aware; but that such a fearful sacrifice of a girl's happiness, preceded by such a shameless abandonment of dignity, honour, and human feeling, could ever have been consummated in the middle of the nineteenth century, and in the regions of Belgravia, is what it pains us very greatly to believe. Who Sir Guy Trevethan and Sir Basil Brooke and his lady may be, we know not, and have no wish to know. Far from desiring an introduction to them, we should be by no means flattered at finding ourselves in the company of either; and assuming, as we must, that our author has "writ his annals true," there are few ladies and gentlemen, in whatever quarter of this great metropolis, or in any of its suburbs, who, confessing to a knowledge of these circumstances, would not blush to own to even a casual acquaintance with such essentially low and degraded monsters.

There is extraordinary talent in this volume-talent which has been quickened-vivified-inflamed by the mingled resentment, contempt, and scorn, the author must have felt of the wretches he has made it his task to hold up to public execration. Let them pass:

"There on the bed of torture let them lie,

Fit garbage for the hell-hound, Infamy;"

whilst we pay a tribute to the sorrows and sufferings-ending in the untimely death of Blondelle; and to the heroic virtues of her twin sister, Emmeline. Creations we are told they are not; then, never were more charming creatures drawn out of real life to transcend the laboured patterns of fiction and poetry. Neither must we forget Charley Dalrymple and Mary Archer, characters which are drawn, considering the smallness of the canvas, with wonderful precision and distinctness.

Were "Blondelle" purely a fiction, it would assuredly obtain an uncommon success, being an awful reality, all eyes will be turned towards it.

THE BELLE OF THE VILLAGE. By John Mills, Author of the "Old English Gentleman." 1852.

Mr. Mills is on the whole a pleasant writer; but he cannot-or will not take the trouble to-construct a good plot, and he seems unable or unwilling to give us any but long-stereotyped characters. "The Belle of the Village" is a very rambling and disjointed story, and sooth to say, as a story, has no great interest to recommend it. There are far too many scenes at "The Harrow and Pitchfork," a village inn presided over by a comely widow, one Mistress Twigg, a lady whom we have so often met in fiction, that we cease to greet her with that warmth which, many years ago, she may have kindled within us. Neither is Corporal Crump, nor his elder or younger brother (in character), the old Peninsular, much to our mind. Not to mention that such characters have been drawn over and over again (as also Jacob Giles, equally a philanthropist), they are not copies from nature; but imitations of warmhearted fellows who are to be found scattered through the pages of one of our most popular novelists, such warm-hearted fellows being resuscitations of those clamorous and bosom-thumping humbugs who figured on the stage, and raised such gallery (and, we fear, pit and box too) enthusiasm in the days of Morton. The character of Miss Baxter, the governess, is taken directly from Miss La Creevy, the miniature painter,

in "Nicholas Nickleby." Squire Woodbe is a wretch who never could have been brought to repentance upon "cause shown," such as we find it here; and Dr. Starkie is an outline who, we may add, might have been rounded into a character.

Mr. Mills is not without humour, but it is apt to run into extravagance, and to degenerate into flippancy. He should never have presented his readers with the two bed-room scenes between Dr. Grimes and his lady. There is no humour, still less is there wit in them; and they are suggestive of the gross, a fault which we hope Mr. Mills will eschew in future,-for in our days (and very properly) it is not readily pardoned.

THE LOST INHERITANCE. A Novel. London, 1852.

An author who writes an autobiography is bound absolutely by the conditions he has himself laid down. He must tell nothing but what he is supposed to know of his own knowledge, what has fallen under his observation, or what, told to him by others, he has reason to believe. The author, on the other hand, who proposes to tell us a story, relating to John Smith and Mary Brown, or Lord Listless and Lady Fidget,— as the case may be-places himself in his chair, tells his story concern. ing these persons, and calls upon us for our belief, our sympathy, or our attention. He has a right to demand either. He may justly claim an absolute dominion over every character he chooses to call up before us. It is no business of ours to inquire how he came to know the inmost thoughts and feelings of the creatures of his will-why it is that he

"Rides in the whirlwind and directs the storm"

of their passions; how he came to know that the heroine "wafted a sigh from Indus to the Pole :" he is the enchanter, and during the influence of his spell, he may "do what he likes with his own."

There are, however, in modern fiction literary "lookers on," that is, authors who profess to tell us what (not themselves immediately or intimately interested) came under their own notice. These are, or ought to be, constrained by the same rule which binds the autobiographer. But when Mr. Courtenay, in "The Lost Inheritance," tells us that, at a party he was strongly interested in Marion Howard, that he watched her every movement, that he overheard what she said to Mr. Murray; and afterwards proceeds to detail a conversation which took place between two young Templars on their way to their chambers, and after that to depict many scenes at which he was not present, we feel that such a bill is drawn upon our credulity (to use a commercial illustration) as we can by no means honour.

Setting aside the fault of mechanism in this novel, it is a very good The characters stand out with tolerable distinctness, and the story is more than commonly interesting. It will well repay a perusal.

one.

THE SADDLEBAGS;

THE BRIDLE

OR,

ROADS OF SPAIN.

My Mab will easily imagine we did not wake very early next morning. I had sat up till very late writing after a hard day's work. We both awoke suddenly, and found a couple of carabineros standing at the foot of our beds. We started up, thinking ourselves arrested, but it appeared they had only come to inspect our passports, which were shown and found satisfactory. H- handed a paper of cigarillos to them from under his pillow, and they began to smoke. There was another tap at the door, and in walked a tall, long-nosed, bushy-whiskered man, with sharp eyes, glancing rather furtively from beneath dark, shaggy eyebrows. We soon recognised him by his voice to be master of the grey horse who had bespoken a portrait over night. He begged, with a profusion of politeness, to have the pleasure of receiving us at his house, which was entirely at our disposition, where we might proceed to business. He seemed slightly uneasy in the presence of the soldiers, and as soon as we told him that we would wait upon him after breakfast, he decamped, with a sort of half slink, half swagger. When he was gone, one of the soldiers said,

May I be pardoned for my curiosity in inquiring what business your worship may have to transact with that man?"

"Simply to take his portrait in water-colours," replied H-—. “You see by our passports we are travelling artists,-we met casually on the road last night. Is there anything against him? "

"Why, not exactly against him, for there is nothing proved; but he is shrewdly suspected of having a hand in two or three murders, and a dozen robberies or so. But he is sly, indeed, he may be said to know some few points more than the devil,—and we have never yet been able to lay our hand upon him.”

-

With this the carabineros made their bows and departed. Over our breakfast we compared notes on our dreams. H- had been taken up before the alcalde, and received sentence of death. I had dreamed that H- was shot, and that I had sat by his body watching the blood come bubbling out of a round wound in his breast so fast, that the whole dehesa was flooded, and turned to a great sea of blood; and then the body turned into an island, and I was the corpse lying upon it. Though I was dead, and in a very ghastly state, lying stark and stiff, I could see perfectly well that a shallop, with a gleaming sail, came towards me over the vermilion sea, and I lay still, knowing that my Mabel was in that shallop. It neared and touched the rocks-she recognised the corpse, shrieked, and fell into the sea. I, entirely irrespective of my social position as an inanimate body, started up, and dived to the rescue, in which inappropriate act I awoke.

We went after breakfast to our respectable friend's dwelling. H drew him, and I persuaded the mournful Rosita to let me take her. She was more beautiful than we had any idea of in the dark the night

VOL. XXXII.

BB

before. Large, deep, black, flashing eyes, and the richest mass of glossy, raven tresses. The fault of her face was in the size of her nostrils, and a somewhat fierce expression, which from time to time flickered about the corners of her mouth. She was sad now, mostly, for she was afraid something had happened; but now and then the thought would cross her of her Pedro's having gone to visit a certain Conchita, whom she usually mentioned by the uncomplimentary nickname “La Zorra," (the she-fox). She talked, in a rambling sort of way, every thing that came into her head, all the time I was drawing her, and answered all the questions I put with perfect freedom. It appeared that she had had a most severe quarrel with Pedro the night before he had gone to Alcala, and after it had dreamed he was dead. While I was colouring the portrait, there arose a sound of voices outside, and drew nearer. The women were out in a moment, and we followed. Four of the Guardia Civil, with a horse, were surrounded by a crowd of men, women, and children, All were eagerly pressing round and peeping under the gay Valencian manta which covered the horse's burden. We were just in time to see Rosita dash frantically through the crowd and tear off the manta. She shrieked with a more terrible cry than I had heard in my own bloody dream, and fell among the horses' feet. The body of her lover was slung across the saddle, with its head and feet dangling on either side. They had found, and recognised the body, and corded it over the horse's back; but the stiff arms and legs stuck out awkwardly, and indeed it was a very horrid sight. But you have had enough horrors nearly to make you ill, my tenderhearted Mabel, so I will describe no more. In the hurry and dismay of our host's establishment, we disappeared unobserved, and as we had not been paid, we thought it no robbery to carry away our drawings. Mine I send you. It gives but a poor idea of her, but she never sat still a

moment.

We set off shortly for Arahal, and rode by an old convent, through olive groves, till we came to a bare, arid, undulating plain. The road skirted the mountain range at about three leagues' distance. We rode along, conversing on the strange romance in which we had so unforeseenly become implicated, and congratulating ourselves that we had got so well out of it.

Getting tired of the monotony of the road, and the uncomfort of our rude, straw-stuffed pads, we dismounted, hoppled our ponies' fore-legs with the trabas (a soft, woollen bandage in the manner of a cow-tie), and sat down to smoke by the way-side. During this operation H—'s pony tried to roll and broke his traba, whereupon H—— calmly observed that this escape would probably form the adventure of the day. To this I agreed; but suggested, that as our troubles and trials would probably come soon enough, we had better finish our pipes in peace before we made any overt demonstration of catching the little beast. This apathetic conduct turned out well; for the pony soon entangled his legs in the trailing bridle-reins, and was pounced upon by his master. We continued our course, and shortly saw Arahal, an unremarkable white town, on a slight eminence. Hasked me how far I thought it was, and I guessed it about three or four miles.

"It is further than that. Do you see that turnip-field on the knoll, which is, if anything, nearer us than the town?"

"Yes-very plain !"

"Well, that turnip-field is an olive-garden, and the turnips are great olive-trees."

We now had passed the shoulder of the mountain-spur, and behind it we saw a town, to which we resolved to direct our steps as soon as a way branched off to the right, which we surmised could not be long; but there was nothing of the kind till our road reached Arahal. As we rode up the hill into the town, the sunset was gilding the ruined arches of the broken-down, but not ancient, church, and doing its best to make this unpicturesque place as pretty as possible; and it succeeded very well, for, after all, everything depends on the light you see it in. The broad valley between us and the mountain range was all filled with golden splendour, which burst in upon us through gaps in the straggling street. We got to the posada, and ordered supper. While it was cooking we studied the guide-book. Here we discovered that the town we had seen at the foot of the mountains was Moron, a celebrated den of thieves; and that the next town on the way to Ronda was still worse, no other than the notorious Olvera mentioned in the proverb,-" Mata al hombre y ve te a Olvera" (kill your man and get you to Olvera); being the most safe and congenial refuge for the desperately wicked which Spain could afford. However, we congratulated ourselves that if we had less safety we should have all the more adventures; and our supper being ready, and we very hungry, we ate ravenously of fried pork; which, as I went to sleep before digesting it, gave me an indigestion, and made me quite unable to eat any breakfast next morning. I, however, foreseeing that I might be hungry further on in the day, sallied forth and bought a small loaf, a few oranges, and a bit of Dutch cheese, as a provision for the way. We were, to the best of our judgment, overcharged by the host of the posada, and when we made our indignant protest, he appealed to a most sinister-looking personage with one eye, whom we at once had picked out of the assembly round the chimney-corner, as the captain of a band of robbers. This impartial umpire at once took the side of the Señor huesped, and I thought H— and he would have come to blows. In the end we, of course, had to pay. As we were departing, the bandit captain inquired if the buttons (with which we were profusely ornamented) were silver, and this settled our conviction that we should be waylaid this day if any. Everything seemed unlucky. I felt sick and ill; and, as I was leading my pony, who kicked and reared, and was very unruly, out of the market-place, my alforjas rolled off his back. A man, who came forward civilly to help it on again, remarked to the crowd how heavy it was, and as they always conclude that Englishmen are laden only with the precious metals, this would, of course, afford an additional incentive to the marauders of the district. We, however, had all our pistols ostentatiously displayed in our fajas, and tried to look as fierce as we could, in hopes they might think us dangerous.

We descended the hill and mounted. So full were we of the idea of robbers, that we seriously suspected a poor man, with a donkey laden with pipkins, whom we overtook on the road, of being in some way or another implicated in the conspiracy against our lives and property. The road across the valley was not very clear at best, and in crossing a puddly stream we missed it. After wandering about some time we came in sight of a miserable hut: hard by there was a miserable little garden,