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Randal Langford, the hero (if so he must be called), a Cambridge student, has been horse whipped in the broad walk of St. John's College by a wild young Irish gentleman. He is afterwards thwarted in love by his deadly enemy, and it is out of circumstances that arise from this that the story is composed.

The great mistake of the book begins with the first page. Randal Langford suffers himself to be horsewhipped-the whip snapping "into fifty pieces"-before "gownsmen of every condition and degree, from heads of colleges to sizars." He is represented as a man of undoubted courage, but whose principles forbid him to enter into a duel. Hence, then, the tame reception of brute discipline? Fudge! The author may insist, protest, swear by the nib of her popular pen, and bite the other end of it. No matter this Langford is a coward, Men of courage may, and do, set their faces against duelling; but who ever heard of one whose principles put a veto upon the defence of his own person from so violent an outrage as is indicated by the fracture of a horsewhip (walking-stick?) into fifty pieces ?

"It is nought, it is nought," therefore this "Ravenscliffe,” with all the talent and vigour it undoubtedly contains.

The author of "Emilia Wyndham," is a favourite of the public, and we suppose, conceives that, being so, she may take liberties with her readers. The conclusion, involving "a chain of circumstances which I have not space to relate," is perfectly contemptible.

We may dismiss "Clara Harrington, a Domestic Tale," in a very few words. The author is a man of sense and reflection, taste and judgment, and he has thought that his opinions on various subjects may haply meet a readier reception, imported in one of the fast-sailing craft that carry the flag of the fairy Fiction. We will not pursue the metaphor, but content ourselves with saying, that the author of "Clara Harrington" appears to be utterly incapable of writing a novel, if, first the invention of a story, and then the conduct of it, are supposed to constitute any part of the process. The plot would be accounted meagre were it unravelled in- we will not say how few pages; but when nine hundred are devoted to it, we are reminded of the man who dis coursed of an insect at such length, that his listener marvelled whether he would ever come to an end, if it were his cue to speak of a lion. Yet there are many sensible pages in this work that might be profitably

read.

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The objection we have taken to " Clara Harrington," on the score of diffuseness, assuredly does not apply to "The Old Engagement, a Spin ster's Story," by Miss Julia Day, which is as well-knit and compact This tale story in a small compass as we ever remember to have seen. is a perfect gem in its way, the materials and the workmanship, to employ the chapmen's phrase, being worthy of each other. The events are so perfectly natural, the characters are drawn with such truth and vivacity, -and the whole is set before us with such beautiful, unlaboured grace of style, that we are rapidly, but insensibly, carried from the first page to the last, with a feeling at the end, we must acknowledge, of disappointment that we have not more. We

"Think we have been slumbering here,
While these shadows did appear,"

so entirely have we been absorbed in them, and so deftly did they play their parts whilst they were before our eyes. Who, having read of, or

rather seen, Dr. Grove and his wife, the gallant Rector, Miss Vaughan, the Colonel, and the story-weaving spinster, can ever forget them? Though the space be small in which they have to display themselves, they are painted with a minuteness and finish worthy of a literary velvet Brueghel. We wish Miss Julia Day every success on her onward

course.

There are few readers who are not familiar with that awful episode in Dante's "Inferno," in which Count Ugolino tells of the incarceration of himself, his sons, and grandchildren in the (since so-called) Tower of Famine. The story has been heightened by the poet with all the severity of relentless genius; and no one, whose eye has ever passed over that text, can remember without a shudder the hellish employment by Ugolino, which his narrative suspended, and to which, on its conclusion, he returned with added pertinacity.

There are not many, however, who know (because they have not inquired, or have had no means of ascertaining) how it came to pass that the Archbishop Ruggieri should have resorted to so frightfully brutal a measure (coup d'état is the present phrase for illegal and irresponsible crimes) as that of starving to death his enemy and kindred in a prison, or the reason why the poet committed to the Count the congenial task of exercising so frightful a retaliation upon the ecclesiastic.

Dante has not touched upon that part of the subject; and if he had, we do not think his version could have been implicitly relied upon, because, although it is the custom of biographers to call him a patriot, it is only too certain to the dispassionate reader, that he was a most furious and bigoted Ghibelline,-in other words, a partisan of the deepest dye.

But it is well that the whole of this terrible story should be known. An act so atrocious as that of the Archbishop would create horror in any view of the case; but the question, which every man interested in the subject asks himself, is, "Was the Archbishop impelled to this act by what he conceived to be an imperious necessity, or was it an act of wanton wickedness only to be accounted for on the supposition that the man was mad?"

We are indebted to Madame Pisani for a full solution of this question. The research of this lady has enabled her to lay before us every reliable particular of the transactions in which the Count and the Archbishop were engaged, and in which they opposed each other, and her admirable talents have been employed in displaying them with the most picturesque effect in the romance of "The Convent and the Harem."

It is not often that a work so historically valuable is presented to the public in the outward garb of fiction. But let it not be supposed that this work is mainly a history. On the contrary, an intensely interesting story has been contrived, in which historical characters bear a part, and to the effect of which they contribute; and this without falsifying, or even straining, fact in the slightest degree. Ugolino and Ruggieri are very powerfully executed; and Genivra, Beatrice, and Bianca, altogether dissimilar characters, are managed with extraordinary skill and delicacy. We have had no such Italian romance as this since Manzoni's 66 Betrothed."

In the earlier portion of his yet brief career, there was much questioning whether Herman Melville was a man of genius or not. There was something so new in the author's style, and in the sentiments it clothed,

that sundry decision-loving critics hesitated not to pronounce him a charlatan, whilst the more cautious or sager veterans shook their heads with a world of meaning in the motion, or demurely suspended their opinion. It is ever thus when a man of original genius appears before the public. As it was with Byron, so was it with Kean. Accordingly, "Let us wait and see what Herman Melville will do next," remarked some, and others authoritatively cried out, "There is nothing more to be expected from him: his bolt is shot."

But his bolt was not shot, neither had he but one bolt, or if so, he knew how to recover it again. His genius is not the sole arrow of a foolish archer; it is more like the Australian boomerang, which, with whatever force it may be thrown, comes back to the hand of its pos

sessor.

We always had faith in the genius of Herman Melville, or rather, we had eyes to see it. Who could not perceive the fine things (and how thickly studded they were!) in Omoo and Typhee, and Mardi-who except those mightily critical connoisseurs who, detecting faults at a glance, proposed to discover beauties by shutting one eye, that they might direct a keener glance with the other, and by a mistake-arising haply from over-eagerness-closed both.

The foregoing remarks have been suggested by a perusal of Melville's last work, "The Whale," which is certainly one of the most remarkable books that has appeared for many years past. It is, however, a performance of which no brief, and at the same time intelligible, description can be rendered. Who, in a few sentences can supply such a summary of the mental and physical qualities of Captain Ahab, as shall distinctly present to the mind's eye of the reader that extraordinary character? The one over-mastering passion of the man-his furious hatred of the white whale, Moby Dick,-through what scenes of grandeur and of beauty that monomania impels him; to what encounters it leads-what catastrophe it precipitates; who is to tell in a score or two of lines? There are descriptions in this book of almost unrivalled force, coloured and warmed as they are, by the light and heat of a most poetical imagination, and many passages might be cited of vigorous thought, of earnest and tender sentiment, and of glowing fancy, which would at once suffice to show-contest or dispute about the matter being out of the question-that Herman Melville is a man of the truest and most original genius.

We are indebted to the accomplished authoress of "Mildred Vernon," for another very clever and interesting novel, entitled "Falkenburg." We are told in the preface that the authoress has merely endeavoured to record events that she has witnessed, and to describe characters that she has known, so that, "invention is the last merit that must be sought for in these pages." But for this announcement we should assuredly have ascribed no ordinary amount of that quality to our lady writer; for a succession of more novel-like scenes, and a more general introduction to characters that wear the garb of fiction, we do not usually see and meet with in professed works of that class.

While we perfectly agree with the authoress, that the hero is not highly calculated to awaken the reader's sympathies, we cannot hold with her that the dénouement is at all at variance with preconceived ideas of poetical justice. We marvel that she should have taken so much trouble with a worthless fellow like Falkenburg, and sincerely hope that

VOL. XXXI.

I

the fate to which she has consigned him, is one of her matters of fact. That is poetical justice, at all events.

This character is drawn with great care and ability; but he is a very disagreeable coxcomb. Lilian is as well executed, and is his fitting partner. Lady Mary, Norberg, the young composer, and Helen Cameron are worthy of all praise. The authoress of Falkenburg may do much better things than this very good novel, if she will but give more labour to the construction of a story.

We have been very well pleased with "Florence Sackville; or, Selfdependence," by Mrs. Burbury, and, on turning to the dedication, after having read the work, we were rather surprised to see that this autobiography is the first production of the authoress. It does her much credit, and there is that kind as well as amount of merit in it, that leads us confidently to expect better things. We will venture to suggest to the authoress that, in the event of her meditating a second work, she will do well to confine herself to middle-class life-to eschew May Fair and Belgravia. That part of her present novel in which Florence appears as the poor country actress, is by far the best of the whole, and reminds us of similar disclosures in the autobiography of Mrs. Charke, the youngest daughter of Colley Cibber, written a hundred years ago. There is no lack of plot and character in Florence Sackville. There has been a strong determination on the part of Mrs. Burbury to amuse and interest the reader, and she has succeeded. The story never flags, but rather increases in spirit as it proceeds.

We have not time, or to speak more correctly, we have not space, to do more than give a hearty welcome to the Christmas book of Mr. Wilkie Collins, entitled "Mr. Wray's Cash-box; or, The Mask and the Mystery.” We certainly did not expect, from the author of "Antonina," so pretty and graceful a contribution to the season as this. We shall not do him, or our readers (soon to be his) the injustice of telling the secrets of Mr. Wray and his Cash-box-we leave them as a "mask and a mystery;" but we cannot forbear saying that the spirit of his godfather would seem to have descended upon him; for David Wilkie himself never set before us a more finished picture of familiar life.

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