Such a disagreeable presentment as "Jacob Bendixen" is well succeeded by the tale of "The Two Families." This is a simple, but a very pleasant and attractive story, written in a remarkably neat and graceful style. A skill is shown in the conduct of this tale, and an unaffected ease in the mode of telling it, which writers of more pretension would do well to attempt to acquire. If our good word will do it, the real, substantial merit of "The Two Families," so unobtrusively submitted to the public, shall not be overlooked. This is one of those genuine things which only people of a healthy taste can justly appreciate. Happily, there is a daily growing taste for novels which directly inculcate virtue and illustrate duty; and the "The Two Families" is well worthy of a place amongst those works of fiction, the tendency of which is to elevate and purify human nature.

And not less so is "Spiritual Alchemy," a novel which we have read with no ordinary amount of pleasure. The author of this work has braced himself to the portrayal of passions and feelings which it was not the cue of the author of "The Two Families " to lay bare to us, and he has effected his purpose in a very impressive and powerful manner. If it be not entirely true (which it is the object of this writer to enforce) that a constant and consistent practice of the Christian virtues is certain to meet its reward in this world in the shape of external temporal blessings, yet would he be a grudging and ill-conditioned critic who should forbid a novelist to bestow such blessings on his favourite and deserving characters: at all events, it cannot be denied-and the author will doubtless be content if we concede to him thus much-that a perseverance in virtue is always rewarded by an inward happiness of the purest kind, whatever external crcumstances may attend their path in life.

But the author of "Spiritual Alchemy" has had too much taste vexatiously to parade or doggedly to thrust his moral perpetually before the reader. His story is full of interest, and it is, without overflowing, full of characters, all of whom are extremely well drawn. There is, indeed, one character, Passiflora, which may be pronounced a master-piece, and which must of itself set the author in no ignoble rank amongst our best and most popular novelists. There are scenes, in which this girl appears, wrought with extraordinary energy and passion, scenes which, once read, can never be forgotten. Spiritual Alchemy" is the pro

duction of a shaping and original mind.

No one will deny to the author of "Sam Slick" great powers of humour, and all will agree that he is as likely a man as any to detect that quality in others. Accordingly, it was with a sense that no common caterer had been employing himself in collecting materials for our amusement that we took up his "Traits of American Humour." It is observable, that of what is here termed, par excellence, American humour, we have no specimens in Washington Irving, and that Fenimore Cooper very sparingly introduced to his readers those reckless utterers of slang, extravagance, lying and audacious nonsense, who are, we suppose, to be found sprinkled over America, but who, at all events, come forth in all their raciness in Justice Haliburton's collection. A few specimens to be found in this collection have already appeared in this Miscellany; but "more than a little is by much too much" of a species of literature which, however it may for the moment engage attention from its novelty and a sort of wild humour (now become mechanical),

A CLUSTER OF

which undoubtedly pervades it soon pals upon the reader. Such things are to be read one or two at a time, and at intervals; we cannot swallow three volumes fall at once. It is clear that the author of ← Sam Stick" has paid more attention to the language (or rather lingo) of the common American than to that of the lower orders in the mother country, or be would never have set forth a table of words, some of which, he says, belong to New England, others to the Southern and Western States, whilst others, again, are common to various parts of the Union. Arter for “after.” ~ bagnet" for "bayonet," for "bell" chimbly” for “chimney," "cotched" for "caught," “ darbile " ter for daughter, and many other words enumerated in his list, are time-honoured vulgarisms of Old England. Still more strange is it, that, giving specimens of Southern and Western words, which, he says, "owe their origin to circumstances and local productions,” Mr. Justice Haliburton should have included the words "prairie" and “ savannah” amongst them. Surely he must know that the former is a French word, and that the latter belongs to Spain.

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We had well-grounded expectations of a more than ordinary pleasure awaiting us, when we saw the advertisement promising a new work from the author of "The Ladder of Gold. Such writers as Mr. Robert Bell have a strong claim upon the gratitude of novel-readers, since not only does he supply them with all that can be desired in the matter of plot and character, but his works are animated with the noblest morality, and heightened and improved by the purest taste. never stops to ask himself, “What is the taste, or-to use a word which Mr. Bell has almost become slang-the spirit of the present age, that I may prepare something to their liking?" He knows full well that an author who should seek popularity by such means must either consent to become a servile copier of others, or he must pander to the most vulgar and obstructive prejudices. The first in the collection of tales he has just published, under the title of “ Hearts and Altars," is a story made up of such extraordinary circumstances, that it must needs fasten to his seat the most insatiate and experienced fiction-fancier. Mr. Bell tells us, that "its incidents have been interrogated in certain quarters with a certain kind of sceptical curiosity;" but that they are derived from authentic and well-attested sources.

Strange! After this, we had thought of quoting that very old say ing which has been gratuitously attributed to Byron; but we shall not inflict it upon the reader. The other tales, “The Armourer of Munster," "Love to the Rescue," "The Bride that the Rain rained on," and "The Careless Word," are full of grace and interest. It cannot be but that "Hearts and Altars" will be warmly welcomed by the public.

In "Jacob Bendixen" we have seen an attempt to delineate the mental sufferings of a sensitive mind, ever smarting under a sense of isolation from that portion of his fellow-men who profess the Christian religion. The author of " Antony, the Deaf and Dumb Boy," has, we doubt not, too accurate a knowledge of the measure of his own powers to proclaim himself " a man of unquestionable genius," and yet it cannot be denied that his "Antony" was a much more difficult character to manage than "Jacob Bendixen," and that he has passed him through all his sufferings, insults and obstructions, with infinitely greater skill and effect.

The purpose of the two authors has been widely different. Goldschmidt has represented a character sustained by no strong principle of religion. Cruel and dastardly as a boy, he is a moody and morbid coxcomb as a man, so that we not only take no interest in his progress, we not only feel no sympathy for his griefs, but we are by no means sorry when he breaks his heart and makes one less in a world, which is only too full of causeless folly and unnecessary long faces. On the other hand, Antony, the deaf and dumb boy, is more than sustained by a strong principle of religion. He derives hope and joy from it. The strength it gives him impels him on his onward course, and its influence fortifies him against all the assaults of adversity and distress.

The early youth of Antony is painted with a depth of colouring, which shows how entirely the author has been in earnest, and how thoroughly he had made himself master of his subject before he committed a syllable to paper. Nor, as we proceed, do we find that he swerves one iota from his original design his idea is worked out with an inflexible hand. It will have been surmised from the title that this work is composed of novel materials; and indeed it is so; but the novelty of the matter does not break through the bounds of nature and probability. Antony is, of course, the character upon which the interest of the story mainly depends, and for whom our sympathies are most strongly enlisted; but the other persons of the story are drawn with great care, discrimination and judgment, and add greatly to its effect. In a word, Antony is a performance of uncommon merit.

If we are correct in our supposition (derived from the title-page, which makes no mention of a former work) that "Emily Howard" is the first essay of Mrs. Dunlop, we have heartily to congratulate her on her success, and earnestly to request her to let us see something further from her pen. There is more than a promise of better things in Emily Howard." It is, itself, a very excellent novel, well considered, well pursued, and well executed. It is only when we are under the unpleasant necessity of finding fault that we throw a light, though faint sometimes the ray, upon the mysteries of a plot; and as happily on this occasion unmixed praise is what we are to offer, we shall not forestal the gratification of the reader by telling him what he has to expect, except in a general way-that he will be certain of being amused and interested by "Emily Howard." The heroine is very attractive, and well contrasted with Inez, who, however, retains to the last some hold upon our regard, Arthur Courtenay and Frederick Londale are not galvanized barbers' blocks, such as are too often to be seen in fiction, but breathing and acting men of this world, such as are to be found in real life.

If Captain Horrocks permits us to understand the purpose he had in view in writing "Horace Grantham, or the Neglected Son," we cannot perceive that he has done much towards forwarding that purpose. He is inclined to think that not only the follies, dissipation and recklessness, but also the vices which characterize the youth of the present day, are mainly brought about by the bad example, the total want of feeling, or fashionable indifference of their parents, and he has, he says, endeavoured to trace the all but fatal effects of such conduct on a young man of a sensitive and honourable nature. But to what purpose, we askcui bono, this revelation? Mr. Grantham, Senior, is represented as a man so utterly destitute of feeling, that if his son is driven by his neglect

into all manner of extravagance and dissipation, it is a very sad case, but we really can see no help for it. When a man is thoroughly selfish and unfeeling, to expect natural affection from him, and the gracious benefits that flow from it, is about as wise as to hope that a rock will turn into a feather-bed, or as to fill the grate with Wenham Lake ice, and look for crisply toasted muffins. To expostulate with such people, to moralize with them or over them, is perfectly useless-bouillon pour les morts.

"Horace Grantham is the first work of Captain Horrocks. Heaven forefend we should be unduly severe upon a first performance; but the author has evidently written in haste, and having been unjust to himself, has no reason to expect more than strict justice from us. We are told that Mr. Grantham was only twenty-one years of age when he became the father of the hero; but we find a few pages further on, that, having attained the age of fifty-two, his son is twenty-four; and two years afterwards, when the elder gentleman should be fifty-four, like a crab "he doth go backwards," and stands fifty. A certain James Foster is twenty in one page, and (no time having intervened) twenty-two in another. It may be urged that these are trifles, by no means sufficient to draw the venerable Cocker from his grave; but it is astonishing what a serious effect these trifles have upon the reality of a work.

Old Foster, the villain of the story, is a wretched failure. This unscrupulous rascal forges the signature of his aged partner to a deed, by which all the capital invested in the concern, and, consequently, all the profits arising from it, are settled upon himself after the old man's death. This deed is witnessed, or rather subscribed, by one of his own clerks. Will it be believed, that this old Foster is fool enough to volunteer a confession to the clerk that he has forged this deed? Further, this same unscrupulous blunderer, on his partner's death, has reason to suspect and to fear that the old man may have left a will, by which the whole of his immense fortune may be left to his grandson, Horace Grantham. He takes an opportunity, therefore, (which, however is seldom afforded on such occasions) of overhauling the papers of the deceased, with a view to discover the will, if such a document there be. He finds one,-all is as he expected the fortune is left to his grandHe puts it carefully into his pocket; the funeral takes place, the deed is shown and read-no will is to be found! Horace Grantham is in despair! But what does unscrupulous Foster do with the surreptitiously obtained will? Why, burns it of course. Such evidences are best destroyed. No such thing. "Safe bind, safe find." He secures it in his iron safe. It will be wanted towards the end of the third volumé. Besides, the clerk who subscribed the deed, and, having copied the will, knew that one ought to be in existence, is now in failing health, and evidently bears about an uneasy conscience. Is it not quite apparent that Foster, or any other unscrupulous rascal, ought to have kept the will? The end, of course, is, that Foster has to refund and fly to America, where he dies penitent.

son.

We need say no more of this work.