part of the employer can go far to remedy this. Visitors will go away and say, How kind Mr. A. or Mr. B. is to his governess! But do they despise her one whit the less? Not one. And so, while we cannot but feel that in point of incident a novel like Anne Sherwood is nearly as untruthful as Riverston, we must advise our readers that the tone of the former, and not of the latter, is the true one; and that no amount of illusion will ever convert the school-room into a bed of roses, nor rob the daily walk of its similarity to the treadmill, nor the dinner-party of its resemblance to a criminal investigation.

From Miss Craik, a lady of whom we entertain great hopes, we pass to another] maiden candidate for fame, the clever young authoress of Summerleigh Manor. By confining herself within those limits which embrace her own

experience, she has succeeded in producing a far less faulty work than Riverston. Summerleigh Manor; or, the Brothers and Sisters, is, as the name denotes, one of those purely domestic stories of which The Daisy Chain will be remembered as so favourable a specimen. Indeed, it will probably seem to many persons that Miss Young has been followed by the authoress of the present volume more closely than is consistent with originality. But it is very difficult in the present day to draw the line between fair and unfair imitation. Where one or two master hands introduce a new school of composition, imitation springs up, because the contemplation of these models has awakened in the reader a consciousness of cognate powers. But these various schools of fiction have become so numerous at the present day, extending over so wide an area of public intelligence, and grasping at once so many of the great social problems of the time, that every writer is in some danger of transgressing the law on this subject. Are we, then, to reject all but the few original creations? This is an inquiry we do not intend to pursue at the present occasion. But we would suggest the difficulties of the position to all those persons who are so fond of detecting plagiarisms in literature. Certain we are, that by so doing the public would cut itself off from a wide field of enjoyment; and one of the books it would as certainly be sorry to lose, is Summerleigh Manor. This story is one of that class which require to be done either extremely well or not at all. Summerleigh Manor is done extremely well, and we are confident will please all readers whom literary pedantry has not rendered indifferent to the charms of simplicity and natural elegance.

two.

Mr. and Mrs. Woodward are persons of fortune, who reside at the address which forms the title to the story. Their family consists of seven children-Alice, Henrietta, Margaret, Dora, Keene, Rupert, and Brian. The parents are worldly people; the mother the more so of the And the natural results of this training and nurture upon the different dispositions of their children, is worked out with considerable skill. Alice, the eldest, a girl of strong religious feelings, but gentle character, is completely thrown into the background by the worldly system of her home. She is, however, fortunate enough to attract the admiration of a Captain Mordaunt, who makes her an excellent husband, and takes her away with him into Cornwall. The effect of her early training still, however, hangs about her; and she is subject to fits of depression and despair, seriously injurious both to her happiness and her usefulness. In Henrietta, mistaken education produces still

F

more bitter fruits. Pretty, lively, and witty, with a good and affectionate heart, she is persuaded into marriage with a wealthy old man, partly in consequence of a previous disappointment, but partly, it is to be feared, through unaffected admiration of wealth and rank. Next comes Margaret, the real heroine of the story. Her character is even, if possible, more fatally misunderstood than Alice's had been. The child is in her way a genius. She has a fine taste for art, and considerable skill with her pencil and brush; but her devotion to these pursuits is regarded by the literal mama and prosy old governess as mere perversity, springing from a dislike to regular "lessons.' Her fate is still trembling in the balance; her character is on the verge of being permanently ruined, and her talent crushed, when a Deus ex Machina descends to the rescue in the shape of a Mr. Massey, who points out to the parents that Margaret's rude sketches display real ability, and that she ought to be allowed to cultivate it. As Mr. Massey is a childless old relative, with a good deal of money to leave, his wishes must clearly be attended to. Mrs. Woodward begins to find out that "that child must have some talent after all," though she cannot conceal her disgust when Margaret states, in answer to a geographical question, that Dublin is on the Shannon. But, on the whole, the acquaintance with Mr. Massey is the turning-point in Margaret's career. He invites her frequently to visit him at his own house in the neighbourhood, to study his collection of pictures-introduces her to Duffryn Castle, which contains a fine gallery, and the owner of which, Lord Nairne, and his family, on their return from Italy, take a great fancy to Margaret, and opens up a new world to her imagination. In this improved position we leave Margaret at the end of the volume, which, however, we cannot bring ourselves to believe is to be the end of the story. The fortunes of the younger members of the family have not yet been touched upon. Dora, a genuine product of the Summerleigh soil, has, we are confident, a good many troubles before her. She is now a child, but pert, clever, pretty, and hard-minded. Of Rupert and Brian, the one a midshipman, the other an embryo emigrant, we hope to hear more; while Keene, the eldest son, will probably excite very considerable interest in the majority of readers, and contribute no small share towards making them wish for more-to do which was, in Mr. Weller's opinion, the crowning feat of literary composition. The charm of Summerleigh Manor consists in the ease and grace of the dialogue, and the amiable and affectionate spirit by which it is pervaded. There are no surprising situations; no complicated intrigues;

no hair-breadth adventures; no horrid crimeswith some or all of which the novel-reading public is wont to solace the dulness of the domestic fireside. Yet few readers will pronounce the story to be insipid, or the characters uninteresting. The authoress knows how to write with piquancy; and the vivid truthfulness with which her personages are presented, cause them to infect us with something of that gaiety which people like Keene and Henrietta carry with them in real life. It is seldom that an extract from a novel answers the end for which it is inserted. They can hardly ever be long enough, and for that reason we have forborne to present any mutilated specimens of this young lady's style. But we would especially recommend a passage, extending from p. 105 to 115, as one of the prettiest domestic pictures we know.

The

Between the two next authors on our list there is so marked a contrast, that we are glad of an opportunity of bringing them into juxtaposition. Mr. Trollope is a genuine Englishman; Mr. Reade has striven with some success to divest himself of his national characteristics. The one is like our old-fashioned ale-rich, strong, and mellow; the other like cider-noisy, sparkling, and acid. The one is sensible, where the other is theoretical. one is humorous, where the other is splenetic. The one is vigorous, where the other is violent. The one pleases us by the excellence of single scenes; the other by the ingenuity of his plot. The one by his knowledge of life; the other by his knowlege of the heart. The one we wish to know; the other we are content to applaud. It will thus be seen that we allow very great merits to the author of White Lies, and confess him to be in some respects superior to Mr. Antony Trollope. We are indeed aware that, by a certain class of readers, he will be placed far above him. But we must own that the genial goodness and large nature which distinguish the author of The Warden, have completely won us to his side. To say nothing of the fact that The Three Clerks, besides being an excellent novel, contains many admirable passages on more than one interesting public question.

We will do all that our limited space permits to aid our readers in forming an opinion of their own.

Henry Norman and Alaric Tudor are two clerks in the Weights and Measures Office. The first is what is ordinarily known in the world as a man of "sterling merit;" but Alaric is a young man of brilliant talents. Both are acquainted with a charming family who reside at Surbiton Cottage, near Hampton