infallible axiom-no royal rule. Each is great after his own kind. The rugged majesty of Milton and Michael Angelo; the sweet, solemn sublimity of Raphaelle and Shakspeare; the sensuous crimsons of Rubens and Boccaccio; the hearty, beautiful truth of Hogarth and Fielding; the polished grace of Vandyck and Pope; the halfspiritual and half-material saints and heroines of Cervantes and Murillo; the gloomy dissections of Swift and Spagnuoletto; are all true to nature, yet all different.

To carry on the analogy between canvasspainting and word-painting, the book before us, written by a new and a great artist, has a cold, grey tone. Its only fault is a want of sunlight, and absence of bright colour. But, after all, is this a fault? Life, to many of us, is thus cold and unsunned; and the few short, bright, wintery gleams which occasionally light up these pages have their types in the scanty beams of joy which scarcely last long enough to warm the hearts of many a poor Georgy Sandon.

The heroine whom we have just named is a young girl, who, living in a dull, second-rate country-house with a commonplace, not unkind, uncle, several troublesome first cousins, and a rather vicious aunt, engages herself to a young naval officer, called Anstruther, who is thus described:

Nearly one year ago, she had become engaged to Captain Anstruther, the man whose letter she was about to read. Her uncle and aunt were both on the matrimonial side. There was no other special vocation for her in view, and this, with all the other little considerations which generally influence so largely great decisions, carried the day.

Well, she opened her letter-an affectionate, uninteresting composition, with many desires for a speedy return, and some particulars as to the society of Cape Town, and the customs of the natives. It seemed to tell the tale of the writer's character-an upright, delicate, finikin handwriting; and, in spite of its uprightness, a something wavering and uncertain about it if he had not taken great pains, it would have sloped and straggled.

Like it was to the man, so painstaking and exact in small matters, and so undecided and indolent in great things.

He was eager for self-improvement, and always embodied the results of his researches into the manners of the natives, and his observations as to the meteorological phenomena of Africa in its contradistinction to that of Europe, in his letters to Georgy. He mentioned also his convictions as to the blessings that sound religious knowledge would be to the African population, and the gratitude which we ought to evince at having it ready at home to our hands (or ears and hearts, rather). Of love he did not treat much, and only had one or two set phrases on the subject, which he altered and transposed, but which were originally the same: these often recurred just before he signed himself, "Yours most heartily and affectionately."

During his absence at sea she goes on a visit to a house full of admirably-drawn people, but the descriptions of whom we must not pause to transcribe. Here she meets a distant cousin,

James Erskine by name-clever, accomplished; not as heroes of most novels are clever and accomplished, but really a man for his own sex to admire, and the other sex to adore. Georgy receives attentions with gratitude, and repays his friendship with love. But the charming man of the world avows no love for the sea captain's fiancée. The party at the countryhouse breaks up; and Georgy goes back to her uncle's dreary home at Grainthorpe, only to discover that she does not love Captain Anstruther, and to declare to her relatives that she will not marry him. They scold and rave. She is calm and firm, and actually runs away to London, to live with another aunt whom she dearly loves. Not finding Miss Sparrow in town-that lady had gone to Brighton-Georgy is invited to stay with Mrs. Erskine. Here her love and admiration of talent are quite gratified. Clever men, poets, and artists frequent Mrs. Erskine's house; and Georgy's exquisite skill in music entitles her to rank as one of the chief attractions of this delightful society.

We now come to an important conversation between James Erskine and herself :

"Georgy-Miss Sandon, you are not very happy at Grainthorpe?"

She looked up at him and coloured. "Tell me, if it is not an impertinent question; you were engaged by your uncle's desire, not your own."

"No, no, I did it-it was my doing-I wanted to get away-I did it," she said, rather incoherently.

"My child, was it only to get away from Grainthorpe that you engaged yourself?" She got up quickly, and going to the window, sat down there, and said, "It was very foolish of me; but I shall make myself quite happy at Grainthorpe: I am not going to marry at all." "Not?"

"No."

She did not see him half smile at her effort to brave it out unconcernedly. She had never looked so childlike as when she uttered that deliberate decision, No; and she was too unconcerned to look at him. He sat down beside her in the window, and bent very near her. He had bent down so once before, and her heart beat as it had done once before, by the piano at the Grange. There was so much deference, and so much gentle respect in his manner, and yet it was so calmly assured-it always fascinated and mastered her. "Do you love no one, then?"

He took her hand; but his sentence appeared so completely finished, that she drew back, and snatched her hand away. It seemed as if he were crossquestioning her at pleasure. For one instant he looked at her as she crimsoned, and her eyes grew angry and full of tears; then he said, quite humbly: "Could you ever be my wife? Do you love me enough ?"

She did not lift her eyes, and as if the words were very difficult to speak, she said: "You know I do."

But he would never have asked the question if his first and real love, who had married a fool, and was now a widow, had not, as he thought, slighted and insulted him.

Alas, poor Georgy! the wintry sun only warms for an hour or two; and then how cold,

and cheerless, and miserable are the remaining years of life!

Again she and James are in a country-house. Their engagement is a secret to all; and Constance Everett, who has had a fall, and is confined to her bed, makes a confidante of Georgy Sandon, and tells her the most terrible of truths.

When she had stood by the bed for a moment or two, she went softly back to her own room, and to her thoughts. She loved him so that she durst not consider how great that love was: she had best draw back from such considerations now. How few days she had been with him in reality, how many she had passed in thought!

Now, one had stepped down before her and taken from her the waters of life-done it so lightly, so carelessly. No existence hung for her upon the gain. Why had she taken that? Could there be no exchange? -Would no anguish wring it from each one's appointed destiny? She could never know one such hour as this. -Let her have all-all the pride and glory of life-but not the lover-no, not that, and she whispered to herself, "No, not that," as if there were some saving help in the intensity of her volition.

What was partly the truth sneered back at her terribly, increased by the retrospect. He had not loved her; but she him. She fancied that every look and word on her part had declared. The meaning and appearance of a thousand things suddenly changedand her morbid fancy charged her with much that had never been committed.

Go back, fool! and look at her again as she lies asleep!-She will be his wife-not you!

Yours was a selfish, reckless passion;-unasked, unsought you first rushed into it, and for long you forgot that there was other suffering but yours in the world.-Remember it now, and bear yours as you may. Georgy is a true woman, and a heroine in the high sense of the word. Mark how a woman can love, and how a man can accept her sacrifice :

"Mr. Erskine," said she abruptly, when breakfast was ended," will you come-I mean? I want to speak to you for a few minutes."

"Yes, I will come wherever you please."

She walked up stairs to Mrs. Lewis's sitting-room, and he followed her. When they were there, her heart sank, and she was startled at her own rashness; she knew neither what to say nor do.

"Well, what is it?" he asked.

She hesitated for a moment: James seemed already gone; and when she had spoken, he, as he stood there, would be lost to her for ever.

"It was about you, not about myself, that I wanted to speak. I do not think you are very happy; but I am glad that Mrs. Everett's letter, which ought to have reached you long ago, has done so now."

"What do you mean?" he asked stiffly.

"I mean that you have had a misunderstanding with Mrs. Everett; it has been cleared up now, I think,

and almost too late."

If she had been playing a game, she could perhaps have attached him more closely to her; for he was too proud, too honourable, not to recoil from all idea of catching at her words to free himself.

"Georgy, you are mad! This is your doing, not mine." "And I am right to do it," she said, softly. "I will not own that I am wrong, till you dare tell me that you have never loved Mrs. Everett."

They had changed places now; and she, in her selfpossession, was stronger for the moment. "Tell me,

if you do not mind the question, what had Mrs. Everett

misunderstood you about?"

"Only that I had remonstrated with her on an imprudent acquaintance; and after an angry letter which I received from her, I never heard again." "And you have loved her for long-very long, I know."

He did not deny the assertion, but stood half inclined to speak, and yet uncertain.

"Good bye," said she, gravely; and she held out her hand.

"No; it is too soon to say good bye."

"I do not think so: we must say that sooner or later, and it had better be now.'

"No, Georgy, you must let me talk to you again about this: I will come back soon,-I must talk to you;" and he left the room.

"Georgy, it is you who are good, tender, and thoughtful for me, far beyond what I deserve.―Thank you!" he said, kissing both her hands.

Thank you!-He had said it, and had accepted her renunciation.

"Good bye, James!"

James Erskine was not gloomy, or satirical, or romantic, according to one modern type of the hero. And he was not, you will say, as deeply enthusiastic, or as indifferent to this world's prosperity, as some higher natures are. He had not the glaring faults which sometimes (not always) distinguish these; but he had not their excellencies: he was no hero-not one of these people here described were-only one of the most loveable beings who have ever walked through life. It was a strange chance that had made these two meet, and strangely had Georgy's tenacious nature clung to him.

Morally and intellectually he had first roused life in her; and every fault, every weakness (if he had such), was but another link to him. It was not possible that Georgy could have been to him the hundredth part of all this; and he did love Constance: it was at once his condemnation and his excuse.

After a time she does that which novel readers will not pardon; but which those who study such She natures as hers will see she must do. marries her old lover, because her uncle has ruined him by speculating with his money; and she is now an heiress.

Three years after quiet, dull Mrs. Anstruther's marriage, her friends congratulated her upon the prospect of soon having a child to care for, and to brighten up her home.

That time came, but a week after she and her baby were both buried; and in the house there was all the usual suppressed bustle, and the real grief too, that should belong to a funeral.

She was dead, and that wasted life was at an end.

She had been twice mistaken: first in loving that infatuated love of hers, and then in her marriage. Many more years must have passed before any one could sufficiently have recovered to have entered upon such a union, and she perhaps never could.

One more sad, exquisite touch of nature, and we have done :

Once in Mr. Erskine's house, long after his marriage, a fair-haired little girl came running to her father to beg to go out with him, and to show what her mother had just brought out of her treasure-box and given her. It was a heart and cross of massed turquoise, and as he bent down to see "the beautiful thing," a vision

tion, Calvinistically sour. She turns her nephew from her house on his refusal to obey her will in adopting the church as his profession.

Yet Gertrude Massenger has in youth loved. and been loved in return. She has been one of the two rival beauties of Ashton-le-Forde, and in girlhood the betrothed of William Grahame, whom she rejected.

At school, Gilbert Massenger is known as the Man of Iron. His mind was hardened as his frame. With a slight effort he eclipses all his fellows, and in attainments, though not in popularity, Noel Forester, the son of a neighbouring squire, and of her who had scorned the suit of his schoolmaster, Dr. Grahame, the brother of William.

A gloomy inner life Gilbert Massenger's was: thoughts dark, bitter, and earthy, began to creep over his heart. The red sunset faded; it seemed as if heaven's golden gate were closed against him as his soul pressed towards it; as the sky gradually darkened a strange sickness seemed to fall upon him; a mist obscured his brain.

"What is there in life worth the pains of winning?" thought he: "would that it were ended at once, but for that shrouded hereafter! Hereafter? Perhaps even that is only a human coinage! How can we be certain that there is a heaven to win, or a hell to avoid? They may be tales to frighten children with; but if-"

He paused upon that "if," and looked towards the river. Only Forester and another boy remained in the water; the rest were preparing to return to the town. Suddenly, whilst he watched, Forester flung up his arms, uttered a shrill cry, and sank; the other lad, terrified, instantly swam to the shore; but Gilbert, stripping off only his jacket, was in a moment in the stream, and striking out to where his rival went down. Noel rose the first time several yards off, and before the other could seize him the water again closed darkly over his head. Calculating for the rate the water ran at, Gilbert, the second time, succeeded in grasping him by the hair as he came to the surface; and keeping his head above water drew him to shore, but apparently dead.

Immediately the accident occurred some of the boys ran to a house near for help; others stood looking on helplessly, and as Gilbert laid their comrade on the grass, they drew back as if affrighted.

"What's to be done?" asked Massenger. Nobody undertook to reply, so he once more lifted Noel in his arms, and prepared to carry him to the nearest dwelling, which happened to be the vicarage. As he approached the wicket-gate with his burthen, two lads issued therefrom, followed by the clergyman and a matronly lady, his wife, who was instant in all kind offices for the unfortunate boy. Providentially, a surgeon from Ashton was at the moment at the vicarage; and after some very anxious hours, Noel Forester again opened his conscious eyes upon the world. In the interim, Doctor Grahame had been sent for, and the boys, except Massenger, had returned to their homes; he lingered about the passages of the house, a prey to the strangest and most contradictory sensations. Scalding tears brimmed his eyes, and overflowed as he looked on the ashen face of his envied rival; he would, at the time, have drained his heart of its lifeblood to bring back the ruddy flush to Noel's cheek. Ah! this death, how awful is it when its aspect can wipe off so many old scores of wrong and irritation!

Gilbert could have shouted with joy when the doctor came out of the room saying, in a calm, professional

voice, "He'll do now; with common care he'll pull through."

Gilbert, on leaving his aunt's roof, meets many trials. Undaunted, he assumes the pick of the labourer. Yet he makes friends, and rises in life.

He comes across William Grahame, and engages the affections of Helen Leigh, his niece. Noel Forester retires from the field.

But Gilbert does not long enjoy his happiness. His aunt dies, and her secret is fully revealed. In his family lurks the taint of hereditary madness. For that reason had Gertrude abandoned, on the eve of her wedding, her lover, William Grahame. For the same reason Gilbert abandons Helen. He goes to the new world, and there dwells a score of years with an atheistical companion.

At length he returns to find Helen the wife of Noel Forester, the mother of a blooming brood.

About midway between Ashton-le-Forde and Langhope Tower, there is a little nest of a house built of gray stone, and clustered about with flowers. There live Uncle Gilbert and Mittie, and the dogs. A sort of universal Uncle Gilbert he is; all the children have adopted him. They love his brown face; they are not frightened at his great beard; they pat the one and pull the other; they climb on his knees, and demand stories, with all the natural selfishness and audacity of youth.

Often there rides up to his gate, on a little brown pony, a vision of the Deepdell Helen; she is his choice pet, his supreme favourite. She borrows his books of which he has many now, some, perhaps, selected with a view to her; she culls his finest roses, and is firm friends with Bruno and Mignon, who patronize and protect her as if sharing their master's partiality, and understanding why she is preferred before the rest.

The young sailor, too, is often at Moor Cottage; for nobody loves a story of wild adventure more than he. An immense admiration has he conceived for Uncle Gilbert; whose name is wrought up into dimly remembered nursery-stories, and for whom his mother had taught him to pray as a child, saying, "Pray God bless papa and mamma, brothers and sisters, Uncle Tom and Uncle William. Pray God bless Uncle Gilbert Massenger, and keep him from harm, for Jesus Christ's sake. Amen." And so Uncle Gilbert, who saved his

papa's life, and did other great but unknown deeds, is a hero to young Willie; he does not quite understand the relationship, but he is proud to belong to him in any sort, and contemplates him with a reverent affection which time will scarcely diminish.

The Doctor and his brother William, also, are to be found at the cottage frequently, and Gilbert himself is no rare guest in the Polyglot Parlour.

*

Yet on his brow is no repining, in his eye no gloom, on his lip neither despondence nor complaint. He bears up with brave, honest, faithful soul. Having put his hand to the plough, let what sorrow will turn up in the furrows, he will not look back; he looks up instead, and there sees, afar off, what shall satisfy him.

At his elbow lies the old well-worn Bible; he takes it presently and reads; then the empty room, the solitary hearth, are forgotten. Soon it is too dark to

trace the print; he steps out upon the little lawn and goes down to the gate; thence he watches the moon rise over Langhope woods, and as it rides up into heaven he remembers a long-past scene at Norwood; a wet night, a changeful night, when he had questioned eagerly of the future and tried to see an omen in the clouds.

"Yes," said he aloud, "the light is enough for me, the light is enough for me. God, I thank thee that though earth's joys are withheld from me, thou hast given me thy Peace within."

Thus ends this novel, equally admirable in moral and in workmanship. There is an inexpressible power about Holme Lee, power about Holme Lee, an inexplicable, though painful, fascination. He has, from the first, given the promise of great things, a promise he bids fair to realize. His principal fault is a tendency to describe the dark side of nature; not so much in the development of character as in the drift of incidents. The author would avoid the semblance, while clinging to the reality, of cynicism; otherwise, why should the superficial and inert Forester reap the rewards of life-a happy home, a loving wife, and success, social and political-while for the earnest, straightforward Gilbert, from the cradle to the grave, there is nothing but solitude and gloom? On faults, however, we are reluctant to dwell, and the more especially as they are of a nature likely to diminish in proportion to the author's increase in practice and experience.

MUCH originality or unwonted depth of thought must not be looked for in our next novel, "The Next-door Neighbours,"-which belongs to the old orthodox Rosa Matilda school-all the amiable peculiarities of which sect are rigidly adhered to. The reader is frequently and lengthily apostrophized as thou. There are the requisite number of questions addressed to no one in particular, beginning, "Ah, who?" "What felicity on

earth?" &c. Philanthropic gentlemen harangue their cooks and butlers as, "My valued domestics;" and a rather undue proportion of the piety peculiar to this class of romance pervades its pages.

The story is not badly contrived, and some of the characters are cleverly enough sketched. The authoress shows so strong a sense of humour in her sketches of Lady Frant and her family, the vulgarities of the Thompsons, and the unlucky dinner at Lord Henry Vernon's lodgings, that we are surprised at her not perceiving how ludicrous are her own stilted phrases-how vapid her pompous reflections. Her comic scenes and characters are by far the best. The courtship of Lord Foyle by Lady Elizabeth Curran is capital, for instance; but her good people are dull and uninteresting. Old Mr. Somerset is a twaddling old philanthropist; and even the peerless Marie, who is compared to an angel in every half-page, is so very meek and forgiving, and prays for her enemies so very loudly on all occasions, that we cannot help feeling that her stupidity is at least equal to her amiability.

two.

The idea is not bad of showing us, in the third volume, how unhappy, with boundless riches, are the husband and wife, who were so loving and trusting, with poverty, in the first The generous bridegroom, who longed for wealth to bestow on young lovers whom want of money kept apart, and to purchase companies for needy lieutenants, has become suspicious and over-thrifty. The devoted wife has learned to talk of "her rights," and to show caprice and temper.

This is true and clever enough, and so are many other descriptions in "Next-door Neighbours," but they are marred by the fade, conventional, circulating-library style in which they are written.

A Handbook to the Marine Aquarium; containing Practical Instructions for Constructing, Stocking, and maintaining a Tank, and for collecting Plants and Animals, by Philip Henry Gosse. J. Van Voorst, London, 1855.-The old-fashioned ornament of two gold-fish in a globe is becoming so generally dispensed with, in favour of a more numerous and interesting collection of objects in a vase or tank of seawater, that a few rules and suggestions on the subject of preserving them in a healthy condition, from the pen of one of the most experienced keepers of marine animals, are now very acceptable. The instructions contained in this little book are simple, and quite sufficient to enable any one who attends to them to succeed in keeping alive many curious creatures.

To obviate the difficulty of obtaining water from the sea, Mr. Gosse has invented a mixture of dry salts, which, when dissolved in a certain quantity of river-water, will form a fluid possessing many of the properties of seawater, and capable of keeping many marine animals alive, as Mr. Gosse has proved by seventeen months' experience. He does not appear to be aware that Messrs. Brew and Schweitzer, of Brighton, sell “marine salts," obtained by evaporation from the sea; and that a solution of them in river or rain-water contains the whole of the component parts in the exact proportion in which they exist in the sea-water of the English Channel. If we were crabs, or periwinkles, we fancy we should like this better than Mr. Gosse's mixture of "salt" and "Epsom Salts."