AN UNKIND NOVELIST.* AUTHORS are very cruel ; especially, if

we may be allowed the bull, authoresses. In old times tales and romances ended, for the most part, well ; now-a-days they almost always end unsatisfac- torily, if not badly. We suspect that novelists revenge themselves on unfriendly critics, public-spiritless librarians, and unapprecia- tive readers, by taking this mean advantage of them with malice aforethought, and conspiring with the publishers, who are, to all intents and purposes, accessories before the fact. No doubt it is very amusing to them to feel how completely we are in their power, and how they can torture our susceptible feelings to any extent, and then, without leaving the ghost of a ray of light, nod a cheerful good-bye, as a burglar might; to a miserable house- holder bound down with strong cords to his bed. But what is sport to the boys is death to the frogs, and how are the unfor- tunate critics to prosecute their arduous labours with their feel- ings—which are to them as the antennte of the crustacea for discerning and discriminating the nature of the food offered for their consideration—all lacerated, torn, and broken ? Or have our

* Sweet, not Lasting. By Annie B. Lead. London: Sampson Low, Itarston, and 0o.

modern authors decided, in their wisdom, that their tales must be true transcripts of life, and that in real life not only does true love never run smooth, but that it invariably ends its course by dashing itself to pieces over some terrible fall? Can it not content theta to break the current repeatedly with rapids and cascades innumerable, without casting 'it headlong, at last, over a fatal Niagara ? Does it never occur to them that, thanks- to a wisdom somewhat more beneficent than theirs, life is not all tragedy,—that tragedy is, indeed, the rare exception?

It is said, in reply, that novel-readers are, in the main, a self-indulgent race, requiring to be roused by sharp re- minders of what trial is to others, and of what life may have in store for themselves. We do not much believe in the value of fictitious sorrow. Our experience teaches us that such mourners heal their brief wounds by "a hair of the dog that bit them,"— that they fill the breach with another novel, and so on, "in infinite progression." 'We feel much more sympathy for that class of readers to whom a good novel is a welcome relief and recreation, only too sadly needed to repair the waste caused by this relent- lessly exacting age. And sadness, except as a foil or contrast, is- no part of recreation, unless it be the precursor of joy. Is there not sufficient faithfulness to life, and sufficient discipline for the reader, if the poor actors in the fiction be well belaboured, and tossed, and pummelled—by way of refining influence, or deserved punishment—on the road, without being robbed and murdered at their inn? Why not extend to them and to the anxious spectators a portion of that catholic charity which vouchsafes peace after repentance, and sleep after toil ? Now here is a cruel case of a little Irish maiden, beautiful, and lovable, and gay in a pensive manner ; pure, and simple, and trustful. Before we meet her she has been bereft of her parents, afterwards she is bereft of her lover by a heartless flirt, then she is. bereft of her only relative and protector—a dear, indulgent aunt—and finally, of every penny of property or income ; and when, in this state of absolute desolation, which she is bearing in the most gentle and heroic manner, her lover returns to her side, cruel Miss Annie B. Lefurt won't let her have him. She sends- her away, instead, to a French nunnery, and leaves the unfortunate lover, who has been severely punished for his defection, as desolate as his poor little Nellie. Well, it is difficult to believe—almost incredible—but we have not yet sounded the depths of the malig- nity of the human, or rather inhuman heart of Miss Annie B.

Lefurt. The lovers meet again at her sick-bed ; she is in a fever,

and he is a physician of unusual skill. The crisis approaches,. he administers a thoughtfully considered draught, she sleeps long

and deeply, he watches as only those watch whose life seems te hang on the life of the watched, and she wakes to recognise him, and—to die. We shall probably not be believed ; it is, we admit, improbable that one young lady should so treat another, and so. we can only refer our readers to the story itself in vindication of our veracity. If we could make a law that stories should end well, we would.

Meantime, as Miss Lefart knows what we think of her humanity, let us tell her next what we think of her talent and her tale, and here we can be more complimentary. There is, then, in this attractive little story with the wicked ending, a sort of unconscious power of suggesting what is sure to interest. Just enough is told to make us picture to ourselves a little cosy home,.

amidst grand sea and mountain, where rich woods and emerald grass clothe the shoulders of the hills and the sequestered glens, right down to the edge of the water of some lovely bay, on the beautiful west coast of Ireland ; and therein a sweet, unsophisti- cated, and loving girl, quietly, but perfectly happy, and yet living unconsciouslron that borderland between full content and utter desolation which consists in depending on the life of a single de- voted friend. Nothing of all this is much dwelt upon, so that

without having any very strong ground for our convictions, they are, nevertheless, all in favour of the poor child, and in sympathy with her sad little history. For the beautiful in nature and char- acter, and the pathetic in circumstance, are a compound that all fine natures are fond of, and out of which all imaginations are ready enough to weave their own romance. A pure spirit, and childlike simplicity, and too confiding lovableness are Nellie's characteristics, and therefore the incidents of her brief history interest us, though they are ordinary enough, and though nearly all her fellow-actors are absolutely without any quality to excite either our liking or disliking. We say nearly all, for there are two of those most ' detestable of God's creatures, heartless flirts; and one of them is a man and Nellie's lover ; and perhaps Miss Lefart shows more knowledge of human nature than intellectual originality in making mere proximity, combined with good looks and expressive eyes,

complete a conquest, to which certainly no genius or goodness of any kind, unless physical courage be goodness, lent the very slightest

aid. Seldom was novel that really wins and holds attention as this does more destitute of interesting character. Except a kindly girl acquaintance of her own age and the indulgent aunt there is not a pleasant creature in the story besides its heroine ; and not even Nellie herself exhibits one single trait of originality, unless a too unusual combination of simple confidence and firm rectitude be one. One wonders what so sweet a girl could see to love in a man who went at once to personal compliment of the

most ordinary kind, and thence to that sort of dictatorial familiarity which would disgust everybody but the victim. But

he was a woman-killer, and such creatures, we suppose, do exist, and perhaps especially amongst doctors, who certainly have large opportunities :—" He sang divinely." (This was repeated at Darraghmore Castle, where they all sang more or less divinely.) 4' He rode like a centaur" (and all the hunting heroes began to

look to their laurels) ; "danced "—Miss Brady was no mean judge of waltzing herself, and she averred solemnly "that it was

a perfect dream of delight to be borne round a room in his arms." We forgive him when he is down, and only wish for

Nellie's sake that Miss Lefurt had accepted his repentance and forgiven him too.

The story opens with a word-picture in the present tense which we cordially dislike. Scenery is at all times difficult to describe so as to interest those who have not seen it, and descriptions of it should, at least, be deferred till some human associations have weaved themselves into it. There seems to be both weakness and impertinence in telling you that it is a bright sum- mer's day, &c., and expecting you to appreciate the word-paint- ing for its own sweet sake. There is, too, a touch of affectation in using the present tense at all, and as it is a fancy almost exclu- sively of ladies, we warn anonymous writers against it. But next

to the picture comes a description of a little pony which shows Miss Lef art to be a true lover of animals, and almost ensures her a claim to notice in these pages. We are not, however, proposing to go through the book in this style. We must, in fact, be brief. Though the story is very barren of inter- esting situation for touching love-passages, and though there are much defective grammar and some ugly expressions and careless inconsistencies, yet it is certainly attractive ; and though the tenor of it is sad, it is not without many gleams of brightness and humour and passages of some beauty. Here is Nellie's first and almost only introduction to fashionable life and dinner-parties, where a lord is ordered to take care of her :--

"Lord Hilton, I want to introduce you to my friend, Miss Burns."

Lord Hilton bowed. And to tell you that you are to take much care to amuse her all the evening."—" Shall be only too happy," said Lord Hilton seating himself at her side, as Lady Gwendaline moved away. —" Been at many dinner parties lately ?"—" No; this is my first." -"Stupid things, very," observed his lordship confidentially. "A lot 44 people who don't know each other, collected to feed solemnly together. Dinner has to wait for some one. Food all turned into poison. Every one ill next day."

And there is a very indifferent ghost story, followed, however, by its apparent verification, which is very amusing, though exceed- ingly improbable and absurd ; and there are pictures which are not in the present tense, and which are not made up of short, abrupt -statements, such as "a bold high coast-line, a background of clustering mountains," &c., and with one of these we will take a pleasant leave of Miss Lefurt, in the hope that we may meet again

ere long, and refer our readers to her book for the rest of her pathetic story :—

"Autumn came, stealing with soft silent footsteps over the moun- tains and down into the valleys; with morning robes of silver-grey mist ; with noontide joys of sparkling sunshine, clear air, and quiet restful stillness, in -which the leaves dropped silently one by one, to .carpet the fragrant earth ; with evening glory of sunset gilding the purple mountains, and lighting up the deep rich colours of the woods, and then fading suddenly away into darkness and chill night. Autumn came and found Nellie Eurne still dreaming her golion dream! The summer sun had done its work of fruition, and the teeming harvest had been gathered from the land. Now toiling man had leisure to wipe the sweat from his brow, and to look on the beauty nature spread around, to solace him after the season of labour; now a quiet stillness, a sense of rest, pervaded all things. The flowers wore gone, 'made but of tints and odorous dews,' they had smiled upon the sun and died. But still forest glades and 'mountain glens ; the winding banks of silver streams, where the coot paddled in and out midst waving rushes (that courtier-like were over bending and bowing to the kingly stream), and the heron paced with slow sentinel-like steps ; the hedge-rows, all these wero in their glory. Wild-briar loaves vied with the sunset in crimson and gold ; bright scarlet berries glowed, where the roses of June had faintly blushed: tall ferns waved their delicate fronds in every shade of russet and green. The swallows had, after many days' twittering on the eaves, gone to seek another home, where the blue Mediterranean laves the shores where Dido reigned. All bird-voices were hushed in

the universal spell of silence—all bird-voices save the robin's. The evening shadows were growing longer and the days shorter, and mere existence had become a deep joy, to such at least as had eyes to see the beauty pervading all things, and souls to drink it in."