before stated, are generally pretty well off in the world; and women, who have a penchant for comfortable settlements, and who, with the trustful hope peculiar to the sex, imagine a change may be effected in their dispositions when they become husbands, rarely object to marry them. Then the delightful anticipation, on the part of the grumbler, to have some one near him on whom he can vent his spleen! A wife is a most eligible piece of furniture to him; she is his legitimate property; and whenever his mind is overburdened by the "perilous stuff" weighing upon it, he has only to open upon his better half the floodgates of his ill humour, and so long as she is a meek-spirited woman, and not disposed to give him a Roland for an Oliver, he finds himself relieved amazingly.

bloom, dispensing their odours far and near; and notwithstanding the wine which he has taken has diffused a comfortable glow throughout his system, he grumbles all the way as the chaise rolls along the broad gravelled walk nor does the worthy gentleman cease anathematising the state of the roads, the heat of the atmosphere, and finding fault with his wife and children, until, jogged by degrees into a state of somnolency, he is found at length to be fast asleep in the corner of the vehicle.

"WHAT'S IN A NAME?"

A Lay of the Olden Time;

BY JOHN MACRAY.

Yet we do not mean to assert that grumblers are, on all occasions, discontented and morose men; on the contrary, your grumbler has frequently his bright hours, when the clouds roll off from his spirit, and the sun of his disposition is as radiant and warm as you could desire a sun to be. During What's in a name? O there's much in its spell this happy suspension of his malady, the sweeper That has triumphed o'er death and time so well, of the street crossings receives at his hand a penny; For a thousand years, and around it shed his groom is addressed by the condescending ap-A halo of light from the glorious dead! pellation of "Joe;" and he proposes to take his wife and family, as the case may be, in his onehorse chaise to Highgate, Eltham, Hampton Court, or any other place where the natives of Cockney

dom are wont to ruralize.

They rest in their graves; but their name's a charm
For he thinks on their prowess in Palestine,
Even the Anchorite's peaceful breast can warm,
And how oft they bled for the Cross divine,
And, home returning, their vows kept well,
By a holy life, as the legends tell.

In toils and struggles for Jesu's sake,
No seas could stay them, or terrors shake;
And their faith and hope, to all coming time,
Are told on the brass, or in minstrel rhyme.

many a name that oft we hear
Now flaunted light in the worldling's ear,
A holy renown once gain'd of old
Amid Red Cross Knights and Barons bold,
And stood for Christ and his righteous cause
Whoe'er he were that might scorn his laws;
Or in jousts and tourneys for ladye fair
Held tilt with Christendom gathered there.

Such halcyon moods, however, are of brief duration. We will accompany our friend on an excursion to Hampton Court. He laughs and jokes during the journey, and makes himself uncommonly agreeable; but he has no sooner threaded the sinuosities of the "maze," allowed his eldest boy to throw fragments of biscuit to the gold and silver fish in the pond before the palace, and cast his eyes over the cartoons of Raphael, in which, for his part, he can see no merit or beauty whatever, than clouds again begin to rise; and, by the time he has reached the inn, and ordered dinner, the tempest breaks forth; then rolls the thunder of his growl, and flashes the lightning of his "evil eye." He inveighs against the accommodation, and execrates the fare, although his children consider the latter remarkably good, which opinion they are A Paynim knight there once came, I ween, practically demonstrating; devouring the savoury Unbidden, and strange to that lordly scene: viands with such rapidity that they are in immi-Far, far away he had heard the fame nent danger of choking themselves. The meek wife endeavours to cast the oil of soft words on her husband's irascibility, but he cuts her short, and, with his pocket-handkerchief spread on his knees, his well-heaped plate before him, and his bottled stout close by his elbow, he growls and growls, ever and anon looking savagely from out the corners of his eyes, he discharges at the attentive waiter a continued fire of opprobrious epithets, and protests he will never enter that house again. The bill having been paid, with grumbling at its amount, he turns on his rascal Joe, who, at his command, puts the horse to the chaise with all possible dispatch; but even honest Joe does not escape without his share of blame, and he is denominated accordingly a slow and stupid hound. The weather is deliciously fine; and notwithstanding the chesnut-trees in Bushy Park are in full

Of Mortimer's, Courtenay's, De Bruce's name,
And vow'd to ravish their laurel crown
And at some false shrine to lay it down,
Or to leave his bones on a distant shore
And his fiery courser to mount no more:
As a knight should be, he was honour'd well,
And his heart felt touch'd by a secret spell,
So much of grace and of courtesie
In Christian lands did he find and see:
Soon lowly suing with vows he came
To a ladye's feet, a noble dame;
And the Cross for device he wore instead,
Ere that ladye fair to the church he led.
With her eyes' deep blue and her love, as well,
O her name, I ween, had a lofty spell-
So widely o'er sea and land afar
"Twas borne for Christ in the Holy War.
Oxford.

A CRITICAL ANALYSIS OF THE WILFULNESS OF WOMAN.

111

A CRITICAL ANALYSIS OF "THE WIL- | gentleman pictures to her all the wickedness she FULNESS OF WOMAN." is to see in the gay world!

The Monteath being represented to credulous readers as a Methodist of strict religious principles, is, of course, no "gadder;" so he sits among his books, and sighs over his lady's sinful waste of time, while she is whirled like a dry leaf along the broad path of dissipation. She becomes a star, and is in great request; and is possessed of a delusion, that it is her "mission" (as Mr. Moddle would say) to sacrifice her bodily and mental

Answer us, ye metaphysicians! who dabble in the divers hues of the human mind as learnedly as a dyer among his many-coloured paints; tell us why is it, that all "good people" are so ineffably prosy and set-us-to-sleepish in their influence, when all their virtues are duly set forth in story? Oh, young days of our dawning intellect! Well do we remember our horror of the immaculate Misses Good-girls, who never tore their frocks-energies for the amusement of her five hundred who never soiled their pinafores, and whose cardinal virtue was blind obedience, at an age when we found our juvenile brains teeming with argument and opposition to all enforced commands. There are many more in the world who feel the same, and one among the number, we dare to say, is the clever Authoress of the novel lying open beside us. She who treats of the "Wilfulness of Woman," gives us evidence herself of the wilfulness of hu

man nature.

Else, why does the delicate-framed and delicatesouled Sydney Monteath interest us deeply, so long as she is foolishly addicted to balls and operas, and then sink into mere old-fashioned humdrum when she retires into the country and becomes the Lady Bountiful of Glen Aram? Why is it, that we enjoy the "malice" and "minauderies" (to use the Authoress' favourite expression) of the pretty, heartless Widow Tryon, and the absurdities of the juvenile sexagenarian Lady Mary, when we yawn at the name of the quiet Monteath, or the sad, much-moaning Mrs. Harrington?

dear friends in May-fair. Consequently, she is
for ever at fêtes and in fainting fits. In this
wholesale slaughter of time's irrecoverable hours,
she is encouraged by a certain Lady Sarah, the
giddy young wife of Monteath's brother, a
"dis
mal general.'
mal general." Lady Sarah avowedly plunges into
dissipation to fly from her wearisome partner; but
Sydney Monteath still combines great affection
for her husband with utter neglect of his comfort
and society; and while penning responses to fifty
new invitations, she languidly declares there is
nothing she so much longs for as a quiet evening
with her darling Edward.

The end of all this dancing is that Lady Sarah, being one of the wilful ones, dances off with a gay Guardsman, another original in his way, and the writer's pet roué. Here the Authoress dashes boldly into the arena of human passions, and lays bare their fearful conflicts with real genius. Think of the horror of that unhappy husband so carelessly abandoned, which, however happily for himself,

ends in total mental oblivion. Think of the keen

sympathy of the kindly affectioned Monteaththe bitter anguish of the soft, weak Sydney; and, finally, the delirium of passion-the terrible awakening of remorse in the heart of the wretched outcast, Lady Sarah. Think of these, and see how they are painted here. We confess we cannot un derstand the graceful libertine Captain Fermor.

This is truly an original novel. It begins with marriages, instead of vulgarly keeping them back to the end; and it has an elopement in each volume a species of woman's wilfulness to which the writer seems to consider her peculiarly addicted. In the very first chapter one of the two coheroines evaporates in conjunction with a volatile spirit-Captain Trelawney. He, having commenced affairs by making his wife wretched, is devotion for two years to his capricious compaseen openly no more, but moves grimly in the nion, and in his cool gentlemanly withdrawal background of the tale; a sort of bugbear, dream-when, with a frenzied loathing, she commands ing to account for the vagaries of his lady, until it is his turn, in his vocation, to elope with the wife of somebody else!

The other co-heroine and heiress (they are both heiresses we may infer) prefers to endure the approbation of her friends, and, accordingly, waits for six pages and as many months, till she may have a fitting espousal, a comfortable trousseau, déjeuner, chariot and four, &c., with all which she is not romantic enough to dispense. After driving off the nouveaux mariés, they discuss society in all its bearings, as apropos to their destination-a LonIn this colloquy, the young bride's feelings are somewhat excited by the very low opinion her lord professes of the respect commonly paid by ladies to their nuptial vows! A curious subject of conversation for a bridal tour, truly! No wonder the meek, and newly-made wife weeps, and vows eternal constancy, while the

don season.

*3 Vols. 8vo., Colburn.

We think him unnatural both in his contented

from her presence the sharer of her guilt. It seems as if he had not loved her enough to hate her; for with great nonchalance he returns to England, is made much of in honourable society, when such is made a matter-of-course result in a and weds a daughter of nobility and wealth. Who, novel of every day life-who can say we are not a moral people? Surely we have mistaken. We said there was an elopement in each volume; but oh, you greedy Vol. I., you have swallowed two for your share! We suspect the printer must have stolen the first chapter of Vol. II. to finish up Vol. I. with a grand coup de théatre; it is not a fair division by any means, for the poor, defrauded Vol. II. has now no distinguishing feature but a death, a common, ever-occurring event, and the whole volume is countryfied and prosy.

Return we to Sydney Monteath, who, now that the mischief is done, cries her pretty eyes red, and has a severe illness, the joint product of balls and tears. Up comes Mamma to nurse and scold her. In spite of the respectable matron's indignation,

112

A CRITICAL ANALYSIS OF THE WILFULNESS OF WOMAN.

the gentle girl preserves a strong "hankering" | authoress: here she expends all her vivacity-here after that "splendid sinner"-the Lady Sarah. She seems quite of an opposite opinion to the Roman general, who loved the treason but hated the traitor; for Sydney hates the sin, but loves the sinner.

At last the erring one flees back to England— stops dying at an obscure inn-appeals to Sydney in her last despair, and lingers long enough to expire in her arms.

Da Capo Sydney's illness and regret. After a long time she comes round, wisely eschews ballsbuilds almshouses, and becomes the great flannel distributor and old woman protector of the county.

Have we forgotten the cousin and co-heroine, poor mis-mated Harriet Trelawney? Once we saw her flit across the vortex of Sydney's gaiety, but without being sucked in, she vanished in some misty region, described as near the fair city of Perth. By the way, we are forced to conclude, that the Authoress was never within a hundred miles of Perthshire. She depicts this place, "Corbee's hole," as a sort of Ultima Thule-a wild, barbarous country, haunted yet by Picts and Scots; whereas, we, whose feet know every rock and heath almost as well as the grouse and red deer, can boldly throw down the glove, and defy her to prove the calumny.

|

she lavishes her observation of society as it is. Harriet Trelawney, however, cannot find pleasure in mirth and giddiness; she still weeps alone, and drinks alone likewise. Suddenly comes the great blow-the third and worst elopement. Her husband walks off to America with a woman, whose seductive arts had long haunted the wretched wife with jealous fear and bitter hate. Alas for her who wedded one destitute of principle! Broken-hearted, she is borne back to Glen Aram, and the body yields as well as heart and mind. A child of sorrow comes, unwished for, to the worse than widowed mother: it comes, it goes, in three days, and the woman is desolate once more. Why, Mrs. Authoress, did you make it die? Surely a beloved infant, to fill the yearning maternal heart with passionate devotion, would have made her far happier than your awkward way of patching up her broken soul with a new husband! There are years of suffering and bitter repentance for Harriet Trelawney; soon the deserter dies; she is a widow, and again her heart bleeds at the memory of her first blind love.

HE.

Pretty woman! though you're silly,
I am wise enough for both.
Will you have me? tell me bluntly,
For I guess you're nothing loath.
SHE.

In all these scenes that same great hulking Doctor figures; first as physician, secondly as comforter, then, after a long interval, as wooer! Yes, incredulous reader, the "Wilfulness of Woman" winds up with the following courtship, Harriet Trelawney bravadoes exceedingly about which we have versified, from memory, as nearly her married bliss, and is for ever praising her good-verbatim as our somewhat confused intellects perfor-nothing husband. However, the forced spirits mit :at times betray themselves. An old poet sweetly says, "Love loves most where love most secret is;" and the same may be pronounced of happiness. Real, serene happiness, especially in the wedded state, sits smiling down at the bottom of the heart, but prateth not abroad. Trelawney, weary of his wife, feigns business on the Continent, and politely throws her once more on the charity of her early friends, and she about to be a mother. Oh, man! man! can it be? Weary, in her turn, of the alms-houses and dulness of Glen Aram; sick at heart and weak of body, Harriet shuts herself up in her chamber, and abandons herself to low spirits and opium. The Monteaths, alarmed, call in a certain great hulking doctor, the terror of nervous ladies, who boldly pronounces the pretty Mrs. Trelawney has taken to drinking, and gives great umbrage by his verdict.

In this state of affairs the third volume abruptly steps in, with a gay party at a gay countryhouse, and thither the Monteaths carry their cousin, in hopes that change of scene and society may minister to her sick spirit. And now does the authoress fully justify all our opening remarks. With what zest she pourtrays the coquetry and dissimulation, the utter heartlessness and selfishness, the scandals and the jealousies of this lively country party. How amusing are the follies of Lady Mary, and the flirtations of Mrs. Tryonthe blundering good nature of the Irish Mrs. M'Carthy (whom the wretch kills very unnecessarily at the end), and the weak-minded passion of Mr. Watkins Jones. Depend upon it, this third volume, with all its dark specks on human nature, is the favourite portion with the

Deary me! you awkward Doctor,
I'm too pretty for your wife.
Ah, I've had enough of marriage
With my first, to last for life-(Weeps.)
HE.

Well, don't cry; he was a bad one!
I'm a different sort than he.

I will be a kind protector,

Pet and cherish you, you'll see.

SHE.

Ah, you're not so grim a monster-(Smiles.)
Wont you call another day?

Ere I risk my precious freedom,
Let me think of it I pray.
HE.

Not an hour! What use your thinking?
Why, you never thought before!

I must know my fate this minute;
Just say 'Yes,' it's no great bore.
SHE.

Oh, you plague, how you torment one!
Must I be your wedded wife?
Tis the only way that's left one
To get rid of you for life!

P. P. C.

FORTUNE'S CHANGES.

BY J. E.

"Life may change, but it may fly not;
Hope may vanish, but can die not;
Truth be veiled, but still it burneth;
Love repulsed, but it returneth."

SHELLEY.

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bursting. Yes, they were indeed terrible remembrances; they were first of his boyhood's days, of the friends of his early home, the companions of his childhood; but they brought no joy to his heart, no light to his cheek; for they had all shrunk away from him to their dark hiding-place-the tomb; not one left who had shared the joys, the troubles of infancy. And he then remembered how one bright being had made him forget for awhile these things; how he had loved and worshipped her, and believed her to be the most pure hearted, as well as the most beautiful of earth's Have you ever spent a night on the mighty ocean, creatures; and in fancy he heard the trumpet that and watched the pale stars rise in the heavens, had called him from her side, and the vows of marching slowly and silently along their eternal love and truth that she had poured ere they parted. paths, brightening each moment until they become Then came the battle-field, the clang of swords, more piercing and brilliant than the largest dia- the thunder of cannon, the shrieks and groans of monds, then as morning dawned sadly sink away the victims, but half stifled by the rolling drums like spirits into the air? If not, you cannot imagine and shrill-toned instruments; and he loathed himthe deep thoughts that fill the heart at that time, self at the memory, that he should have ever lent the feeling of utter loneliness that oppresses it, the himself to be the assistant of these lawful, wholelong-forgotten memories that rush over the mind, sale murders. Glory! this is the pretty word the and the startling questions that the spirit asks. devil whispers, to bribe the vain children of men Pictures of scenes for ever past away come back in to violate the commandments of their Maker-to the freshness of reality to startle us; we again hear stop the breath of their fellow men, to heap misery voices that the grave has long silenced, and gaze and desolation on millions of helpless children on features that death has long shut from us; then and broken-hearted women. And he wondered the infidel must feel that if there is indeed a Creator, at their weakness, at his own, to have been thus how utterly at his mercy he stands, and he trem- made the dupe of a word, the slave of his arch bles and half believes, thus gazing on these un-enemy. Yet, even this sought for, this coveted known worlds, the least of which proclaims a glory was to have been laid at the feet of love; he God-gazing into that deep beneath him, which he wished for it to make her cleave still more to him, knows not how soon may be the means of bringing that she might feel a pride in, as well as affection hirn into the presence of one whom he has dis- for his name; and he had won glory, the laurel believed in, derided, insulted. When His mighty had crowned his brow, and now how bitterly the works are thus around us; when nothing formed recollection stung him, that his crown, aye, even by the hand of man meets our sight save the frail his very heart had been rejected, scoffed at, by that bark that separates us from death; when the proud being who had so often vowed ever to love him, palaces and lofty buildings of man's creation, if and for whom alone he had plunged into the red remembered at all, are but as drops of water com- blood of the battle-field. And now, indeed, he pared to that ocean, the majesty of the Great smiled bitterly at the remembrance of how falsely Architect must indeed awe even the good man, | he had judged her heart by his own, and had never and make him shrink as he asks himself if so great dreamed that gold could be valued above a true and glorious and powerful a God can indeed and constant heart; that love could be forgotten deign to care for so mean a worm as himself. And before ambition and vanity. And his waking who has not then marvelled, at least fora time, that dream went on; before him stood the bright and amidst these stupendous works such an atom can beautiful, the rich and proud, for wealth had be remembered. Yet he has felt, too, that there poured on him when he had ceased to hope for it, is a mighty hand guarding him, and guiding his when the brightest jewel of his life was crushed. destiny, though he cannot comprehend why so in- Yes, beauty and power had now lost their charms significant an object should excite such care. But for him; he looked on each fair face as a mask the thought, "God is love," steals over his mind, that concealed a false heart, and coldly he returned and mystery is forgotten in faith and gratitude. the greetings of the fairest lips. And then came the time when his vast possessions had been wrested from him, and only enough left to support him in mediocrity; and his professed friends and parasites had forsaken him, to worship some other golden image. Yet this brought but little grief with it; he had never trusted them, nor believed their fawning flatteries; and riches he valued not, as they proved unable to buy him one true heart. These were a few of the bitter memories that were racking his soul, passing like cold, pitiless ghosts, in stern array before him. Gazing on his manly figure and noble countenance, he seemed born to be nature's favourite, fortune's minion; but they had delighted to hold the cup of joy to his lips, then

It was a night of the early autumn, with no moon to lighten it; but the starbeams played tremblingly over the slightly rippling waves, as though they half feared to gaze on that mirror that would give them back their bright forms; and a man stood on the deck of a lofty ship gazing on these objects. The hot day wind was changed to the cool night breeze, and it swept the dark locks from his brow, as though it strove to cool and refresh him; for, standing there alone, memories of grief and despair might be seen throwing their deep shadows over his expressive countenance, and wild thoughts must have been working in his heart, to make those large veins swell almost to

They opened the few papers belonging to the deceased, and decided on taking them to the good stranger who had lately come into their country; he received them kindly, and promised to take all the trouble from them, and to protect the child until her relations were found. And well he kept his promise. Unable to hear anything of them, be had the body decently interred, and determined on providing for the little girl himself. He watched, and tended, and devoted himself entirely to her; and she shortly grew so attached that she never left his side: well she repaid him-not one act of kindness was lost upon her-every day she grew more good and beautiful. Years flew rapidly away to both, and her greatest study seemed how she might best please her kind benefactor. She seemed to feel a deep devotion for him; nothing pleased her that he did not admire, and no task was too difficult if he approved it. This was indeed happiness for him such as he never expected; yet still he was grave and thoughtful, for he felt too often that the time must come when she would belong to another, when her heart would turn its most choice affections on some other object, and he would hold but a secondary place in it. But he was not selfish, and he prepared to sacrifice his last happiness for her; and, whilst he still cherished and instructed, to wean his heart from her.

to snatch it rudely away. Thirty years had given | whom her tears and cries could not awaken. him this bitter experience, and he blamed himself for having made light of the presentiment that had from his childhood clung like an icy chain around him, that happiness was not destined to be his. And now he had left his country to end his existence amongst strangers; they owed him nothing, therefore his heart could never be wrung by their ingratitude. Thus parted one of the noblest of God's creatures; despair had filled a nature that should have been the home of every virtue, and he reached another land a cold, icyhearted being, living amongst his fellows, but holding little intercourse with them; and, as each night he closed his eyes in sleep, he prayed earnestly that he might wake no more on earth. One hot and sultry night he lay tossing on his couch long ere sleep came over him, but his spirit slept not even then; no, it journeyed far into the land of spirits, he talked with bright-haired angels, and he knew them well; for, though beautiful above all that imagination could picture, they wore the expression of those whom he had loved in youth, and they soothed him, and told him of the happiness they enjoyed, and shewed him how by death they had escaped a host of evils, and that when he had thought himself most unfortunate he too had been most truly blest; for that she who had most wounded him had been the misery and ruin of all connected with her; and they said they would ever watch over him, and bid him hope again, for there were yet many blessings in store for him. He arose from that sleep an altered man; his vision was still before his mind's eye, and he knew that there was truth and reality in his dream; once more he employed his talents and time for the benefit of his fellow creatures: the wild forests and wastes for miles around were his employment and amusement; he turned them into fertile pastures and rich gardens, and became the protecting genius of the place, living surrounded by those whom he had rendered industrious and happy; he sought not for gratitude or praise, or love, so that when he found them, they were not the less welcome for being unexpected.

"Farewell, my beloved, my blessed child! Oh, that I could have lived yet a few months to have seen thee with those who would have protected thee from evil, but this is vain now; and yet I do not leave thee alone; no, prayer is not idle, and thou hast yet the strongest arm to guard and guide thee !"

Thus spoke an old man to a child kneeling beside his bed; the chamber was gloomy, every ray of the sun having been excluded. His eye was bright and beautiful when first he spoke, and was fixed on that weeping thing, and the film came slowly over it, and glazed it; yet even in death, it seemed bent on her, as though it watched her still. They had travelled from afar, and the old man's strength bad failed him, and he had tottered for aid to the peasant's cottage. Yes, he was dead, and they gently forced her from the body, and tried to soothe her, but in vain; she was amongst strangers, and could only think of him

碗

"That is a very beautiful cottage yonder, amongst the tall, bright green trees, looking down so smilingly on the peaceful unruffled lake, stretching, far and wide, beneath it. Aye, the prettiest place that I have seen in our travels over this land of freedom and equality, of aged forest and vast prairie, of magnificent river and dashing cataract, of snow-capped mountain and blooming valley; this land of terrible grandeur and gentle beauty, America! And what a balmy fragrance the soft breeze bears to us from the bright roses that climb up the trellice-work of the verandah. But, softly! there are two figures walking beneath it, a slight, gentle looking girl, and a tall dark man, doubtless her father."

"Bah," said my companion, "did you ever see a daughter blush as she does when her father spoke to her? Did you ever see a father gaze on his child as that man looks into the soft eyes of his companion? No, you mistake altogether."

"And do you indeed love me too well to go?" said a rich deep voice; "your uncle has sent for you, owned you, his children have all been snatched away by death from him, and he will adopt you. You know not that riches and happiness are awaiting you, and that the young and handsome will vie with each other in showing their homage for you."

"And shall not we go?" she asked, pleadingly. "You shall go, as soon as possible; I shall soon be able to arrange everything. I have withheld you, perhaps, too long from the world."

"And will you not really go?" demanded the startled girl, as though she had not comprehended his meaning before,