bility. It is only the excess of that which in itself, and excited by proper subjects, is the true poetical feeling. But, carried to an excess, and called into play upon the most trivial and common-place occasions, it becomes mere sentimentality, and appears like affectation.

In its proper sphere, exercised upon subjects of sufficient dignity, and removed to a distance from the common-places of life, it is the source of the most lofty flights of poetry. But it is obvious that the same sort of feelings cannot be consistently excited by subjects which are in themselves mean and trifling. The personification of a mountain and of a dunghill are very different things. Not that subjects, which in this view are styled mean, are incapable of becoming the sources of poetical feeling; but that when they do become so, their power of excitement depends upon associations of a totally different kind.

Now it may be ungracious to say, of so fine a writer as the author of "The Foresters," that he has something of this fault; but it is nevertheless true. Still it is not a blemish of which we would make much account, our principal object being rather to suggest the peculiarity than to find fault with it. To many readers it is a beauty, and we confess that were it only occasional, we should esteem it such; but it is constant, not always pervading whole passages, though this happens often enough, but perpetually dropping in upon us in the midst of the most sober, every-day paragraphs. We quote a few expressions and passages, in which the species of affectation spoken of is exemplified.

"The houses of the more opulent looked out cheerfully, each over its own quiet pleasure-ground, nor seemed, in their unostentatious retirement," &c.

"He had felt on his side the motion of that virgin bosom, where purity, innocence, and loveliness were folded up together in most beautiful repose."

"There are often days, before February has closed, that come down unexpectedly and without warning from heaven, with a delightful summer feeling that is not exceeded in softness even by balmy June."

"Its white tower, and church-yard encircled with the murmur of that mountain torrent."

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They thought of themselves, and that sweet spring Sabbath, more than seventeen years ago, when in the gardens of Dovenest they found that a few words had betrothed them, and that a new

light, fairer than ever they had beheld before, was stealing over the woods of Dryden."

"Lucy, who never in all her life had been asked twice to do any thing she could do, warbled the wildest and most mournful spirit of the genius of her country. There were wet eyes during some of those airs; for worthy, indeed, were they of tears, sung as they now were by one to whom nature had taught the music of the heart, in whose sorrow innocence rejoices amidst the pauses of its gladness, and then returns more happy to its own living world. It seemed as she sung, that the composure of the soul within her almost sobered the golden gleam above her forehead, and touched with paleness the roses of her cheek. Fair moved the bosom of one not yet woman-grown, while those liquid murmurs left her lips apart in their beauty-and when at the close of the tune every tongue and eye applauded, Lucy soon recovered all her gladsome smiles, and lifted up from the sward, eyes that looked as if they could express no other emotion than that of rejoicing happiness."

To this last quotation particularly we would refer as an exquisite specimen. If there is any meaning hidden at the bottom of some of these expressions, it lies deeper than we can dig we must leave it to the initiated.

One more passage we quote, which has all this strangeness and singularity, but is still intelligible.

"But what did Miles Colinson think of Lucy Forester? He could not forget the hour when first he saw Ruth wringing out the rain from her ringlets, as she stood among them in the Vicarage, beseeching them to say if her mother was indeed alive. But now those ringlets, although they had lost something of that sunny glow which the tempest could not tame with all its deluge, were far more lovely than ever, in the subdued and tender light that shone over her thoughtful forehead. Then she had been accustomed to gaze on every thing she beheld, with the almost instinctive delight of childhood, but now Lucy understood more of the meanings on the face of nature, and looked over the heaven and the earth with a spirit of piety that felt God to be there, even while all her thoughts were about her fellow creatures and their habitations. Even when Lucy spoke of that festival on Windermere, which at the time had seemed to be more like a glorious train of sights passing in the trance of a fairy dream than a scene transacting on the bosom and banks of a real lake, it was with a calm and almost melancholy voice; for was she ever again to behold those clouds, and woods, and waterfalls, shadowed far down within the depths of that mirror, over whose surface not an air breathed to

veil with dim suffusion the reflected scenery of earth and heaven ? 'Am I ever again to be at Ellesmere,' thought Lucy; and the same thought, more eager, ardent, impassioned, and overwhelming, was in the heart of him to whom Lucy was every hour becoming dearer and more dear, till even the very sense of her surpassing beauty was lost in a love that lived upon her whole delightful character, and could never die away while life lasted, even if that beauty were to be utterly extinguished-for still the maiden at his side would be Lucy Forester, and none but she was ever to be cherished in his heart, whether it had been already doomed that she was thenceforth to be to him but a shadow, or a steady light that might shine on him forever."

It is not to be denied that this style of writing, adopted by one of so much taste, genius, and poetry, as the author of "The Foresters," has something in it pretty and captivating, just as a little affectation sometimes sets off a handsome woman to advantage. Still we may have too much of it. Its relish will not last forever; it palls upon the sense; and in some cases becomes almost nauseous. It is only when united with great power of conception, a rich an 1 fertile fancy, and with pure and elevated sentiments, that we are made to forget it.

We have dwelt longer upon this point than we intended, and fear that we shall be understood as speaking with more severity than we mean. It was in fact rather our object to point out and designate, than to censure it, for we feel certainly a diffidence in representing that as a blemish which so many regard as a beauty, so many for whose opinion in matters of taste we have a high respect. We feel the more diffidence when we remark, as we have often done, the very great resemblance in many peculiarities of manner and matter-we do not say imitation, for we believe there is none-between the author of this work and a writer among ourselves, who has now been too long silent ;-a writer whose idleness once afforded us the literary pleasure of which it now deprives us.

There is something very touching in the account of Lucy's arrival at the Vicarage of Ellesmere, from Scotland, whence she had travelled alone on hearing of her mother's dangerous sickness.

"The Vicar, and indeed the whole family, had nearly given up all hope of Mrs Forester's recovery. A fatal crisis seemed to be at hand; and as if each person read in the other's eyes an intimation that they ought all to leave the room, one by one they began to do so, and at last none were left there with the dying per

son but Mr Ianson and her husband. The family collected themselves together in the large room below, and there they sat, not without sobbing and tears, fearing every moment to see Mr Ianson coming down stairs, with a countenance telling that all was over. And thus they had sat nearly an hour,―the storm was hushed— and sunshine was again struggling through the gloom, and finding its way through the lead-latticed window to the floor of the room where they had been sitting so dark and silent. The swallows were beginning to twitter without-and nature slowly to reassume her customary cheerfulness and tranquillity. The door openedand a stranger girl, stepping timidly across the floor, asked eagerly, 'Is this Mr Colinson's, the Vicar of Ellesmere? O Sir, I am the daughter of Michael Forester and Agnes Hay, and my name is Lucy. Is my mother in the land o' the living?'

"Many kind tongues, and eyes, and bands, were soon comforting the dutiful daughter; but Lucy heard nothing but that her mother was not dead. 'Oh! surely you are not deceiving me-and yet why are you all weeping so? Where is my father-perhaps he too is gone, and God's judgments more terrible than I can bear? Here am I, a' the way frae Scotland, come to pray by mother's bedside-and God has brought me here unharmed, by means o' the kind hands o' my fellow creatures, who all helped me on towards this house, so far away from Bracken-Braes where we live! Oh! my bonnie lassie, tell me-tell me-if my mother is indeed likely to live!' Ruth Colinson felt her own hopes strengthened by the passionate earnestness of this appeal, and said with a faint smile to Lucy, that her mother had not been worse since the morning, and that perhaps the danger might be past. Just then Mr Janson came down stairs-and there was no fatal expression in his countenance-so Ruth once more assured her that there was hope. Then Lucy sat down and cried bitterly as if her heart would break.

"At such a time there was no need of deception or concealment. None knew how God was dealing with her in the room above; but here was the creature dearest to her on this earth, brought to her bedside as by a prayer. So they led Lucy to the sick-room, and in a moment, with every sob hushed, she was on her knees at her mother's bedside, with her forehead resting upon the hands of her father.

"The mind of Agnes had been wandering for some time—and the fever had caused many afflicting dreams. Poor Lucy drowned in that black marl-pit-merciful God' see her-see her clinging to a branch! What can a blind father do to save his childoh what shrieks! what shrieks!' Michael turned his sightless countenance towards Mr lanson, as if he looked for comfort. In the agony of his despair, he believed that in medical knowl

edge lay a foresight of futurity, and he felt as if even the issues of life and of death were committed to his mortal hands. 'Oh! father-father-I, your daughter Lucy, am here-put your hand upon my head and know-my mother's face is not so changed as I thought and she will live-will live-and go back with us, under the mercy of the Almighty, to Bracken-Braes.' Michael Forester sat for a few moments mute and motionless-and then he, too, knelt down by the bedside of Agnes, and laid his cheek on Lucy's head, the touch of whose hair, wet as it was with the rains, and sorely dishevelled, was familiar to the yearnings of his inmost heart, and calmed in some measure the severity of his protracted passion."

The following extract shows accurate observation of human character and conduct under certain circumstances.

"Meanwhile various judgments were passed on the unfortunate girl and her friends at Bracken-Braes. It would sometimes seem as if the human heart, even in a state of comparative innocence and simplicity, found a pleasure in the worst distresses that can befal our common nature, and eyes that ought to overflow with compassion are often averted from suffering with a coldness that is indeed absolute cruelty. The young feared to pity Mary Morrison lest their own purity might be suspected, and the old. lost in their anxiety for the virtue of their own children, the common feelings of humanity for her who had deviated from its paths. The censure was generally loud, the pity in a whisper; and when, in a week or two, gentler judgments and feelings arose, people were beginning to lose an interest in what did not immediately concern themselves, and Mary Morrison's name, if not forgotten, was unpronounced as if by general agreement. Neither was the conduct of Michael Forester and his wife allowed to pass without many comments--some of them by no means favourable: but his commanding character silenced open blame, and Michael was not a man to heed the opinions of the timid or uninformed, in a case where his duty shone clearly before him, and where nature and religion alike bade him shelter the orphan head. He did by no means despise the opinions of his fellow-creatures, but his conscience was his monitor, and a monitor enlightened by the Bible. Therefore no misgivings assailed the constancy of his protecting affection towards poor Mary Morrison-and he determined to see her vindicated before the eyes of men, as he believed her to be nearly so in the eyes of God."

We have only to add, by way of verbal criticism, that there is a remarkable singularity in the use of the word that, which can only be illustrated by examples, of which several may be