where a narrative is capable of being rendered even in abridgment acceptable and edifying, we are always glad to avail ourselves of it.

Next come fictitious narratives; but of these it is the working up that constitutes the charm; and an outline of the plot, with a few patches of extract, are seldom satisfactory; and this remark applies especially to religious tales, which are not meant to be novellike, but to convey some salutary moral throughout the whole development of the story, and not to shine by sparklingly brilliant passages, which may be exhibited with equal effect in a detached form.

Next, to come nearer to "The Bishop's Daughter," we have narratives mixed up of fact and fiction, and these puzzle us beyond measure, till oftentimes, in despair of discriminating what is true from what is false, we throw aside the book; for it is irritating to the mind to find oneself treading upon the edge which separates between the real and the ideal. Part is true; part is false; but we cannot quote what may be true, because it is in such questionable company that it may be fictitious; or if not fictitious in substance may yet be so in detail, and thus not be quoteworthy. We wish that the author of "The Bishop's Daughter," had divided his book into two parts, the "make-believe" part, as children say, and the veracious part. The narrative professes to be the history of the daughter of Dr. Chenevix, bishop of Dovedale. The bishop is eminently learned, devout, and benevolent; he dies, and it is found that, far from leaving a comfortable provision for his daughter, she has only an annuity of £47; and he had been so much more liberal than prudent that his

estate is deeply involved in debtHis daughter, Sybyl, the heroine of the tale, resolutely determines, not only to maintain herself, without the aid of friends, but to discharge her father's pecuniary obligations. She gives up her jewels and a policy of insurance worth £3000 to the creditors; devotes herself for several years with persevering energy, and far beyond her strength, to unremitted toil in drawing and needlework; privately selling the produce of her arduous labours, through a confidential agent, and paying off portions of the debt. On one occasion she has a task of intricate work in embroidering a Christening robe," which requires her to ply her labours through two successive nights; but a fire breaking out on the third morning, she is hindered, and cannot complete it in time; and her taunting employer, who had promised it that forenoon to "a wealthy banker's daughter," will not give her one farthing for her frustrated exertions. At another time a banker fails who had in his hands a considerable sum, the produce of her anxious toils, which she had been accumulating to pay another instalment of her father's debts; and she suffers severely in mind and body; and seems fast passing away to better world;" but, amidst her heaviest pressure, she conscientiously refuses an offer of marriage from a gentleman of large fortune, because he does not keep holy the Sabbath-day, and, though amiable in his disposition, and of pleasing manners, is worldlyminded, and takes no account of Christianity. An old clergyman, whom her father when a boy had rescued from the tyranny of his companions at Westminster school, leaves her a dilapidated house at the very social, or antisocial, village of Tattlewell, with

a

an annuity of £70 per annum, where she goes on saving and paying; till, eventually, as the residuary legatee of the same friend, an annual income of £1300, from an unexpected source, accrues to her, upon which she raises money, liquidates her father's remaining debts, and spends most of the remainder in unostentatious deeds of charity. Her whole conduct is very beautiful, self-denying, and, in one word, Christian; but though the children of clergymen often, and even of bishops sometimes, are exposed to severe privations after the death of their parents, and examples might be found among them which would prove the story of Sybyl to be "founded on fact;" yet as a narrative it is fictitious, and so are the personages which figure in it; as Miss Pulham, Bertie Bransburton, Mr. Crucifix, Mr. Titus Tunks (the "Conscientious Dissenter," as he calls himself), Mrs. Hungerford, Mr. Beriah Bunch, and the coterie of Tattlewell, as Miss Pyemont and "the widow Pricktoe;" as well as the mysterious Lady Montresor, whose father Mr. Trevor, it turns out, had patronized a Frenchman, who had devised an intricate plan to prevent the forgery of bank-notes, which the Bank of England rejected; whereupon Trevor and the Frenchman determined to work it for their own benefit, in forging notes; and the Frenchman dying, Trevor, needing a confederate, initiates his daughter Julia into the felonious secret; and she, being betrayed by a spy of the Bank in the disguise of a lover, is transported; and her sister follows her; and Julia dying in a few weeks after her arrival at Sydney, the sister marries Captain, afterwards Sir Harper, Montrevor, after whose decease Lady Montrevor settles at Tattlewell; but a returned ruffian convict,

who knows the secret of her sister's transportation, levies heavy contributions on her to refrain from divulging it, till, by a chapter of coincidences, his villany is discovered by Sybyl, and the story gets abroad, and her ladyship thereupon quits the place; shortly after which Sybyl dies in peace, and faith, and hope, and charity, and enters on that blessed and eternal rest which owes a part of its immeasurable felicity to the contrast in having escaped from a world of sorrow and of sin;-of sorrow, for "these are they that came out of great tribulation;" of sin, for "they have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb; therefore are they before the throne of God."

This machinery of characters and incidents is but a vehicle for the moralities (we use the word largely and classically) of the story, and the above passing notice of it, though not meant disrespectfully, illustrates, we fear, our remark, that a brief outline of a plot, with a mention of the personages of the drama, is not very interesting to the reader, and does not do justice to a writer. But interwoven with the tale, are memoranda of real men and women under their real names; as, for example, Bishops Heber, Corrie, Turner, and Porteus; Wordsworth and Coleridge; Garrick and Mrs. Siddons; Whitfield, Warren Hastings, Sir George Beaumont, Jackson (the painter), Chantrey, Dr. Paley, Lord Nelson, and the late Duke of Kent; and now and then of living persons, as the emperor Nicholas and the Rev. Richard Waldo Sibthorp. But which is the "make-believe," and which the veracious part of the story, is more than the reader can always ascertain; and hence he is tantalized, and perhaps offended, as fearing lest he is being imposed

upon, where real personages are introduced. Not to take an extreme case, we will quote the very first instance which occurs, that of Bishop Heber, of whom we read as follows.

"If those on whom she had a claimthe Bransburtons and the Pulhamsforgot poor Sybyl,

"And whistled her down the wind, a prey to fortune,"

they hastened to her in the hour of sorrow with ready proffers of the humble aid they could offer from whom she had no right to expect assistance.

"Foremost among these was Mr. Huburt St. Paul, the rector of the humble benefice of Downberry. He was one of those men, often, alas! to be found in the Church of England, who, after a life of active exertion-after having devoted to her cause no feeble powers of mind, and no imperfect acquirements of intellect-are allowed to retire in the evening of their days on a pittance barely adequate to furnish them with the common necessaries of existence. A nobleman's butler would have sneered

at

'such wages;' and a Duchess's lady's maid have flounced at them as an unparalleled insult to her order.' But he was content; and ever ready to share his pittance with others. His mother resided with him in the large bay-windowed, old-fashioned rectory; and joyfully coincided in his proposal that its shelter should be offered, under present circumstances, to his late diocesan's daughter. While she is ruminating over his communication, prior to dictating a steady, but grateful refusal, let us sketch his character.

"Mr. St. Paul had been on terms of no ordinary acquaintance with three distinguished ornaments of the episcopal

bench.

"He had received much of his early education in Bishop Heber's Sundayschool at Hodnet; and had been honoured with no small share of that prelate's personal regard.

"He has been often heard to say that his first love of Scripture was kindled his first desire to be a minister awakened, by a short, simple exposition of the call of the infant Samuel to the prophetic office, delivered by Mr. Heber to his Sunday-school children one Sabbath morning. Among other curious incidents he was wont to describe-curious, when contrasted with his calm, serious countenance, grave address, and placid brow, already shaded by locks prema

turely gray-was that of his running away from Hodnet School, under circumstances of, as he considered, unbearable provocation, and with a firm resolution never to return.

"Mr. Heber heard of the defection of his favourite pupil; determined not to part with him; and came himself in quest of him.

a

"He met my mother, who entered upon a long vindication of myself, and most elaborate description of the wrongs I had endured; protesting, at the close of every sentence, her unalterable respect for the rector, but her firm and abiding conviction that I would never return to the school.

"Ah, well!' was his reply, without heeding, to her infinite surprise, any one of her statements; I must see Huburt. This was my errand here; and this I must fulfil.'

"I floundered out of my hiding-place, looking somewhat angry, sullen, sheepish-perhaps all three. He looked at me for a few moments in silence. Who could ever resist the charm of that mild, intelligent, kindly countenance ? then said, very slowly-Be ye angry, and sin not. Let not the sun go down upon your wrath, neither give place to the devil.' 'Froward thoughts separate from God.'

He

"It was over. I put my hand in his: went back to the school; and never quitted it again till I left it with his prayer and benediction.

"There never was upon this earth, perhaps, a more scrupulous conscience. Upon one of his visits to our dwelling, his favourite and inseparable companion Cherry-of whom more anon-had felt his virtuous resolves overcome by the remains of a very savoury pie which my mother had, like a thrifty housewife, put carefully aside as a bonne bouche for my father's early supper. Cherry was despatching the last morsel when his delinquency was detected. What was to be done? My mother protested, of course, that it was no manner of consequence, and that Cherry was heartily welcome.' The rector felt that it was of consequence; and that a dainty so carefully hidden must be replaced by some equivalent. The rector and Mrs. Heber held a brief consultation apart, and then abruptly changed the subject. The following morning there came up from the rectory a large basket literally crammed with dainties. Now this is so handsome-so generous-so like the donor' was my mother's comment, as she examined the contents with true housewifely glee.

"Bravo! was my father's sly conclusion, Bravo! I wish Cherry would

come up and fancy a fragment of cold pie once a week at least.'

"But Cherry, as he must always occupy a prominent place on any canvass upon which is sketched, however faintly, THE Hodnet Rector,' merits distinct

mention at our hands.

He

Cherry was a beautiful terrier, and a first-rate favourite with his master. He accompanied the rector in all his walks, rides, and visits; and certainly the instinct which the little animal displayed, was closely akin to reason. divined on a Sunday, by some intuitive process-without any apparent reference to personal appearance or change of dress-whether his master was, or was not, to be the officiating minister of the day; and regulated his course accordingly. If the rector took the duty, Cherry would at once precede him to the vestry. But, if a different arrangement had been decided upon, Cherry would stop short in the aisle, and station himself on a mat before the rector's pewdoor. Mr. Richard Heber repeatedly said he was sure the dog understood what passed in conversation; and the rector would often with a laugh express his fears that Cherry was 'ower canny,' and had by some unlawful means obtained a clue to "the universal language!'"

In reading the above, the puzzle is to know when the author is his torianizing, and when rhodomontading. Heber's is a real name; but Sybyl, the Bransburtons, and the Pulhams are ideal;—they may represent classes or characters, but they are not actual individuals. Then comes the case of "Mr. Huburt St. Paul, the rector of the humble benefice of Downberry," whose name and benefice, we presume, are not in any ecclesiastical register; yet it is upon the veracity of this (as we suppose) ideal personage, that the authenticity of the anecdotes of Bishop Heber, and also of Bishops Corrie and Turner, depends; for it is Mr. St. Paul who relates the incidents; he had been "on terms of no ordinary acquaintance with (these) three distinguished orna. ments of the episcopal bench," and had "received much of his education in Bishop Heber's Sunday School;" and if there be no

such person-no person with this identical name and benefice, and of whom all that is related is strictly veracious-then fact and fiction are mingled in a manner that chafes a mind in search of distinct simple truth. There may be truth in fiction; a well devised fiction is truth throughout; Bunyan's dreams in this sense are true; and the Bishop's Daughter also is a true book, except precisely where it relates truth, and then we begin to read doubtfully, because truth in masked company becomes suspicious. We are perplexed to know whether, when real names are introduced, we are to receive the facts and anecdotes as having actually occurred, and exactly in the manner related; or whether the writer is only giving them in character; meaning that the parties might, or would, have spoken or acted thus, and that the sayings and doings illustrate their habits. We were lately witness to a colloquy between two persons who had been reading Count Alfred de Vigny's popular volumes illustrative of history; and a contest arose as to whether a remarkable dialogue between Bonaparte and the Pope, and also the incidents connected with the life and times of Cardinal Richelieu, are authentic. The one argued that though there is much invention in the Count's narratives, for the sake of dramatic effect, yet that there is so much known fact, that when real persons are mentioned, what is stated is strictly true; whereas the other maintained that the author only selects such incidents as suited his purpose, and works them up, so as to bring out what he considers the striking features of the history or in the character of his personages. For ourselves, we seldom vex our spirit with books thus written. Give us a fable or give us a history; at