THE present season has been singularly unproductive of works of fiction. The crop of novels is by no means so plentiful as in former years. Men's minds have been otherwise engaged, and the revolutionary storm which has swept over Europe has afforded the public graver objects of contemplation, and certainly objects of deeper interest, than those which in the months just past have usually occupied its attention; and now, as the period approaches which brings us a temporary respite from the more serious employments of life-when the lawyer enters upon that state of dormouse existence, in which, according to Shakspeare, his life between the terms is passed when Coke Littleton is laid upon the shelf, and he ceases to think of Rolls' Abridgment-save at the hour of his matutinal repast-when the solicitor, having exhausted the exchequer of his clients by those bills of costs which he has exhausted his own fancy in preparing, diverts the ennui of his leisure hours by the light and pleasant pastime of filling copies of capiases, to be ready against next Michaelmas Term-when judges are amusing themselves in watering-places, and physicians are making excursions in the country-here we stand

"Upon this bank and shoal of time,"

seeking to pierce the clouded curtain which hangs over the future, looking back upon the path over which we have just travelled, and trying to recall the joys and the sorrows, the incidents and the passions which chequered its course, not untouched by compunctious visitings for the hours that have been wasted, and the sad consciousness which will sometimes arise, that we have ncglected opportunities which can return no more that we have been grasping at objects which are vain and futile_ "That we have done those things which we ought not to have done, and

have left undone those things which we ought to have done"--that our life has been, as the poet beautifully hath it, "an empty dream." Shall we count among our wasted hours, those which have found us lingering over the pages of fiction ? Some may say, certainly, but we cannot agree with them. In the happy and pleasant images which rose before us, we have forgotten our own sorrows-we have laughed at the merrie conceits of some, and we have wept over the imaginary woes of others and in the healthful and instructive philosophy of the great writers of the day, we have acquired fortitude, and learnt resolution to struggle against the chances of this busy, work-day world. But of these writings it is not our task now to speak-we have to say a few words upon the lighter, and less philosophic of those productions, which appear at the season when the mayfly is on the rivers-when the mayflower lifts its modest head in the fresh and beautiful meadows-when everything in nature is green and rejoicing-when the spring-time of the year is passing into summer, that exquisite and delightful time which hath a charm so powerful for every true lover of naturea charm nameless and ineffable, and like to that sweet interval in the life

of some beautiful girl, the interval between the spring-time of her youth and its summer, when the check is tinged with the celestial flush, when her form becomes rounded with that nameless grace and in her dark, humid eye, is that tender lustre which tells that her spring-time has passed away, and that the exceeding beauty of the bud is only to be surpassed by the loveliness of the flower. But if we wander thus, we shall become sentimental, and then we shall grow tender, and consequently tiresome; therefore, without any further preface, let us plunge into "medias res" at once, and introduce our readers to the novel

which stands at the head of our list.

66

Mr. Meredith Vyner has three daughters, whose names are those from which the tale derives its title. He is a book. worm and a pedant, frittering away his existence in the idle pursuit of bringing out a new edition of Horace, and preferring the discovery of some new reading for a disputed passage, to that of the most profound problem in physical science, or the proudest discovery of the time. His description is very good-with all the follies of his tribe, he had more than an average share of its virtues-a gentle, weak, indolent creature, with many friends, none of whom he ever lost-in person and dress, he was like "a dirty bishop;" there was an ecclesiastical mildness in his pale puffy face, the features of which-a large forehead, and a weak chin-contrasted strongly with a short pug nose, into which he was constantly cramming snuff, with grains of which his black silk waistcoat was copiously besprinkled-his coat was black, with tails of enormous amplitude he had no development of calf, and yet was as proud of his legs as if he had, which pride he evinced by adhering to the black tights of our fathers he had a vast amount of illassorted erudition he wore a watchchain, with a number of gold seals, and large square roomy shoes, with huge silver buckles. Such-if we add a penchant for dirty nails, and a habit of quoting Latin-was the exterior of Mr. Meredith Vyner. Not content with the condition of widower, in which he had been left by the recent death of his wife, he took unto him. self another_she was, of course, very ill-suited to become the stepmother of three beautiful girls, not much younger than herself of diminutive and fairylike stature, and slightly hump-backed, she was yet very attractive, which is a puzzle to us. We cannot, for the life of us, conceive how a small deformed woman can be attractive. She had, however, a skin of exquisite texture and huc-her features were fine and delicate, and suffused with the blushing and ingenuous colour of innocence her hair was luxuriant and golden, reaching in flowing curls to her waist-her face was uncommonly expressive, so were her eyes, but their expression was that of the subdued ferocity of a tiger-and such was

the helpmate which this Mr. Meredith Vyner, in his decline of life, had selected to preside over his domestic fortunes. We cannot forbear giving, in the words of our author, his description of Rose and Blanche:

"Two prettier creatures it would not be easy to find-there were sisterly resemblances, peeping out amidst the most charming differences. Rose, with her bright grey eyes, swimming in mirth——her little piquant nose, with its nostrils so delicately cut-her ruddy pouting lips, which Firenzuola would with justice have called "fontana de tutte le amorose dolcezze"-her dimpled cheeks, and the whole face, in short, radiant with livingness and enjoyment. Shakspeare, who has said so many exquisite things of women, has painted Rose in one line:

"Pretty and witty, wild and yet too gentle." But then Blanche, with her long, dreamy eyes, loving mouth, and general expression of meekness and devotion, was, in her way, quite as interesting. As for poor Violet, she was almost plain; it was only those lustrous eyes, so unlike the eyes of ordinary mortals, which redeemed her thin, sallow face. It had great energy, great character, and a strange mixture of the most womanly, caressing gentleness, with haughtiness and wilfulness, that were quite startling. Those who saw her as a lovely child, prophesied she would become a splendid woman."

It is one of the peculiarities of the book we are now discussing, and to us a very pleasant one-the few descriptions which occur in the course of the story; what there are are very cleverly drawn, as may be seen by the extract we have just given. But we think a novel, to be attractive, should be made up of other things than long personal portraits. The lights and shades of character are much better, and much more effectively brought out in the incidents of the story, and the collisions which take place in the detail of every-day life, than in a long and somewhat pompous dissertation, as is often the fashion with the present race of writers of fiction. But to return to our tale.

Mrs. Vyner

very soon assumes the reins of domestic management; and this she does in the most dexterous manner possible; under the semblance of letting every one have their own way, she always contrives to insist upon her own. She succeeded early in impressing her worthy

husband with two convictions important to her felicity: one, the extreme delicacy of her nerves; the other, her immense superiority to himself. The first result was attained by very alarming hysterics, into which the slightest opposition to her wish would invariably throw her. When thwarted by any of the young ladies, she would immediately retire to her room, where she was usually found by the first person that entered, either just lifeless, or in a very alarming condition. The second result was only attained by a course somewhat more tortuous. She would gently insinuate that her husband did not understand her; he was prosaic by nature, fond of lexicons and Greek roots-she poetical, and all for the higher raptures; and then she would contrive to inspire him with the idea, that as yet she did not love him with all the strength of her ardent and passionate nature, but that in due course of time, if his conduct was what she expected, she would eventually confess that he had gained her entire affections. In the meantime, Mr. Meredith Vyner became little better than a puppet in the hands of his adroit better-half; and we think most of our readers who have followed us thus far, will be ready to exclaim, "Heaven help her liege lord ;" and, indeed, she soon led him a devil of a dance. Disagreeable scenes of conflicts soon took place between her and the younger ladies, in which Mr. Vyner generally took the part of his wife, which ended in the removal of these young persons to an establishment kept by Mrs. Worrelston and Miss Smith, two strong-minded women, at Brighton, where they were duly snubbed by those ladies, because they learned "no extras," and were not sufficiently well dressed to be any credit to the establishment. There, for a brief space, we must leave them, to follow the career of Mrs. Meredith Vyner, who works out her destinies in a manner somewhat marvellous, but by no means rare for ladies gifted with her peculiar qualities and temperament. There

was a certain Mr. Marmaduke Ashley, to whom the lady we have just been describing had originally been engaged to be married, but who, at the time of her meeting with Mr. Vyner, was in parts beyond the seas (to use that technical but familiar phrase known to our law), occupied in carv

ing out his fortunes as best he might. Miss Hardcastle- for such was the lady's maiden name-being rather doubtful whether he would ever survive the contingencies of climate and the chances of time, or return to claim her promised hand, and having a deep faith in the ancient adage which saith, "A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush," had, in the meantime, inveigled Mr. Vyner, into offers of matrimony, which she took good care to lose no time in accepting; and thus it came to pass, that when Mr. Marmaduke Ashley, having either made his fortune (or having been left one by the death of some relation-we forget which), returned to his native land, full of faith and hope in the plighted troth of his mistress, he found her the property of another. This is certainly rather a disagreeable contingency; but it is one to which young gentlemen who place implicit reliance upon the constancy and devotion of the softer sex, are not unfrequently liable.

Return we now to the young ladies whom we left smelling of bread and butter, at the Brighton boardingschool. They came home, their education completed, and their attractions speedily found for them three admirers, whom they respectively marry; and in the courtship and flirtation of each of them, lies the whole progress and plot of the story; therefore but little remains for us to add upon that head. But ere we proceed further, let us give an extract. Dr. Whiston's at home, when the returned lover meets his faithless mistress, the wife of another. The scene is described with much graphic power and skill:

"Every body was at Dr. Whiston's, as the phrase goes, on one of his Saturday evenings. He was a scientific man, whose great reputation was founded upon what his friends thought him capable of doing, rather than upon anything he had actually done. He was rich, and knew every body. His Saturday evenings formed an integral part of London society-they were an institution. No one who pretended to any acquaintance with the aristocracies of science, or with the scientific members of the aristocracy, could dispense with being invited to Dr. Whiston's. There were crowded lions of all countries, pretty women, bony women (strongminded women, of course, although the

author does not say so), elderly women, a bishop or two, a sprinkling of noblemen, many clergymen, barristers, and endless nobodies, with bald foreheads and spectacles, all very profound in one or more 'ologies,' but cruelly stupid in everything else, abounding in information, and alarmingly dull. Dr. Whiston himself was a man of varied knowledge, great original power, and a good talker, He passed from lions to doctors, from beauties to bores, with restless equanimity; a word for each, adapted to each, and every one was pleased. The rooms were rapidly filling; the office of announcing the visitors had become a sinecure, for the stairs was crowded. Through the dense maze of rustling dresses and formidable spectacles, adventurous persons, on the search for friends, made feeble way; but the majority stood still, gazing at the lions, or endeavouring, by uneasy, fitful conversation, to seem interested; groups were formed in the crowd and about the doorways, in which something like animated conversation went on.

"In the centre of the third room, standing by a table, on which were ranged some new inventions that occupied the attention of the bald foreheads and bony women, stood a young and striking-looking man of eight-and-twenty; a melancholy bitterness overspread his swarthy face, and dimmed the fire of his large eyes. The careless grace of his attitude admirably displayed the fine proportions of his almost gigantic form, which was so striking as to triumph over the miserable angularity and meanness of our modern doctors.

"All the women, the instant they saw him, asked who he was. He interested every one except the bald foreheads and the strong-minded women; but most he excited the curiosity of the girls, dragged there by scientific papas or mathematical mammas. Who could he be? It was quite evident he was not an 'ologist;' he was too gentlemanly for a lion-too fresh-looking for a student.

"I am trying to get a seat for my girls,' said Mrs. Vyner, peering about, as well as her diminutive form would allow in so crowded a room. 'I dare say you will find one in the next room.'

Oh! come in. Perhaps you can tell us who is that handsome foreigner in there? Nobody knows him, and I can't get at Dr. Whiston to ask.'

believe both are expected of ladies under such circumstances in novels. In real life it is somewhat different. Mrs. Vyner only blushed deeply, and felt a throbbing at her temples-felt, as people say, as if the earth were about to sink under her; but had too much selfcommand to betray anything. One observing her would, of course, have noticed the change; but there happened to be no one looking at her just then, so she recovered her self-possession before her acquaintance had finished her panegyric on his beauty.

"She had not seen Marmaduke since that night on which she had parted from him in a transport of grief upon the sands behind Mrs. Horley's house, when the parting from him seemed the climax of human suffering, from which death, and only death, could bring release.

"She had not seen him since she had become the wife of Vyner, and as that wife she was to meet him now.

"What her thoughts would have been at that moment, had she ever really loved him, the reader may imagine; but as her love had sprung from the head, and not from the heart, she felt no greater pangs at seeing him than were suggested by the sight of one she had deceived, and whom she would deceive again, were the past to be renewed. Not that she cared for her husband; she fully appreciated the difference between him and Marmaduke; at the same time, she also appreciated the difference in their features, and that reconciled her. The appearance of Marmaduke at Dr. Whisten's rather flurried than pained her-she dreaded a scene.' She knew the awful vehemence of his temper; and although believing that, in an interim, she could tame the savage, and bring him submissive to her feet, yet that could only be done by the ruse and fascination of a woman; and a soireé was by no means the theatre for it. She began to move away, having seated Rose and Blanche, trusting that her tiny person would not be detected in the crowd; but Marmaduke's height gave him command of the room. His eye was first arrested by a head of golden hair, the drooping luxuriance of which was but too well known to him. Another glance, and the slightly deformed figure confirmed his suspicion. His pulses throbbed violently; his eyes and nostrils dilated, and his breathing became hard; but he had sufficient selfcommand not to betray himself, although his feelings, at the sight of her whom he loved so ardently, and who had jilted him so basely, were poignant and bitter. He also moved away, not to follow her, but to hide his emotion. Little did the company suspect what

elements of a tragedy were working amidst the dull prosiness of that soiree. Amidst all the science that was gabbled -all the statistics quoted-all the small talk of the scientific scandalmongersall the profundities that escaped from the bald foreheads and strong-minded women-all the listlessness and ennui of the majority-there were a few souls who, by the earnestness and sincerity of their passions, vindicated the human race-souls belonging to human beings, and not to mere gobemouches and ologists."

At the same soiree which we have

been just describing, Rose Vyner meets a certain very ugly young gentleman-one Mr. Julius St. Johnwith whom she falls in love. He was a curious sort of creature to attract the fancy of a young and pretty girl; but there is no accounting for tastes, and it is a fact which is undeniable, that very pretty and attractive persons will sometimes select men possessing qualities the very opposite. We cannot for the life of us explain the anomaly. Possibly it is a wise law of nature, in order to prevent the world being peopled with very handsome or very frightful beings. But so it is; and it was proved in our own case not long ago, by one of the most charming and agreeable, as well as beautiful young persons it has ever been our good fortune to meet. The avowal was coupled, too, with a smart repartee, to which, feeling we deserved it, we submitted in silence. In one of these solemn pauses which not unfrequently occur in the course of a quadrille, our fair partner chanced to declare her predilection for ugly people, assigning as a reason that their faces were so much more expressive and striking than those of ordinary mortals. We, with more gallantry than discretion, heaving a profound sigh, expressed our fervent desire to be thenceforth as ugly as possible. "And how do you know you're not ?" replied our beautiful partner, as she gracefully glided through "la chaine de dames." Alas! we are far from it at least, we think so; but we can only repeat our wish, which, as it is not likely these pages may ever meet her eye (not that we care in the least whether they do or not), we can only, we say, reiterate our willingness gladly to submit to the most "anti-Kalydor" process which

chemical science can supply, to be as ugly as-as-we are at a loss for a simile-to be as ugly as Vulcan, as the King of Bavaria (who, by the way, is about the most ugly man we ever saw) to be as black as the most illfavoured printer's-devil who ever jogged our elbow for a proof-to have a nose like that so strongly observed upon by the bandy-legged drummer from Strasburg—to be, in short, as illfavoured and as ill-conditioned as the ugliest in the annals of ugliness-could we only win one passing glance of favour from those bright and lustrous eyes, whose gentle and starry radiance, even as we write, casts a halo around our dim apartment.

But to return: Mr. Julius St. John was grievously ugly. He had, as we are informed, neither sensibility nor intellectual fire in his face; his head was of enormous size, covered with a profusion of curly black hair, falling over an irregular forehead ornamented with thick beetle brows; his nose was insignificant and pug; his mouth large, the lips thereof being pale and sensual; his complexion dark and spotted; his body small and diminutive, not deformed, but miserable. There is a picture for you, reader, of an agreeable youth. Now, our dear young friend, or rather enemy, for such we fear you are, may we be permitted, en passant, once more to address you? We happen to know a man who is very like the picture we have just presented to your notice, so like that he might have sat for it. Will you allow us to prove our magnanimity and our forgiveness of injuries, by introducing him to you? We shall make no observations upon beauty and the beast in so doing; but having performed this pleasing office, retire to some distant sofa, where, "peaceful and blighted," we may observe the result, and submit to our fate in silence.

"Mais revenons a nous moutons."

Marmaduke Ashley, indignant at the base perfidy of his mistress, is inspired with what the author is pleased to call a fierce lust for vengeance; and over this portion of the story we shall willingly drop a veil. Nothing could justify his conduct; and nothing could justify the author in describing the bad passions of a vin