vaded, in which German genius has so much distinguished itself.

As novels address themselves to the most excitable feelings of our nature, and deal with the strongest passions, they deserve praise or censure, according to the effects which they produce. Love is the basis of all novels; we recollect but one exception in the English language. They are, therefore, read by those who are in love, or who hope to be. Thus, many young persons have their heads turned, and their hearts perverted. Many have devoured novels in secret, who would blush, as well they might, to have their parents know that such books had been in their hands. Novelists often seem not to know, or not to regard, how much their captivating fictions may affect parental hopes, fears, and realities. They can, and often do, so adorn vice and folly, as to make them seem to be deservedly imitable; while virtue and good sense are made uninteresting if not disagreeable.

If those who possess this descriptive power, would use it to show (through the charms of a fine style and an inventive fancy), how virtue can triumph in adversity; and how honorable and praiseworthy conduct is sure of lasting consolation, if not reward; and how vice and folly are sure to suffer in the miscarriage of their projects, or in the consequences of success, they would hold a far higher rank in the literary and moral world, than they have hitherto attained.

The English led the way in novel-writing. They have been imitated by those whose native tongue is not English, but not very successfully. If there were any respectable novels earlier than Richardson's Pamela (1741), they are not now recollected. Fielding and Goldsmith followed him; and, since their time, there have been hundreds who appeared only to vanish; while others, as Sir Walter Scott and Miss Edgeworth, seem likely to be long in view. The English, as they were the first in these works of fancy, so they have maintained their preeminence. Imitations on the Continent have done nothing to overshadow them; though they have been abundant in book-making Germany. We recollect to have heard of only two or three (though there may be more) good novels among the French; because we cannot give that praise to any novel, which leaves the mind less pure than it was, however attractively and ingeniously imitable vice and folly are portrayed.

We will not assume to pronounce, whether English men, or English women, are entitled to the palm in novel-writing; nor will we attempt to settle the rank of the sexes in history or poetry; nor can we forget the eminence which one English lady has attained to, in mathematical science. But we are sure, that in the tender scenes in which love is to be pictured, the pen of the female frequently excels. Love is that passion in the female heart, which subdues, and converts to its own use, all others. A woman's pure, generous, genuine love, is the most intense feeling which the human heart can experience. It may, therefore, be expected that she can best describe it, who can feel it most. Maternal tender

ness is a proverb; and some place it in the first rank, because it is so common. Refined, cultivated sensibility is best qualified to describe the operations of this tenderness; and it would be safer to trust a mother to tell what a mother feels (when she knows how to do it), than to trust that office to a father. Men are superior in those delineations which appertain to their own sex. War, politics, business, and the administration of justice, are affairs from which women are excluded. The art of novel-writing consists in making pictures by means of words. The reader should be enabled to see, what the writer imagines. A novelist may be considered deficient in the power most necessary to the purpose, who has not this graphic art. Nor is it enough to exercise this art in a single case; for every character should be always the same character, whatever variety of form it may have occasion to assume.

We have been led to these observations from having read an English novel, the title of which is placed at the head of this article, and on which, though unused to the work, and withal no friends of novels in general, we will make a few remarks.

The fable is taken from among that class of persons who inherit titles and wealth, under the monarchy of England. It is intended to be descriptive of the manners and customs of that class. It is, obviously, the work of a writer who describes from personal observation. One may say of the description, as can be sometimes said of a picture, This is a likeness, though one never saw the original. It is, of course, a love-story; and the vicissitudes of hope and fear, joy and misery, are ingeniously made to depend on a contingency,

which the writer keeps just before the reader, with great skill; and in constant expectation that the difficulty will be surmounted, until the close of the work is so near, that there does not seem to be space enough left to bring out the probable result. We think this very well contrived. Probability is, in no point, so strained as to disturb the reader.

As to style, we must be so ungallant as to say, that this is not always a feminine excellence. Female writers, sometimes, resemble ladies dressed for a ball-room, who think that all depends on the ornament of the person, and little on the head, heart, or person itself. We have no fault to find with this writer, in this respect; she writes in good, sound English, and frequently with great force and elegance. Throughout, her style may be likened to one of her sex, who is so appropriately dressed, that it is difficult to say how the effect of satisfaction is produced. There is some French in the pages, but, perhaps, not too much. It is well known, that, in the elevated classes in England, it is very common to find French and English used promiscuously in conversation; as though sentiment, opinion, and fact could not be expressed in either only. There are some French words, it is true, that have meanings which no English words can express; perhaps persiflage is one of them, bizarrerie certainly is. We could name some modern novels, in which this introduction of French is an obvious mistake; and intended only to show, apparently, the writer's familiarity with that language. An English novel rarely needs aid from the other side of the channel in matters of expression.

On the power of this novelist, much may be said in commendation. Her scenes are happily imagined. Sometimes they are in London, then in the beautiful country residences of England; then they change to the Continent, to Switzerland, Italy, and Rome. In all these alternations she describes like one who writes from knowledge, and not like one who has only read or heard. Real London life is brought home to the eye; and one may imagine himself actually looking into, and listening in London, in her description of that amusing city. The throng and heartlessness of evening assemblies, and her sketches of character to be found in these, are painfully instructive. She represents human life truly, in these circles, no doubt, because one can discern, through philosophical deductions, that it must be so.

What

country residence is, among those who must invent modes of killing time, and what country life might be, if fashion and form had not usurped dominion in these beautiful abodes, are happily disclosed. The sunset and sunrising on the Alps are fine specimens of the mind and power of the fair authoress.

We have room but for a few extracts, and begin with this mountain scene.

In ascending the mountain, they passed the chapel, on the spot where Gesler fell by the arrow of Tell.

"I almost doubt,' observed Mr. Howard, 'whether, at the end of five hundred years, the memory of Napoleon, or of the Duke of Wellington, will be more cherished or renowned in their respective countries, than that of this simple mountain hero in his. Time seems to have no power to lessen interest in his name and deeds.'

"Because time cannot lessen interest in the cause for which he fought,' replied Dacre; others have fought for power, profit, fame; but this simple peasant fought from patriotism, he fought for liberty, and his name is identified with the

cause.'

"The summit of the mountain was now nearly gained, and every traveller pressed forward to catch a view from the top, of the cloudless sunset. It was a striking sight to see its brightness sink behind the mountain ridge." They were desirous of watching, from the earliest dawn, the gradual approach of the sun." "The Righi is generally selected by travellers, as the spot from which to view the wonders of the Alps. It affords a fine panoramic display of the surrounding heights; and the spectator thus acquires some knowledge of the forms and positions of the different chains of mountains.

"When Dacre and Mr. Howard first gazed around them, it seemed as though they stood upon an island; nothing was to be seen above, but the cold, grey outline of the mountain ridge; nothing below, but the curling waves of some vast sheet of water; not a valley to be traced, not a village to be descried. Had a deluge occurred in the night, it could not more effectually have seemed to efface, by flood, every object from their view. They had heard of this perfect deception, produced by the morning mist, alluded to, the evening before; but till now, they had found it difficult to believe how complete was the resemblance to the waving waters. The sound of voices was heard; a motley crew were seen to hurry towards the spot, on which they stood. Sunrise was at hand. The

inmates of the two receptacles for tourists, came hurrying up with every imperfection of toilet, unshaved, unwashed, uncurled, and half undressed; cloaks, coats, shawls, nightcaps, and handkerchiefs were pressed into the service, to conceal the deficiencies which haste had occasioned, or to protect the wearers from the morning chill. The mist gradually arose and dispersed; the heavens were suffused with pink; and now the mountain top catches, from behind, the light; and the snow seems to blush at the approach of day.

"I never till now,' observed Dacre, felt in full force, the terin of "rosy-fingered morn."

"Fresh objects caught the increasing light. The coming day seemed to cast its brightness before, and all stood in silent expectation of that moment, when the sun should rear his head above the mountain's summit. At length the golden rays are seen to shoot above the earth; a blaze of light appears; and in the heavens sits the monarch of day, shedding life and heat on all below.

"There is no religion, unaided by revelation, which seems to me so natural as the worship of the sun,' remarked Dacre as they descended.

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"I agree with you,' replied Howard; and it seems to me a so much purer religion than that which consisted in deifying our own degrading senses.'

"There is something, in the wildness and sublimity of mountain scenery, that tends to remind us rather of eternity, than decay. The perishable works of man, are nowhere to be seen. No city lies in gloomy ruins, to show the outline of its faded greatness, no remnant of a sanctuary here stands, to show the worship that has passed away. We see no falling records of the glorious deeds of those whose names are learned from history's page. We stand upon the mountain, and we scarcely know that man exists upon the earth. This is not the land where arts have died, or science been forgot. These rocks never echoed the eloquence of orators, or the song of the poet. These waters never bore the proud ships of the merchant, this soil never yielded to man the fruits of his industry. It is not here, that the finger of time can be recognised. In vain would he set his mark on snows that never melt, or disturb the fast-bound forms of adamantean ice. In vain, he stretches out his hand where the rushing torrent and the roaring waterfall, blest with an eternity of youth, dash on their headlong course, regardless of the blighting power that withers strength, or lulls to rest the creations and the creatures of mortality. Here may we pause, and say, that Time has lost