dence. But it looked down with superior dignity upon its neighbours in the Close, inasmuch as it was a detached mansion, enclosed by high walls, gardens, and massive gates. It had once been the bishop's palace, and was a beautiful relic of the stately magnificence of old. Large and lofty rooms, oak-panelled and supported by pillars,-noble staircases, -recesses where proscribed traitors might have hid,-gloomy bed-chambers with spectral furniture, meet for the visitation of legions of ghosts,-dark passages, where you might shiver at the echo of your own footsteps; such were the internal appearances of the house. Everything was solemn, still, age-stricken.

"But, without, one seemed to pass at once from the frigidity of age to the light, gladness, and freshness of youth. The lovely garden was redolent of sweet odours, alive with birds, studded with velvety grass-plots of the brightest green, interwound by shady alleys, with here and there trees which hid their aged boughs in a mantle of leaves and flowers, so that one never thought how they and the grey pile which they neighboured had come into existence together. It was like the contrast between a human mind which the world teaches and builds on its own fading model, and the soul of God's making and nourishing which lives in His sunshine and His dews, fresh and pure, never grows old, and bears flowers to the last.

Now

There, in that still garden, you might sit for hours, and hear no world-sounds to break its quiet except the chimes of the cathedralclock drowsily ringing out the hours. and then, at service-time, there would come a faint murmur of chanting, uniting the visible form of holy service with nature's eternal praises and prayers,—and so blending the spiritual and the tangible, the symbol and the expression, in a pleasant harmony. Dear, beautiful garden! No dream of fiction, but a little Eden of memory—let us rest awhile in thy lovely shades before we people them with the denizens of this our self-created world. Oh, pleasant garden! let us go back in spirit to the past, and lie down on the green sloping bank, under the magnificent old tree with its cloud of white blossoms (no poet-sung hawthorn, but only a double-cherry)-let us stroll along the terrace-walk, and lean against the thick low wall, looking down upon what was once the cathedral moat, but is now a sloping dell all trailed over with blackberries-let us watch the sun-lit spires of the old cathedral in a quiet dreaminess that almost shuts out thought! And, while resting under the shadow of this dream, its memorial pictures

shall be made life-like to us by the accompaniment of solemn music-such as this:

"O earth so full of dreary noises,

O men with wailing in your voices ;
O delved gold-the wailer's heap:
O strife-O tears that o'er it fall,
God makes a silence through you all!
And giveth his beloved sleep."

Here is a book of a widely-different character, "The Heiress in her Minority; or, the Progress of Character." The story is but a vehicle for conveying instruction on almost every subject in which the reader can feel interest. Antiquarian, naturalist, theologian, poet, philosopher, historian-whatever be the complexion of his mind-here he will feel much to engage his attention and to reward it. If we have fault to find, it is that that the instruction overlays the story; as in too transparent allegories, the fiction rather embarrasses than advances the instruction to which it was designed to be subsidiary. But it is impossible to read the "Heiress in her Minority," without admiring the varied intelligence of the author (authoress, according to surmise, in this instance also), her elevated sense of what is right, her serene piety, and her pure patriotism. Abilities such as are displayed in this work, in connexion with the designs to which they are made subservient, may well be looked upon as things for which a nation should return thanks. Books of slighter material, and more desultory object, we can imagine more popular than this, but its influence on the age may be greater than that of its best-loved rival. We feel deep thankfulness for the affectionate tone and temper in which it calls into the light latent capabilities of good in Ireland, natural and moral; and the tender commiseration, not devoid of respect, with which it mourns over our infelicities. It would serve as the most valuable of all guide-books for a tourist in the South and West of Ireland, and, in addition to the services it rendered as a guide by day, would add those of the most valuable, instructive, and engaging companionship in the restinghour of the evening. It is among the visions we delight in entertaining, to be one of a touring party resolved to

imitate, in the freedom of its movements, that "river wandering at its own sweet will," which leaves and returns to the haunts of busy life as if it exercised a volition in the devious course it pursues; and we should account it indispensable among the provisions for our journey to have with us "The Heiress in her Minority," directing us, or giving us choice of tracks when we arose to the enterprises of the day; and when we were assembled round the glowing hearth, which toil rendered a most acceptable place of enjoyment, as well as refuge, it would delight us to take the topics and the tone of our social converse from the rich stories and the captivating style of this engaging writer.

The story in this valuable work is very simple; at first thought it might seem nothing more than the thread its precious things are strung upon. This, however, is not the truth. Character is developed in the narrative, and incidents are devised, such as are calculated to disclose the errors and irregu larities of youth, which it is the author's purpose to exhibit in the progress of amendment. The heroine appears before the reader under peculiar and perilous circumstances. She is an heiress, to whom, during her father's lifetime, a fond grandfather has bequeathed large possessions. An English guardian has been assigned to her, while the guardian assigned by nature is interdicted from all authority. In this state of things the heiress visits her estates, where she is joined by her father, who had contracted a second marriage, and who introduces Evelyn to a stepmother. We cite a passage in some degree characteristic of the various parties :

"After indulging this little burst of temper for two hours in solitude, she recollected that, as her guest, Mrs. Desmond ought not to be neglected, and returned to the library, conscious that she was wrong, but too proud to acknowledge it. However, she found her importance was not so great as she had imagined-no one noticed her absence nor return, and her father and Mr. Stanley continued, without any pause, the conversation in which they were engaged. Her father had been saying that many Anglo-Normans, who had possessed that part of the country where Cromdarragh lay, had at length been expelled by one of the great Irish familiesa powerful tribe, who, after many a hardfought battle, drove the invaders away. Thence arose 'that sort of separation be

tween our families-mine being Anglo-Norman, as my name shows,' said he 'but, like an heirloom, it has been preserved from generation to generation.'

"But though worsted here, had not the Desmonds possessions in other parts of Ireland, where they still retained power?' asked Mr. Stanley.

"Yes, I must confess,' replied Mr. Desmond, that my ancestors were not very moderate in helping themselves to the rich lands of Erin. They had an extensive territory in Kerry, where, at one time, the Desmond was almost a prince. But there, too, we became unfortunate. After many attempts of the native Irish to dispossess us, the Moriartys were victorious in a bloody battle fought on Connor Hill. Beaten in fight, and afterwards forced to yield to those who obtained grants of our property from the English Government, the Desmond family sank into comparative insignificance, and have so continued-perhaps a just punishment on the descendants of such rapacious invaders.'

"And what has been the result, my dear sir?-has the triumph of the Moriartys continued?'

"No, sir-in their turn they were forced to give way to others; but the present generation will perhaps make the name more justly famous than any of their warlike ancestors, by their exertions to promote the religious instruction of the poor. I wish that you, who doubt the advantage of teaching the Irish to read in their own language, could see the effect of what the Moriartys and another excellent resident family have done, as I saw when in Kerry last yearthe deep interest and attention of the pea→ santry when receiving instruction at the schools, or when joining in our church service, and when listening to a sermon-all in their own tongue. But to return to the battle which I mentioned. It is a curious fact that there are still found on the hill, where that great struggle took place, arrows of black oak, great numbers of which have been picked up at different times. I had one in my possession; but I have given it to a friend for his museum, so that I cannot show it to you.'

"You interest me extremely,' said Mr. Stanley, about your brave ancestors, whether descended from the ancient people of the land, or from the invaders; but these have been so long established here, that they also may justly claim the name of Irish.'

And they do claim it,' said Mr. Desmond, though in perfect ignorance of their Anglican descent.'

"I presume,' said Mr. Stanley, that time has worn away all remains of antipathy between the original and the foreign Irish.'

"In some parts of the country it has, but not among all: for instance, the dislike of the real Irish for the Anglo-Norman settlers, particularly the Desmonds, often re

vived from time to time during the ages that have passed since their first warfare. A small thing serves to light the embers of national prejudice.'

"My dear papa,' said Evelyn, interrupting him, and forgetting her ill-humour, 'I did not know that your family was so old, and that your name was one of such renown. I am sorry that I have not that noble name: though perhaps it is not equal to O'Brien. But why, papa, have you made no effort to recover your possessions? why not fight, like your brave ancestors, for your own property as well as for the liberty of our country?'

Gently, gently, Evelyn! Had I lived two hundred years ago, I should perhaps, like many other "brave" men, have been induced to endeavour to obtain what I might then, perhaps, have imagined freedom for Ireland but that time has passed. As to the Desmond possessions, we have sufficient, and are contented, though insignificant. It would be useless, as well as wicked, to endeavour to regain by force that which has long since passed into other hands.'

Oh! papa, I feel my heart swell at the thoughts of all that we, who are still so powerful, may do for our country.'

"Yes, you may acquire some influence hereafter, and then, it certainly ought to be warmly exerted for your country; but ONLY by promoting obedience to the laws, for loyalty is the best preservative of liberty. Try to encourage your countrymen to improve by the example of the industrious English, to whom we ought to feel united as sisters, and who are necessarily so connected with us that, even were I so inclined, it would be absurd now to attempt to separate from them.'

"But would it not be noble for you-oh, yes! for you, papa, the descendant of the great Desmond-to recover your power and influence, to establish freedom, and to claim your kingdom? and then I would

"No, Evelyn, my dear child, the time is now come when the descendants of every ancient house are called upon to prove their high blood by exercising their influence in the instruction of the people in the arts of peace, and in promoting obedience to the laws; believe me, disobedience to the laws is not freedom.'

"But our country! I am determined to make that the first object of my life.'

66 6 Very well, my dear, but do not forget that discontent will not produce comfort; and that, moreover, being a female must preclude you from all Quixotte-like attempts. You must be content to establish your sovereignty in the hearts of your dependants.'

"I shall find that very difficult, I fear,' said Evelyn, her spirit sinking as her excitement was damped; how am I to win their affection, or to establish my influence? They will despise me as a woman.

I know and feel that I ought to do much but where nd how to begin!

"Do not be in haste to begin anything yet,' said Mrs. Desmond; take a little time to consider, and in the meanwhile yield kindly to our wish. Come and pay a visit to your father and to me. You cannot doubt that we shall be glad to have you at Clonallen. Come to your sister Mabel, who longs to know and love you. Though you are not to reside with us, yet we may be like one family in affection and union of interests. Come to us, and learn from your father's example and advice how to win the hearts of your people.'

"Evelyn's heart was not as obstinate as her will. Though half an hour before she would have been deaf to Mrs. Desmond's kindness, her gentle urgency could no longer be resisted. Evelyn consented; and her father, embracing her, exclaimed with more than his usual warmth of manner, Now I shall have the pleasure of seeing all my children around me! and Mr. Stanley shall judge whether a visit to me-to us-can be mischievous to you, or an infringement of any regulation of your grandfather's. I shall be glad, too, that before the arrival of Mrs. Manvers you should make acquaintance with your brother and sister.'

66

Evelyn felt satisfied with herself, and all was coleur de rose. The remainder of the day was devoted to boating across the lake and walking among the woods on the opposite bank. Her spirits rose, in proportion as the mist of prejudice gave way, and her natural gaiety, which had been repressed for some time, began to revive.

"At night Jane was delighted to find Evelyn once more like herself; and when she learned that her young lady was going to Clonallen House on Monday, she exclaimed, 'Oh, thank Heaven you are going among decent people, and not to mope by yourself here!-it would break your young spirit; and I assure you, Miss Evelyn, I hear a mighty great account of Mrs. Desmond-she is loved by all the country round.'"

We shall cite one passage more—a piece of natural history :

:

"However that may be,' said Mrs. Desmond, I must contribute my share to these curious anecdotes, and with one that will be found exactly in point. My dear old grandfather told me that he had for some days watched a pair of swallows constructing their nest in the upper corner of his window, and that one morning, just when it was completed and ready to be inhabited, while they were taking an early flight, a pair of dishonest sparrows, pleased with its situation, took possession of it, in spite of all justice. When the real owners of the dwelling returned from their airing, they found, to their great surprise, that it was already occupied. Their indignation was of course very great; but all parley was fruitless, and

all attempts for the peaceable recovery of their property being ineffectual, away they flew, having apparently resolved to inflict a signal act of vengeance on those unprincipled intruders.

"My grandfather's curiosity having been much excited by the whole scene, he quietly sat down, determined to await the further proceedings of both parties. The sparrows kept close, showing no disposition to risk their possession by any unwary movement; and in no long time the two swallows returned, accompanied by a prodigious number of their tribe, each bearing a load of the mortar-like cement which they use in the formation of their nests; and which they so immediately and so dexterously employed in rapid succession in closing the mouth of the disputed nest, that in the twinkling of an eye almost the thing was done the poor sparrows were too late in their efforts to escape-their doom was sealed, for they were completely sealed up in the nest.'

466

So this very curious circumstance is really true,' exclaimed Miss Vincent; 'I saw it lately at the Dublin National School in one of their books; and the sequel will amuse you. A visitor asked one of the children, "Who was it that helped the swallows?" and the boy replied most nationally and characteristically, "Sure didn't he bring his faction along with him?" "

"Raymond Revilloyd," by Grace Webster, is a story which cannot be described as pursuing its way in the groove-line traced out by ordinary romances. The plot, if not original, is indisputably unusual. A gentle

man of feeble character has the mortification to be a widower, and the father of two unmanageable daughters, who complete his distress by wedding themselves to two persons of that denomination of Christians known as Plymouth Brethren. The slighted parent, who has no love for the persons of his intended sons-in-law, nor yet for religion under the aspect in which they present it, can think of no better mode of delivering himself from annoyance, and punishing his refractory offspring, than withdrawing to the Continent, and giving up his estate into the custody of a man who proves to be at once a knave and hypocrite. Having thus provided for the punishment of all belonging to him, as well as himself, the old gentleman wends his way to Italy, accompanied by a timid boy, his grandson and his heir.

After some time the grandfather disappears, and the heir, unable to discover any trace of him, returns to England to seek the counsel and as sistance of Mr. Atterbury, the dishonest individual to whom the care of what was to have been his inheritance has been confided. He is, of course, unceremoniously expelled from the house which should have been his own, is assigned, in exchange, an apart ment in the public prison, and is given in charge as an offender. This young gentleman (whose energies are employed in fainting whenever he can, and where this feat is impracticable, by dissolving into tears), after a variety of incidents, which disclose the amiable imbecility of his character (and which give a picture of English society, and of the administration of our laws, such as may very faithfully represent some night-mare distortion of a truth), makes his way to London, and falls in with a protector, to whom he had been made known at an earlier period of his life, and by whose energy and practical good sense he is conducted through many dangers, and finally made happy.

The

The writer of "Raymond Revilloyd" is not destitute of power, but her power is not equal to the task assigned to it. She was bent on the composition of "a romance,' was resolved to carry out her plot by agencies which should be altogether at her own disposal, but she miscalculated the time and circumstances in which they were to do her bidding. She should have thrown her "romance" back to an age, or located its incidents in a region, where the king's writ does not run.' reign of William IV. was too recent to allow of keeping "probability in view," where "a phantasma, or such hideous dream," as "Raymond Revilloyd," was to be enacted or described. But a more remote period, it may be, would not suit the fair writer's purpose. She would expose the vices and crimes of the age she lives in, and the mirror in which she would show that age its form and pressure, is one which distorts it into the likeness of a time that never existed, and that could not possibly exist. Perjury, and pillage, and poison, and ghosts, and murderers, and libertines who convert asylums of cha

rity into places of torture, whose profligacy is diversified and recreated by cruelty, and who have bears in atten. dance to render the services of a coroner useless these are agencies and conditions that appear to disadvantage when set in such a light as this our day sheds upon them- Incredulus odi." We are offended that any writer should take such liberties with us. Fiction has its laws as well as fact. It must observe the decorum of time and place. It has its principles of "legitimacy," which must not be violated. Our authoress will submit to none of the ordinary restraints by which writers are confined. She lives in her own world, and insists on being absolute in the government of it. As to our vulgar work-day world of man, if she has looked upon it at all, it is upon a portion which inspired her, or was calculated to inspire her, with abhorrence or contempt. She seems to have "supped full of horrors," and then, having suffered from the attendant dream of indigestion, she proceeded to detail the gloomy incoherencies of her persecuted slumbers for the amazement of waking readers. We do not deny that she has power-it is her use of it which discontents us. The following passage is the work of no ordinary writer. We premise that the Albert Mazzioni named in it is one of those obnoxious persons from whom Mr. Atterbury has disembarrassed himself by the agency of poison:

"Mr. Atterbury had been served with a notice after the customary manner; and that had just taken place after the interment of Erminia Lovelace. What had occurred on that distressing occasion had discomposed him; but he disguised every indication of discomfiture or agitation with a face of brass. He felt, however, as he had never felt before, when he received the notice. He sat down to dinner with his family, but partook of nothing. He started at sight of the servant who stood beside his chair, he looked so like Albert Mazzioni. He directed his eyes to the other servants, they assumed the same appearance. He desired them to quit the room, as their services could be dispensed with. The men did so; but the case was not altered. Every face at the table became like that of the ill-fated Italian. Each of his guests looked like Albert Mazzioni, and so did his wife and his decrepit son. A room

with a hundred mirrors, reflecting each the portraiture of the poisoned stranger, could not have represented his image more emphatically or painfully to his guilty vision. He left the house. His conduct at the village When tavern has already been related.

he departed from the tavern he proceeded straightway, in the darkness of the night, to Plymouth, and entered his chambers there, and took his accustomed seat at his desk. These apartments were kept by an old spinster, who was used to her master's coming at all seasons of the day or night; so his appearance created no wonder. She lighted his candle, and left him to his pen-and-ink work. His clerk, Selby, had gone to a distant part of the country on some special business that afternoon. Mr. Atterbury wrote

with the celerity of light. He covered sheets of paper in an incredibly short space of time; and, as he wrote on thus furiously, the angry passions agitated his whole frame, and mantled in his fiend-like face. At last, as he folded anew a fresh sheet of foolscap, he gnawed his tongue with wrath, and it lolled out upon his chin. Suddenly his candle went out before him. Whether the fierce breathing of his angry nostrils, or some casual current in the room, had extinguished the flame, it is impossible to say. He stamped his foot upon the floor with a force that shock the apartment, and that might have shivered his own bones. But he stamped in vain. The old spinster that kept the house was fast asleep in her own dormitory, and heard him not. He attempted to rise, but he could not. His joints were stiff, like one fixed down with iron rivets. The successive hours of night struck, one after the other, on the house clock, and still he sat motionless and in the dark. The successive hours of night, each diurnal revolution of the habitable globe, are fraught with many human destinies. Darkness is the season of crime,-darkness is the season of tears to the weary and oppressed with this world's sorrows,-darkness is the season for the wayfarer to go out of his way, and for the ship out of her course, till she founder on the hidden rock, and land her crew on the unknown shores of eternity."

We are recalled by this striking passage to the remembrance of a description of very extraordinary power, in the work of a writer by whom our own pages have often been enriched:"

"At length the uproar in Sir Richard's room died away. The hoarse voice in furious soliloquy, and the rapid tread as he paced the floor, were no longer audible. In their stead was heard alone the stormy wind rushing and yelling through the old trees, and