world of high fashion too?" Ay, be sure of it, and among the sons of dukes and the grand-daughters of peers;-for such are the respective ranks of the distinguished couple in question.

It is at this point of the story-the first introduction of the Beauty of Fashion to the hero of "Young Love"-that the deep and intense dramatic and moral interest of the story commences, and it never from this point flags or fails, and never ceases to display a knowledge of the human heart, a mastery over the feelings, a force and subtlety of characteristic delineation, a truth and vividness of colouring, and often a depth and delicacy of pathos and of passion, which we know not where else to find in an equal degree among living writers. "Young Love" is, unquestionably, in these respects, the chef d'œuvre of Mrs. Trollope; and if in working out some of the latter scenes there is occasionally a melodramatic extravagance of tone in the colouring, an improbability in some feature of the collateral details, and an injurious clogging of the main action by superfluous incidental minutiae, these are faults almost inherent in the required form of the modern English novel, which, by reason of the Procrustes' bed on which it places the writer-(exacting neither more nor less than three volumes, whatever may be the scope of the design or the extent of the materials)—often forbids that unity and concentration of interest which are so important to the perfection of a narrative which (like the present) has but one stream of action. Not that we would willingly see Mrs. Trollope limit herself to less than three volumes on any occasion, for if she did it would doubtless be at the cost of those numerous incidental sketches of character in which she is so inimitable and inexhaustible, and in which the present work, notwithstanding the simplicity of its design, is as rich as any of her preceding productions. How comparatively insipid, for example, would be the parties assembled at "The Mount" for the despatch of the regular business of this novel, if they were not enlivened from time to time by the presence of such gems in the art of portraiture as Miss Celestina Marsh, the raw-boned" 'young girl" of two-and-thirty, who breaks her heart and her stay-laces every week for a new lover; or Mrs. Stephens, the " young married woman" of forty, who is in "the most interesting situation imaginable," all through the novel; or her doating and devoted husband, who, being ten years her junior, and having been forced to settle all her money upon herself, passes his life in the delusive dream of one day or other coaxing her out of a sum sufficient to take him back to his friends in the United States, where she picked him up;-or half a score of others who, however little business they may have with the progress of the story or the development that "young love" which is its theme, are infinitely amusing, and as true as the life from which they are evidently drawn.

If we have spoken less in detail than may seem desirable of the chief features in the design of this novel-the development of "Young Love" in the hearts of the hero and heroine respectively-it is not only because the work will be universally read, but because nothing but a complete and consecutive perusal of it can convey any just impression of the masculine vigour in the one case, and the delicate and touching beauty in the other, with which these portions of the design are executed. They are, we repeat, superior to any thing of a similar kind that the writer had previously done, and prove her to be as much without a female rival in the delineation of passion and pathos as she is in breadth of humour and force of comic painting.

THE

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

MAKING PRESENTS.

BY LAMAN BLANCHARD, ESQ.

ONE of the charms of Christmas is in the bounty it brings. It is an old constant distinguishing characteristic of the season to exhibit a soul too broad and embracing to be shut in by the narrow though equitable boundaries of commerce; too lavish to throw its heart's wealth into a scale and weigh it out in scruples. It is no period for scant measures, or for bare justice; the cup must overflow. Who ever said at Christmas, "But can't you take half a mince-pie?" The spirit of the time is ungrudging, hospitable, generous. It is not the meal of Enough, but the festival of Excess. People, who throughout the long year had given not a crumb, now give dainties and luxuries rarely tasted. People who never knew any body to send them a brace of sparrows, now receive, free of carriage, real turkeys, now get an actual goose with seductive and liberal accompaniments. Piles of presents heaped up past all former prodigality; hampers bursting with their fat bounties; boxes, baskets, bags innumerable, blocking up the way on all sides, constitute at such a time a multitudinous monument to our mortal love of good cheer. The reading now runs

Man's generosity to man

Makes countless thousands glad.

At such a season the common law of debtor and creditor is repealed. It is all give and take. The simple rule is

That they should give who have the power,

And they should take who can.

Less than happy be his new year, who could carp and cavil at the large, free, bountiful, open-hearted, full-handed, gift-scattering philosophy of Christmas.

When last I called on Sir Jasper-(this was said by a friend the other day, who talks for hours, and had then started off upon an allusion of mine to the Art of Making Presents)-Sir Jasper, you know, is of the old family of the Thinskynnes, some of whom are to be met with in every county he was evidently much ruffled and disturbed. It was a slight expression that betrayed this, and few would have noticed it under his gay, frank manner.

Dec.-VOL. LXXII. NO. CCLXXXVIII.

2 G

Something has annoyed you," said I.

He laughed and frowned.

"Yes," replied he, "I am annoyed: much mortified,-almost insulted: and yet I can see no road to redress. I can't send with a message."

"To whom, for what?"

you

"No!" cried Sir Jasper, laughing through a flush of anger, "that would be too absurd. So much for the duel remedy. A man shall be injured and affronted every day, and deeply too, with such insidiousness and dexterity, that satisfaction is impossible."

He

Sir Jasper Thinskynne thought very little of himself, but a great deal of his family. He was not proud, of a fine mind, a genial and winning disposition, handsome accomplishments, and large possessions; but he was proud of an old vault full of illustrious bones in Dorsetshire. never valued himself upon the purity and fire of the blood that bounded through one of the most kind and gallant hearts in the world: but he did plume himself upon the antiquity of its spring. Sir Jasper was intensely alive to the honours associated with him; but he himself was as the humblest and meekest of the unhonoured, without a particle of conceit or false dignity. Whatever seemed to affect his independence, though touching it but with a needle-point, awakened in him the wildest suspicion and alarm. All kindness in his acts, a kindness shown to him often kindled a jealous impatience, and fell chillingly upon his heart, like patronage. He shrank from it, as if it could cloud his honour. To confer upon him a favour, was to wound his sensitiveness with the most cruel and piercing of weapons.

Still, knowing all this well, I had no suspicion of the nature of his grievance, and accordingly inquired concerning the offence and the offender. His look deepened from seriousness to sternness, and resentment flashed steadily in his eyes, as he now, mentioning the name of a man who resided on the other side of his county, inquired if I knew any thing of him.

"Yes, I did; knew him for a good sort of fellow, with a good many odd ways; having a good estate, and a liking for doing good after his own fashion."

And what did I suppose he had been doing to Sir Jasper Thinskynne?

66

Well, my good friend, having said all that, what do you imagine this man, whom I never saw six times in my life, has been doing with regard to me?"

It was long before I was told; and then it was in a tone of pride and bitterness, and with a tinge, whether of shame or anger, spreading up to the temples, that Sir Jasper slowly uttered the words, "Sir, he has been making me presents-and I am sorry to add, in the most liberal and gentlemanlike spirit."

"Making presents ?" I screamed out, to save a burst of laughter, which would never have been forgiven.

"Yes, twice this morning is the second time. What am I to do? I never harmed him, yet he heaps his kindnesses at my door. Never have I spoken ill of him, never thought an injury-yet he insists on laying me under these mortifying obligations."

On inquiring what shot the enemy had fired, it appeared that all the rarities of park, pinery, and preserves, had been inflicted on the unoffend

ing Sir Jasper, and what was worse, every thing was managed with an art so nice, that refusal or resentment was difficult, if not impossible.

"After all," I ventured to suggest, "these are not offences to quarrel with very seriously."

"Nor to submit to unconditionally," returned Thinskynne.

"As

sure as he is at this moment my benefactor, I'll send him up a prize ox to his town-house at Christmas. How else can I relieve myself from this new persecution? The list of my tormentors was long enough before. I, who abhor favours, am doomed to be overwhelmed with them. I, who need none, am rendered miserable with a profusion of kindnesses. What return is to be made, except the return of the gifts that so humiliate me! Nobody goes abroad (proceeded Sir Jasper) without bringing me something over. Nobody can make purchases without buying me what I don't want. Nobody can possess any thing that he wants himself, without sending it to me. Defenceless as I am, I make a show of resistance occasionally, and lock my doors against the assaults of some particular offender; but he defeats me at last. That stupid thing there from India, was twice rejected, yet you see it on the table. Look at these prints, my dear friend, and pity me. Those prints are from a persecutor, against whom I inveterately set my face. I evaded with skill, declined with delicacy, refused with a point-blank explicitness, and a courage that astounded me: but he was un tireable in his artifices, he baffled me at last, and the prints are unfortunately mine. See this wretched nic-nac; from no rich giver, but literally forced upon me by a needy hand, in spite of prayers and protestations. Now, what am I to do? I cannot be always getting the rascal's son into the Customs."

"In this case then," said I, with a gravity under which the ridiculous struggled for mastery, "you had reason to suspect an object--"

"Object!" cried Thinskynne, "why each has his object, such as it is; and if it should happen to be the pure one of devotion and gratitude, the obligation is no less vexatious, the gift no less unacceptable-without a return, which is often rather costly. Do you remember the contest between Salvator Rosa and the Constable Colonna? The painter sent him as a present one of his beautiful landscapes, and the prince, in raptures with the gift, sent Salvator a purse of gold. The painter reinspired by such generosity, set his genius to work upon a finer picture, and prayed acceptance of it by the constable, who was again delighted, and returned a second purse. Salvator's enthusiasm kindled once more upon the canvass; but, unhappily, for another noble landscape another purse of gold was returned. He was not to be outdone in generosity, nor was his princely friend; until, when the sixth landscape was left at the palace, the constable sent back two purses, and said he gave in."

"With persecutors like yours, my dear Sir Jasper," replied I, laughingly, "such contests would be ruinous. You would have a dilemma per diem. Take this advice therefore : treat these gifts as waifs and strays; torture yourself no more about obligations, meditate no returns, but let the bountiful zeal of this provoking generation of givers burn out of itself. You will find the generous disease not incurable when you cease to stimulate it with gifts, measured according to your own jealous sense of honour and independence."

"Burn out!" exclaimed Sir Jasper; "never while there's trash to

give. You do not know this persevering and pernicious race of presentmakers. I can rarely be introduced to a new acquaintance, but in three weeks' time he takes the liberty to be vastly obliging, and has the effrontery to lay one, who never provoked him, under an insufferable obligation. He is repelled, flung back, but of course prevails in the end over a weary antagonist. Does he leave off then? Not while there is a civility to be shown. You must continue to honour the man by your polite acceptance: he, he is the obliged party, and he never can be grateful enough. It is a rule with him. To prove this, he sends you the identical glove worn by a gentleman who had shaken hands with Oliver Cromwell, and he expects in return a handsome salver, but possibly puts up with a teapot. No, no, my friend," pursued Thinskynne, "the fire upon their altars never burns out, and we victims must be content to burn our fingers at it again and again. They have never any lack of that smaller kind of fish with which herrings are caught. They treat you as if you could only live by voluntary contributions, and a system of barter always settling in their favour; so that it is no wonder if, in a short time, you are at a loss to know the difference, between making presents and making bargains."

Sir Jasper's indignation was as little likely to burn out as the interested bounty of his acquaintances, but I broke in here, with the desire to give him advice in his whimsical distresses.

"Give me nothing," he cried, "the smallest donations are thanklessly received."

"Advice is next to nothing; and as mine is not worth having, take it."

66

Agreed, on that condition," returned Sir Jasper, "though I never thought to have willingly accepted any thing again.

"Are these oddities around us all presents? These queer curiosities, these strange-looking pictures, this uncouth, ugly specimen of furniture, those scraps and fragments of something once valuable, perhaps, but worthless now at all events, and so exhibited to view on walls or in corners, as though their owner would fain have them all out of sight, and make a clearing of the lumber;-are they presents?"

They were presents, chiefly presents. In library and drawing-room were crowds of these testimonials of Sir Jasper's popularity, the munificence of his friends, and his incapability of refusing a gift. Similar tokens of the world's kindness and partiality were scattered in all parts

of the house.

"Presents, principally," sighed Sir Jasper, "but paid for at an extravagant rate. That broken Mercury cost me a diamond-ring. Substituted for Washington's brass buckle in its former owner's house, stands a superb clock; and in exchange for that sham Cuyp, value three guineas and a half, I had the honour of ordering a rather elegant breakfastservice. Some of the rubbish, however, I bought; but the purchases are by far the cheapest portion of the collection. Upon those precious articles which came to me by legitimate sale, which are my own by independent purchase, which I obtained upon an established principle of commercial exchange known to all men-namely, trash for cash-on these I can look without shame, and I never desire my housekeeper to stow them somewhere out of the way; as is the case with my gratuitous treasures; those given curiosities, which have swallowed up half a for