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We can scarcely remember an instance, where the public expectation was excited in so high a degree, as by the promise of a new novel from the pen of their old favourite, Madame D'Arblay. Upon the authoress of Evelina, Cecilia, and Camilla, the curiosity of the literary world had made a large demand, and the [375] character which she had so justly acquired, was deeply engaged in the event of this last performance. When it was remembered that the former productions of this celebrated Novellist had called down the admiration of such men as were Burke, Reynolds, and Johnson, a later effort of the same mind was waited for with all the respect which the memory of such great names could command, and with all the anxiety that authoress, who had been the subject of such panegyric, could inspire. The interest was not a little heightened by the long silence, which the peculiar circumstances of her life had in some measure forced her to preserve, and from the persuasion, that while her successors in fame were exhausting their invention by a repetition of languid and fatiguing efforts, she was enriching her mind with all the stores of observation and reflection. Her long residence in a foreign country, it was conjectured, would have opened sources of information, of which her inventive powers were so well enabled to take a due advantage both in the portraiture of character, and the description of events.

Such were the expectations formed when this performance was first ushered into the world; and it was with much pleasure that we gave our earliest attention to those pages, from which so much satisfaction or disappointment would probably ensue. The tale is preceded by a long dedication to her worthy and respected father, Dr Burney, the author of the celebrated History of Music, and the friend and associate of Dr Johnson. This affectionate tribute of filial gratitude could scarcely have reached him, before he breathed his last, and we feel ourselves happy in adding our testimony of respect to the memory of a man, who has enriched by his labours, and dignified by his exertions, a department of science, which, in a literary point of view, had been too long neglected; who has left a name, which if it were not sufficiently distinguished by his own merits, would be for ever recorded in the exertions of his children.

To those who might have supposed that M. D'Arblay would have entered into long discussions on the events of the day, or unfolded the political intrigues of the neighbouring country, a few very sensible and feeling observations in the preface are addressed, which clearly prove the impropriety of such allusions, and the ingratitude of such an exposure.

'If therefore, then - when every tie, whether public or mental, was single, and every wish had one direction, I held political topics without my sphere, or beyond my skill; who shall wonder that now - united, alike by choice and by duty, to a member of a foreign nation, yet adhering, with primæval enthusiasm to the country of my birth, I should leave all discussions of national rights, and modes, or acts of government, to those whose wishes have no op-[376]posing calls; whose duties are undivided; and whose opinions are unbiassed by individual bosom feelings, which where strongly impelled by dependant happiness, insidiously, unconsciously direct our views, colour our ideas, and entangle our partiality in our interests. Nevertheless, to avoid disserting upon these topics as matter of speculation, implies not an observance of silence to the events which they produce as matter of fact; on the contrary, in attempt to delineate, in whatever form, any picture of actual human life, without reference to the French Revolution, would be as little possible as to give an idea of the English Government without any reference to our own; for not more unavoidably is the last blended with the history of our nation, than the first with every intellectual survey of the present times. Anxious however - inexpressibly - to steer clear, alike, of all animadversions that to my adoptive country might seem ungrateful, or to the country of my birth unnatural; I have chosen, with respect to what in these volumes has any reference to the French Revolution, a period which, completely past, can excite no rival sentiments, nor awaken any party spirit; yet of which the stupendous iniquity and cruelty, though already historical, have left traces that handed down, even but traditionally, will be sought with curiosity, though reverted to with horrour, from generation to generation.

'Every friend of humanity, of what soil or persuasion soever he may be, must rejoice that those days, though still so recent, are over; and truth and justice call upon me to declare, that during ten eventful years, from 1802 to 1812, that I resided in the capital of France, I was neither startled by any species of investigation, nor distressed through any difficulties of conduct. Perhaps unnoticed - certainly unannoyed - I passed my time either by my own small - but precious fire-side, or in select society; perfectly a stranger to all personal disturbance; save what sprang from the painful separation that absented me from you, my dear Father, from my loved family, and native friends and country.'

In the feelings of M. D'Arblay on this delicate point, we fully participate; but of the language in which they are expressed, we cannot so entirely approve. During her long residence in France, she appears to have forgotten the common elegancies of her native tongue; and, throughout her preface, to have indulged her impartiality between the rival nations, by adopting a phraseology which is neither French nor English, but uniting the bombast of the one with the awkwardness of the other. One important fact, however, which it records, must not be passed over in silence, as it too clearly displays the lamentable want of all religious feeling in the first societies of Paris. M. D'Arblay represents herself to have been much struck, on her return to this country, by the frequent discussion of religious topics in the first circles, with more familiarity, perhaps, than the awful nature of the subject would allow.

[377]'Nevertheless truth, and my own satisfaction, call upon me to mention, that in the circle to which, in Paris, I had the honour habitually to belong, piety, generally, in practice as well as in theory, held its just preeminence; though almost every other society, however brilliant, cultured, and unaffectedly good, of which occasionally I heard, or in which, incidentally mixed, commonly considered belief and bigotry as synonimous (Query synonymous?) terms.'

It is our earnest hope, that the liberality of these illuminati may soon subside into a sober and rational belief in that religion, which is the ground work of all national, as well as individual, happiness and honour. Christianity is the very pillar and support of government; and when this fair column is once withdrawn, the fabric of civil polity will rapidly decay; and tyranny will erect its standard over the ruins of piety and liberty. The despotism of man can alone controul the passions of those who have shaken off the fear of God. We trust that the slumbering sparks of religious gratitude and feeling may be once more revived in a nation, delivered in so awful a manner by the almost immediate interposition of Providence from the chains of an infidel despot.

The time, which M. D'Arblay has selected for the action of her tale, is the period during which the bloody Robespierre exercised his fiend-like tyranny over the lives and liberties of his countrymen. The history thus commences.

During the dire reign of the terrific Robespierre, and in the dead of the night, braving the cold, the darkness, and the damps of December, some English passengers in a small vessel were preparing to glide silently from the coast of France, when a voice of keen distress resounded from the shore, imploring in the French language, pity and admission.

.

The pilot quickened his arrangements for sailing, the passengers sought deeper concealment, but no answer was returned.

'O hear me!' cried the same voice, 'for the love of heaven, hear me!'

The pilot gruffly swore, and repressing a young man, who was rising, peremptorily ordered every one to keep still, at the hazard of discovery and destruction.

'Oh listen to my prayers!' was called out by the same voice, with increased and even frightful energy; 'Oh leave me not to be massacred.'

'Who's to pay for your safety?' muttered the pilot. 'I will,' cried the person whom he had already rebuffed; 'I pledge myself for the cost and the consequence.'

'Be lured by no tricks,' said an elderly man in English; 'put off immediately, pilot.'

The pilot was very ready to obey. The supplications from [378] the land were now sharpened into cries of agony, and the young man, catching the pilot by the arm, said eagerly, ''Tis the voice of a woman! where can be the danger? take her in, pilot, at my demand and my charge!'

'Take her in at your peril, pilot!' rejoined the elderly man. Rage had elevated his voice; the petitioner heard it, and called - screamed rather, for mercy.

'Nay, since she is but a woman, and in distress, save her, pilot, in God's name,' said an old sea-officer. 'A woman, a child, and a fallen enemy, are three persons that every true Briton should scorn to misuse.'

The sea-officer was looked upon as first in command; the young man, therefore, no longer opposed, separated himself from a young lady, with whom he had been conversing; and, descending from the boat, gave his hand to the suppliant. There was just light enough to shew him a female in the most ordinary attire, who was taking a whispering leave of a male companion, yet more meanly equipped. With trembling eagerness she sprang into the vessel, and sunk, rather than sat, upon a place that was next to the pilot, ejaculating fervent thanks, first to heaven, and then to her assistant.

The pilot now, in deep hoarse accents, enjoined that no one should speak or move, till they were safely out at sea.

After this introduction of our heroine to our notice, we never lose sight of her, even for a single chapter. She is conveyed in safety to England; before however she lands, she throws a mysterious something into the sea, with an exclamation of exultation and gratitude. Upon her arrival on the British shore, she casts off the disguise of patches and paint, which she had assumed, and professes herself an English woman. Destitute however and forlorn, she refuses to reveal either her name or her connections, or to give the slightest hint by which her history might be traced. By the entreaties of Miss Elinor Joddrel, a fellow passenger in the pilot boat, she is received into the family of her aunt, Mrs Maple, in a character something between a companion and an upper servant. In this capacity she is treated with all the insolence of mean vulgarity, and tortured by the repeated attacks of idle curiosity. She still refuses to reveal either her name or her history; as, however, a letter is directed to her at the post office, under the initials L.S. she consents to receive the name of Ellis. During her stay with Mrs Maple, new accomplishments are every day discovered, and she is at length commanded to take a part in some private theatricals, which were to be exhibited under the direction of the young ladies of the family. Her exertions as 'Lady Townley' are attended with so much success, as to command the admiration of all, particularly of Lady Aurora Granville, and her brother, Lord [379] Melbury, with the former of whom an intimate acquaintance is commenced, which, notwithstanding the jealous interference of the young ladies' relations, still continues. In the mean time, the charms of her behaviour captivate the heart of Albert Harleigh, the young man who first proposed her admission into the pilot boat. The brother of this gentleman was to have been married to Elinor Joddrel, on her return from France; but the match is broken off on the part of the young lady, who is a philosophe of the new school, and has formed a desperate attachment to Albert himself. From this circumstance, as might easily be supposed, arises half the distress and perplexity of the tale. A. Harleigh persecutes the incognita on one side with passionate vows, Elinor, on another, with suspicious jealousy, and all the old aunts, on a third, with contemptuous insolence. Elinor, in the madness of affection, reverses the usual order of things, and makes an offer to Harleigh; and, to render the business complete, entrusts herself and her secret to the management of her rival, who is her agent and confidante in the whole affair. Harleigh refuses Elinor, and the incognita as resolutely refuses Harleigh; and so concludes the first volume, in the perplexities of mutual disappointment.

The second volume opens with the flight of Elinor, no one knows whither. The wanderer, or, as she is called, Miss Ellis, quits the roof of Mrs Maple, and is introduced at Brighton as a teacher upon the harp, under the protection of Miss Arbe, a lady of fashion, who is an acknowledged judge of fine arts, and a grand patroness of all their professors. The character of this lady is well conceived, and drawn with great fidelity and spirit.

The present scheme for Ellis had another forcible consideration in its favour with Miss Arbe; a consideration not often accustomed to be treated with utter contempt, even by higher and wiser characters; the convenience of her purse. Her various accomplishments had already exhausted the scanty powers for extra expences of her father; and it was long since she had received any instructions through the ordinary means of remuneration. But ingenious in whatever could turn to her advantage, she contrived to learn more when she ceased to recompense her masters, than while an obligation between them and the pupil was reciprocated; for she sought no acquaintance but amongst the scholars of the most eminent professors, whether of music or painting: her visits were always made at the moment which she knew to be dedicated to practising or drawing; and she regularly managed, by adroit questions, seasoned with compliments, to attract the attention of the master to herself, for an explanation of the difficulties which distressed her in her private practice.

[380] Compliments, however, were by no means the only payment that she returned for such assistance: if a benefit were in question, she had not an acquaintance upon whom she did not force tickets; if a composition were to be published, she claimed subscriptions for it from all her friends; if scholars were desired, not a parent had a child, not a guardian had a ward, whom she did not endeavour to convince, that to place his charge under such, or such a professor, was the only method to draw forth his talents. She scarcely entered a house, in which she had not some little scheme to effect; and seldom left it with her purposes unfulfilled.

The artists also were universally her humble servants; for though they could not, like the world at large, be the dupes of her unfounded pretensions to skill, they were sure, upon all occasions, to find her so active to serve and oblige them, so much more civil than those who had money, and so much more social than those who had power, that from mingling gratitude with their personal interest, they suffered her claims to superior knowledge to pass uncanvassed; and while they remarked that her influence supplied the place of wealth, they sought her favour, they solicited her recommendation, they dedicated to her their works. She charmed them by personal civilities, she won them by attentions to their wives, sisters, or daughters, and her zeal in return for their gratuitous services had no limit - except what might be attached to her purse.

Those who have had the satisfaction of passing any part of their lives among the dilettanti, will not fail to recognize in Miss Arbe a faithful portrait of no inconsiderable patrons of the fine arts, and protectors of their professors. Under the auspices of this lady, Miss Ellis commences her career as a teacher on the harp. Her various pupils, and their distinguishing features, are drawn with much ingenuity; and the alternations of success and miscarriage, with their several causes, are happily pourtrayed. She at last consents to sing in public at a benefit concert, much against the eager and repeated remonstrances of Harleigh, whose offers are still resolutely refused. Notwithstanding this degradation, he accompanies her to the concert, where she is disturbed by the sight of a stranger in a slouched hat, enveloped in a large scarlet coat, who seems to single her out as the object of his attention. Affrighted by the novelty of her situation, and various contending ideas, she faints as she approaches her place in the orchestra: Harleigh springs from his seat, and forces a passage to the spot where she was lying.

But the instant that he had raised her, what was his consternation and horrour, to hear a voice from the assembly call out: 'Turn, Harleigh, turn! and see thy willing martyr! - Behold, perfidious Ellis! behold thy victim!'

[381] Instantly, though with agony, he quitted the sinking Ellis to dart forward. The large wrapping coat, the half mask, the slouched hat, and embroidered waistcoat, had rapidly been thrown aside, and Elinor approached in deep mourning: her long hair, wholly unornamented, hanging loosely down her shoulders. Her complexion was wan, her eyes were fierce, rather than bright, and her air was wild and menacing.

'Oh, Harleigh! adored Harleigh!' - as he flew to catch her desperate hand - but he was not in time; for, in uttering his name, she plunged a dagger into her breast.

The reader must not be too much alarmed at this tragical scene, as the wound inflicted upon this fair suicidal philosophe, is healed in due time, and all is well. At the beginning of the third volume, the incognita meets with a friend, whom she had known during her residence in France. This lady, who is introduced as a sort of instrument in the developement of the history of our heroine, is a true French character, and thoroughly in the school of M. Cottin, as the following extract will show.

Juliet (i.e. Miss Ellis) promised to be governed wholly, in her future plans, occupations, and residence, by her beloved friend.

'C'est a Brighthelmstone, donc,' cried Gabriella, returning to the little grave, 'c'est ici que nous demeurions! ici, òu il me semble, que je n'ai pas encore tout à fait perdu mon fils!'

Then tenderly embracing Juliet, 'Ah, mon amie!' she cried, with a smile that blended pleasure with agony; 'ah mon amie! c'est à mon enfant que je te dois! c'est en pleurant sur ses restes que je t'ai retrouvée. Ah, oui!' passionately bending over the grave; 'c'est a toi, mon ange! mon enfant! que je dois mon amie! Ton tombeau, même, me porte bonheur! tes cendres veulent me benir! tes restes, ton ombre veulent du bien à ta pauvre mère!'

With difficulty now Juliet drew her away from the fond, fatal spot; and slowly and silently, while clinging to each other with heartfelt affection, they returned together to their lodgings.

This scene is doubtless expressed with much tenderness and feeling, but it is French, not English pathos; we can therefore readily excuse our authoress from a violation of a rule of taste, in cloathing it in a French garb. In all histories, as well as plays, there is one language, in which all the characters, except for some particular purpose either of pathetic, or ludicrous expression are bound to discourse. Frequent deviations from this rule would give the whole a patched and pie-balled (sic) appearance, which no true taste could approve, and would introduce those difficulties, which few common readers would be expected to [382] overcome. For the benefit, however, of those to whom the French language is not familiar, an English translation is subjoined.

Gabriella, however, and her friend, continue not long together. Miss Ellis is hurried through a series of adventures; she changes her places of residence, she becomes an assistant in a milliner's shop, in the course of which adventure, the reader is introduced into all the mysteries of mantua-making. Here, however, she becomes acquainted with a gouty old humourist, Sir Jaspar Herrington, whose generosity is animated by a fanciful creation, which haunt him by night and by day.

'You must shew me,' cried he, addressing Miss Ellis, 'some little consideration, if only in excuse for the total want of it, which you have caused in those little imps, that beset my slumbers by night, and my reveries by day. They have gotten so much the better of me now, that I am equally at a loss how to sleep, or how to wake for them. 'Why don't you find out,' they cry, 'whether the syren likes her new situation? Why don't you discover whether any thing better can be done for her, and then, all of one accord, they so pommel and bemaul me, that you would pity me. I give you my word, if you could see the condition into which they put my poor conscience, however little so fair a creature may be disposed to feel pity for such a hobbling gouty old fellow as I am.'

Our heroine soon after engaged herself as a humble companion to Mrs Ireton, whose character is delineated with more spirit perhaps than any other in the tale. The scenes in which the capricious tyranny of the nervous aunt, and the mischievous pranks of the fractious nephew, become the object of our attention, are drawn with a knowledge of human nature, and kept up with a continued vivacity, which in these volumes is extremely rare. It is with pleasure, therefore, that we introduce these characters to the notice of our readers.

'Upon the entrance of any visitor, not satisfied to let the humble companion glide gently away, the haughty patroness called out in a tone of command, 'You may go to your room now; I shall send for you when I am at leisure.' Or, 'You may stand at the window, if you will. You won't be in the way, I believe; and I shall want you presently.' Or, if she feared that any one of the party had failed to remark this augmentation of her household, and of her power, she would retard the willing departure by some frivolous and vexatious commission, as 'Stop, Miss Ellis; do pray draw this string a little tighter.' Or, 'Draw up my gloves a little higher; but be so good as not to pinch me, unless you have a particular fancy for it.'

[383] If drily, though respectfully, Juliet ever proposed to wait in her own room, the answer was, 'In your own room? O - ay - well - that may be better! I beg your pardon for having proposed that you should wait in one of mine! I beg your pardon a thousand times! I really did not think of what I was saying! I hope you will forgive my inattention.'

But if, when the purpose was answered of drawing the attention of her guests upon her new dependent, that attention was followed by any looks of approbation or remarks of civility, she hastily exclaimed, 'O, pray don't disturb yourself, Sir, or Ma'am! 'tis only a young woman I have engaged to read to me - a young person whom I have taken into my house out of compassion.' And then, affably nodding, she would affect to be struck with something she had repeatedly seen, and cry, 'Well, I declare, that gown is not ugly, Miss Ellis! how did you come by it? Or,' That ribbon's pretty enough, who gave it to you?'

Among the most irksome of the toils to which this subjection made her liable, was the care - not of the education, nor mind, nor manners, but of the amusements - of the little nephew of Mrs Ireton, whom that lady rather exulted than blushed to see universally regarded as a spoilt child. - Mrs Ireton having raised in his young bosom expectations never to be realised, by passing the impossible decree, that nothing must be denied to her eldest brother's eldest son, had authorised demands from him, and licensed wishes, destructive both to his understanding and to his happiness. When the difficulties, which this decree occasioned, devolved upon a domestic, she left him to get rid of them as he could, only reserving to herself the right to blame the way that was taken, be it what it might; but when the embarassment fell to her own lot; when the spoilt urchin claimed every thing that was unattainable; she had been in the habit of sending him abroad for the immediate relief of her nerves. The favour into which he [sic] took Juliet now offered a new and more convenient resource. Instead of 'Order the carriage, and let the child go out;' Miss Ellis was called upon to play with him, to tell him stories; to shew him pictures; to build houses for him with cards; or to suffer herself to be dragged unmeaningly, yet wilfully and forcibly, from walk to walk in the garden, or from room to room in the house; till tired, and quarrelling even with her compliance, he recruited his weary caprices with sleep.

Nor even here ended the encroachments upon her time, her attention, and her liberty; not only the spoilt child, but the favourite dog was put under her superintendance; and she was instructed to take care of the airings and exercise of Bijou; and to carry him where the road was not [sic] rough and miry, that he might not soil those paws which had the exclusive privilege of touching the lady of the mansion; and even of pulling, patting, and scratching her robes and attire for his recreation.'

Before our incognita is delivered from the slavery of the spoilt child and the spoilt cur, we are treated with another suicidal at-[384]tempt of our old friend Miss Elinor, who contrives, by some management, to bring Miss Ellis and Harleigh together into a solitary church-yard, and then to fire a pistol in the air for their amusement. This attempt, however, meets with no better success than the former; and all the machinery of shrouds, coffins, and monuments, is thrown away upon this awful occasion. We cannot conceive whether M. D'Arblay intends to caricature such preparations for death, or whether she intends them as real horrors. If these suicidal pranks are meant as a subject for amusement, we really think that such bloody proceedings are of far too serious a cast to be treated with levity and scorn; if, as is most probable, they are intended as objects of terrific interest, we must express our opinion that M. D'Arblay has failed entirely in the execution of her purpose. The repetition of such scenes, without any adequate cause, is neither in character nor in taste; nor can they produce any other effect on the mind of the reader, but a sensation of ridicule and disgust. After a series of adventures, the real history of our heroine is discovered by her French friend Gabriella, to Sir Jaspar; and it appears that this forlorn and beauteous wanderer is the daughter of the late Lord Granville, and the grand-daughter of the late Earl of Melbury. Her father, during the life of the late Earl, had married abroad; but the event was kept secret from the family. In the mean time his wife died, leaving him Juliette, an only daughter. On his return to England, he was forced into a second marriage with a lady of birth and fortune, by whom he had Lady Aurora Granville, the kind friend of our heroine on her arrival, and the present Lord Melbury. In the mean time, Juliette was educated in France under the care of a bishop, the uncle of Gabriella, who often presses her father to own and receive his daughter. All the papers necessary to prove the marriage, &c. were in the hands of the bishop, and all was on the eve of being settled, when Lord Granville was killed by a fall from his horse. His father, Lord Melbury, is then made acquainted with his son's first marriage, but refuses either to see or acknowledge Juliette; and all that the bishop could obtain was a draught for six thousand pounds, payable on the day of her marriage with a resident native of France. Under the reign of Robespierre, the bishop was arrested, and this promissory note found upon him: the messenger of the convention and commissary, to make himself master of the money, forces Juliette into marriage; and she, to save the life of the Bishop, consents to the ceremony. Scarcely however was she out of the church, when she contrives means of escape; and, after many adventures, is received into the pilot-boat, as is related in the first chapter.

[385] It appears also, that most of these circumstances were known to Lord Denmeath, the maternal uncle of Lady A. Granville, who uses every artifice to break off the friendship which had been formed between herself and the incognita, suspecting the real state of the case, that she was no other than Juliette in disguise. The 'mysterious something,' which she threw overboard on her passage, was her wedding ring. But all her misfortunes are not yet concluded. She is pursued by the emissaries of her French husband, and she wanders in her flight through the New Forest and the country adjacent, where she encounters her persecutors in the capacity of smugglers; she is overtaken at length by the French commissary in person, but is rescued from his grasp by the brave and generous Harleigh. Soon after this event the news arrives, that the commissary had paid the forfeit of his crimes at the guillotine, and nothing now remains to prevent the union of Juliette and Harleigh. She recognizes in Lady Aurora a sister, and is received by her noble family with the utmost cordiality, and thus the history concludes.

Of the merits of the tale itself, the reader may perhaps form some judgment, from the slight sketch which we have thus presented to his view. The plot is well conceived, but too much time is consumed before it is unravelled, and before we have the slightest idea of the history of our incognita. We must confess that we were somewhat fatigued before we arrived at the end of the third volume, as there is neither sufficient interest in the narrative to keep alive the attention, nor sufficient spirit in the style to interest the feelings. Could the whole work have been compressed into three volumes, we should have thought that much more entertainment would have been provided for the reader, and much more credit would have accrued to the authoress. It has too much the appearance of being unnaturally lengthened, to fill out the space of five volumes, with the same matter which was originally intended for three.

The knowledge of human nature displayed in the portraiture of the characters is very unequal. In the extracts which we have given from those of Miss Arbe and Mrs Ireton, the reader will recognize an insight into life and manners, and which he will seldom meet with in modern tales, those perhaps of Miss Edgeworth alone excepted. The revolutionary spirit, which displays itself in the sentiments and