lief to the bustle of the book, and at other times breaking in upon it with a very touching pathos. Of this kind, especially, is Cyril's visit to the house of his fathers-both parents dead-he who had disinherited him, and in dotage degraded himself by an unworthy second marriage-and she who had always tenderly loved him, and sent her heart to him, when encompassed with danger and death, across the seas;-one sister, though still happy in constitutional cheerfulness, and the untameable gaiety of innocence, somewhat saddened by the affliction that had befallen those she loved; and the other sunk in hopeless and irremediable woe, and dying, with a smile, and then a shrick of recognition, with in his arms, as reason for a moinent returned, and then was extinct for ever. That was dangerous ground to tread, for our Literature and Poetry is full of dark pictures of reason eclipsed, drawn by the hands of great masters. But our author has succeeded where failure would have been no disgrace. The causes assigned for the insanity of the sufferer are adequate, and such as have too often occurred in domestic life; her character is altogether of the kind most likely to be so affected by them; and as her lot admitted of no complete and permanent alleviation or comfort, we are willing that she should die a victim.

Most tales get crowded and confused, and, what is worse, contradictory and inconsistent, as they huddle on to a close. How rarely does it happen that the reader is entirely satisfied with the deaths and marriages that diversify the patch-work of the concluding chapters! "The funeral-baked meats do coldly furnish up the marriage-tables." We see no sufficient reason why the people who are killed off, should not rather have entered into wedlock; and we care not though the happy pair, who are setting off in a chariot and four blood bays, to spend their honeymoon at "his Lordship's Marine Villa," should not have been honourably mentioned in the obituary. But the third volume of Cyril Thornton beats its predecessors; and of it, too, the last part is the best.. Through the whole story, we have watched with interest the character and conduct of Laura Willoughby-and never been without a presentiment that she was destined to be the wife of the gallant soldier. The truth is, that, unknown to himself, he has loved her all along-nothing can be more beautiful than her calm,

devoted, almost unrepining attachment to him, even when that attachment was hopeless, under the reign of the haughty and heartless Lady Melicent; and their union, at last, satisfies all, who have felt that her meek and humble virtues, not unadorned by personal loveliness and accomplishments, were to be rewarded by the life-long affection of a generous heart, that had never been insensible to their sweet attractions, and was to find in them perfect consolation for all its vain, as well as more serious sorrows. The prospect brightens up, not too suddenly, but just as this every-dayworld of ours often does, when it has seemed to be at the gloomiest; and wishing joy to the fair bride and gallant bridegroom, we lay the book on the table or tell John to take it to Miss Somers in Moray Place-and stroll up ourselves in the sunshine to the Sanctum Sanctorum.

We shall regale such of our readers, as have not yet read the book, with what seems to us a singularly beautiful scene-the spirit of which they will feel and understand without any explanation:

"One morning, when we were seated alone in the drawing-room, I determined to execute my task.

"Laura, you remember the morning when, after hearing the account of Lady Lyndhurst's marriage, (the words half stuck in my throat,) I ran from the apartment like a madman. Did you not think me a strange and unaccountable being? I am sure you did.'

"She did not answer, but gently raising her eyes, cast them on my face, and a smile, a faint one,-passed like a sudden gleam of light over her countenance.

"I am sure you must, even if your own conjectures led you to divine the

cause.

"Yes,' she answered in a low and soft voice, the cause of your agitation could not be mistaken. I think I already know all.'

"No, not all, not all. God, the but something of my story-enough, perSearcher of hearts, alone can know all; ate, I would, if you would permit me, haps, for your kind heart to compassionnow tell you.'

"She again raised on me her moist and beautiful eyes, with a look that sank into my soul.

"Nay, Cyril,' she said, taking my hand as she spoke, do not now enter on a subject, on which it is impossible for you to speak without agitation. I, too, know that memory is painful, and it were perhaps wiser not to break the

slumber of past sorrows. Think rather on the future, that at least may be gilded by the fancy; the present, and the past, are beyond our power.'

"To me, Laura, there is no future, or, at least, such as the present is, the future will be-must be. True, my eyes may gaze on new scenes, and my own circumstances, and those of the world around me, may be changed. But that wintry world that is within, no second spring can ever renovate. I feel that to be changeless as the grave. For me, futurity has nothing brighter or darker than the present. Such as I am, death must find me.'

"You talk sadly, Cyril; you ought not, you must not indulge in such gloomy presentiments, It is wrong, Cyril, very wrong, to despair. Even in this world there is a balm for every wound but dishonour. I speak to you as a friend, for I have ever looked upon you as my best,’—she hesitated, my dearest one. Give not way to this sinking of the spirit, I entreat you. It is ungrateful it is sinful.'

"I have, I fear, talked more sadly than I intended,' endeavouring as I spoke to smile, for I meant not to distress you. I will now speak calmly.

"You have never, I think, seen Lady Lyndhurst; but the fame of her beauty, -of her fascination, has of course reached you.'

"Laura bowed slightly, without raising her head, and her face was hid from my gaze.

"I loved her. With what love, I will not speak. You think, perhaps, this was madness, but I did more than even this. I told her of my love. I will not say it was returned, but our troth, at least, was mutually plighted. I quitted my country a proud and a happy man, bearing within me the full treasure of my happiness, in the confidence of being loved. Her image went with me. It forsook me not on sea or on land, in the tent, in the siege, or on the battle-field.

"In a moment, I became the creature you now behold me. The struggle between life and death was a long one, but in pain and suffering it was still with me, and I recovered.

"Then I released her from her promise. For worlds, I would not have bound her to a thing like myself. I received a cold answer to my letter; I saw her, on my arrival in London, happy and careless of my fate, and, in less than two months, she was married to another.

"Tell me not to banish her from my heart. It were but a waste of words to do so. Believe me, I have striven strongly, fearfully, and vainly, and I know it cannot be.'

"At first, when I had done speaking, Laura bent her head forwards to the table, and, pressing it with her hands, remained in that posture for about a minute, then, as if suddenly acquiring strength to command her feelings, she once more turned her face towards me, and it was calm. I say calm,-for, although deep pity and interest were never more legibly expressed, her countenance retained no trace of more violent emotion.

"Cyril,' she said, 'yours is indeed a melancholy tale. I know,—at least, I think I know, your character, and can imagine through what sufferings you have passed. I would comfort you, Cyril, but what have I to offer but tears? you see they are yours,' pointing at the same time to my hand, already moistened with them, take them, they are my all.'

"Yes, Laura, I receive them, and, believe me, with a grateful heart,' raising at the same time my hand to my lips, and kissing away the drops that lay on it.

Earth can now afford nothing more pre cious than these tears. The wounds for which they afford no balm, must indeed be incurable.'

"Though I cannot comfort you,' she resumed, I would yet entreat you, by all you hold dear on earth,--and surely, Cyril, there is still much to which your heart grapples,-not to yield yourself to despondency. You have been, and are perhaps yet destined to be tossed on a stormy sea. To your eye no haven may be near-no ray of hope may shine in the surrounding darkness-but you are alike called on by reason and religion, to buffet with the waters to the last, and, at least, not to sink a supine and willing victim in the abyss.

"Let your trust be in that God, who raised the tempest, and can again calm it. Cast yourself on Him, with a full reliance on his mercy, and He will not forsake you in the struggle.'

"I was silent, and she proceeded.

"I fear I am a bad preacher, Cyril, and I weary you. I have touched on a subject, perhaps, too sacred to be even alluded to by one like me. Pardon me, for I have indeed spoken in the fulness of my heart.'

"Most beautiful and benign was the expression of her countenance at that moment. Never had her eye gleamed more brightly;-never had the music of her sweet voice fallen so meltingly on my ear. But the tears, which, as she spoke, had ceased to flow, again fell fast, and bending down her forehead, she covered it with her hands.

"Do not think, Laura,' and I took her unresisting hand as I spoke; do not think, Laura, though my heart be not

now fitted to receive them, that your words have fallen on a cold and an ungrateful soil. They have been treasured here-they may long lie dormant, but they shall not die, and it may happen that, like bread cast upon the waters, their consolation may be found after many days. Forgive me, Laura, for the pain which it is too evident I have occasioned you. There is no other being

on earth to whom I could have disclosed the secret that preys on me. It concerns not me alone, but with you it is safe.'

"She answered only by a look, that spoke plainly as words, can you doubt it?'"

"Much did we talk of on that morning, and the voice of her sweet soothing was not without its influence on my irritable spirits. She spoke comfort to me, and I was comforted, for I knew that she shared my sorrows; and the thought stole through my heart, as we parted, that if, in my brighter days, I had loved Laura Willoughby, happiness might yet have been mine."

From this, it is pleasant to proceed to the following conclusion. It is thus that such matters should be managed :

"I had made my arrangements unknown to any of the family, and the carriage was at the door, before I had announced my intention. Then I sought Laura, for with her, I felt it necessary to my happiness, to have a short interview before my departure, to tell her, on the eve of an eternal separation, that I did not part from her in cold indifference of heart. She was not in the house. I learned she had gone out an hour or two before, and had not yet returned. I went forth into the park in search of her, I visited her favourite walk, beneath the spreading arms of the gigantic beeches, and I called aloud upon her name, but received no answer. Then I sought her in her flower garden, but that had long been neglected, and she was not there. I remembered her favourite bower, on the banks of a shady dell, in which she delighted to seek retirement, when the sun was high. This bower was peculiarly her own, and here, even by her own family, her solitude was held sacred from intrusion. Thither my steps were bent. As I approached, no sound was heard but the murmuring of the brook beneath, and the carolling of the birds from the branches of the leafy wilderness, in which it stood embowered. When I came within a few yards I stop. ped, unwilling to intrude suddenly on her privacy, and in a low, but audible voice, I pronounced her name. No answer

was returned, and uncertain whether it contained the object of my search, I at length approached the door.

"When I entered, she was seated at a rustic table, with her face buried in her hands. A bunch of wild flowers was before her, and a book lay open upon the table. She did not move on my entrance, and I again addressed her.

“Laura,' I said, 'I am come to bid you farewell.'

"She raised her head quickly and suddenly, as if surprised by my presence. She rose as she beheld me.

"You are going,' she said, and extending her hand towards me, she sunk back upon her seat, as if exhausted by the effort. Her face was pale as death, and her eyes in a moment became lustreless and glassy.

"Oh, Laura, you are ill; excuse me for having thus intruded on your privacy, but I felt I could not depart without seeing you once more.'

"I saw she was struggling to speak, but could not, for her lips moved, yet they produced no sound. At length the word farewell, in deep and suffocating tones,

was faltered from her lips.

"Ere I bid you farewell, Laura, I have something to say, which I could not be happy were I to leave unspoken. I would not have you believe me unkindungrateful. Alas, could you read my heart, you would know, I am neither.'

"As I spoke I seated myself beside her on the mossy bench-her head fell upon my shoulder, and in a few minutes the power of utterance was restored to her lips.

"What passed at that interview, words shall never tell.

"The carriage was countermanded. I did not return to the army."

And now, gentle readers, we have almost "said our say," and do not know that you would thank us for the very best summary possible of the merits and demerits of Cyril Thornton. When we like a book, we laud it, without any of those base "ifs" and "buts" that take away all the grace of commendation, and leave the mind balancing between praise and censure. When we dislike a book, our worst enemies will allow, that we condemn it to the heart's content of all reasouable people. We daresay that these three volumes are full of faults, and that, if all carefully picked out by some sharp-sighted, nimble-fingered critic, partial to such employment, they would fill a bushel. We are sorry that Cyril should have shot his brother, and that he should have been so scurvily provided in the article of a

father. Pure as is the air on the Peak of Teneriffe, it seems not to have agreed well with his peculiar temperament and constitution, and, contrary to its effect on people in general, to have made him somewhat dull and drowsy. Indeed, he seems to have felt so himself, for he climbs no more mountains. He goes backwards and forwards, too, from England to the Peninsula, we think, or elsewhere, on leave of absence, when we are hardly prepared for such proceedings; and provided the reasons of his change of place are sufficient to his own judgment and feelings, he cares little about those of the critical world. That he is a man of wit, and has a keen sense of the ridiculous, nobody will deny; but, like most persons so gifted, he is rather too fond of exercising his powers, and not always so successful as his friends had reason to expect. "Come, Cyril, be serious;" but to such remonstrances, why, he presents us, perhaps, with a caricature of five Dumbartonshire beauties, kicking their splay-feet to the astonishment, and even terror, of the refined population of an English ball-room, at a watering-place. On some parts of his life he dwells too long-and on

others too shortly-unmindful of proportion-and we yesterday heard a Phrenologist say, that he was willing to pledge the science on the small size of his organ of Constructiveness. But so many pledges of that sort are now lying unredeemed in the various pawnbrokers' shops, here and in London, that we requested our friend for the present to let alone this gentleman's skull. Men, we presume, do not, all the while they are continuing to lead their lives, keep constructing them on architectural principles, as Burn, Hamilton, or Playfair, would construct a college or a church. People's lives, it would appear to us, are, in a great measure, self-constructed-or by the Fates. When, how, or by what hand the dark foundations were laid, it is ever hard to say-nor less hard to speak of the gradual rising of the superstructure. The order of some lives, is the strong plain Doric-of others, the elegant graceful Attic-of others, the rich ornate Corinthian-of others, the elaborate and crowded Composite;but how, why, or wherefore, Vitruvius cannot tell-Palladio himself is puzzled-and Inigo Jones knows no more than the commonest stone-mason.

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