mother of her "futur," a pragmatical, disagreeable, rheumatic old woman, whose thoughts and affections are entirely centered in her son. During her stay at Addington Lodge, a few miles from Brighton, Penelope discovers that Bernard Brydges, between whom and herself all communication has recently ceased, is residing at Brighton. She contrives, and obtains, more than one interview with the man who still holds undivided possession of her heart, hoping that she may yet induce him to aid her in escaping from a fate, in spite of its brilliancy becoming more odious the nearer it approaches. She could bear that Bernard should know she was going to marry Mr. Addington: she could not endure the thought that he should fancy she loved him. She wished to be embalmed in his memory as a victim: she could not tolerate the thought of figuring there as the contented, prosperous, affectionate wife of a middle-aged banker. And yet, how could she undeceive him? Had he not seen her weeping by Mr. Addington's side, his arm round her waist, her head on his shoulder. What agony she felt at the idea that he would never believe that she had sacrificed herself! It soon transpires, however, that Brydges' real object in haunting the same part of the country as his poor inamorata is not, alas! his love for her, but a strong affection he has lately conceived for the shekels of Miss Addington, a spinster of mature age, frivolous disposition, and very small personal attractions, but with a reputed fortune of £70,000. He contrives to obtain an introduction to the mother, and an invitation to the same house in which Penelope is staying. Poor Miss Ashton suddenly misinterprets the vile deceiver's motives. One day, looking from her window MISTAKEN MOTIVES. She saw Dora ridiculously overdressed, and assuming the most jaunty coquetry of manner, sporting about the lawn and along the shrubberies with Bernard Brydges: she was followed by a little snow-white French poodle that Penelope had never seen before, and which her jealous heart suggested Bernard had perhaps given; but as she dressed herself in a new and elegant costume, and as the glass reflected her cheeks flushed with emotion, her eyes full of passionate fire, her form so proud and so perfect, and the beauty over which love shed a lustre love alone can shed, she contrasted her own exquisite grace and beauty with the little unshapen form, gaudy attire, sandy hair, weak eyes, and quaint absurdity of the figure ambling by Bernard's side, and she felt ashamed of her cwn momentary jealousy. Had she, in weighing herself and Dora in the scale, just put in seventy thousand pounds on Dora's side-that sum in which Bernard Brydges' whole soul is in reality wrapped up-how different would her deduction have been! Poor, dear Bernard! how he must love me! to tolerate her and her odious advances-miserable attempt at Coquetry and wearisome affectations, for my sake! But then, on my side, what have I not endured for him? Alas! alas! how is it all to end? I must understand his scheme: I cannot play this part much longer; but, at any rate, I must be all kindness to-night, for what a penance has he not endured for me to-day." Various notes are interchanged, Penelope being eager to fathom Brydges' meaning, while he is only anxious to lull her suspicions till he can elope with the "fortune" that has awakened his cupidity. One of these epistles to Bernard Brydges, in Penelope's hand, is at last discovered, and causes a frightful catastrophe. The unlucky missive insisted on a meeting and an explanation early the following morning. Miss Ashton appointed the place, and she had determined to impart to her quondam admirer her resolution to break off the match with Mr. Addington; and to insist on Bernard's leaving her for ever, unless he chose to accept the sacrifice she was so eager to make, and to elope with her himself. Bernard Brydges had, however, arranged a meeting of much more importance in his eyes. Mr. Addington and his mother came to the trysting place instead. THE ECLAIRCISSEMENT. It was a summer-house that overlooked the road to London. She waited for some time in miserable anxiety and impatience, and Bernard Brydges did not come. She began to fear he had deceived her. Burning shame dyed her cheeks; anger and despair lighted her eyes, and fired her breast. She was about to leave the spot, when the sound of carriage-wheels in the four dashed by; the blinds were drawn down; but one road beneath attracted her attention: a post-chaise and was suddenly raised, and the face of Dora looked up at the summer-house. Yes, Dora waved her hand triumphantly to the Bride Elect. Bernard Brydges shrank back in the carriage, and hastily pulled down the blind. Penelope did not see his face, but she did see his hand, his white kid glove proclaiming the bridegroom! Oh, there was not a doubt, not a miserable doubt left. He had been trifling with her; keeping her quiet; making a tool of her; his sole object being that miserable half-witted heiress-no, no, there could be no doubt! Hannah is in the rumble with some jeering valet, and both look up, and both laugh: yes, she sees them both laugh, as, fixed like a statue of Despair, her hair streaming in the damp morning air, her form rigid, her lips and cheeks marble-white, and her hands tightly pressed upon her tortured bosom, she stands at the entrance of that bower, still looking wildly after the carriage and four, round which rise such clouds of dust-emblems, as Bernard thinks, and whispers to the enraptured Dora, of what he would compel her brother to come down with. Slowly Penelope turns with shivering horror, and prepares to leave the spot as she does so, she utters a faint cry, for the first objects that meet her eye are Mr. Addington and his mother! She sees in a moment that they know all. He is ghastly pale, but stern and haughty, and, in his just indignation, he looks almost dignified. In his hands he holds-Oh God! yes, it is her own note! He held it out to her. She tried to take it, but a sharp cry burst from her lips; her eyes flashed wildly; all her features worked; her limbs became convulsed; she attempted to speak, but could not articulate: presently her knees shook, her arms dropped, and she fell heavily on the ground. Mr. and Mrs. Addington looked at each other: they knew not what to do. "Do not touch her! Do not condescend to touch her, reptile that she is," said Mrs. Addington: "I will go and send some of the servants to carry her, not to our house, but to the " "No, no, mother, in this state-cruel, treacherous, and base as she has been-I cannot leave her! And remember we have had no explanation of her wishing to meet him. You wronged her cruelly once, dear mother. How can we tell what account she may be able to give of this mystery?" "Ah, my poor, poor George, it was conscience that smote her to the ground when she saw you. She was there to meet him. She saw him as we did, wretch, fortune-hunter, beggar that he is, elope with your poor, deceived, unhappy sister. She was about to return, broken-hearted, no doubt, but ready to bestow that broken heart on you, when the sight of her own vile note in your hand overcame even her treachery: her imprudence and her own conscience struck her down at your feet. This is the true state of the case, my poor, poor boy! and you have only to thank heaven for an escape which to me seems like a miracle vouchsafed to save you." The poor girl, after a terrible illness, recovers her health, but her reason has fled for ever. Brydges finds that his wife's fortune is not, as he fondly anticipated, at her sole disposal, but entirely dependent on the will of her brother, who generously allows the newly-married couple 2001. a month, to be paid to her so long as they lived happily together; but to be paid to her alone if a separation should at any time take place between them. We shall leave our readers to discover for themselves the histories of Isabel and Blanche, together with the fate of their two graceless lovers; merely adding, that the respectable banker unites himself and his fortune to the amiable daughter of a poor clergyman, the poor girl having long secretly entertained a passion for him. The novel is written in an amusing style, though here and there we detect errors, not unfrequent in works of the class to which this pertains. The more prominent attributes of the male characters, in order that they may appear more striking, are overdrawn, and the language they are now and then made to utter, is such as could never in reality have been used by gentlemen. Imagine for a moment any Oxford man above the rank of a college "scout," accosting the young lady to whom he is presumed to be paying his addresses, in such insulting words as these I say, Blanche, what's the matter with Pen? Has Bernard Brydges moved off? and has the old lady been kicking up a shindy? I could have told them Bernard was no go!-he's not made for double harness; and with all his pretence of love and sentiment, tin is his idol; and by Jove he's right-take my word for it." Such expressions would hardly be tolerated in the servants' hall. At any rate, no lady with English blood in her veins would ever admit a second time to her boudoir a brute who could demean himself thus grossly. We might quote several other passages of a similar character, but we shall content ourselves with one: it is an extract from a letter of the same Oxford man. "I say, old boy, don't you wish she may get it? The old cat keeps aloof, and lets me do much as I like with her pretty and playful little kitten: she-the old pussis all patte de velours now; but I suspect no mouse ever had a sharper run for his life than I shall have for my liberty, when she discovers that I don't mean to let her and her daughter'walk into' me and my good living: what fangs and claws then, old boy: won't it be glorious sport?" There are, however, other, perhaps somewhat more venial, errors, which should also be sedulously avoided on future occasions; since they can only be attributable to the ignorance of the writer or the carelessness of the printer's "reader." The authoress in her dedication to her bro ther professes a truly feminine reverence for his finished scholarship, &c. &c." We think it would not be amiss were she, the next time she publishes, to submit her proof-sheets to that gentleman's critical eye. Her readers then would probably be spared such sad blunders as these "It was pain to give you up, but to give up Stultz, Hoby, Verey, et cetera OMNIBUS would be greater pain still." "Bernard Brydges possessed all the minor virtues in perfection. Punctuality, politeness, neatness, order, cleanliness, et cetera paribus (!) "L'amour est comme La petite Vèrole qui fait d'autant plus de mal, qu'IL vous prend tard." By the way, in almost every French quotation, of which there are not a few, the words are grossly misspelt, and the accent is either omitted or wrongly placed, as in the one just cited; tête à tête is repeatedly spelt tete a tete; menus plaisirs, mènus plaisirs; billets doux,billet doux; "c'est été un parti magnifique," for c'était, &c. Again, we are informed that a young lady is cured of squinting "by the operation (!) called strabismus-often a failure, but in this instance perfectly successful;" being in fact the technical term for the deformity, not the remedy! The cure, too, it seems, was accomplished by a very clever Italian occulist, (sic). In like manner, irate is spelt once or twice "irrate;" nil admirari is rendered "nil admirare," &c. strabismus Captain Beresford, we are repeatedly told, is a cornet in the Dragoon Guards: how are we to reconcile this anomaly? However, notwithstanding numerous similar errors, the intention of the writer is evidently pure and good, which is of itself sufficient to redeem a host of faults. We trust that the sad fate of the "Bride Elect" may serve to guard many a warm and unsuspecting English heart against such vain delusive triflers as the "men of unmeaning attentions" here so justly denounced. Reuben Medlicott, or the Coming Man. By M. W. SAVAGE, Esq. 3 Vols. Ir is pleasant to light upon a readable and really The work is divided into "Books," each Reuben Medlicott is the only son of a Clergyman, who vegetates in contentment on a vicarage of 3001. a year, near Chichester, a city which afterwards exercises an important influence on the fate of the son, and which he represents in Parliament. Here we must enter our decided protest against the liberty thus taken with real names of real places. Chichester is notoriously a burgh wherein the Duke of Richmond has some interest: here is delicate ground in the description of a contested election. We cannot help recollecting that "the Whole Duty of Man" was once converted into the most malignant satire, by writing opposite to each vice preached against, the name of a real individual in the parish, notorious for his peccadilloes in that line. So, we apprehend, it would not be difficult to point out characters at the real Chichester (or indeed in any other borough) akin to those who figure in the novel at the fictitious city. We do not believe the author intended this, but he has laid himself open to the imputation. It is far better in such cases to invent the names, as well as the facts. Reuben's mother is the daughter of a lucky pluralist, who is at once Dean of a cathedral, incumbent of a good living, and possessor of a sinecure in the diocese of Chichester. He is an overbearing, dogmatic, yet classically educated church dignitary-a Westminster pedagogue, ultimately rewarded with a mitre; and his character is well and epigrammatically sketched in the novel, where we are told that Dean Wyndham bows at the sacred name in the creed, "as if he were conferring an honour on the Christian Religion." His daughter is a sort of précieuse-very blue, very twaddley, and very conceited, more especially in the subject of education. She is with difficulty forgiven by her stately father for her mésalliance with the simple and honest clergyman "with the living near Chichester." The vicar, if left to himself, would have given his son a plain sensible education, but his desires were counteracted by his lady wife, who, at an early age, plunges her son daily into a sort of Hecate's bath, composed of every branch of human knowledge. The boy is represented as possessing great talent, great application, and great fondness for acquired knowledge; and thus the raw material to be worked on is evidently well adapted for the production of "The Coming Man" of the age-the "gazza ladra" of its intellectual acquisitions. Thanks, however, to the interference of the Dean, Reuben is at length sent to a school at Hereford-a real name again-where resides a wine merchant with the appropriate name of Barsac, whose family are intimate friends of the lordly dignitary. The man of logwood and sloe-juice, who is, of course, a great toady of the Dean's, rejoices in three daughters, who receive the soubriquets of Brown Sherry, Dry Sherry, and Pale Sherry, but of these young ladies "more hereafter," as the pedigree inventors called heralds say in their genealogies. A sort of modified system of fagging prevails at the school to which our hero is consigned, and his master is a boy named Henry Winning, a noble, generous character, who afterwards exerts some influence on Reuben's destiny. Here is a graphic description of his first arrival at the school, which we extract at some length, as affording a good specimen of the book. SCHOOL LIFE. Reuben was on his knees unpacking his box of books the morning after his arrival, and Winning was standing over him, wondering in silence what the boy could want with so many more volumes than he had ever possessed himself. As Reuben placed them one after another on the floor, the other stooped and looked at their titles in succession. The first was a Latin Grammar, which was quite right; next came a Delectus, also indispensable. Then there appeared the Discourses of Sir Joshua Reynolds. "The Bodleian in a box," said Winning: come, we don't learn that at Finchley ;" and he pitched the Discourses aside. "I read it with my mother," said Reuben, looking up timidly, and colouring. "An Arithmetic ?-no harm." "It will be no use here," said Winning: "we only read Roman and Grecian History." Reuben coloured again.-"It's only to keep up my knowledge," he said: "I learned it at home." "And it appears you learned geology at home, too, Medlicott. Your mother must be omniscient.—What is geology? pray enlighten me." Winning was holding the book in his hand, turning the pages rather disdainfully, and smiling while he asked the question. The smile and expression of ridicule confused poor Reuben, and he gave a very confused account of the objects of geology, very like one of his mother's precise definitions. "It seems much the same as geography," said the elder, "by your account of it. We do not neglect that at Finchley; but of course we have nothing to do with any thing but the ancient world-Attica, Asia Minor, the Islands in the Egean Sea: we learn all about them of course." "And nothing about America," cried Reuben, with subdued amazement, "or the British dominions in India?" "This is not a mercantile school, Medlicott: it's a classical school. We have nothing to do with America or India. I suppose they read about India in the EastIndia College.' "That's very odd," said Reuben: "I thought every part of the world was equally deserving of study." “And perhaps you may be right in the abstract, Medlicott," said Winning, looking intently at his new acquaintance, and struck at once by his modesty and precocious enlargement of views; "but we cannot learn every thing at school, or anywhere else. Certain studies are appointed here, and it is expected that we shall devote ourselves to them, not perhaps exclusively, but at least so closely, that I can tell you, Medlicott, there is not much time to do a great deal besides, unless we could manage to do without food, sleep, and cricket." "Not much time, I dare say," said Reuben, "but you admit there is some: when I have a leisure moment I suppose I may read any of my books I please." "Under my rule you may.-Now that's magnanimous, is it not?" said Winning: for I can tell you, Medlicott, there are some men here, who, while I have been quietly looking over your motley library, would have weeded it without the least compunction, and consigned your French History, Botany, and Geology, Veneris marito: do you know who that is ?" "Vulcan," replied Reuben, promptly. Winning now clapped him good-naturedly on the back, called him a promising fellow, only a little too desultory in his habits of reading, and ended by telling him that he might read what he liked, on condition only that he did not neglect the business of the school, or defraud himself of the time necessary for sleep and exercise. "But did you come from Underwood, and bring me no letters, messages, or any thing?" "Oh, I quite forgot: I have a parcel for you," said Reuben, greatly fluttered, and ransacking the bottom of the box. 66 Stupid: and why did you not give it to me the first thing you did? From whom is it?"" "From your aunt Winning, of course." "And did she send me nothing else?" "Nothing but a letter." "Do you call that nothing? You are a fine fellow. As to the letter, I presume you have lost it: come let me try: if it is in the box, I'll soon ferret it out." Permit me," said Reuben, eagerly but humbly. soon found the letter; for he tossed about Reuben's shirts 66 Oh, a scent is it? Do you know what we do with scents at Finchley?" "No,' said Reuben, "Come to the window, and I ll shew you what luxurious fellows we are." Winning walked over to the window, followed by Reuben, very curious to see the use his friend was going to apply the Eau-de-Cologue to. The room was on the third story, and there was a paved court beneath the window. Winning desired Reuben to look at a particular stone, and then holding the flask between his finger and thumb, he dropped it critically over the spot, where, of course, it was shattered in some thousand pieces, sprinkling the court for some yards round with that agreeable perfume, to which a thousand flowers are said to contribute. "Are we not luxurious fellows, eh?-to water our pavement with Eau-de-Cologne !" Reuben looked extremely chagrined. 'My dear fellow," said Winning, patting him on the back, "the scent is much better there than in your box. If the fellows here were to find out that you scented yourself, or had scents in your possession, you would never hear the end of it. Now go and put your things in order: I must read my good aunt's letter. An invitation arrives for a ball at the Barsacs', and the awkward début of the boy of thirteen is well described. Miss Blanche, the pale, and the prettiest of "the Sherries," takes pity upon his awkwardness, and not only dances. with him, but actually indulges him with a little flirtation. More festivities at the Barsacs' follow, which of course ends by our hero falling violently in love with "the Pale Sherry," who, somewhat indiscreetly it must be confessed, requests the belated boy to sit to her for his picture. The youth, of course, is in the seventh heaven, while the lady, in the words of our author, "looks intently into the face of the handsome bashful boy, studying its lines and features with the license of an artist, to whom beauty is only a theory." ex No very serious consequences, however, follow on this occasion: our hero presents his inamorata with an elaborate essay, in the folds of which is contained a declaration of honourable love in due form. The answer of the young lady is unromantic, but sensible. She says she had read his literary production with the greatest pleasure, but that the paper enclosed "did not appear to her to be as well considered as his other essay." The mystery, however, is soon plained, by the interesting Blanche becoming the wife of her youthful admirer's grim old grandfather, the pluralist dignitary already mentioned. Before, however, this marriage takes place, Reuben pays a visit to the Dean at Westbury. The character of the dictatorial, erudite, meddling though not unkindly old man, is well drawn out during this sojourn; but at length he takes his departure to add another to his pluralist comforts, in the shape of the unresisting Blanche, who, unlike novel heroines, quietly marries the old fogey, without making any fuss about blighted affections, or young hearts sacrificed on the altar of worldly advancement. Reuben is left alone in the Rectory, and he determines to shew his opening genius by celebrating, in a way worthy of both, the marriage of his grand father. To this end, he gets up a rustic ball in the Rectory barn, and engages all the fiddlers and pipers within reach to contribute their services. All would have gone well, if Reuben had not unluckily taken it into his head to add a display of fireworks to the other amusements; the result of which is, that the poor Dean's stacks of corn and agricultural implements contribute to illume their master's hymeneal torch; and thus ends Book the Second of our hero's adventures. Reuben returns to his father's vicarage, and finds an odious apothecary of the village, named Pigwidgeon, and his still more odious son, daily visitors there, especially at the family dinnerhour. These personages would be hardly worth alluding to, but that the younger Pigwidgeon afterwards actually contests with our hero the representation of Chichester in Parliament. Alas for our glorious constitution, when the improbability is not considered too great, even for a novel, that a "village near Chichester" (of course we except Goodwood) should furnish no less than two aspirants for the honour of representing the city in Parliament. At the age of nineteen, Reuben proceeds to Cambridge, with the full belief, on the part of his acquaintance, that he had nearly all human knowledge at his finger ends. He discourses of divinity with divines, of farming with farmers, and of metaphysics with his mother: he had already laid the foundation, in local celebrity, of a reputation as a talker of the first magnitude. Mathematics and the exact sciences were not the food best suited for the digestion of such a mind; and the Union Debating Society, which has indeed, in its day, fledged the young wings of one or two of our statesmen, such as Macaulay and Charles Buller, but has played the part of Dædalus to more, afforded a congenial field to our aspirant. He now alarms the old Dean, by announcing his determination to elect the Bar as his future profession, and the dignitary actually catches his grandson studying Blackstone instead of Newton. A decanal scolding soon dissipates these views, and the delighted grandsire finishes by inviting Reuben to a very jovial dinner at his hotel, where he meets his former love, and now step-grandmama. Here is a specimen, à la Boswell, of the Dean's tabletalk, which, if our hero had attended to, he would not have fallen into the errors of his future life. ELOQUENCE AND BARBARISM. "Full men," he said, "are seldom fluent. They are eloquent, but eloquence and fluency are different things. Young men discourse fluently in proportion to their ignorance, not to their knowledge, of a subject. There is no more worthless or more dangerous acquirement than eloquence in the vulgar sense of the word. Bruce remarked of the Abyssinians, that they were all orators, as indeed,' he adds, are most barbarians.' The observation is extremely applicable to an unfortunate country not a thousand miles off, with which we are very closely connected. I have always thought the great misfortune of that country was, that when the family of the Shallows settled there, the family of Master Silence did not accompany them." Notwithstanding, however, the excellent ad vice of his venerable relative, Reuben entertains conscientious objections to the Church; and these are cherished by the conduct of his aunt, a Mrs. Mountjoy, another daughter of the Dean's, and a rich widow. This lady takes up her residence in London, and allows her nephew not only the free run of her house, but an almost unlimited carte blanche to fill it with what company he pleases. These consist of some of his Cambridge chums, and his quondam fagmaster Winning, now a rising young barrister, living in the Temple, in a room which was "literally a hollow cube full of books and papers, the ceiling being the only side not covered by them." The following visit to "the cube" is clever, though we doubt whether the men of eminence at the bar have adopted quite such a method of gaining or securing business. "By the custom of London, I suppose it could;" said Winning, groping about in the obscurity for chairs to accommodate his friends. He then stirred up his fire, which made the geography of his chambers rather more distinguishable than before. the bar on which Dean Wyndham had expatiated-the Winning, as we have stated, had all the qualities for head, the lungs, the stomach; and Reuben and Primrose now had a proof, while they sat with him, that he possessed the element of bulldoggism also; for an attorney portant proofs which had been advised by Winning, and happened to call who had neglected to prepare some imthe latter gave him such a rating, that Reuben and Primrose concluded there must necessarily be an end to all professional connection between them. "On the contrary," said Winning, "he will send me more business than ever. This is my way of entertaining the attorneys." "Upon my word," said Reuben, "it costs much less than entertaining them at dinner." a His kind and liberal aunt provides every luxurious appliance to further his studies: library, an arm-chair with an apparatus to support books, a table with a desk, and a taller one to read standing, a revolving book-case, and a charming dressing-gown and slippers of black velvet," all combine to make up the hot-bed on which is to be reared to maturity this promising plant. Being so much choyé, and moreover himself dispensing the dinner invitations, he becomes a talker of the first water, |