painted to the life, that he is perfectly natural. A cat mews, and a pig grunts. To inform us that a cat mews and that a pig grunts, is therefore very true to nature-but it is not on that account agreeable. The fellow is a caricature of the most repulsive kind; he never enters on the scene without being an intruder, whom every body wishes in the bottom of the ocean.

Mr. and Mrs. Ribley, though a brace of wealthy cocknies, are far from being the most worthless or uninteresting of the whole set. We have in Mrs. Malcolm, the mother of Ronald, a most charming picture of dignified simplicity, mildness, and unaffected elegance-even as that water is the purest which has no taste, that air the freshest which has no odour,' to borrow the expressive and happy illustration of the author. In Benbowie we recognize a true Scottish follower of the clan of Glenroy-a kind of character that is not unfrequently to be found also in Ireland.

Before we introduce the chief in persona, we shall give the author's humorous description of him; it is a capital specimen of her" characters" in general.

All the world knows that there is nothing on earth to be compared to a Highland Chief. He has his loch and his islands, his mountains and his castle, his piper and his tartan, his forests and his deer, his thousands of acres of untrodden heath, and his tens of thousands of black-faced sheep, and his bands of bonnetted clansmen, with claymores, and Gaelic, and hot blood, and dirks.

'All these, and more, had the Chief of Glenroy; for he had a familytree, upon which all the birds of the air might have roosted. Doctor Johnson, to be sure, has said that there are no such things as family-trees in the Highlands; but the Doctor's calumnies against trees of every description, or rather of no description, throughout Scotland, are too well known to require refutation.

'Glenroy, therefore, had a tree; and as for his rent-roll, it was like a journey in a fairy tale, "longer, and longer, and longer, than I can tell." However, as the Chief himself was not particular in ascertaining the precise amount of his income, but lived as if the whole Highlands and Islands, with their kelp and black cattle, had been at his disposal; it would ill become his biographer to pry into the state of his affairs, for the gratification of the curious. Suffice it therefore to say, that the Chief of Glenroy lived in a style which was deemed suitable to his rank and fortune, by all— and they were neither few nor far between-who partook of his hospitality. In person, as in fortune, Glenroy had been equally gifted. He was a tall handsome man, with fine regular features, a florid complexion, an open, but haughty countenance, and a lofty, though somewhat indolent air. The inward man was much what the outward man denoted. He was proud, prejudiced, and profuse; he piqued himself upon the antiquity of his family, the heroic deeds of his ancestors, the extent of his estates, the number of his followers, their physical strength, their devoted attachment. On the other hand, he was of an open temper, of a social disposition, liberal to his tenantry, generous to his dependants, and hospitable to all. His manners, though somewhat coarse, were by no meaas vulgar; and when a little under control, he could be both pleasing and gentlemanly in his deport

ment.

His supremacy being universally acknowledged throughout the extensive district where his possessions lay, he bore his faculties with that sort of indolent pomp which betokens undisturbed power. He felt himself a great man; and though he did not say even to himself that he was the greatest man in the world, he certainly would have been puzzled to say who was greater.

Such was Glenroy; and with all these advantages, it was naturally expected that he would form an alliance worthy of himself and his clan, all of whom identified themselves with their Chief, and consequently looked upon his marriage as an event in which they had an undoubted interest. As it was impossible, however, that any one so great in himself could make a great marriage, his friends and followers, being reasonable people, merely expected that he would make the best marriage possible.

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Greater speculation could scarcely have been excited at the court of King Ahasuerus, as to a successor to the rebellious Vashti, than that which prevailed amongst the clan on the subject of forming a suitable alliance for their Chief. Each had his favourite and exalted fair, in one or other of the most illustrious Scottish families, on whom he conceived that Glenroy should place his affections. But vain are the schemes of man! Instead of these glorious results, Glenroy did what many wiser men have done before him; he fell in love, and made what was called, a countable marriage ;" for he married a merely pretty girl, of neither family nor fortune, the orphan daughter of a poor hundredth cousin of his own. The fact was, Glenroy was too proud to consider it a matter of much importance whom he married: he could derive no consequence from his wife; his wife must owe all her dignity to him. This was a blow to the clan, which all the youth, beauty, and sweetness of the lady could not reconcile them to; and it was not till the birth of an heir, that they recovered their spirits. But then bonfires blazed-bagpipes played-tartans wavedwhisky flowed-all, in short, was done to welcome to this vain world an heir to its vanities. Alas! how short-sighted are sometimes even secondsighted mortals!

At the end of two years a daughter was born, but far otherwise was her birth commemorated. A lifeless mother-a widowed father-a funeral procession-tears, regrets, lamentations, and woe; these were the symbols that marked her entrance into life, and cast a gloom upon her infant days. The child was christened Edith, after its mother. And so ended Glenroy's first attempt at connubial happiness.'-Destiny.-vol. i. pp. 3–7.

Perhaps Miss Ferrier has favoured us with rather too much of the juvenile life of her future heroes and heroines. She takes them almost from their infancy, when scarcely yet removed from the nursery, tells us all those stories about their hair, eyes, and figure, in which fond mammas take so much delight, talks at full length of their amusements, and even treats us to their little quarrels, and to the edifying language in which they gave expression to their The destined husband of Florinda thus addresses her mother, who threatened that the savage should be sent from the house that very day,' for giving the young damsel a slap on the cheek. "But this house is not yours," retorted Reginald, with equal warmth; "it is my uncle's house, and I am to stay here till

my papa comes home, and then I shall make him send that wicked monkey to prison, for breaking my watch. The little wretch, I hate and despise her for telling lies,-yes, you shall go to prison, and be fed on bread and water, you little lying yellow-haired wasp!" This language may be, like M'Dow's character, all very natural, but it is certainly very far from being captivating to readers of any age. Yet the first volume is so full of this kind of writing, and of long preliminary descriptions of the various personages whom the fair author sets in motion, that it is calculated to raise strong prejudices against the remainder of the work, and indeed to prevent many persons from reading the other two volumes. Those who judge thus hastily of 'Destiny,' will indeed lose a good deal of enjoyment, a circumstance which was very near occurring to ourselves, had we not had the grace of perseverance. The scene in which, after a long absence from each other, Edith and Reginald mutually disclose the prepossessions of their youthful days, will put the reader in better humour with the author. We should premise that the malaria, of which the gentleman complains, was one that affected his mind rather than his body. In truth he had met Florinda, now the Lady Waldegrave, a peeress in her own right, abroad, and had been deeply smitten with her charms. Edith upon this, as upon all other occasions, engages all our sympathies upon her side, by the uncommon tenderness and maiden purity of her affections.

Edith was arranging her drawing materials, preparatory to copying a drawing which lay before her, and which she had already begun.

"I ought perhaps to feel ashamed of your seeing my poor attempts," said she, as Reginald looked at the outline she had begun; but," she added, looking on him with the clear and innocent expression of her soft eyes, "I do not wish to hide any thing from you, Reginald, however painful it might be."

""You have no cause," replied he, bending over the drawing, and seeming to examine it very attentively.

"To you, who have lately been seeing so many fine pictures in Italy, it must be a penance to be obliged to look at my poor scratches; but I don't even wish you to praise them. I should think you were either laughing at me, or deceiving me, if you did so."

'Sir Reginald stood with his eyes still fixed on the drawing, but his thoughts were evidently more profound; at last, he said, in a voice of deep emotion,- "It would be difficult to laugh at you, Edith; and Heaven knows! I have no wish to deceive you!"

“I am sure you have not!" said Edith, with tenderness of tone and manner. But, dear Reginald, are you not deceiving yourself?" And she blushed to crimson, as though she thought she had said too much.

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Reginald made no reply, but shaded his face with the drawing he still held in his hand. After a pause, raising his head, he said in a voice that vainly struggled with composure,-"I will not attempt to misunderstand you, Edith. You would tell me that you" He stopped, as if suffocating with emotion.

"Yes, Reginald, said Edith, tenderly, "I would tell you how much you have wronged yourself and me, if you ever supposed I, for an instant, could forget-Ah, Reginald, do you think I should have continued to wear this ring, if I had ceased to- love you, she would have added, but the words died on her lips, and she bent her head to hide the blush which glowed even to her brow.

6

Reginald took the hand she had half extended to him, and pressed it in silence to his lips, but some minutes elapsed ere he spoke; then, in a deep and faltering voice, he said," I believe you, Edith; my doubts are now ended. Say, when will you become mine?"

Edith started; for the accents in which this fond interrogatory was put, were any thing but those of hope and joy. She looked on her lover, and his face, even his lips were pale, and his features were contracted as if in agony.

"What is this?" exclaimed she, wildly. "You are ill, Reginald; Oh, tell me why do I see you thus?"

"I am ill, Edith," said he, faintly attempting to smile; "but do not be alarmed—it is a mere spasm, to which I am occasionally liable; but it is past for the present, let us think no more of it." And, assuming an air of gaiety, he sought to quiet Edith's fears, and remove her suspicions, if she had any, as to the nature of his emotion. Edith was, of course, strenuous for medical advice: but Reginald assured her it was merely the effects of the malaria he had had, when at Rome, and consequently a disorder not understood by the physicians of this country. "But time, and your good management, will perhaps enable me to get the better of it," he added with difficulty, suppressing a sigh, "if you are not afraid to undertake the

cure."

""You had the malaria, then, and concealed it from me?" said Edith, reproachfully. "Ah, Reginald, if you had known what your silence cost me! but it was your tenderness for me made you conceal it from me; and you were ill while I was unjustly blaming you, perhaps

"No, no," cried Reginald, in agitation; "I ought-But-oh, Edith, had I flown to you at the first, it might not then have been too late; I should not then have been the wretch I am!

"Dear Reginald, do not reproach yourself so bitterly, you could not foresee how fatally our dear Norman's illness was to terminate.'

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Fatally indeed!" re-echoed Reginald, as he leant his head on the table, and buried his face in his hands.

""Had you been here, you could have done nothing for my poor brother," said Edith; "he would not even have known you, and you see you are not too late to be a comfort to us."

'Reginald looked up, and spoke more calmly, as he said, "You were always gentle and forgiving, Edith; but you know not the depth of my self-reproach," he added, with renewed agitation. "Edith, you see me broken in spirits, oppressed with remorse-the victim of a hopeless malady," gasped he, striking his bosom; "yet, if I can but make you happy, I can bear it all. Edith, a brighter, happier destiny might be yours, but if you will unite yourself with me, let it be quickly, let there be no idle delay, there has been too much already."

A painful surmise now darted into Edith's mind; she had heard of the baleful effects of the pestilential fever at Rome, in even affecting the

mind of the sufferer long after the cause had apparently ceased; and trembling at the dread suspicion, she knew not how to reply.

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Speak, Edith," he cried, impatiently, "do you repent?" Edith cast her streaming eyes upon him with a look of tenderness and affection, whilst she slowly and distinctly uttered, "Never!"

"Enough!" cried Reginald, as he pressed his quivering lip to her hand; then, after a short pause, he said with calmness, "And now, Edith, I again entreat that there may be no trifling delays on your part; on mine, everything shall be done to accelerate matters; for that purpose I must now leave you for a time. I must go to Dunshiera; there must be much for me to do there, and the more, that I have to prepare it for its future mistress." His voice now faltered a little, and he stopped, but soon went on. "I have too long neglected it, but I must now live there for a part of the year if I can. I am aware of the opposition this will meet with from Glenroy; but much as I owe him, and desirous as I am, by every means in my power, to discharge my debt of gratitude, still I cannot devote myself wholly to him."

"It would be too much to expect," said Edith with a sigh; " and yet, my poor father! how shall I leave him in his present state of mind? and still worse, how will he bear your absence-you who are now every thing to him?"

Yes," cried Reginald, again relapsing into agitation; "my father's mistaken tenderness for me has placed me in a cruel situation. I have incurred a load of gratitude to Glenroy, which crushes me to the earth; his house hitherto has been my home, but Edith, I cannot, I will not, continue to drag out a useless existence here."

Glenroy's voice was at that moment heard loudly calling" Reginald," and presently he came slowly shuffling into the room, talking to himself as he was wont to do.”—Destiny.—vol. ii. pp. 60-66.

The necessity for a more candid explanation upon the part of Reginald, soon becomes more pressing, as Lady Waldegrave and her mother, who had long been absent from Glenroy, made use of the death of his only son, as a pretext for their proceeding in person to offer him their kind condolence. The real object of the daughter at least, was to see her lover from whom she had parted in a quarrel, which she was most anxious to make up. We do not mean to follow this pair through all their intricacies of courtship. We shall limit ourselves to a conversation which passed between Edith and her father, upon the subject of an answer to Lady Waldegrave's self-inviting letter. It shews out the prominent traits of the old chieftain's character in bold relief.

"""Are you to be all day writing that letter, Edith? is it not done yet?" were the queries that greeted her on her entrance.

"I beg your pardon, papa; but I have not had time."

"Not had time! you've had time to write at least a dozen of lettersit's really intolerable; what's the use of you women learning to write at all? you should all keep to your needles and thread, like that idiot, Molly Macauly, and not torment people with your trash of letters this way. Have you not written the one I desired you yet?”