and all connected with him; only give me a little time: delay our marriage but awhile, and I will promise to be to you all that—a faithful wife should prove.'"

We omit Lord Glenalbert's reply: it is harsh, not to say

coarse.

"Be merciful, Lord Glenalbert,' she exclaimed, in a half suffocated voice; 'spare me, oh spare me!' But there needed not this appeal: already did Lord Glenalbert seem to repent having given utterance to these words of insult; already did he appear to be stricken with the thought, which no experience, it should seem, can crush in man, that loveliness, such as Viola's, is the express image of all purity,-that shame could never rest upon that stainless brow, for a change came o'er his countenance. A few moments only, and the look of mingled scorn and agony had passed, and there was far more of sorrow than reproach in the long and earnest gaze he bent upon her, as in a low unmodulated tone, in which all passion seemed buried, he said, 'And now, what do I do here? Farewell, Viola! tonight I leave England. Even yet I am not prepared to see you the wife of another: do you not smile at my weakness?' 'I shall never be his wife,' answered Viola."-Page 165–169.

This is fine; and Viola's anguish too, how faithfully it is drawn!

"The whole of that night I passed by Miss Sidney's bed-side; and Viola rejoiced, as she felt the hot blood tingling in her veins-the pulse that beat with fever's quickened stroke-the head that throbbed as though each throb must be its last-Viola rejoiced, for she thought that death was near. Alas, alas! was it not annihilation, oblivion, the everlasting rest of the grave, rather than death, that she sighed for? Was it not the wish to cease to live, to think, to act, to be, rather than the hope of existence in another and a better world, that now occupied her thoughts? But," says Dorothy, "dire and appalling must be the domestic sorrow, that in one single night can lay youth, health, and vigour in the grave. And so it proved; for after a few weeks of fever and delirium (during which life hung by the slightest thread, and during which also I never left Viola's side, night or day) we had the ecstatic bliss of hearing those thrilling words, 'the crisis is

past.'"

No comment of ours could help our readers to appreciate the vigour and elegance of the passages we have just quoted. We begin to think the tale is pretty nearly told. Viola's heart had never been given up to Glenalbert; her word was pledged and her imagination charmed, but they have been found wanting to sustain her through the trial of circumstances. A real attachment has extruded the feeling which

had no root but in the fancy; pride, honour, duty, have all been brought up to help her to maintain her ground, but all have failed. Being herself undeceived, she has now discharged her last duty to Lord Glenalbert in disclosing the truth to him; and herein she has acted nobly. Pity she did not at first see that there was nothing godlike in the falsehood which could commit his happiness or her own to a feeling which was the result of self-expostulation! How, with her highly gifted mind, she could justify this to herself, after a three years' experience too of "the world," would be one of the mysteries of the tale, did we not feel assured that the phænomenon is a very ordinary one.

Of Glenalbert we have said little more than that he was of a rank far above Viola. Let us return to Dorothy's sketch of his character, p. 61:

"There was a manly sincerity, a 'glow of heart,' and an unfailing generosity in Lord Glenalbert's disposition, which daily, hourly made themselves felt, and could not fail to be appreciated by all who had the privilege of his acquaintance. In literary attainments and grasp of intellect he was decidedly inferior to Viola; but then, I have never seen her equal. I do not know that he was less well-informed than the average number of young gentlemen whom it is one's good fortune to fall in with. He was eloquent on the game laws; conversant in the leading articles of the Tory newspapers; wrote his own language correctly, spoke it without any violation of grammar; appreciated a French bon mot, and quoted Latin sans using false quantities; complete in all good graces to grace a gentleman. That he did not quite understand Viola I felt assured; and when she would, almost unconsciously to herself, burst forth like an inspired sibyl, or rapt improvisatrice, into some impassioned gush of poetry, or give vent to her high-toned feelings in a strain of fervid eloquence, I have seen him laugh, in his frank joyous manner, at her enthusiasm, and then, for one moment, would she look annoyed. * Viola Sidney was the least ambitious of human beings. I am very certain that the adventitious gifts of rank and wealth had for her no attractions; yet did she feel gratified at the prospect of having her name enrolled amongst the good and great, of being identified with that family, of whom, during countless generations, it might be truly averred, that les hommes étaient sans peur, et les femmes sans reproche.' She felt that Lord Glenalbert's talents were scarcely of that order which would entitle him to hold a conspicuous place in his country's councils; but she likewise felt that much might be done by their united influence in private life," &c.—Page 64.

Need we wonder at the result? We are not going to read a homily on the well-intentioned wickedness of the parents;

but Glenalbert may not appear to others so blameable as he does to us. His part is that of a man "of spirit" truly; one who knows what is "due to himself," and to the world's opinion. But it does not satisfy us for all that. We suspect the conduct which springs from a notion of what is "due to oneself," as if any man, or at least any Christian man, owes any duty to himself distinct from his duty to his fellow-creatures. We think his first duty was to Viola; to counsel her, and by entreaty to hold her to her faith. He loved her above everything; his love ought to have been more jealous of her error than of his own wrong. He should have brought her back to his heart; her attachment might then have ripened into affection, and he would have found his reward. She is a noble, truthful creature-to have saved her would have saved himself; but Glenalbert is only a man, and like his kind, in his highest flights only more sublimely selfish than ordinary. We venture these remarks because we know Lord Glenalbert's conduct to be that of the world in general in such cases; we think it mistaken, and desire to express our condemnation.

Glenalbert afterwards marries, and appears, in the only glimpse we have of him, to be blessed with domestic affection. Whether he has done well to resign his first love, to disenchant himself, and to part with his delusion, there is nothing in the sequel of the tale to indicate to us. For Viola a happy ending is clearly out of the question; she can alone look for peace in the grave. There is a parting scene with her new lover, in which she rejects his challenge to fly with him in a noble speech. It is worth quoting :

"I have done much, suffered much for you; I have betrayed one noble and confiding heart; I have made myself that which woman instinctively shrinks from-the public truth, the public talk; my most secret affairs have been canvassed, my conduct questioned, blamed, vilified; I have, alas! brought discredit on all connected with me. I have plunged my parents into grief; friends have learned to look coldly on me; my young sisters, on their entrance into life, may find their conduct misinterpreted, their most innocent actions condemned, because men shall remember that their sister was a jilt. All this have I done; yet am I not prepared to break my parents' hearts; yet am I not so utterly selfish, as, in my love for you, to forget all I owe to others.'"

The tale is resumed six years later. We find Mr. Sidney

a bankrupt, Viola grown old before her time, and her sufferings-what had they been?

"The daily, hourly care; the petty martyrdoms which are never blazoned to the world; the necessity of mingling with those whose every word and action jars painfully with our keener sensibilities; the hollow task of veiling the aching heart with the smiling lip."

We have no room for the accounts of the family distresses and vulgarities of the Sidneys, but hasten to the following pretty description of the personal resemblance and affection between the two sisters. It is so true to nature.

"In the midst of all these trials and sorrows, Viola found in her youngest sister a boundless source of consolation. Sacred and beautiful is the tie of sisterhood; holier, truer, firmer than that of friendship, inasmuch as it is of God's own linking. Never have I seen this bond more closely cemented than in Viola and Lucy Sidney. Theirs was indeed 'a fair encounter of two most rare affections:' on Lucy's side there mingled, in the unlimited confidence and fearless unreserve with which she imparted to Viola every thought of her heart, an almost filial reverence, a questionless submission to her sister's judgment; and there was something inexpressibly touching in the watchful tenderness and matronly anxiety with which Viola regarded that young and gentle girl. How often have I sighed, as I have listened to Viola's projects for Lucy's future destiny; how sedulously she meant to guard her from all evil; how resolved, that for her at least love should assume its gayest, fairest form! Lucy was but fifteen at the time of the failure, and greatly did she resemble what Viola had been at the same age. She resembled her in symmetry of form; she resembled her too in the chiselled regularity of feature; but still there was wanting that infinite variety, that intermingling of the light and shadow of expression, for which Viola had been so remarkable. The difference between the sisters was as though you should place an elaborate and highly-finished copy of one of the old masters next to the glorious, glowing, almost breathing original. In brilliancy of colouring, in the exquisite finish of the details, there might perchance be little perceptible difference between the pictures; but still we should vainly seek in the copy for that indescribable look of soul, which must be felt rather than defined; and yet there were not wanting many to affirm (and Mrs. Sidney was among the number) that Lucy was yet prettier than Viola had ever been: prettier perhaps she was, but far less lovely."

The catastrophe is worked out with the same skill that has carried us through the earlier course of the narrative. Lyndham has spent the last fifteen years in India, and on his return he bears a letter from the scapegrace Dick Sidney, who has been long ago banished to the other side of the globe.

Lyndham at first sight mistakes the younger sister for the idol of his former love: Viola indeed was so changed as scarcely to challenge recognition. Her poor heart is withered by his coldness, and he shortly becomes the avowed admirer of Lucy. His attentions are encouraged by the bankrupt father and the crest-fallen mother, who are anxious to secure a permanent and happy home for their child. Lyndham's capricious conduct, however, is the cause of a serious illness to Lucy; for he, either a very weak man or a very unprincipled one, certainly a very selfish one, is vacillating between his early recollection of what Viola had been and his present admiration of the sister. Our extracts have already been ample, or we should like to exhibit the noble forbearing conduct of Viola towards her rival. Lucy knew nothing we suppose of her lover's former attachment to Viola. It seems to have been concealed from all but Dorothy; but she had detected the conflict between duty and inclination, which was the secret of Lyndham's tormenting conduct towards herself. Thus much she confides to Viola. It is intimated to us that the result of an interview between Lyndham and Viola was, that she resolutely refused now to become his wife. In the end she suffers him to become the husband of Lucy. The last we see of our interesting heroine is at her sister's wedand the concluding scene of the 'Old Tale' is thus told:

ding;

"Supported by Mr. Middleton and myself, Viola now walked down the aisle, whilst Mrs. Sidney and Margaret followed close behind us; and I distinctly heard the former say, 'How strange is this! I never knew Viola faint but once before in her life, and that was on that disastrous evening when Lord Glenalbert went away; but you, Margaret, were too young at the time to remember anything about it: however, cousin Dorothy will tell you all.'"

In the extracts we have made we have endeavoured to give a fair idea of the author's style in her happiest moods, and at the same time to convey a pretty full outline of her narrative. The capital fault of the book is, a too profuse display of learning, an occasional appearance of effort, which is the more provoking as the tale abounds in materials, is artfully managed, and does not require to be tricked out after this fashion. Herein, we conceive, lies the weakness of the female hand when busied with authorship. Perhaps women fancy that their labours