ablest of his tales. His Scotch is the dialect of the east of Scotland, Moray and Aberdeen-not the classic Scotch of Burns and Scott. His latest novel, St. George and St. Michael,' is English, and is a story of the time of the Commonwealth, the plot turning on the pro gress of the war. Lord Herbert, the inventor, is well drawn, and the novel has occasional touches of humour. Mr. MacDonald has been very successful in fairy stories, after the model of the German Marchen,' and his Phantastes' is in its way quite inimitable. As in all his tales Mr. MacDonald shews poetic feeling, we might expect to find him versifying, and accordingly he has written two or three volumes of poetry marked by penetration, sympathy, and subtle beauty of expression. In such lines as the following we see a fine lyrical power:

Come to us; above the storm

Ever shines the blue.
Come to us; beyond its form
Ever lies the 1 rue.

Mother, darling do not weep-
All I cannot tell:

By and by you'll go to sleep,
And you'll wake so well.

There is sunshine everywhere
For thy heart and mine:
God for every sin and care
1s the cure divine.

We're so happy all the day
Waiting for another;

All the flowers and sunshine stay.
Waiting for you, mother.

In a

Most of Mr. MacDonald's novels contain snatches of verse. longer poem, 'Hidden Life,' in blank verse, is the following Words worthian passage:

Love-dreams of a Peasant Youth.

He found the earth was beautiful. The sky
Shone with the expectation of the sun.
He grieved him for the daisies, for they fell
Caught in the furrow, with their innocent heads
Just out imploring. A gray hedgehog ran
With tangled mesh of bristling spikes, and face
Helplessly innocent, across the field:

He let it run, and blessed it as it ran.

Returned at noon-tide, something drew his feet
Into the barn: entering, he gazed and stood.

For, through the rent roof lighting, one sunbeam
Blazed on the yellow straw one golden spot,
Dulled all the amber heap, and sinking far,

Like flame inverted, through the loose-piled mound,
Crossed the keen splendour with dark shadow-straws,
In lines innumerable. Twas so bright.

His eye was heated with a spectral smoke
That rose as from a fire. He had not known
How beautiful the sunlight was, not even
Upon the windy fields of morning grass,
Nor on the river nor the ripening corn.
As if to catch a wild live thing, he crept
On tiptoe silent, laid him on the heap,
And gazing down into the glory-gulf.
Dreumed as a boy half-sleeping by the fire;
And dreaming rose and got his horses out.
God, and not woman, is the heart of all.

But she, as prie tess of the visible earth,
Holding the key, herself most beautiful,
had come to him, and flung the portals wide.
He entered in: each beauty was a glass
That gleamed the woman back upon his view.
Shall I not rather say, each beauty gave
Its own soul up to him who worshipped her,
For that his eyes were opened thus to see?
Already in these hours his quickened soul
Put forth the white tip of a floral bud,
Ere long to be a crown-ike aureole flower,
His songs unbidden, his joy in ancient takes,
Had hitherto alone betrayed the seed

That lay in his heart, close hidden even from him,
Yet not the less mellowing all his spring:

Like summer sunshine came the maiden's face,
And in the youth's glad heart, the seed awoke.
It grew and spread, and put forth many flowers,
And every flower a living open eye,

Until his soul was full of eyes within.
Each morning now was a fresh boon to him;
Lach wind a spiritual power upon his life;
Each individual animal did share

A common being with him; every kind
Of flower from every other was distinct,
Uttering that from which alone it was-
Its something human, wrapt in other veil

And when the winter came. when thick the snow
Armed the sad fields from gnawing of the frost,
When the low sun but skirted his far realms,

And sank in early night, he drew his chair

Beside the fire and by the feeble lamp

Read book on book; and wandered other climes,
And lived in other lives and other needs,

And grew a larger self.

Mr. MacDonald has occasionally lectured on the poets-Shak. speare, Milton, Wordsworth, &c.—to large intellectual audiences, in London and the provinces.

EDMUND YATES.

EDMUND HODGSON YATES, a miscellaneous writer and journalist (born in 1831), is author of several novels, including Kissing the Rod,' and 'Land at Last,' 1866; Wrecked in Port,' 1869; Dr. Wainwright's Patient,' and 'Nobody's Fortune,' 1871; The Castaway,' 1872; 'Two by Tricks,' 1874; &c. Mr. Yates was a contribtributor to Dickens's periodical 'All the Year Round,' in which appeared his novel of 'Black Sheep' and other works of fiction. a dramatic writer and critic he is also well known. Indeed, for the drama Mr. Yates may be said to have a hereditary predeliction, as his father was a popular and accomplished actor and theatrical

manager.

MISS BRADDON-LOUISE DE LA RAME.

As

MARY ELIZABeth Braddon has produced about thirty novels, all of them shewing remarkable artistic skill in weaving the plot and arranging the incidents so as to enchain the reader's attention. This

is the distinguishing feature of the authoress rather than delineation of character. Some of her tales have a strong fascinating interest, and abound in dramatic scenes and powerful description. Her novels are full of surprises--literally packed with incidents of the most striking character-winding out interminably, and threatening to collapse in conflicting lines of interest, but just at the right moment they reunite themselves again with ingenious consistency. Lady Audley's Secret' and Aurora Floyd' may be considered as representative works, skilful in plot, but dealing with repellent phases of life and character. The following are among the best known of Miss Braddon's works: Lady Audley's Secret' (which had an amazing popularity, six editions being disposed of in as many weeks), Henry Dunbar, Only a Clod,' Dead-Sea Fruit,' John Marchmont's Legacy,' The Lady's Mile,' 'Captain of the Vulture,' 'Birds of Prey,' 'Aurora Floyd,' the Doctor's Wife,' Eleanor's Victory,' 'Sir Jasper's Tenant, Trail of the Serpent,' 'Charlotte's Inheritance,' 'Rupert Godwin,' 'Ralph the Bailiff,'The Lovels of Arden,' 'To the Bitter End,' &c. Miss Braddon has also produced some dramatic pieces and a volume of Poems' (1861), and she conducts a monthly magazine entitled 'Belgravia.' The prolific authoress is a native of London, daughter of Mr. Henry Braddon, a solicitor, and born in 1837. A lady assuming the name of 'Ouida' (said to be LOUISE DE LA RAME, of French extraction) is author of a number of novels, characterised by gentie and poetic feeling and sentiment. Among these are: Folle-Farine;' 'Idalia, a Romance;' 'Chandos, a Novel; Under Two Flags;' 'Cecil Castlemaine's Gage;' Tricotrin, the Story of a Waif and Stray,' Pascarèl, only a Story;' 'Held in Bondage, or Granville de Vigne;' A Dog of Flanders, and other Stories;' 'Puck, his Vicissitudes, Adventures,' &c.; Strathmore, or Wrought by his Own Hand,' &c.; 'Two Little Wooden Shoes.'

GEORGE ELIOT.

Under the name of George Eliot,' as author, a series of novels by a lady (said to be a native of the fair and classic county of Warwick) has appeared, dating from 1857, which are remarkable for fresh original power and faithful delineation of English country life. The first of these, entitled 'Scenes of Clerical Life,' appeared in 'Blackwood's Magazine,' and attracted much attention. It was followed in 1859 by Adam Bede,' of which five editions were sold within as many months. The story of this novel is of the real school, as humble in most of its characters and as faithful in its portraiture as 'Jane Eyre.' The opening sentences disclose the worldly condition of the hero, and form a fine piece of English painting. The scene is the workshop of a carpenter in a village, and the date of the story 1799:

The afternoon sun was warm on the five workmen there, busy upon doors and window-frames and wainscoting A scent of pine-wood from a tent-like pile of planks outside the open door mingled itself with the scent of the elder-bushes,

which were spreading their summer snow close to the open window opposite; the slanting sunbeams shone through the transparent shavings that flew before the steady plane, and lit up the fine grain of the oak panelling which stood propped against the wall. On a heap of those soft shavings a rough gray shepherd-dog had niade himself a pleasant bed, and was lying with his nose between his fore-paws, occasionally wrinkling his brows to cast a glance at the tallest of the five workmen, who was carving a shield in the centre of a wooden mantel-piece. It was to this workman that the stronge barytone belonged which was heard above the sound of plane and hammer, singing:

Awake, my soul, and with the sun
Thy daily stage of duty run;
Shake off dull sloth'-

Here come measurement was to be taken which required more concentrated attentiou, and the sonorous voice subsided into a low whistle; but it prently broke out again with renewed vigour:

Let all thy converse be sincere,

Thy conscience as the nocnday clear.'

Such a voice could only come from a broad chest, and the broad chest belonged to a large-boned muscular man, nearly six feet high, with a back so flat and a head so well poised, that when he drew himself up to take a more distant survey of his work, he had the air of a soldier standing at ease. The sleeve rolled up above the elbow shewed an arm that was likely to win the prize for feats of strength; yet the long supple hand, with its bony finger-tips, looked ready for works of skill. In his tall stalwartness, Adain Bede was a Saxon, and justified is name; but the jet-black hair, made the more noticeable by its contrast with the light paper-cap, and the keen glance of the dark eyes that shone from under strong y-naked, prominent, and mobile eyebrows, indicated a mixture of Celtic blood.

The real heroine of the tale is Dinah Morris, the Methodist preacher; but Adam Bede's love is fixed on a rustic coquette and beauty, thus finely described as standing in the dairy of the Hall Farm:

Hetty Sorrel.

It is of little use for me to tell you that Hetty's cheek was like a rose-petal, that dimples played about her pouting lips, that her large dark eyes had a soft roguishness under their long lashes, and that her curly hair, though all pushed back under her round cap while she was at work, stole back in dark delicate rings on her torebead and about her white shell-like ears; it is of little use for me to say how lovely was the contour of her pink and white neckerchief, tucked into her low plum-coloured stuff bodice; or how the linen butter-making apron, with its bib, seemed a thing to be imitated in silk by ducnesses, since it fell in such charming lines; or how her brown stockings and thick-soled buckled shoes, lost all that clumsiness which they must certainly have had when empty of her foot and ankle; of little use. unless you have seen a woman who affected you as Hetty affected her beholders, for otherwise, though you might conjure up the image of a lovely woman, she would not in the least resemble that distracted kitten-like maiden. Hetty's was a spring-tide beauty; it was the beauty of young frisking things, round-limbed, gamboling, circumventing you by a false air of innocence-the innocence of a young star-browed calf, for example, that, being inclined for a promenade out of bounds, lends you a severe stoeplechase over hedge and ditch, and only comes to a stand in the middle of a bog.

Poor Hetty's vanity and beauty led her to ruin. She agrees to marry Adam Bede, but at length goes away to seek her former lover, Arthur Donnithorne, the gentleman, and to hide her shame. The account of her wanderings and her meditated suicide is related with affecting minuteness and true pathos. Hetty is comforted by the gentle Methodist enthusiast, Dinah Morris, who at last Lecomes the wife of Adam Eede. The other characters in the novel are all dis

tinct, well-defined individuals. The vicar of the parish, Mr. Ir vine; the old bachelor schoolmaster, Bartle Massey; and Mr. and Mrs. Poyser of the Hall Farm, are striking, lifelike portraits. Mrs. Poyser is an original, rich in proverbial philosophy, good sense, and amusing volubility. The following is a discussion on matrimony, the interlocutors being the schoolmaster, the gardener, and Mr. and Mrs. Poyser.

Dialogue on Matrimony.

'What!' said Bartle, with an air of disgust. Was there a woman concerned? Then I give you up, Adam.'

But it's a woman you'n spoke well on. Bartle,' said Mr. Poyser. 'Come, now, you canna draw back; you said ouce as women wouldna ha' been a bad invention it they'd all been like Dinah.'

I meant her voice, man-1 meant her voice, that was all,' said Bartle. 'I can bear to hear her speak without wanting to put wool in my ears. As for other things, I dare say she's like the rest o' the women-thinks two and two 'll come to five, if she cries and bothers enough about it.'

Ay, ay!' said Mrs. Poyser: one 'ud think, an' hear some folk talk, as the men war 'cute enough to count the corns in a bag o' wheat wi' only smelling at it. They can see through a barn-door, they can. Perhaps that's the reason they can see so little o' this side on 't.'

Martin Poyser shook with delighted laughter, and winked at Adam, as much as to say the schoolmaster was in for it now.

Ah;' said Bartle sneeringly, the women are quick enough-they're quick enough. They know the rights of a story before they hear it, and can tell a man what his thoughts are before he knows 'em himself.'

Like enough,' said Mrs. Poyser; for the men are mostly so s'ow, their thoughts overrun 'em, an' they can only catch 'em by the tail. I cau count a stocking-top while a man's getting's tongue ready; an' when he out wi' his speech at last, there's little broth to be made on 't. It's your dead chicks take the longest hatchin'. Howiver, I'm not denyin' the women are foolish; God Almighty made 'em to match the men.'

Match!' said Bartle; ay, as vinegar matches one's teeth. If a man says a word, his wife 'll match it with a contradiction; if he's a mind for hot meat, his wife 'll match it with cold bacon; if he laughs, she 'll match him with whimpering. She's such a match as the horsefly is to th' horse: she's got the right venom to sting him with the right venom to sting him with.'

Yes,' said Mrs. Poyser, I know what the men like-a poor soft. as 'ud simper at 'em like the pictur of the sun, whether they did right or wrong, an' say thank you for a kick, an' pretend she didna know which end she stood uppermost, till her husband told her. That is what a man wants in a wife, mostly: he wants to make sure o' one fool as 'll tell him he 's wise. But there's some men can do wi'out that—they think so much o' themselves a'ready-an' that 's how it is there's old bachelors.' 'Come. Craig,' said Mr. Poyser jocosely, you mun get married pretty quick, else you'll be set down for an old bachelor; an' you see what the women 'ull think on you.'

Well,' said Mr. Craig, willing to conciliate Mrs. Poyser, and setting a high value on his own compliments, I like a cleverish woman o' sperrit-a managing woman.' You're out there, Craig,' said Bartle dryly; you 're out there. You judge o' your garden-stuff on a better plan than that; you pick the things for what they can excel in-for what they can excel in. You don't value your peas for their roots, or your carrots for their flowers. Now that 's the way you should choose women; their cleverness 'll never come to much-never come to much; but they make excellent simpletons, ripe and strong flavoured.'

What dost say to that?' said Mr. Poyser, throwing himself back and looking merrily at his wife.

Say!' answered Mrs. Poyser, with dangerous fire kindling in her eye; 'why.1 say as some folk's tongues are like the clocks as run on strikin', not to tell you the time o' the day, but because there 's summat wrong i' their own inside.'