istics, and more so to those who are thankful for repose from the constant din of satirical sallies.
An improbable but somewhat exciting tale followed, in the shape of "Hargrave; or, the Adventures of a Man of Fashion," the Pelham or Cecil of the work being a disreputable roué, whose type is to be found rather in Robert Macaire than in either of the aforesaid London coxcombs. The conduct of the incidents is reckless, and the elaboration of characters null. About the same time appeared "Jessie Phillips," a pendant to the "Factory-Boy" already mishandled by us. The New Poor Law is the object of this assault, as the Factory System was of that. Enough to say, that on a subject which she herself pronounces "one of such enormous difficulty and such stupendous importance," she fails as signally as in the preceding one. Right pleasant was it to meet her in a more congenial element, when engaged in showing up "The Laurringtons; or, Superior People"—a cluster of artificial flowers not born to blush unseen, or to blush at all, of which the natural history is here detailed with the keen "knowingness" of one acquainted with the entire process by which such things are made. We miss, however, something of the early vigour of the satirist. Still she is greatly preferable on topics of this order, however they may savour of the crumbe repetita, than on a delineation of "Young Love," to which she subsequently turned her attention, working up a rather complicated story with ingenuity, but without marked success. A month or two's breathing-space, and she re-appeared in full feather as exhibitor of the "Attractive Man," Mr. Theodore Vidal, alias Luke Squabs. This worthy is just one of the clever, bland, impossible rascals whom she takes to pieces with such dissecting-room gusto. He is a man of strong feelings and considerable powers of mind—completely devoted to the pleasures of life, but with method in his madness—an Epicurean sui generis—living luxuriously upon his friends, a Mr. Affable Hawk doing the agreeable in a dovecot, and now, in middle life, looking out for an eligible spouse. A perennial flow of impudence there is in him, springing up like the strong jet of a well-supplied fountain, and blinding the eyes of any audacious mortal who ventures within splashing distance. The portrait is strongly drawn, but wants relief, The same with Lucy Dalton, a beautiful and gifted creature, without heart, principle, or decency—one of those happily unreal characters whom Mrs. Trollope, unhappily, seeks to endow with a local habitation and a name, but which human nature will never accept, and the circulating libraries only pro tempore. One or two personages in this novel are, however, excellent: as Squire Clementson, the comely, stout-hearted, and sweet-blooded (to use Jeffrey's pet phrase) old English gentleman; and the shy geological bachelor, Mr. Norman; and the gin-loving widow Dalton, that hard-featured and fluent-tongued virago, repulsive as she is. With occasional displays of such graphic ability, it is tantalising to find so many inequalities, and such intervals of dreary platitude, as detract from the merit of nearly all Mrs. Trollope's fictions.
During the last five or six years her dashing, mocking pen—dipping deeply as ever in the gall of her ink, and flitting recklessly as ever over her paper (not always of the satin-wove or cream-laid fabric)—has instructed the world in the sayings and doings, the foolish sayings and mis-
