EMILIE CAREEN'S BIRTHRIGHT. *

Tins novel is of a less original kind than The Rose of TistelOn, by the same author. In lieu of a crime of interest, by stern and rugged natures accustomed to struggle with the elements and the world, there is a fraudulent entry in a parish-register to antedate a birth, with the view of getting wrongful possession of an estate for his son by a selfish ambitious father. Instead of a striking and characteristic picture of homely life among a peculiar class, The Birthright is occupied with common everyday persons—as officers, ladies, students, professional people. Individual variety is occa- sionally produced by some peculiar idiosyneracy, but that pecu- liarity is rather singular than striking. In short, the present fic- tion, both in subject and treatment, belongs more to the common stock of novel-writers than Emilie Carlen's previous work, while the accidental novelty of Swedish manners has been brushed -away by the novels of Frederica Bremer, and the peculiarities of Swedish composition, very often opposed to English ideas, attracts more attention.

The translator intimates in a notice, that " the liberty of omis- sion has been exercised somewhat unsparingly . . . . by curtailing such superfluous matter as, in the eyes of an English public, would only serve to detract from the general interest of 'The Birthright." Too much of the minuteness which caused a feeling akin to heavi- ness in The Rose of Tisteldn is found in the present tale, notwith- standing the translator's curtailments; and being displayed on sub- jects that are common in class and with little force in themselves, the effect is flatness and lack of interest. We know not whether anything is to be ascribed to the respective translators, or whether it is altogether owing to the difference of subject, but The Birth- right, compared with its predecessor, seems almost by another hand, it is so deficient in vigorous dramatic spirit.

There seems an object in the writer which gives unity and purpose to the book. The evil effects of primogeniture are of course well pointed by the story itself ; for it is the anxiety of Colonel Baron X-- to secure to his child an estate which is to go to the eldest son of two daughters, that gives rise to the fraud, -embitters the life of his wife, and on the discovery and ex- posure many years after causes his own death. Klas Malchus, the Baron's son, a studious philosophical youth, the very reverse of his worldly and ambitious father, is attached to a girl in a much inferior position to his own ; and her sincerity and atten- tion when the blow- comes, not only reconciles the family of Elas to the match, but may seem to draw a conclusion a la Pamela; though to be worth much it should be shown that an equal in rank would, owing to her rank, have acted differently. A variety of persons and incidental stories are connected with the main plot; the most important of which is the love of Richard L— (the great are designated by initials) for the daughter of the Baron, and the obstacle to which is a painful and incurable disease. Con- sumption, to remove a heroine, is common in English fiction ; but heroism displayed in bearing sheer pain, and declining marriage because early death must separate the pair, is not the way in which English sentiment shows itself; and the following touch

of post mortem seeffis strange in romance.

"The following night she slept sweetly, after taking the prescribed medi- cine, and awoke in the morning in a condition which, compared to that of the previous days, was one of delightful ease. She purposed making good use of these hours of reap t-.), firat to have an interview with her mother, and then to take leave of kiln.

"'Dear Mary,' said Isabel, as the former as usual assisted her to plait the rich tresses of her soft dark hair, • I shall dress today for the last time. You must therefore attire me as well as you can. Let me have one of my white gowns—the one with the prettiest lace trimming. Perhaps I ought not to wear a white one ,' and slie cast an inquiring glance at the mirror. I think, however, that will be the best. How do you think I look today ?'

"Mary turned away, pretending that she had dropped a comb, in order to conceal her tears.

" 'Do not give yourself so much trouble, Mary ; for I can see in the glass that which you would hide from me. You doubtless think that I look like a living corpse. I am very lode, it is true but still there comes a tinge of colour now and then when I speak. Dear Mary, pray smooth my hair down a little lower ; give me the comb—I will place it myself as I wish it to be. Look, that is much better ; it conceals the hollowness of my cheeks.'

• The Birthright. By Emilie Carldn, Author of " The Rose of Tistenn." From Original, by the Translator of " St. Roche." In three volumes. Published by

• A...Icy. ,6 Her hair being dressed, she put on a white slip, and over it a lodge peig- noir, the light and airy folds of which adapted themselves admirably to her still graceful and lofty figure. • ' " ' Marc,' said she, when she had finished, 'this dress is yours ; you must keep it for my sake. And now, as I am Still able to speak of that ii hich I have at heart, I require from you a promise--a solemn promise, which must not be broken. After the spirit has fled, I bequeath my body to your guardianship ; and you must requite my confidence by not suffering any one to behold me from the moment that my eyes are closed, except my mother and the doctor. It is necessary, for the benefit of science, that Dr. Manning should have me at his disposal for a few hours ; but after. that, when von have spread the white veil over my face, no one must again lift it, least orall Richard ! I forbid you to leave him any opportunity of beholding nie as it corpse !' "

This love episode of Richard and Isabel is, however, the most interesting portion of the book, and indeed the only one that really

fixes the reader's attention. It may not in its nature be orthodoxy, but it is very good heterodoxy, though wanting stirring interest. After Richard has heard his fate from Isabel, he travels to dissi- pate his thoughts, and returns iu consequence of a letter from Dr. Manning.

"Isabel's mind gradually passed from religious musing to the contempla- tion of the only other object which had still power to absorb her thoughts. " Once more she allowed herself the luxury of retracing in thought those happy hours when he had sat there beside her, or upon the stool at her.feet.

She saw him as he was then, when life still appeared before his eyes invested in all its rainbow hues: she heard him speak of joy, of the bright and pre- cious gift which he so dearly- loved. Alas ! his own soul was then full of joy —life had been very dear to him, until it had deprived him of all his cherished hopes.

"But Isabel would not suffer her thoughts to dwell long upon the time of trial. She called up Richard's image before her as he then was, in the

freshness of his young beauty, when his unblighted spirit exercised such'a

powerful fascination over all around him. On a sudden her eyes'fell upon the half-open door, and it was with a feeling to which Isabel's strong spirit

had hitherto been a stranger, that she then beheld, or thought she beheld, a. figure, which, illumined by the faint moonlight, bore indeed the semblance of Richard, but yet was not he for the countenance on which her eyes were

rigidly fixed bore not a trace of the hue of life. Persuaded that her imagi- nation, which she always mistrusted, had conjured up a phantom before her, she closed her eyes; but still that image haunted her brain. A. deep sigh burst from her lips, and it was with a sensation which words are inadequate

to describe, that she heard it echoed by one deeper still. Making a powerful effort, she again turned her eyes towards the door—it was impossible for her

longer to believe in an ocular delusion. The figure was still there, but the sunken eves, the colourless lips, bore the stamp of death. The blood froze in Isabel's veins : she had but one thought, that Richard bad preceded her, and that it was his spirit which had now come to seek her. She involun- tarily extended her arms, and faintly murmured, 'Richard!'

" But her senses had nearly given way—for he who sprazig forward and clasped her to his heart was no disembodied spirit. It was Richard himself —Richard, in whom seven months of absence had wrought this almost in- credible change.

"'Richard ! is it you—you ? yes ! you are indeed Richard' ' - and Isabel uo longer struggled to restrain her anguish on again beholding him whom she loved so deeply.

" 'Yes, Isabel ! I am come back to you! I had stopped at the door' for I thought you were asleep. Once, but it is long ago now, I found you sleep-

mg in this very room : but things were very different then, and you most of all ! Forgive me if I frightened you, but my own fear was almost beyond endurance when I beheld . . . . Oh! Isabel, you are no longer like yourself —and yet always the same Isabel to me.'

"'My feeling was the same as yours, Richard! We must mirror our- selves in each other's looks.'

" ' Henceforward, that is the best that we can do! I have remained ab- sent as long as I could ; but now let us spend the little time that still remains to us together. Tell me that you will suffer my presence here? If it is dis- agreeable to you to see me, let me at least be near you, that I may watch your breathing, listen to the sound of your voice. I cannot live on where I may not sometimes hear it ; and I cannot die in peace while you remain on earth.'

" Stay, Richard, stay—remain with me henceforward if you will—we will comfort and support each other. But oh ! what happiness would it have been to me to know that you bore your sorrow manfully.' " Manfully,' repeated Richard, with a smile upon his lips which was nei: ther sorrowful nor bitter, and yet full of a reproach more eloquent than words. And do you then know, Isabel, how I have struggled ? No, you do not know it, and it is needless that you should : only thus much will I tell you—I should not have returned hither if I had not certainly known that the vehemence of my affection will never again disturb your peace. I can now be with you without ever reminding you by a single word that there was a time when I was the slava and victim of a frantic passion. I too have acquired calmness now.'

"And to judge by the tone of his voice and by his appearance, he was in- deed calm; but he did well to say nothing of his inward feelings. He wished

to conceal from her eyes all the stormy emotions that reigned within, for he would have scorned to appear before her as a suppliant for her pity. No, it was not that which he wanted ; all he desired was to be near her during the final struggle."

The persons of the book have one great feature—they are natu- ral. The bad are not needlessly bad, the good are not without weakness ; but as both the leading plots are grave in their nature and tragic in their termination, the atmosphere of common society is perhaps hardly appropriate to the general sentiment of the piece.