MISS SUNBURY'S EVELYN..

THE Germans and French have a species of fiction called art-novels, ia which the customary story of romance is made a vehicle for artistic de- scription and criticism ; the feelings, aspirations, and studies or self. training of the hero, to some degree taking the place of the passions of the common tale. Miss Banbury, in Evelyn, has adopted a newer course and grafted a fiction on a book of travels. From Stockholm to Rome, via Naples and Mount Vesuvius, the loves, the lovers, and mystery of Eve- lyn, alternate with the description of sights and scenery, and an account of inns and modes of locomotion, with remarks on manners and matters in general ; the form of a dialogue between imaginary persons rendering the topics more terse, pointed, and piquant in style, than could be managed in a common tour without force or artifice. In addition to travelling sketches, there is also a good deal of modern revolutionary politics mixed up in the story.

The framework or tale is well enough adapted for its purpose. At Stockholm the author or tourist meets with an English lady who is sought by a Swedish noble ; but she repels his passion, at first mysteriously; afterwards it turns out that she has an attachment of her own. The chance that discovers to her friend the affection of Evelyn, throws her in the way of her real lover; but she avoids him, in obedience to some mysterious circumstances that render it necessary she should proceed to Rome. Thither the friends go, by Denmark and Germany, Genoa and Naples ; encountering common adventures and making travelling ob- servations, but with mystery still hanging over the heroine. At Rome, at Venice, and again at Rome, the plot thickens, with a mixture of mo- dern politics, and of conspiracy in the style of melodrama and romance. There is an elderly mysterious man, who encounters Evelyn in the Coli- seum by night ; a younger and still more mysterious person, whom she meets at evening in St. Mark's, where fearful allusions are overheard; and at Rome she has an interview with the Pope, and, though a Protestant, makes a confession to him. When the appointed time comes to end the novel, the mystery is explained. Two of Evelyn's connexions are im- plicated in the revolutionary projects of the Continent ; the elder as an originating conspirator ; Henry, the younger and the brother of her cousin lover, as an instrument. By the arts of his uncle and a Polish demixep of rank, Henry is made to poison his father-in-law and his wife ; and it is a vow of secrecy and of watchfulness over the safety of her husband, extorted by this wife upon her deathbed from Evelyn, that is the cause of the mystery that attends upon the heroine from the opening to the end.

A double or treble subject is not always so various or effective as at first sight it promises to be; and the attempts to give variety or interest in this mode generally fail. Events and passion are the true elements of the novel : the introduction of morals in didactic, of art and criticism in art novels, and too much of history in historical romance, generally fail, by overlaying or dividing the interest. Such is to some extent the case in Evelyn. The travelling sketches stop the story ; the introduction of fictitious persons sometimes gives an artificial or affected character to the descriptions of the tourist. The principal fault of Evelyn, however, is the vague nature of the mystery in the earlier stages, and its com- mon melodramatic development. It may be laid down as a canon, that the reader must see grounds for a perplexity; it will not do to tell him that a mystery exists. A sudden death, for instance, may be involved in suspicion; a character or characters may in consequence be involved in mystery until the novelist finds it convenient to clear it up. Merely to tell of a sudden death, is unimpressive to the reader; but to "make a mystery about nothing," is as tedious in a novel as it is ridiculous in real life. Miss Banbury has also given a slight character to parts of the book by too much of feminine reverie and exclamation.

The following passages will give a fair idea of the manner in which the interest of the book of travels is mixed with the personal characteristics of fiction. The first quotation describes a scene of riot in Rome before the overthrow of the Pontiff; the second embodies a widely-spread idea among the Italians, that the EnglishProtestants have no religion at all.

OUTBREAK AT ROHE IN THE LAST DAYS OF PIO BONO.

We went out into the streets: what a scene they presented I The months of summer are favourable to conspiracies at Rome, because men who fly from the Campagna to sleep all the warm nights on the flags of the city are quite disposed to accept any other work that is offered to them when that of the fields is sue. pended. But on the present occasion the usual history of conspiracies was said to be reversed. This Roman affair was not a physical force demonstration against the moral power of a government ; nor a plot among the low for the destruction of the high: it was called a conspiracy against the people; and its authors.were named by the people as persons in high places and having authority—Cardinals, ecclesiastics, officers, police, the Governor of Rome, and all who were obnoxious as the enemies of the amnestied political offenders. And then, on the square of St. Angelo, did we behold the mustering of the new Civic Guard—the European favourite of 1848, which all governments were to organize against themselves. There were assembled the princes, nobles, and populace of Rome, and all were ready for arms and action; and there were the most peaceable Pope's Ministers giving out rusty muskets, amid shouts of patriot- ism and Papaism; for they would all defend it buono Papa to their latest gssll There was Prince Torlonia in command of a battalion, and Prince Corsim at the head of the genuine Romans; the Trasteverini, who though they refuse by marriage, materna, or language, with.the degenerate race of the modem city, united heart and hand in this regeneration of its old age. And there was.C rouacchio in all his glory, proud of his influence both with people and princes; for he had been invited to a banquet given to him by the nobles, and he had had a gold snuffbox presented to him in recognition of his talents as a la0Pillar.lea:ler. He was now Captain Angelo Brunetti; but he was then also and still is Cice- rouacchio, the man of the people, nominally acting under Prince SalviaP; And there we saw the newly-organized but not yet uniformed Civic Guar, marching con amore in their frock-caats and buff bandeliers, a sabre by their sides, a musket pressed with all the energy of affection to their breasts; a steP, Evelyn ; or a Journey from Stockholm to Rome, In 1847-45. By miss Bmiearyl In two volumes. Published by Bent'ey.

look, so unlike those of the terrified, awkward, repentant recruits we see awaken-

u ing nder the drill of a corporal from the gay deceits which entangled them into .673 service of their country. The Papal soldier was walking backward with his cane directed to their toes, while they, quite careless of treading upon his, march- ed on making him jump a step or two backward, and keep his distance, as they clutched their newly-acquired old muskets, in a manner that plainly said, " No matter how we use our feet, you shall soon see how we use our arms.' And then all through the streets and before every door were infant heroes, of four years old and upwards, patrolling with tin guns and leathern belts and tiny swords, darting their weapons full in your face, and shouting with a terrible threat, "Viva Pio Nono!' and one, as I turned the corner of a street, popped his tin musket quite in mine, and pulled the trigger just under my nose, crying as the alternative for my life, "Viva Pio None solo! death to the Cardinals! death to the black robes! death to the Austrians! life to Pio Nono alone !" "Viva Pio Nono solo!" I cried, glad to escape death from a tin musket so easily. Yes. Let him live alone! poor Pio None! The only man to live in Rome! in solitary state to sit upon a throne which never had nor can have any to re- semble it in this world; like the crowned skeleton of Charlemagne, the emblem of a past-away power, the representative of what once existed. "Viva Pio Nono solo!" I cried, in terror of the tin musket and of the daring little Roman who aimed it, bolt upright under my chin. "If he lives, he will live wee; if you pull down the throne"—I said, shaking my head at the four-year-old urchin, but only daring to speak English—" if you pull down the throne which St. Peter and Constantine and Pepin built up, why it could not fall with a better man upon it so Viva Pio Nano solo! you young Rienzi. I should like to send You to the infant-school of the worthy Prince &brae Ceesarini, which the Pope you fight for has permitted; where, I dare say, you would take much pleasure in singing a pretty hymn to the tune of 'See the conquering hero comes.'"

"My dear," cried Evelyn, "what a long speech you have been making to the child."

It is very wrong to go through a land without endeavouring to do some good in it," I replied, "especially in such perilous times."

All through that night the tread of hurrying feet, the distant roar of the mul- titude, all the sounds that bespeak a popular commotion, kept us on the alert. We could not retire to rest, although quite convinced that that rest would be un- broken: for the Romans had gained all they for the present moment wanted, the decree for the organization of the National Guard, published at night, and pro- claimed amid a general illumination, and the removal of the ministers and officers who were the objects of enmity to their leaders.

ITALIAN IDEA OF ENGLISH RELIGION.

My head ached, and Evelyn was rather later than usual; and when at last I entered her room to tell her that if we wished to set off on our lost explorations before the sun came forth in its Italian ardour, we had no time to lose, I found her in her white dressing-robe, her gleaming hair floating over it at its full length, talking to a little black-eyed sallow-cheeked Roman girl, of perhaps ten years old, who stood before her with hands clasped on her little breast, and such re- gards fastened upon Evelyn's face as a devout Italian' bestows on the beautiful picture of Madonna.

She was a poor washerwoman's child, who had come to her on a commonplace matter of business.

But this matter was arranged just as I entered; and the black-eyed sallow- checked child stood gazing upon her, and, in a low tone, which was full of feeling, murmured in a manner the most perfectly guileless, "La signorina e bells." Evelyn smiled an answer to the admiring eyes. "BelliNima!" she cried, in a grave ecstacy, on seeing that smile; "beautiful hair! beautiful eyes! ad, the young lady is beautiful."

"My child," said Evelyn, "my hair and eyes are not beautiful in England." "Oh! they are beautiful in Rome," cried the little creature, pressing her hands in rapture on her breast.

"Is the young lady a stranger ?"

"Yes, my dear, I am English," Evelyn replied; and, with a few kind words, passed into the adjoining closet to finish her toilet. In consequence, however, of my telling her that I found the sun had risen too high for us to go out with comfort, she stood in the recess of the window, looking out of it; to our mutual surprise, the dark, rather sickly-looking little Italian fol- lowed, and planted herself opposite to her admired Inglese. Looking earnestly upon her lovely face, the child asked, "Does the signorina believe in God ? "

Evelyn started ; I did so too; so unexpectedly came the question. The child thought she did not comprehend it. "The great God," she said, twittering her little fingers up towards the bright morning sky, "the great God who made all things—all these," and the fingers fluttered still more ; does the signorina believe in the good God?"

"Yes, undoubtedly, I believe in God," said Evelyn; the great and good God who made and upholds all things." The child looked relieved ; she drew a deep breath, and said " That is good; the young lady is English, yet she believes in God." There was a silence: the little inquisitor was not quite satisfied. Leaning for- ward, and looking still more anxious, she said, "But the good Saviour, the Re- deemer? oh, he IS good, he shed his blood for our sins, he died for sinners; does the beautiful lady believe in the good Saviour ? "

The tears sprang into Evelyn's eyes.

"Dear child, yes," she said; "I trust I do, with all my heart, believe in the Saviour. He only is the Saviour of our souls, and his blood alone can atone for our sins. Yes, my dear child, I too believe in the good Saviour." With an expression of rapture, the little creature once more folded her small thin bands on her bosom; but a deep shade of some doubt, some inquiry she longed to make, dwelt on her innocent face. She evidently could not bear to leave that doubt unsolved, and, once more leaning forward, she asked, "But, la Santa Madre; does the beautiful lady believe in the Holy Mother?"

"My child," said Evelyn, I believe in the Blessed Virgin Mary; that is, I believe that that holy woman was the mother of our dear Lord's human nature. I honour and reverence her memory; but I believe she was only a woman, holier end better than any other woman, but still only a mortal being, and therefore I cannot pray to her, or worship her, as I do our Father in Heaven and Christ our Redeemer; and when I go to church I cannot pray to her, but to God the Father only, through Jesus, our mediator and advocate." The child stood in thought for a minute or two before her, intently gazing on her countenance; then, bending forward, as if her doubts were satisfied, she raised "the beautiful lady's" hand to her lips and kissed it, saying, " The signorina is good. She is English; yet she believes in God; she believes in the good Re- deemer ; she goes to church; she will not pray to la Santa Madre; but the sig- norina is good"; and, kissing the fair hand again, she went away.