WATSON'S TREVETHLIN.* THIS book may be looked at in a

threefold point of view. There are passages in it resembling the descriptive essay; quiet, quaint, but more elaborated than the essay requires, when standing alone. There are sketches of society, arguing knowledge of life, as well as observa- tion. Lastly, there is the story or fiction; which displays a power of delineating character and exhibiting it in action, a steady consistency in the persons, and (what is much more rare) in the consequences to which their conduct leads, a good deal of dramatic spirit, and a scholarly com- position. The theme of the tale is not entitled to so much praise. Mr. Watson does not seem to have taken a sufficiently comprehensive view of life to discern those events which are adapted for fiction,—if, indeed, modern society, in an old country, furnishes any sufficiently stirring for varied and eventful action. Hence, he is thrown back upon the common materials of novelists, sometimes a kind not altogether consonant to the ideas of the present day, or even of the time—about thirty years ago— in which the scene is laid. With the hacknied subjects of a secret and disputed marriage, and a trial for an estate, are mixed up matters equally backnied and of an older age; such as an antique prophecy in verse touching the fortunes of two rival houses, a bitter family hatred, more resembling the blood-feuds of communities with clanships, or the Italian enmities of the middle ages : and these incidents are placed side by side with the common business and pleasures of every-daylife.

But though the staple of the work is not Very new or congruous, there is nothing hacknied or commonplace in the treatment. The scholar, the attentive observer, the man of society, is visible through- out, and gives force and truth to the book. The father of the hero Trevethlan, in his isolation, pride, and comparative poverty, is at least a hundred years older than the time in which he lives. The pride and hatred which he bequeaths to his son are equally " un-English " for the nineteenth century ; yet a use is made of them to indicate lessons of life, and to point morals without preaching them. Mrs. Pendarrel, the old passion of Mr. Trevethlan the father, and the object of the hatred, is as extreme in her enmity (because her coquetry was too promptly resented): but apart from this, she exhibits the hard, polished, able, relentless woman of the world, in her worldly projects for her daughters, and her general conduct. The main story, inapplicable as it is to modern times, is made a vehicle for description of modern society, rather than mere manners, of which there is not much. The narrative also bespeaks the man of the world and the gentleman. There is nothing about it exaggerated or theatrical in a foolish aiming at effects; and the author judiciously steers clear of the unpleasant.

As a sample of the writing, we will take a couple of extracts; one a passing sketch of society, the other a scene connected with the story.

* Trevethlan ; a Cornish Story. By William Davy Watson, Esq., Barrister-ataaw. In three volumes. Published by Smith and Elder.

The Cornish pride of the elder Trevethlan induces him to charge his son n his deathbed not to accept of place, or to sully his family honours by o

the chicanery of the bar—unless under a feigned name. The young man comes up to London as a "Mr. Morton, with recommendations to their own family solicitor from a person as secluded and ignorant- of the world as himselt There is perhaps a little artistical colouring in the following ; butit is a pleasant sketch of what was, and may yet be, the manner of

ENTERING FOR THE BAR.

Obeying these instructions, the neophyte traversed the hurrying throng of Fleet street, and passed under the ancient arch that forms the portal of Inner Temple Lana; not without a momentary recollection of Dante's famous "All hope abandon, you who enter here." He felt immediately that he was in the toils: law station- on each band showed their red tape and quills and parchment, polite Blips of tlm latter presenting King George's greeting to his sheriff of what county you will; dapper clerks were bustling along with bundles of paper; every door-post was crowded with a boat of names, among which Randolph might recognize some he bad been used to read in the newspaper. He passed under the porchtof the church, recalling the days when the sword was more powerful than the pen; read the inscription recording the fire and rebuilding of the cloister; and looked with respect on the powdered wigs in the hairdresser's window. He felt benumbed by the high, dismal, worm-eaten buildings, but was relieved when the sound of fall- ing water attracted his eye to the fountain, flinging its column of silver into the air amidst elms and sycamores. Hastening towards this green spot, he saw the hall of which Mr. Winter had spoken, and proceeded to the stairs leading to the

quiet little garden, one of the pleasantest retreats in all London. * * *

The office which he sought was close at hand. On making his application, he was provided with a printed form, and instructed to fill up the blanks and return it. With this he obtained admission Ito the garden, and sat down in one of the alcoves by the river-side to examine the document. Perplexity fell upon him as he read. Two banisters were to certify that they knew him, and believed him to be a gentleman. The expression awoke all the pride of a Trevethlan.

"Was my father then right?" he thought, gazing moodily on the water. "lie this a course meet for one of our name? To skulk among men in disguise? To beg certificates of honour? Believed to be a gentleman ! Already my dream is fading away. Oh! my own sister, would we were back at Trevethlan ! Yet shall I vex you too with my doubts? . . . Know me? Who knows me? Who in London knows Randolph Morton ?" Irresolute and half desponding, Randolph returned to Mr. Winter's. That gen- tleman soon solved the difficulty implied in the conclusion of the above reverie. "Come with me," he said; conducting the neophyte to some neighbouring cham- bers, presented him to Mr. Flotsam, and told his errand. "Happy to oblige a friend of yours, Winter," said the conveyancer, signing the paper ; "hope Mr. Morton will prosper." The second signature was still more a matter of form ; Mr. Winter merely sending the paper to Mr. Jetsam, with his compliments. "There," said he to Randolph; 'now take it back to the Temple; refer to Mr. Flotsam as your acquaintance; and in a week or so you will hear of your admission." It was as the lawyer said. But the new student received the announcement with feelings very different from those he had so long cherished in his home by the sea.

Mrs. Pendarrel, having married in pique on her quarrel with Tre- vethlam becomes harsh, crabbed, and despotic. She has compelled one daughter into a "good match" by art and force, assisted by Gertrude's desire to escape from home. She is planning a similar marriage for the ether daughter, hastened by a suspicion of Mildred's attachment to young Trevethlan. The following exhibits the beginning of the difficulties to which one of the heroines is exposed.

MOTHER AND DAUGHTERS.

In such meditations was Mildred absorbed when her mother came to inform her, with stately calmness, that Mr. Melcornb had made a formal demand of her band; that the offer was highly acceptable to herself and to Mr. Pendarrel; that her suitor would pay his respects to her the next day. As soon as Mild had recovered some composure, after the short scene which followed, she threw on her bonnet—at least she was not yet a prisoner in the house—and walked to Ca- vendish Square. Mrs. Winston read the anxiety of her mind at one glance. "Mildred, dearest," she exclaimed, "what is the matter? what has happened?" "Do you recollect," her sister inquired in turn, with a short scornful laugh which Gertrude did not like, "what we said of Mr. Melcomb some time ago? Well it seems I am to marry him: that is what's the matter." "Marry Melcomb! Not while I have a home to offer you," Mrs. Winston said, hastily. "That is, not against your wishes, dear. You may learn to like the man. He is said to have very winning ways." "Gertrude, Gertrude ! do not jest. But we may be interrupted . . . ."

"Come with me, little timidity. Fanchon shall tell them I am not at home." Mrs. Winston led her sister to her boudoir. "Now, dear, talk to me and the Discs. You can sit with your back to me if you like." "Oh, Gertrude, I think my heart will break."

"Of course, dear. Quite correct." "Nay, listen, sister," Mildred remonstrated. "I was sitting this morning doing nothing, thinking, thinking of . . . . when mamma came suddenly into my room. I was quite startled. Mamma was looking half merry and half solemn. You know, Gertrude?"

"I do, dear," said the elder sister with some bitterness. .

"So she began to flatter me in different ways, and said a great many little things that I could really hardly attend to, and something about the admiration.... and then about obedience and duty ; and the words seemed to pass over my mind without making any impression. 'Till at last mamma assumed a very grave look, and said I must be aware of the particular attentions which had been paid me for a great while. There Were, indeed, some attentions that I had felt, but not for a

great while . . I was confused, Gertrude, by the tone in which mamma spoke: she seemed to expect an answer. I do not know what I said."

And Mildred here made a pause in her story, after which she proceeded with more animation.

"Mamma did not keep me long in suspense. A gentleman—highly distin- guished—neighbour in the country—general favourite—might have married so and so. Could I not guess? I had taken heart. Neighbour! I thought. I considered the geography of Pendarrel. Bounded on the east, I said to myself, by Mr. Peristyle, married. On the south, Sir Simon Rogers, who married his dairymaid, and she is just dead. Dear mamma, I asked, am I to be the second Lady Rogers? She laughed, and bade me guess again. West, thought I, west between us and the sea And a romantic idea struck me, that I was to be a Peace-offering ; and with a wild kind of hope I exclaimed, Surely, mamma, it is not my cousin Randolph? Gertrude, I wish you had seen our mother's face at that moment."

"I can imagine it," Mrs. Winston said.

"For my part," Mildred continued, "my eyes had filled with tears. After a moment's silence, mamma said, in a tone that froze my heart, 'You began at the vrrong end. Mr. Melcomb is your suitor; will be your husband.' Sister, I did not believe it. I fancy I smiled. Mamma went on in the same voice—' Let me have no boarding-school nonsense, Mildred, if you please. Rely on your mother's experience, and imitate your sister's prudence. Mr. Melcomb will wait upon you

tomorrow.' It was still some time before I understood. I begged for pity, for delay, for anything. Mamma was very, very stern." Mildred threw her arms round Gertrude, and bent her face upon her neck. "Marry him!" she exclaimed in a whisper, "never!"