like; it is absolutely the same to me; it will not alter my conduct and my resolve by a hair's breadth -so take your choice."

He fixed his hard eyes upon her very earnestly while she spoke, and then, having previously got through half his ballad, he favored her with the remainder of that exemplary saint's adventures. Anne walked about the room in a tumult of feel

ing.

"If I could but let him understand that he makes me miserable," she thought; "he used to have some good feeling; he surely cannot persist in his intentions. But he makes me so angry that I hardly know how to address him."

"And so," remarked Mr. Clavering, as if it were a sequel to his last observation, "I have done nothing in it; my governor brought me here on purpose; but they have been settling all the money matters without me; I am sure I've had no hand in it; you need not be in such a rage.'

"You distress me, Mr. Clavering," said Anne; "it is past a jest; you must break off this as soon as possible; it has gone too far already, but it was in ignorance on my part; I thought nothing was planned, or would be planned, until you had spoken to me. And, therefore, you will be so good as to inform the general."

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"I!-le plus souvent!" retorted Mr. Clavering; "why, all along I meant to marry you. That is what made me so savage with that fellow Hard

wicke!"

"It cannot be, Mr. Clavering!" said Anne decidedly; "when I tell you that it would make me wretched, you ought to feel that it is impossible for you to persist in it."

"See if I don't; why, I came here on purpose," said Mr. Clavering, stubbornly.

"You cannot wish to marry a woman who has no regard for you!" exclaimed Anne; " you surely have too much respect for yourself to offer your hand to a person who cannot feel the least affection for you in return."

"Never you mind," retorted Mr. Clavering, still swinging his foot.

why, I wish you joy of your bargain before you have been married six months."

This address, rendered rather indistinct by his chewing the bit of wood all the time, failed to convince Anne of the treasure she was throwing away.

“I have said everything that can be said," she replied; "if you had a spark of good sense or good feeling you would see what to do. I am not going to entreat or implore-let it be a trial of strength between us. I am not defenceless, nor quite alone, as you think. I have a brother who will take my part."

"Ah! that everlasting Hugh," said Mr. Clavering; "but he won't be here till it is all settled, thank goodness!"

At this crisis the peace-making Mrs. Scawen entered the room.

At first

After this curious love scene, Anne goes to her father and tells him she is resolved.never to marry Clavering, and Mr. Scawen, in a rage, tells her to quit his house forever. Anne, in despair, puts on her bonnet, and determines to obey her father: but, more prudent than most heroines, she takes care to put plenty of money in her pocket for her journey. She recollects that her old nurse resides at a farm on her brother Hugh's estate at Datchley, and resolves to go and stay with her till her father relents. She is kindly received by Mrs. Ford, who, however, insists on writing and informing Mr. Scawen of his daughter's abode, and he consents that Anne shall remain there for the have forgotten her husband, Arthur Hardwicke. ,, present. All this time the young lady appears to She has never heard from him, but was told accidentally that a Captain Arthur, or Alfred Hardwicke, in the same regiment that her husband belonged to, bears a dreadful character for drunkenness and every kind of low dissipation. she can hardly believe he can be so altered, for at the memorable Twelfth-night ball, where she first met him, he refused to sip even a little of the elder wine that was mulled for the juveniles, on the plea that he never took anything but water. Anne at last is convinced of his unworthiness, and dismisses him from her thoughts. While she is residing her that her darling brother Hugh has been lost at with Mrs. Ford at the farm, intelligence reaches sea, and she becomes dangerously ill. Her father, whose heart is almost broken by the loss of his favorite son, comes to see her, and, when she is sufficiently recovered, takes her on the continent, where they remain five years. Anne now informs "When everybody knows that old D has had a paralytic stroke, and can't last forever, and is her father of her early marriage, and of the bad Mr. Scawen as rich as a Jew. I am sure other girls would not character borne by her husband. be in a rage with me. I've done nothing-I have thinks the best course is to remain quiet, unless he not made love to you. I've said as little as any- should attempt to claim her, and then tells her she body could. I think you the handsomest girl in must have legal aid to set her free. Mr. Scawen the world. If I were a duke I should think the dies abroad, and Anne returns to England. She same. I am not a bad match, but I wish I were a is now twenty-three, beautiful, and an heiress, and, better. Whatever I had I should be glad to share of course, has plenty of admirers, amongst whom with you. You would lead a very easy life. Then you should have your own way again. I'm not Mr. Clavering again takes his station, but with worse than other people; not so bad as many. You as little success as before. Anne passes the auliked me well enough before I let out that you were tumn at Brighton, and there learns with dismay to marry me; and if you want a handsome man, that Captain Hardwicke's regiment has returned to

Anne felt a great inclination to sit down and cry, but she thought it would be wiser to go on attempting to convince her singular lover.

"Do you remember," she said, "when you were staying here before, I had my own way in everything, and even when you tried to oppose me it was

of no use?"

"Ah! but I'm older now," said Mr. Clavering,

with a look of satisfaction.

"And so am I older," replied Anne, firmly. The control of a strong mind over a weaker was beginning to work. Mr. Clavering looked uncomfortable, and, after a nervous pause, he began a very incoherent defence of his conduct.

I do not know how to express to you my feelings on the subject, for I am afraid that it all happened so I rely entirely on my brother's account, as I` cannot trust to my own recollection."

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Now," thought Anne, her whole face whitening, "now is the time to know whether he has trusted any one else with our secret."

"You told your brother," she began.

"He came up, you know: I declare I don't quito remember, but I have some idea of his coming up, and placing himself in my way. He always does get in my way just when I don't want him.” (With a half laugh.)

England, and that he is actually in the same town | I was extremely distressed to hear that you had left with her. Anne is miserable lest he should in- the ball-room in consequence, absolutely indisposed. tend to claim her as his wife, but is made happy by receiving the following cool letter from him :This is the second time I address you since our brief acquaintance in Scotland. Perhaps it is necessary to remind you of it, since you betrayed no sign of recognition when you passed me yesterday. Although you did not reply to the letter I wrote you from Bombay, I cannot tell how far you were a free agent then. I supposed you so, as you were of age, and, I imagined, under your brother's care. Perhaps you could not reply to me. I entreat you to answer me now. I think it my duty to give you the choice of sharing such a home as I can offer. I beseech you to consider the subject gravely. We knew nothing of each other then; we know nothing We may be the last persons each would select as a partner, but we can make no other choice. You may feel it a point of duty to reside with your husband; I would offer no hindrance to the fulfilment of your duty. Or time may have so altered your feelings as to render you averse to such an idea. I would not interrupt your tranquillity, as I fear I have already too much done. But decide, that I may know what to look to. I cannot bear ARTHUR HARDWICKE.

now.

suspense.

Anne sends back a reply equally cool.

I hasten to reply to your letter, the first I have ever received from you. I cannot fail to give such a subject my gravest consideration, and I thank you for allowing me a choice in a matter of such deep importance. If I thought my society could add to your happiness, I should feel called upon to set aside all idea of my own. As it is, no feeling of duty impels me to avail myself of your permission. We are better apart.

ANNE LASCELLES SCAWEN.

A day or two after this correspondence Anne accompanies a party to the races, and there sees Hardwicke in company with a most abandoned woman, and dreadfully intoxicated. He insists on riding one of the horses, is thrown, and picked up insensible. A very handsome, grave-looking man, whom Anne has often remarked, and who is the colonel of the regiment in which Hardwicke is captain, has him removed from the ground. He is not injured by his fall, and in the evening Anne meets him at the race ball, still very far from sober. He insists on dancing with her, and Anne is so frightened that she faints, and is conveyed to her carriage by the handsome colonel. In the morning Captain Hardwicke is announced to Anne. He comes to apologize for his conduct over night, still without any reference to their former acquaintance. But this visit leads to the dénouement :

"That was your brother, then!" exclaimed Anne.

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'Yes, my brother Arthur. I fancied he had the pleasure of knowing you, from something he said this morning, but I must have mistaken his meaning, I suppose; he was so excessively annoyed at what passed that I was quite glad to stop his mouth, by taking it on myself to make my own apologies. He is a very good fellow, (in a tone that seemed to say, not half so good a fellow as I am,) but so very steady that one cannot always keep up with his ideas."

He might have gone on much longer without any chance of interruption from Anne.

All was explained, as most strange misunderstandings are explained, by one chance careless word. His brother Arthur! The man she had often declared she could never forget, grown quite out of her knowledge, and his younger brother looking like what he was when they parted. It was so very natural, so odd it should never have occurred to her that this might be the case. Just like every other mystery, when it is cleared up, the wonder is, that it should ever have been a mystery. But then her letter, so cold, so decisive; a pang of regret shot through her heart, as she recollected the terms in which she had exiled him from her presence. How could she recall what she had written? How explain her mistake? No, it was not for her to explain. The tone of his letter was so conclusive as to his own feelings, that it was hardly for her to seek a renewal of their acquaintance. No-she felt that no advances must come from her. Wretched as was their present position, it was better than to live under the same roof, with every feeling changed, or averse to each other. These thoughts hurried through her mind with the speed of light, almost before Captain Hardwicke had done speaking.

Of course everything is now clear. The handsome colonel is the real Simon Pure, and everything that is noble and good. They soon become reconciled, and a second marriage takes place between them.

The volumes are written in a very lively and amusing manner, and contain abundance of inci"I have not the least idea of what took place," dent and character. There is one in particular, a said Captain Hardwicke, with the most polite and sort of intellectual "Tilly Slowboy," who will candid air in the world; "my brother told me delight the reader by the fun and vivacity of her that I had persisted in desiring to waltz with you, a character. We consider the present tale to be a very natural wish, and one that I am sure was shared great improvement on the former works of the auby everybody in the room, (with a glance of very thor. They will amuse and interest by the lively intelligible admiration.) I was horribly shocked!

It is enough to make a man hang himself. I cannot pictures of society they contain, and by the many express to you how much I feel your kindness in clever sketches of character found throughout the admitting me, and not resenting my importunity. volumes.

From the Literary World.
ON AMERICAN
LITERATURE AND AUTHORS.

A FRENCH CRITIC'S OPINIONS

may overthrow towns and knock down houses, but nature laughs at them. You must look elsewhere. Well, authors are not paid; they profess to rule and enjoy a great deal of glory, but they get nothing substantial. They produce nothing, for they are starved. That again is an old story. Camoens and Tasso, Rousseau and Milton, got along without pay. But the age is prosaic; modern life is vulgar. The most untenable of all! The world is alive in every fibre, an entirely Shakspearean world, infinite in plot and situation. No poetry! Look at the newspapers, at Hungary, and at Lady Franklin, worth a dozen of Penelope. All ages are mingled in this, and thrown to the surface. Modern times, then are not prosaic.

What, then, is the secret of this intellectual

A LATE number of the Parisian Revue des Deux Mondes has an elaborate article on the rather afflictive text of American Literature, a subject, the discussion of which has occupied periodicals the last half century, till the critics have fairly outweighed the authors upon whom they have commented. The result has been, undoubtedly, to demonstrate the inutility of criticism as a productive power. Humiliating as must be the admission to reviewers, it is nevertheless to be confessed, that great writers do not come into the world by being called for in leading articles; else America would have had ere this a plenteous stock of Homers, Shakspeares, and other starry perform- sterility? "In our opinion," says the reviewer The Edinburgh Review itself never made profoundly at length, "there are but two causes, an author, though the author being once given, the influence of the revolutionary spirit, and the that journal with others may assist in his development, and in a thousand ways aid his popular appreciation. Positive tastes may be encouraged by reviewers, who thus render one of the highest services to the state in the national education; but tastes are not original powers, and readers are not authors. The latter come when there is material for them, when they are wanted, when Heaven sends them :-conditions upon which it is easy to speculate, but hard to determine anything.

ers.

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absence of a common faith." The first of these looks like returning upon the theory of the masses, which has just been exploded, but upon this point we are told that the idea must be separated from the fact. Barricades and gun-shots have nothing to do with it, but the revolutionary spirit hasthe satanic spirit of revolt, of destruction. The arts grow by love and reverence, revolution delights in ruin. Besides, the revolutionary right of insurrection is a modern idea, and there is The French reviewer before us, M. Emile something in that, on the principle of new effects Montégut, enters upon the consideration of the from new causes. The moral atmosphere is literature of two hemispheres with a very doleful desiccated by the revolutionary spirit. All our sentence. Fruitful," says he, as is our age (i. e. French) literature is full of vertigo, disorin sad spectacles, there is no one of them which ganization, and anarchy; the best poets are those excites a more melancholy sentiment than the who are most mad and most drunk. There is no dying out of intellectual life which manifests unity, no concentration, for there is no religion. itself more and more through the entire world." Everything is wanting in depth and profundity. This is a severe blow-a damper-a crusher to Instinct fails us entirely, nothing springs spontathe age of Progress in which we have been told neously, everything is seized upon by artifice. so often that we live. And how is it to be Literature has absolutely nothing human in it; it accounted for? This double paralysis? this looks as if it were composed for the far-off oddigrowing European and American imbecility? ties of another planet. The heart of the writer M. Montégut throws out, among others, a solu- does not respond to the heart of the reader. tion which might be accepted for its simplicity., Undoubtedly in this, M. Montégut, you have It cuts the Gordian knot by one blow. European hit upon a sound philosophy, and worthily have civilization is too old, and Cis-Atlantic civilization you vindicated certain essential elements of life.

too young to produce anything. A consideration not very complimentary to either at present, but with a grain of comfort on our side, for we see nothing for Europe in it but despair, while America has hope. Youth may grow to manhood.

The revolutionary spirit is a spirit of negatives; it destroys, but does not build. Forget not this, however, in the grand course of human affairs. The plough is as necessary to the soil as the seed; in due time there will be both seed and sunshine. The storms of winter invigorate the soil for the crop of autumn; but man must wait. Europe is not dead yet!

There is more to be said, however. We are promised some light on this subject from the works of M. Henri Longfellow, a list of whose books is placed at the head of the article. But Now for America. What is the difficulty before coming to this solution a little logical rub- here for in the admission of the difficulty we are bish has to be cleared away. You will say, for at present merely reproducing, in briefest possible instance, (we give the substance of M. Montégut,) phrase, the reviewer's long article. There are that the age of individualities is passed-that the two young nations in the world, and they are masses rule. True, but the masses have ruled both but prolongations of old Europe-Russia and before, and genius has flourished. A Robert America. They are made up of the old stock. Burns would find something to sing about without" Peter the Great," said Rousseau, was a troubling himself with the masses. Revolutions monkey of genius; instead of looking for a civil

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But

ization peculiar to the Russian people, and invent- | concealed rather than evident. It is probable that ing a system in consonance with the national Fenimore Cooper never would have dreamed of character, he undertook to compose a society of painting savages, pioneers, and the nomadic life elements taken from the whole of Europe- of the Americans, had not his powers and ambiEnglish, French, and Dutch." In America this tion been awakened by the wild world of Walter is still more visible. You will find there France, Scott and the success which his gypsies, mendiEngland, Poland, Spain, Ireland, (why does the cants, chiefs, outlaws, and bandits, obtained. reviewer omit Germany?) representatives of all what a distance from the barbarous world of the nations of the world, sects of every shade, Walter Scott to the barbarous world of Cooper! Puritans, Quakers, Unitarians, Trinitarians, Ro- The warrior barbarians, the Robin Hoods and Rob man Catholics, Church of England men, Mormon- Roys, in conflict with civilization and the laws, ites, Swedenborgians, preachers without number, are the heroes of Scott; but the barbarian workmeetings and societies for everything—for uni-ing out civilization, contending with nature, versal peace, temperance, giving away Bibles, free trade, abolition, and relief of the poor. There are democrats, feudal planters, slaves and savages, half-barbarians called squatters, associations on the plan of St. Simon, Fourier and Robert Owen. The United States is an immense meeting of all the people on earth.

This prolongation of Europe is felt still more forcibly when we study the literature of America. There are few who reproduce with talent the scenes, manners, habits, tendencies, traditions, and history of the United States. Each one paints the manners of the people whom he prefers, imitates the literature which he admires. The literature of the United States is not more fecund than that of Europe, and being for the most part an imitation of foreign literatures, it of course follows that it has still less life and originality.

The two earliest writers of the United States were politicians, Franklin and Jefferson. We would beg some keen wit to inform us where in Franklin Europe ends and America begins? for we confess we have never been able to discover. The intellectual culture of Franklin is European throughout. It belongs to the eighteenth century. He is a practical disciple of Locke; his democracy is drawn from Locke, his famous plan of conduct is inspired by Locke, his natural religion is Locke's, his Poor Richard's Almanac is Locke's philosophy put in practice. The charming pages of Jefferson on France and Europe, in his memoirs, indicate his studies.

among the wrecks of savage life, grubbing and planting, advancing with an unheard of rapidity and unsurpassable persistence to the conquest of the world; this is the type which really belongs to Cooper. He was the first to show to Europe the strong and youthful races who were to renew civilization by force of activity and labor. In spite of his defects we hold Fenimore Cooper to be the most eminent novelist the United States have as yet produced.

Cooper, if he imitates, imitates simply the manner of the celebrated Scottish novelist; for he knows the histories of solitudes and forests, and describes American manners. As for Washington Irving, he paints every country except his own. He writes descriptions of England, descriptions of Spain; tells old Moorish or Granadian stories, or imitates the style of the papers in the Spectator. In a word, his productions are very bookish and puerile throughout. Washington Irving has always reminded us of the false romanesque literature of the eighteenth century, Gonzalvo of Cordova, and the countless Arabian, Turkish, Tartar, and Indian romances which teemed at that epoch. Spanish and Moorish traditions, under his agreeable and facile pen, take completely the tournure of the pictures of the reign of Louis XV., which represent the charming French ladies in very suspicious oriental costumes.

A few years since we read the tales of Edgar A. Poe, highly bookish productions, too bookish for our taste. They had absolutely nothing national. They are occupied with things and beings the most fantastical, with analogies, matter run

gianism, occult influences on human life; but one could swear that he had taken his laws of analogy from Fourier, his philosophy from Mesmer and Swedenborg, and that he owes to Balzac the method of his inductions and hypotheses.

To pass to authors who are simply authors. The greatest names we meet are those of Fenimore Cooper and Washington Irving. Europe is always in their minds. Look at Cooper. Hening into pure spirit, with magnetism, Swedenborstruggles to paint for us the aborigines, savages, planters, pioneers, and he does this with facility and success; but you are not to suppose that he seeks new colors, stakes any originality, or ploughs up his American nature for its essential elements. Not at all. He has before his eyes a model-Walter Scott, and he imitates him constantly. He describes his American landscapes by the aid of the preceding descriptions of Walter Scott; his characters enter on the stage with the air of the heroes of Walter Scott; his conversations are conducted absolutely as Sir Walter | Scott conducts his: yet we are willing to confess that notwithstanding this constant preoccupation by Sir Walter Scott, the imitation is latent, and

The North American Review is without doubt the most celebrated review in the United States. We find in it the small change of the current talent of Europe, a tracing sufficiently well done of the English reviews; but little originality. As for the immense journals without scope or plan, a dry catalogue of facts and anecdote, they are unreadable.

The philosophic writings of a certain Brown (qy. who is Brown?) have made a sensation in

America. These books, which border on materi- | which Europe suffocates and agonizes, the acquisialism, are only the last echo of the degenerate tion of gain, the desire of enjoyment, industrial Scottish school, if it were possible that the Scottish school could degenerate. He might be called an American Lamoriguière. Philosophy naturally calls up theology. We have read a book of brilliant religious discourses by Theodore Parker, printed at Boston. We found in it no trace of Protestantism. This work, under a religious appearance, is a far-off echo of European philosophical doctrines. You would say that it was Le Vicaire Savoyard, anon Herder, anon Condorcet, anon Benjamin Constant.

Emerson has sought to react against this literature of imitation and European copying. He has endeavored to lead his countrymen to the contemplation of the nature before their eyes, the description of their customs, modes of life, and to substitute for the Paris and London always present to the writers of his country, Massachusetts and Virginia. He has tried to turn them from this literature of tourists, dilettanti, and rovers. The soul is not a traveller, he tells them often; why seek so far, at Naples, Rome, London, Paris, for what is before you? Look in upon your selves; the life that is in you, feeble though it be as a spark, is worth more than the splendid dust of extinguished nations. Unhappily the man himself, the most original and profound of all, has fallen foul of the old difficulty. He has read Carlyle, he has read Novalis, he has read Coleridge, he has read Wordsworth, and he does not forget them sufficiently at times. It must be said, however, that his ideas, his style, his groups, his landscapes, have more in them of nature and of American life than all that we are acquainted with and have enumerated.

activity. One would only have to compare the spiritual, brilliant, tricky Samuel Slick with the hideous Robert Macaire, two contemporary types, one belonging to a young civilization, the other to an old and blasé population. Haliburton is the most original writer of America, with the least bookish pretension. Bookish pretensions have always spoilt spontaneity of wit and reality of observation.

Mr. Henry Longfellow, on the contrary, makes great pretensions, and is, in fact, after Washington Irving, the most bookish writer in America. You remark here and there in his writings, pretty details, too often injured by melancholy puerilities. That in which he is most deficient is concentration, energy. To give an idea of his poetry we would choose the strongest piece which we have been able to find in his collections-The Psalm of Life, What the Heart of the Young Man said to the Psalmist.

It is very evident that these verses, full of good intentions, courageous, stoical even, have been written after a lecture of Emerson's, of the philosophy of which, weakened and enervated, they are the resumé; but this is not the habitual tone of the poetry of Mr. Longfellow. It has a sweetness which never exhausts itself, a melancholy of great pertinacity. The same tender and wavering images, the same expressions return continually; there are ever moon-rays, stars, the sound of church bells and lamenting voices. There is in all his verses a certain poetic quietisin which cradles us and charms at one moment, but which soon appears factitious. The thought loses itself in the music, and the music ends in losing itself in a certain monotonous murmur. On rising from the perusal of these books, you wake as it were from a long dream on the banks of a river; you have seen waves transparent and limpid passing before your eyes, but you feel they are worth nothing in comparison with real life, in its activity, and infinite and changing details.

The man who has exhibited after Emerson and Fenimore Cooper the most of originality and of the initiative in literature is Haliburton, an inhabitant of Nova Scotia. There absolutely nothing savors of Europe; all is American. Doubtless there is more than one Sam Slick in Europe and amidst the European industry; there are also in Europe sects, covetous and avaricious priests, hypocrites but nothing of all this resembles the Mr. Longfellow, of Swedish origin, has in parpersonages and scenes described by Haliburton. ticular this defect, which I have charged upon Samuel Slick is the point of junction of two American literature in general. His poetry sugworlds. He reünites in himself the savage and gests the literature of an emigrant. He is full the civilized; he is not a savage, he has not the of admiration of the Swedish poet, Isaiah Tegner, simplicity, the poetry of that state, but he has its and appears to imitate him frequently. He has finesse, its trick: he is not a civilized being, for he translated the poetry of all nations; half of his has not the elegance of one, but he wears the poetry is translation. Mr. Longfellow appears to garb of civilization; he has her scruples of legal- attach himself but little to the country about him. ity and honesty apparent in his expedients, her He lives in a Protestant land, and translates the logical prudential method in the midst of his end-sonnets, the triplets of Catholic poets, of Lope de less peregrinations; in fine, nomadic as a savage, Vega, Francisco de Aldana, Dante; he lives he is nowhere a stranger. It would be a curious among merchants and democrats, and translates bringing together of ideas to show those who exalt human nature and those who slander it, how the same elements, as they are restrained and directed, can work in a double way for good or evil; how the civilization of the United States aggrandizes by the very elements in the midst of

the chivalresque poems of Uhland and Schiller. His books are all literary fantasies. He amuses himself with the reproduction of the manners of different poets. He imitates Novalis in certain pieces of his collection entitled Voices of the Night, sometimes Goethe, sometimes Uhland; he