lenge no mean intellectual suffrage: in its moral aspect, it may be about on a par with them; though in one respect, it is above several of them, as it exhibits a much smaller, though unhappiły still ample portion of irreverence for the words and sentiments of the sacred Scriptures.

[Here follows an outline of the tale, for which we have already refered our readers to the preceding volume of the Port Folio. In our next we shall present the general reflections on the subject, which are subjoined in the Christian Observer, to this analyssis.]

ART. VII.-The Favourite of Nature: a Tale.

WE are, of course not swayed by the opinion, now gone by, that a work of genius is unworthy critical notice, because there is no other name for it than that of a tale or novel. To say nothing of the important fact, that productions in this walk of literature have the greatest number of readers, and that, therefore, a more jealous critical surveillance of them is called for, there are no works in which more talent or eloquence may be displayed, more knowledge of man and mankind unfolded, or more practical and striking lessons of honour and feeling, and even wisdom and virtue, inculcated. We think the work before us cannot be read without deeply touching the feelings and mending the heart; and therefore our omission of it would have been an act of injustice to the public as well as to the author. We should certainly not have noticed it, if it had only told a beautiful tale, if it did not, moreover, work out a moral of the deepest concernment and most extensive application.

sons.

Notwithstanding the important, and seemingly essential part assigned, in this novel, to the passion of love, in its most engrossing aspect-nay, notwithstanding the fact, that a person of each sex dies of unrequited love,—we should not style it a mere love novel; in other words, a tale where the progress and fate of a love-affair, as it is called, forms the main object, and is not the medium for the conveyance of more dignified and edifying lesIn the character under its dominion, love is one only of several violent passions, all operating at once; which passions, rather than love, bring on the catastrophe, and raise its warning monument. Although the reader, therefore, on opening this work, may meet with many of the worn-out features of very ordinary novels; may be startled by many pressings to the heart, and strainings to the bosom; may take alarm at the hackneyed, and therefore ill-chosen, names of Mortimer, Rivers, and Waldegrave, names, we do think, the most prominent in circulating-library nomenclature,-may read the first two thirds of the story with but faint glimpses of the author's object, and in the belief that he is reading a common-place story, be tempted

to throw it aside; we advise him to persevere, and we can assure him that, in the last third part of the tale, which has the farther effect of increasing the value of the whole, by showing the bearing of the parts which preceeded it, he will find a good sense, spirit, beauty and pathos, an unity of plan, developement of virtuous purpose,and consummation of moral effect, which would induce us to place the work in a very respectable rank among those fictitious compositions which are at once interesting and useful.

The author's main object is to trace a miserable and most tragical catastrophe, the impetuous course of several violent passions, which are unbridled by prudence, and uninfluenced by any steady principle of action; and to read this lesson to the young, that, even to the most attractive favourites of nature, if wrapped up in self, and rendered insensible to, because habitually unconscious of, the feelings of their fellow creatures, our sympathies cannot be accorded-nay, our compassion will be almost denied to the acutest agonies of their self-inflicted misery. The lesson is strengthened, in the tale, by the contrast of an opposite character, endowed with warm affections, which, though ardent, are controlled by religious principle, generously and cheerfully making sacrifices of the dearest objects of life, when a sense of duty calls for them.

Eliza Rivers is the highly gifted subject of the author's experiment. In person she is all "that youthful poets fancy when they love ;" and has, moreover, every talent and accomplishment which we can imagine extending the power of female charms. She is not without kindly affections, but her whole character is lowered by the violence of her passions. In her, love is quite a disease of the mind, and the means of exciting in her to morbid activity, other passions-not only jealousy, and its attendant hatred, but pride in its most engrossing and selfish form-in so much that all her personal charms fail in producing in the reader's mind a genuine sympathy with her; and even has commiseration of her final sufferings is diminished by the feeling that, with all the noise and clamour of excessive selfish sensibility, she suffers no more than she herself has occasioned to a much worthier person, who suffered in silence. This externally captivating, though far from amiable maid, having been left an orphan, is the inmate of her guardian, Mr. Henley, rector of Fairfield, about a day's journey from London; a man of sense, piety, and worth, which eminently fit him for his sacred office. His only daughter, Louisa, is a little older than his ward; and, as little addicted to self as Eliza is engrossed by it, is a pattern of unaffected piety and benevolence.

Mortimer Durand, Mr. Henley's nephew, comes to Fairfield as his uncle's curate, and being much at the rectory, although not under its roof, is irretriveably in love with the beautiful Eliza, much sooner than we should have expected from the sagacity of

his character. Eliza's vanity is gratified by his attachment, and without her own heart being much concerned, she accepts of him as a lover. Her regard for her betrothed gradually improves into attachment, and his elegant and well-ordered mind considerably influences and enlarges hers. But although his tranquil exercise of his parish duties leads her to assist in many acts of kindness to his pastoral charge, she nevertheless does nothing from a steady principle of action; and her charities are very often postponed to her pleasures. She has the misfortune to have a bosom friend in a Miss Brooke, the niece of a Lady Delville, resident in the neighbourhood. These persons usually spend the winter in London, boast of high acquaintance, and ape fashion in all possible ways; of course they make very merry with their beautiful friend's teaching of little village children to read, and her visiting their sick parents; and, it happens, are the means of several charitable intentions, on her part, being frustrated. The anticipation of the displeasure of Mortimer on such occasions is enough to hurt Eliza's pride; and any actual allusions to her failures of duty lead to the display of much petulance and pettishness. Although, before her acquaintance with Mortimer, Miss Rivers had seen, and enthusiastically admired, the elegant Frederick Waldegrave, who arrived from London on a visit to Sir George Melmoth, a neighbouring sporting baronet, there is yet no change in her views. Waldegrave is altogther irresistible in person, manners, and address: but as cold-hearted, selfish, and calculating as a man of the fashionable world can be imagined to be. Except, however, being addicted to gaming, he is not described as being profligate or debauched. This person is, of course, captivated with the exquisite beauty of Miss Rivers; and finds her rural simplicity, and, above all, her undisguised feelings of admiration for himself, in contrast to the artificialness and coldness of the London fair, an exceedingly piquant and pleasant sort of autumnal variety. Her engagement, too, renders it safe as he thinks, to amuse himself with his beautiful captive, with something analagous to that advantage which is the angler's over his prey, when, having hooked it, he gives it line, winds up, again allows it play, and enjoys its struggles; all the time safe, in his own person, from being drawn by it into the pool. Her feelings towards her gay new admirer do not increase Eliza's relish for the more sombre prospects of what her friend Miss Brooke calls a parson's wife; and although she has not yet resolved on the base act of absolutely substituting the new lover for the old,a variation which her vanity never leaves her to doubt, is in her power, she does not diguise from herself, and has not art enough to veil from her friend Miss Brooke, that the arrangment would be far from disagreeable to her. She is invited by Lady Delville and Miss Brooke to spend a winter with them in Lon

don; which their much increased power in consequence of Miss Brooke's having succeeded to the immense West India wealth of her father, promises to make one of unusual gaiety and splendour. In London Waldegrave is of course a daily visiter at Lady Delville's; delighted with the unequivocal proofs in her manner, of his being the very idol of Eliza's soul. Mortimer is as contentedly forgotten by her as if he had not a feeling on the subject, or had never existed. Her London Lothario intimates to her an intention of going to the Continent, which the young lady receives with the most undisguised emotion, and first declares the state of her heart by the inartificial process of a flood of tears. This being a movement rather unexpectedly powerful, the wary angler is actually drawn in, and has one plunge before he has time to take a new position for farther resistance. He cannot escape declaring, too, and for some months is considered by his fashionable circle to be the affianced of Miss Rivers, as indisputably as was once his predecessor Mortimer; no one in that gay assemblage seeing any thing more in Miss Rivers' change sentiments and lovers, than a very expedient and praise-worthy measure the which the lady intimates, in course of post, to the said Mortimer Durand, in a letter of five or six lines. He comes to London, and rather perplexes his false one by a visit when she is in the midst of preparations for a ball; and bidding her a final, and very inconveniently impassioned adieu, which does make her look grave for a day, returns to the country, falls into a decline, and dies; which last occurrence, but for Waldegrave's presence, and some unusually brilliant parties in prospect, would have been extremely shocking to Miss Eliza Rivers; who, as it is, in the excess of selfishness, asks what right Mortimer Durand had to cross the path of her happiness.

A retribution, in identical kind, is in store for our unfeeling heroine. Waldegrave gets himself gradually extricated from the meshes in which he was so unwarily entangled; and, influenced by his indisposition to matrimony-Miss Rivers' small fortunehis losses at play-the ridicule of his friends in St. James's Street -the inconvenience of "the poor girl's" passionate attachment -his threatened thraldom from her jealousy, pride, and petulance and the inelegance of her too much declared countryfied sensibilities-resolves to begin the process of shaking off. by re-announcing a visit to the Continent. Reproaches, vollied with a spirit altogther too alarming to be endured by the tranquillity of the highest London fashion, it may easily be believed, do not change his resolution; and to the Continent he goes.

The anxieties and self-tormentings of the ungovernable Eliza, in her lover's absence, are well described. These are aggravated tenfold by receiving from him, during a month only one very short formal letter, in answer to a score of epistles, of almost raving

love and jealousy, written from Kensington, where she has taken up her abode for the summer and autumn, in the boarding-house of her former French governess, to be at hand. Her fears have no bounds, and frantic with jealousy, she resolves to set off for Paris: a resolution no sooner formed than begun to be executed, when our heroine has a glimpse of her faithless swain, in a hackney coach, driving along Oxford Street to the eastward. Her conduct, at such a crisis, is suitable to her temperament. She runs after the coach, but the coachman, in the noise and confusion, neither sees nor hears her. She is in an instant in another coach, her only direction being, "to the city!" She has not proceeded a hundred yards, till a long line of coaches, chariots, waggons, and all possible means of transport, but at that moment of obstruction, induce her to leap out and run forward on foot; till a gleam of reason, and a great deal of fatigue and agitation, bring her up in a confectioner's shop, where she composes herself, and calling another coach, names the more definite destination of "Kensington." She is now, of course, more wild than ever. Waldegrave is in London, and, too surely, avoids her. Regardless of every consideration but her raging passion, she confounds her skulking lover, who supposed himself quite incog. by pronouncing upon him in his apartments in the Albany Arcade. He must accompany the crazy and very troublesome Miss Rivers home to Kensington; where, with a calmness which was only equalled by her own notification to Mortimer, he tells her, once for all, that the thing will not do, and that he means, for his part at least, to think no more about it; a remedy which he recommends, as very expedient, for her to adopt also; and, taking his hat, and the anticipated opportunity of the most violent paroxysm he had yet witnessed, glides out of the house. The scene is admirably wrought by the author, and while we are not called upon to abate one iota of our disdain and reprobation of the conduct of the heartless Waldegrave, her own conduct to Mortimer precludes our sympathy with Eliza, and converts all her impassioned reproaches of her second lover, into so many condemnations of herself, for the treatment of her first.

In the midst of these agonies, her gentle virtuous guardian, Mr. Henley, who had come to town on other business, is announced to her; and both she and the reader are relieved by the judicious contrast. On learning her story, the good man at once urges her to return with him to Fairfield, assuring her, to her no small surprise, that, notwithstanding all that has happened, neither himself nor Louisa has lost any of their fond affection for her. She at first refuses; but, after Mr. Henley is gone, changes her mind, posts down after him with her usual impetuosity, and throws herself into a fever of some duration by the journey. On her recovery, it is soon but too obvious that she is to fulfil, in