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Miss Palmer tells us in her preface that she was much discouraged by a sensible old friend from attempting this species of writing; but that by laying down such wholesome rules as she thought would ensure the success of her work, she turned a deaf ear to the sober objections of her friend, and produced her romance of the Husband and the Lover. This first essay having experienced a favourable reception, she now indulges us with the Daughters Of Isenberg, which, we think, far superior to her former work in the diversity of character, in the conduct of the story, and in the general execution. Nor have we quite so much history blended with the fiction; this difference contributes to the advantage which the Daughters of Isenberg claims over the Husband and the Lover. But we think that in one point of view our fair authoress has not been quite so judicious as in her former production. In that she rejected the admission of the marvellous; in this she has had recourse to the hackneyed and nauseating introduction of figures in complete armour, obtruding their persons when their company is by no means wanted, and when it cannot contribute to the interest of the piece.

The Baron and Baroness Isenberg are represented as the most amiable of beings; the latter a most beautiful French lady, the only child of the Count D'Aubry, a French nobleman, whom he [sic] had married contrary to the wishes of her [154] father, by whom her hand had been destined to her cousin Hubert de Crevecoeur. This offence is not forgiven by the disappointed father, who is represented as the most inflexible of papa's [sic]. The Baron Isenberg and his lady therefore make themselves as happy as they can under this displeasure; they enjoy all those elegant comforts which affluence bestows, and all those delights which refined and liberal minds are capable of receiving in the unremitted affection of each other, and in promoting the moral and mental culture of their lovely children.

This amiable family consists of three daughters, two sons, and a maiden sister of the baron's, the Lady Marguerite, whose verbose pedantry spoils the many amiable traits of her character, and renders her an absurd and fatiguing old maid. In this portrait, Miss Palmer has miserably failed. The Lady Marguerite cannot raise the smile which the authoress intended that she should by her pedantry, which is disgustingly stupid, or by her misplaced and misapplied words, which excite no merriment. For the truth of this observation we will introduce her to our readers in the same manner as she makes her debut in the romance.

'My nieces,' said the Lady Marguerite, as soon as she had taken her usual seat at the breakfast table, 'you will scarcely inficiate that I come the harbinger of good tidings, when I enunciate to you that one is newly arrived from Sigismund with dispatches, which, however, in my existimation, savor of a dispathy which merits increpation. The exoptation of the youth to embrace the illustrious family of which he has the glory to be the induciate heir, follows hard on the course of his herald.'

This jargon is followed by much more of the same kind, but we presume the above will be an ample specimen; and indeed it savours so much of Mrs. Cavendish Bradshaw's Lady Maskulinsky's nonsense, that we cannot help expressing our surprize that the correct style, and uniformly good language of Miss Palmer, should be sullied by such a disgusting species of false wit.

As the Daughters of Isenberg are the heroines of this romance, we will give the leading traits of their character. The eldest daughter Pauline is amiable, lovely, and dignified in person and manners, but pensive and abstracted, through declining health. This latter circumstance is occasioned by the untoward circumstances which accompany her fixing her affections on one, whose fallen fortunes seem to portend nothing but infelicity. In this young lady is exemplified the impropriety of disguising from her indulgent parents her [155] secret correspondence with her lover. The consciousness of acting thus improperly preys on her health and spirits, and though she at length discloses the progress of her passion to her parents, and obtains their forgiveness and sympathy, she does not recover her former health and sprightliness till those obstacles are removed, which prevent the lover from making his proposals of marriage under the sanction of her parents. This character is very naturally drawn; her amiable self-condemnation and the innocence which runs through the narrative in which she tells her love-story to her mother, are described with simplicity and interest. Pauline also meets with a romantic adventure. Travelling through a forest with her friend Lady Aberdale, they are attacked by banditti, and carried into a cavern. Here the horrible and the marvellous are as wonderful chimed together as heart can wish. Pauline also escapes as miraculously as any heroine of romance ever did, ever could, or ever wished to escape.

The second daughter Carenthéa is more beautiful than the laughter-loving goddess herself; but with all her sense and wit she is a most teazing and consummate coquet, with all the life and mischief of fun which an easy heart and high animal spirits inspire. This lovely girl gives an animation to the family group, which, otherwise, independant [sic] of all other quantity of amiability they possess, might be thought tame and insipid. This character also furnishes a lesson to our young and beautiful ladies, to rein in their spirits, and to be more sparing of those coquetish airs and trifling manners by which Carenthéa torments, and finally loses her lover.

Carenthéa, who is the chosen lady of Don Alphonso de Lerma, plays him so many pretty pranks, and trifles with his passion, which is ardent and sincere, in so blameable a manner, that the don at length quits the gay Carenthéa, with the resolve of breaking her chains. She wears the willow for some time and repeuts [sic] her treatment of this worthy man whom she sincerely loves, when, some few mistakes and love-quarrels being explained, Don Alphonso weds the lively daughter of the Baron Isenberg. She is represented throughout to be precisely the character formed

'to create when known and loved the charm or torment of Don Alphonso's life. Her lovely person and playful elegance, attracted, interested, and enlivened his naturally grave disposition, opening to it a new and intoxicating source of pleasure: while the dignified character, the high cultivation of mind, and polish of manners set off by the fine face and figure of De Lerma, made an impression on the flattering heart of Carenthéa.

[156] After marriage she becomes the lively good-humoured matron instead of the playful and teazing coquet.

The third daughter, on whom the chief interest of the piece revolves, is named Viola, and is represented as sweet, and as modestly retiring, as the flower from which she derives her name. She is one of those lovely females, who do not like to intrude themselves on the notice of the company. She does not make any prominent exhibition of her accomplishments; and though she sings and plays like an angel, she exercises those talents chiefly for the amusement of her own family. To give her character in the words of her governess, we shall find that in no being but Viola had she seen a

'mind so superior, adorned by such innate modesty; so much genius, so happily tempered by sensibility; and that, what completed the loveliness of her character, was her enchanting simplicity of manners, which, to one who had studied her every thought and action as she had done, rendered her less the object of her love than of her esteem and admiration.'

This young lady is beloved by and loves the Marquis de Villerose et D'Aubigne, a young nobleman, whose amiable manners and noble qualities of mind render him worthy of the sweet Viola. The union of these deserving young people is agreed upon, when the Baron and Baroness Isenberg are summoned to Paris to receive forgiveness of the old Count D'Aubry, the baroness's father, who is supposed to be dying. He proves, however, not to be so near his end; he recovers and learns the prospects that are opening to his grand daughters, all of which he approves except those of Viola. He resolves to prevent her union with Villerose, in whom he discovers the usurper (though the innocent one) of his nephew Hubert de Crevecoeur's title and fortunes. He accordingly desires an interview with Villerose, in which interview he prohibits his addresses to Viola, and very unceremoniously tells him that disgrace and infamy stain his birth. This is a thunder-bolt to the poor marquis, who is ignorant of the history of his mother, who had been left, as she supposed, a widow, by her husband's falling in battle. And although she had promised this husband, when he left her, that she would be constant till her death, yet she forgets this precipitate vow, and marries a second time, at the end of ten months, the Marquis D'Aubigne. At a fête, given in honour of this ill-fated marriage, her former husband appears under the character of a bridegroom masked, and [157] after dancing an allemande with his wife, he throws off his mask and disappears with her through a trap door.

A duel ensues between the rival husbands, and both are killed. Some time after this catastrophe the widow is delivered of a son, whose claims to the one or other of the estates of the two husbands, is decided in the child's favour by the parliament of Paris, who invest him with both that of Villerose and D'Aubigne to the exclusion of Hubert de Crevecouer and de Mornie. The Marquis Villerose, who had been kept ignorant of these particulars of his family, is no sooner made acquainted with them than he makes over one part of his property to de Crevecoeur, and the other to de Mornie, who proves to be the lover of Pauline. He writes a farewel [sic] to his sweet Viola, and enters the army as a common soldier. Here his skill and courage soon distinguish him; and he is speedily raised from the ranks. He continues to perform feats of valour, but at length news is brought of his death, as well as of that of the subtle de Crevecoeur, who wished to espouse Viola.

Viola's constancy is not to be shaken; she lives almost broken-hearted, but firm in her love and constancy to Villerose. At length the empress demands her in marriage for one of her friends. She pleads her former engagement; and declares her resolution of never violating her plighted faith, and the impossibility of her loving another. Whilst she is expressing these sentiments to the empress herself, they are interrupted by the appearance of the nobleman, whom the empress intends for her; and who proves no other than the supposed lost Marquis de Villerose, under the title of Count Altenburg, to which he had succeeded by the death of a cousin on his mother's side. The constancy of the interesting Viola is fitly rewarded as well as that of Villerose, or rather Count Altenburg.

The chief beauties of this romance consist in the perspicuity of the narrative, and the well-drawn characters of the three daughters of the house of Isenberg. The chevalier Florio contributes to enliven the whole; but as this character is taken from history, the authoress claims little merit, farther than making it subservient to the progress of the story. The chevalier Florio proves to be the daughter of Augustus the Third, who had been driven from his electorate in Saxony, and had taken refuge in his capital at Warsaw, and who had gained her father's permission to travel through part of Germany, en cavalier. The character of Doctor Martimas has nothing very new, but it is rather laughable than otherwise. Our readers may perhaps like a specimen of this performance, [158] which we will give them before we take our leave of Miss Palmer. For this purpose we will extract the account which Donna Carenthéa gives her mischief-working spirit on the good Doctor Martimas.

'You cannot imagine, Lady Aberdale,' said the laughing Donna Carenthéa, as soon as the closing of the door, shut from her sight the rolling motion of his bulky form - rendered then particularly grotesque by his mock dignity. 'You cannot imagine how I envy you the society of that singularly comic personage! whose attitudes and movements alone might serve during his whole life, as an admirable study for a painter - of caricature! I am sure in that very dreary, dismal, miserable visit of our's to Liancour, just before my grandfather's death, I know not what would have become of me, if it had not been for the pleasure I received in examining the magic boudoir of the late Marchioness de Villerose, and the entertainment the doctor afforded me. But though I was then so selfish as to keep this last enjoyment to myself, I will now amuse you and those young rogues, my nephews, with a description of my attic amusement.'

The anxious eye of De Lerma, had turned with uneasiness towards Count Altenberg, on observing that this ill-judged allusion of his lady (which could scarcely fail to rouse painful recollections in the bosom of that friend), caused him to rise and walk with some emotion to a window. In the next moment however the cloud which had shaded his countenance passed off; he approached the chair of his Viola, and leaning over its back attended to the passing scene, till he found himself irresistibly impelled to join in the mirth excited by the comic humour the lively lady was exhibiting.

'You must all know,' pursued she, totally unconscious of the effect her words had produced on Altenberg, and the pain her inconsideration gave Don Alphonso - 'You must all remember the terrible confusion occasioned the morning after our arrival at Liancour by the loss of Doctor Martimas's portmanteau; though I doubt if any one of you suspect by whose contrivance it was left behind. Know then t'was mine! I had over-heard the mirth-inspiring man giving such tediously minute charges, respecting it, the evening before we left Isenberg, that I thought by circumventing his caution I might make for myself a little sport. As soon therefore as he had left the hall, into which he had caused it to be borne, and the domestics were out of the way, I made Theresa carry it into the closet, and put her own trunk (in appearance a great deal resembling it) in the place of the doctor's; which in due time was carefully lodged as his, according to his orders, in the boot of Lady Aberdale's coach, no one suspecting the trick till the evil attending it was past remedy. You may well look surprized, when you recollect the admirable discretion with which I concealed my exultation during [159] breakfast; joining my kind condolence to those of the rest of the party, and protesting my belief that one of my papa's coats, except being a trifle too long, might well supply the loss of his own. No sooner was the plan of trail agreed on, than I took the opportunity, while he was making his choice of a garment in my papa's dressing room, to step into his (which was divided only by a door from mine), and hiding myself behind the hangings, in which I made a hole large enough to give me a view of the passing scene, was soon after regaled by a sight of the doctor, who entered, followed by Luseck with the clothes.

'I think I at this moment have him before me,' pursued the laughing Donna Carenthéa, 'making his coup d'essai on the waistcoat! Heavens! what an expense of breadth - of strength - of temper, followed! The impenetrable stability of his mighty body corporate stubbornly refused to be imprisoned within a compass so narrow; he however with unshaken firmness, long persisted in trying to compel it to obedience. Now, with heightened colour and suspended respiration, he would succeed in shrinking himself within what he believed to be a hair's breadth of bringing the garment to button; then would his full lungs burst from control, and the panting doctor was fain to solicit a truce, till his recovered breath enabled him to renew the unequal combat! At length the waistcoat, yielding to the united force of the doctor and Luseck, obligingly opened behind with a renting reluctance, and embraced the ample corporation which had resisted all the efforts made to press it into compliance, leaving it antipodes to cool at leisure. What was now to be done with the terrible breach at the back, became the question; and it was thought expedient to call in the advice and aid of the friponne Theresa, whom Luseck, with much naiveté, assured the doctor, was not only the best tempered, but the most ingenious girl in the world.

'With well acted demureness, Theresa obeyed the summons, and listened to a statement of the tragi-comic case; as the best remedy to which, she proposed the tacking of strings on each side the chasm, by way of keeping together the discovered garment. To this proposal the doctor graciously acceded; and on its completion was so unconscious of the ten inch law given him by Theresa's tape, that he protested the few stitches which were ripped, had rendered the vest perfectly easy and commodious. This difficulty surmounted, our hero proceeded to adorn himself with the coat; into the sleeves of which he slid his hands, and dexterously throwing it over his head, became suddenly fixed, as by magic, in an extatic posture! A strait waistcoat could not by more effectually have pinioned the fin-like arms to the 'ribless' sides of the enchanting doctor, than did the efforts he made to force forward his hands, fix them immoveable en l'air! Not more fruitless were all his strenuous endeavours to free himself, [160] than was his attempt to coax the bottom of the vestment from resting on his swelling pole.

'Prithee, good fellow, pull the coat down behind,' cried the doctor; 'it cuts me across the neck like a halter.'

'Sir, it wont [sic] move,' replied Luseck, bowing respectfully.

'Sir, it shall move;' vociferated the doctor: do you think I will stand all day in this flying position?'

'Sir, the particular thickness of your pole stops it.'

'Sir, the particular thickness of your skull prevents your perceiving that pulling down the skirts is the only way to release my arms.'

'They will never be released,' said Luseck, with rising impertinence, 'till they are cut out of their straight quarters.'

'None of your witticisms, puppy, at my expense!' roared the doctor.'

'It would be at the expense, I humbly presume, of my lord the baron,' replied the now highly piqued Luseck.

'And your immediate profit,' retorted the still struggling doctor; 'but let me tell you, grinning Sir -'

'Just at that moment the extravagantly ludicrous grimaces, and superlatively grotesque attitudes of Doctor Martimas, became too exquisite for my further endurance; stepping, therefore, as quietly as I was able, from my place of concealment into my dressing room, and thence to my chamber, I there indulged in the same ungovernable merriment, into which my faint attempt of acting over the scene, from which I had escaped, has thrown some of you!'

Provided by Lindsey Karen Holland, May 1998.