but Ruth, the fallen, the deserted mother, protected by those two saintlike beings, the Dissenting minister, Benson-deformed in body, but upright in mind—and his sister, full of practical wisdom and sweet moralities, to be tried, persecuted, and insulted to the very last, and that amidst every exertion possible to human beings, to atone for one sad, single, grievous error, is the most gloomy picture of the great "inquisition" of the moral and intellectual world that we have ever seen depicted by artist's hand. There is no redeeming point. The kindness of the servant, Sally-one of the most original characters in the work-is dipped in gall; the very friendship of the Bensons becomes burdensome; the admiration of Mr. Farquhar-a cruel ignis fatuus-that only deludes the reader for a moment with hopes of better times; the thoughtless, heartless, seducer himself turns out a mere fashionable sensualist, whose offers of atonement are justly, but somewhat pharisaically, rejected; and Mr. Bradshaw's inflexible and violent condemnation of the poor forsaken mother, and of her child, are well repaid by sin becoming rampant in his own dwelling and vice triumphant in the person of his own son a kind of retaliation that is alone qualified to awake your unsparing moral judges to a sense of their personal weakness and frailty, and the consequent advantages of forbearance and mercy towards others. For Ruth herself never to be cleansed of her one error, and against which our Saviour would protect her as He once did the woman persecuted by the Pharisees, but for which, it appears, according to writers of the stamp of the authoress of "Mary Barton," there is no atonement here below; nothing remained but death; and such is the ghastly conclusion of this most dolorous story.

One new novel called "Broomhill" belongs to the good old school. It relates the history of two county beauties, their county triumphs, their London successes, and their Brighton conquests; their countless suitors, civil and military; the final marriage of the one, out of spite, having been jilted by a noble Hussar; and the long trials and lovemarriage of the other; concluding with the fatal termination of the first, and the happy prospective of the latter-the more especially happy, because, as Mrs. Cleveland (one of the dramatis persona) avers, it is folly to call it a love-match, when Mrs. Tracy (one of the heroines) has a pair of horses in her brougham, and a riding-horse besides; "and she scoffingly asks whether her house in May Fair wears the aspect of poverty, which in Mrs. Cleveland's eyes is synonymous with

love."

The descriptions of a standard work of this kind are limited to baronial halls, pic-nics, and rural excursions, London society, Brighton-its downs, its dinners, and its balls at the "Ship," before the Pavilion had supplanted it as an assembly-room. Nothing can surpass the author's enthusiasm in favour of the queen city of the sea. "Ah, blest creation of a pleasureloving prince," she exclaims. And in allusion to the balls at the "Ship, she adds, "The echo of the harp and horn-of many a familiar measure, heard in those hours of pleasure, floats round us still. Come again, dear dream-come again, come again."

Then there are descriptions of persons. In the matter of detail-in

* Broomhill; or, the County Beauties. 3 vols. Colburn and Co.

that which regards a beauty's toilet, the authoress is certainly superexcellent. We have the material of the dresses carefully described: the voluminous skirts of the lightest texture-the Bacchus wreath-the silver dagger in imitation of a Roman contadine, to the corsage d'enfant. And all these details, superadded to "long, liquid dark eyes," and "clouds of golden ringlets," help to fill up a ravishing picture. In her descriptions of men, more especially military men,

Swaggering captains, cased in plate,

Snorting sighs through helmet grate,

whom she particularly affects, the authoress is not so happy. Nay, she is not even always civil to the latter, calling them sapient Hussars, and empty-pated Lancers. We cannot, however, omit to notice, that to the horror of Ellen, the eldest beauty, who had given her heart to the "clanking of spurs, and the clattering of a sabre," the County Chronicle recorded that "The Hussars had marched on the 7th, colours flying, drums beating, amid the cheers of the populace, and the regrets of many of the inhabitants of York, with whom the gallant regiment had been unusually popular."

The gifted author of "Emilia Wyndham" has fairly flooded over in her last new novel, "Castle Avon."* Such is the facility of her pen, and so great the scope of her imagination and inventive faculties, that it is evident, even by her own concession towards the conclusion of her work, that she began it with an intent and purport, which the discussion of other matters led her so far away from, that she could not recover the thread of her original story till it was too late. Never did novel open with eight more exciting, heart-riveting chapters than "Castle Avon." Lady Aylmer, by the bedside of her dying young husband, is a beautiful picture-one painted in sombre dark colours, yet sweetly captivating in its seriousness. But Lady Aylmer, aroused from the couch of death to hear that her only child, a dear, pretty, well-beloved boy, barely four years of age, is supposed to be drowned the same night that his lordly father breathed his last, is a climax of distress that required great tact to depict as successfully as is here done. And then again that vicar of Satan, Mr. Gorhambury, who, not content with taking possession of Castle Avon, also destroys the will of the late Lord Aylmer, and dispossesses the poor widow of her mite, as well as the lost heir of his rightful property, is, with his satellite Saxston, a character only to be tolerated as essential to a story of the kind.

But at this point, that is with the Rev. Mr. Gorhambury's succession to Castle Avon, all connexion in the narrative is lost. True, we are told in a stray chapter or so how young Claribert, heir of Avon, fell into the hands of the gipsies, and was brought up by them, but the body of the work is solely occupied with the narrative of the twofold loves of a very unamiable character, Philip Gorhambury-the presumed heir of Avonfor a poor and lovely maiden, Hernana, the daughter of the curate, and a rich and fashionable damsel, the daughter of the dean. The contrast is well brought out-too painfully true-but the whole is a story in itself -a story in which the workings of the human heart are delineated by a masterly pen-but which has little or nothing to do with the fortunes of * Castle Avon. By the Author of "Emilia Wyndham," Ravenscliffe," &c. 3 vols. Colburn and Co.

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the heir of Avon, except that at the end Claribert, recovered by the agency of a mysterious fanatic, weds the twice disappointed Hernana without any adequate reason, except that by such an arrangement, most hurriedly brought about, poetical justice is done to all parties. Gorhambury is dislodged from his ill-gotten possessions, and the cause of Hernana, so ill-treated by the presumed, is more than avenged by the real, heir.

Of all the various topics connected with Peru, Mr. Kingston has not, we believe, in his little work, "Manco, the Peruvian Chief,"* omitted notice at greater or less length of a single one. The mysterious history of its ancient inhabitants, the origin of the Incas, their Cyclopean monuments and unbounded wealth, are incidental themes. The adventures of young David Rexton date from the time of their subjugation and ill-treatment by the Spaniards, and their consequent revolt. We have Spaniards and bloodhounds in pursuit of the gallant Manco, befriended by David at the onset. Then a visit to the land of the Incas-an Indian posting-house-a storm in the Cordilleras-a fight with Montoneros-Cusco and the Peruvians-an onslaught of Spaniards -David and his father made prisoners-dreadful scenes on the sandy expanse, on the littoral of South America-and Lima and its Jesuits. Then the home of David becomes the scene of a deadly encounter between the Peruvians and the Spaniards. David is once more carried away to the mountain country of the Incas. We have the descriptions of the Puna heights, of vicunas and condors, of water-monsters and treasures in Lake Titicaca. This is followed by more fighting, and David is made prisoner by the Spaniards, to be rescued by a British sailor, and, after innumerable trials and adventures, all characteristic of the natural history, scenery, and peculiarities of the country, reaches the eastern coast and joins his long-lost family. Mr. Kingston tells his story well, and in a straightforward manner, for he has thoroughly mastered his subject before he ventured to write upon it. As to incidents and adventures, they turn up at almost every page, and they are mixed up with little tit-bits of morality and useful advice, which seem, as is very rarely the case, to flow naturally from the subject, instead of being offensively obtruded. We cannot imagine a better present for a spirited, imaginative young boy, than "Manco, the Peruvian Chief."

*Manco, the Peruvian Chief; or, An Englishman's Adventures in the Country of the Incas. By William H. G. Kingston, Esq., Author of "Peter the Whaler," "Mark Seaworth," &c. With illustrations by Carl Schmolze. Grant and Griffith.

THE PISCATORIAL ADVENTURES OF JEAN GRIBOU.

BY DUDLEY COSTELLO.

I.

SOMETHING CONCERNING THE HERO.

On the western coast of France, somewhere between Cape Grisnez and Cape La Hague, there stands a pleasant town, tolerably well known to travellers, which-not to excite neighbourly jealousies-we will call by the name of Beauport. It contains a large and mixed population, is traversed by well-paved streets, filled with commodious habitations, and surrounded by a pretty country; it is, in short, as gay and agreeable a place as can be found anywhere in France, outside the walls of Paris.

Like most of the old French towns, Beauport, in spite of past republicanism, still has its grades of society very strongly defined. There is noblesse, as poor and quite as proud as usual; a bourgeoisie, not the less proud for being rich; and a third class, neither rich nor proud at present, but who hope to have reason, one day, for being both.

To this last category belonged-a few years since—a clever, industrious little fellow, named Jean Gribou.

He was one of those lively, ingenious Frenchmen, who can turn their hands to anything, and never entertain the slightest misgiving about the possibility of failure. For what particular profession Jean Gribou had been brought up it was difficult to determine, as he seemed to be at home in all. He could cut out and stitch his own garments as well as any tailor; mend a broken window like a practised glazier; drive a nail or plane off a shaving, no carpenter better; could make a hinge or a horse-shoe, a watch or a pair of boots, turn a snuff-box or the leg of a chair, invent bonbons and the mottoes to them, paint a street door or a portrait, and play upon the cor-de-chasse with as much vivacity and tuneful truthfulness as the most accomplished of his countrymen. In any other part of the world he would have been considered a Phoenix; at Beauport he was merely a dentist. Yes, that was the positive métier of Jean Gribou, and luckily it gave him scope for exercising his many-sided genius.

That such was his absolute calling no one could doubt who paused for a moment in the Rue de la Couronne, where he lived, to observe the enseigne which was displayed at his door; for there, beneath a capacious glass-case, was ranged every kind of râtelier that had or might have existed. To those whose teeth were sound, it conveyed rather disagreeable sensations, but to such as stood in need of masticators it inspired nothing but hope, and that hope was speedily converted into reality when the patient ascended to the cabinet, on the troisième, where Monsieur Gribou performed his dental operations; for, strange to say, the little man was as clever in his profession as out of it.

Like most people of genius, Jean Gribou had begun the world with nothing-if you can call that "nothing" which compels Fate and Fortune to our will. Perhaps, after all, this "nothing" is the best capital a man can start with, when he knows how to turn it to account. We all work for our material advantage, many of us without in the least suspecting, or

allowing others to perceive, how clever we are; till, suddenly, the grand coup is made, and the world admires us as much as we admire ourselves.

With a Frenchman, generally speaking, this self-admiration is his point de départ; it seldom diminishes as he proceeds on his journey through life, and certainly never culminates till he has got to his journey's end. Jean Gribou was as proud of himself, in a pleasant, harmless way, as if he had been the Author of his own existence, though, at the period when we first introduce him, he had not quite made his fortune.

With all their vast conceptions, their lofty aspirations, and their astounding magniloquence of expression, the French set a practical limit to their ambition, which is, for the most part, easily reached. Of course we do not speak of that simple soldat who is always supposed to carry the baton of a marshal of France in his knapsack, though, in these Imperial days, the marshal's bâton has very little to do with the knapsack wearer's military merits. Neither do we select the Parisian gamin, who as recent events have shown-may very naturally expect some day to find himself a minister or a senator, or, at least, a préfet de police. But the Frenchman whom we take for our type, is the petit bourgeois who goes through every imaginable sort of toil and privation, husbanding every sou, and investing every franc, till, out of his petites économies, he has saved the magnificent sum of "forty pounds a year." There are thousands in France to whom this amount is the all-in-all of their desires, and when they have acquired it, in the most dignified manner possible they cast aside the slough of trade and jouissent de leurs rentes with as much satisfaction as if they were millionaires.

We shall not specify the exact figure at which Jean Gribou intended to restrict his accumulations, for the simple reason that he had not yet settled that question himself. It is not while he is single and "the young blood runs frolic through his veins" that even the most prudent Frenchman meditates the future; the cares of the world must have gathered round him in the shape of marital and paternal responsibilities before he seriously addresses himself to the consummation of a rente viagère; and Jean Gribou was still unmarried.

He had given his mind to so many subjects, that matrimony had not yet attracted his attention, or, if the thought came into his head at any moment, he quickly dismissed it with the remark that there was plenty of time to think of that. Not that Jean Gribou was at all indifferent to the sex on the contrary, "from fair to fair he flew," as lightly as if he had had a monarch's privilege for inconstancy. But the reputation of being "un peu volage" did him no harm, and like a gay young bachelor he continued to disport himself amongst the belle bourgeoisie of Beauport, with wings unsinged and unclipped.

Was there nothing, then, that engrossed his mind-like love, for instance to the exclusion of everything else?

Indeed there was.

If not love, perhaps fame?

Well, it was fame.

Not the fame, however, of being the first dentist of Beauport, though that was a part of his ambition. There was something he coveted still more.