those who were so entirely under his control, our reverie was disturbed by the long, dull blast of two conch shells, blown by priests standing outside. It was the passing bell, announcing the demise of the old King. After several blasts, Ratu Leweni-lovo turned towards the King elect, and greeted him: 'Peace, sir. Sit in peace, sir. True, the sun of one King has set, but our King yet lives. Peace, sir; there are none here evilminded.' Tuikilakila made no reply, but sat with his head bent down to his breast. After a few moments of silence, he spoke Gazing on the corpse of his father's faithful attendant, he exclaimed, Alas! Moalevu!' Several others having repeated the exclamation, he added, 'There lies a woinan truly wearied: not only in the day, but in the night also, the fire consumed the fuel gathered by her hands. If we awoke in the still night, the sound of her feet reached our ears; and if spoken to harshly, she continued to labour only. Moalevu! Alas! Moalevu! A priest continued the lament: We used not to hear Moalevu called twice.' Similar remarks, with others on the recent struggles of the dead women, the skill of the stranglers, the quantity of cloth on which the corpses lay, and the premonitory symptoms of the old King's decease, occupied the remainder of the time.

"Tongas were appointed to bury the King. The grave had been dug by the people of the place, and lined with mats, on which the Tongas laid the bodies of the women, and on them the once powerful chief. The shell ornaments were taken off his person, which was then covered with cloth and mats, and the earth heaped upon him. He was heard to cough after a considerable quantity of soil had been thrown in the grave. These latter particulars I received from those who buried him, as I could not, by my presence, seem to sanction the unnatural deed."

both in the description of scenery and manners, than any previous production from the same pen.

The chief story, from which the book takes its title, is a clear, direct, and simple narrative, possessing but a superficial plot, and depending for its interest altogether upon the development of a few prominent characters, whose fortunes are intertwined.

With materials so simple, the author has succeeded in composing a successful novel---the great charm of which is its fidelity of portraiture. We feel while perusing her pages that no vague, ideal abstractions are foisted on our notice, but that the author is thoroughly familiar with the society she paints, and everything which belongs to its constitution. Therefore, the book exhibits the rare merit of truthfulness. With a degree of self-knowledge very unusual, the writer nowhere attempts to overpass the domain legitimately her own-that is the domain of social existence, as modified by a peculiar convention. Her men and women are the personages we continually meet in the lighter intercourse of our leisure. And yet, they are not the less distinguished by the grand characteristics of humanity, and to describe them successfully requires a combination of experience and acute natural perception.

As a tale merely, SYLVIA'S WORLD Will be viewed by those fond of the weird, the startling, and the terrible, as somewhat wanting in incident; but we feel persuaded that to this class of readers the author never designed to address herself.

She deals with character and the philosophy of motive; with the inward rather than the outward world of action. Her intellect is eminently subjective, and is sometimes influenced by an intense, we are almost tempted to say, a morbid, self-consciousness. Here is the weak point of her genius and her writings. We cannot help remarking in the latter, a strong under-current of individual opinion, (we will not call it prejudice,) which is permitted to exert

an undue influence in the consideration

of many problems of social life and morals. But despite this fault--the fault of a vigorous nature-it is unquestionable that the teachings of this author (and most of her tales have a definite moral end in view) are worthy of the highest praise. Her sarcasm, equally keen and delicate, is levelled against hypocrisy and pretension. She vindicates, with peculiar feeling and eloquence, the position and dignity of woman. We may, however, in this connection be permited to hint that the heroes of her stories are too systematically represented as perfi