learn from Harrington, that the objection came from their side. The nature of this objection was discovered by chance. Lord Mowbray, who, as we have mentioned, had gone abroad, at a convivial meeting recognized one of his old school-fellows,-the identical person, at whose representations Jacob had been elected pedlar in preference to his Lordship's protege, Dutton, who, by the bye, turns out a great scoundrel in the course of these memoirs. Conversation turning upon their juvenile days, a dispute arose upon this topic. Lord Mowbray got into a high passion, and insisted on fighting across the table. He was shot and expired. Mrs. Fowler, Harrington's old nurse, who was now the confidante of Lady de Brantefield, having been detected by our hero in an attempt to defraud her mistress and ruin poor Jacob, hearing of his Lordship's decease, seized the opportunity of purchasing her pardon by revealing a scene of iniquity in which she had been an instrument. At the instigation of Lord Mowbray, whose written instructions she produced, she had spread a report that Harrington had been insane when a child, and was still subject to fits of derangement. She had found means to bring this rumour to the ears of Mr. Montenero. Lord Mowbray had whispered the same thing to him, and Harrington's occasional ecstasies had confirmed the opinion. It was this supposed liability to mental alienation, that rendered him, in the estimation of Mr. Montenero, unfit for a husband and a father. This difficulty having been cleared up, nothing was now wanting to Harrington's happiness but his father's approval of his choice. His inviolable oath, by Jupiter Ammon, takes away all hope of thatwhen lo! and behold, it comes out that Miss Montenero's mother was a good Christian, and that she had been educated in the true faith! As, therefore, she was no Jewess, the oath by Jupiter Ammon did not take effect, and no impediment longer retarded the mutual felicity of the youthful pair. This is a rough sketch of the story; but it furnishes a fair display of the material, though it exhibits none of the ingenuity of the manufacture. We have not been able even to delineate the characters. Harrington appears to be a simple, credulous, well-meaning, direct and tolerably resolute young man. His father is a prejudiced, gruff, testy old gentleman; his mother a nervous valetudinarian. Lord Mowbray is an overbearing, unamiable boy, but a genteel, spe cious and fashionable man. His conduct to Harrington, however, is not sufficiently accounted for; and it is quite absurd to kill him off in a duel about a school-boy bickering. Lord Mowbray with his rank, talents and accomplishments, certainly need not have resorted to underhand means to vanquish Harrington in the outset of their intimacy with the Monteneros,-yet he must then have entertained a design, and felt a jealousy, or he would not have taken pains to throw out insinuations so injurious to our hero. As for Jacob, he is made quite too con. spicuous a personage. In fact, too many Jews and Jewish incidents, which we have not room to recount, are brought in perforce. Mr. Montenero is equally distinguished for the qualities of his head and heart. He had long resided in America, and Miss Edgeworth has done this country the justice to praise the liberality of its public sentiment as well as the undistinguishing toleration of its laws. All we require is, that 'every man should be fully convinced in his own mind,' and show the orthodoxy of his creed by his outward conduct. Miss Montenero is a lovely, sensitive, interesting girl-but she is no Jewess! and the whole fabric which the author had raised falls before this single fact. By doing away this prominent impediment to the union of the lovers, she completely destroys the interest of the reader, and the mo ral of her tale. The mode adopted to dispose of the difficulty, is a tacit admission that it could be got over in no other way. Miss Edgeworth is quite willing to allow the Jews to be very clever good people, but it is pretty plain that she does not think a Hebrew damsel a proper helpmate for a John Bull. There is a narrowness of spirit in this confession, of which we should not have suspected our author. On the contrary, we remember instances in which her philanthropy has quite transcended our sympathy. In one of her novels she very seriously advocates connubial love between blacks and whites,—and actually compels one of her minor heroines to receive a sooty spouse. She considers radical difference of race and nature, as a trifling circumstance, but an accidental variety in the hue of faith, is an unsurmountable barrier! We do not think the Jews of Ame rica will feel themselves much obliged by the extent of her concessions. In Ormond, which is rather a longer story, the scene is laid in Ireland. Ormond is the orphau son of an English officer, left, with a trifling patrimony, to the protection of Sir Ulick O'Shane, an Irish gentleman, who resided at Castle Hermitage. Sir Ulick's only child, Marcus, was a little older than the hero of the tale. Lady O'Shane, the third wife of Sir Ulick, was not very kind to the young men, nor much beloved by them. Sir Ulick was a speculator and a politician. Lady Annaly, a relation of his first wife, and her daughter, were on a short visit at the Castle. It was Sir Ulick's desire to obtain Miss Annaly for his son. He kept this scheme secret for the present, and felt somewhat apprehensive that she might contract a fondness for Ormond. It happened about this time that Marcus and Örmond, in returning from the Black Islands, where they had been to spend the day with Mr. Cornelius O'Shane, commonly called King Corny, and cousin to Sir Ulick, being a little the worse for royal hospitality, got into a quarrel with some independent Irishmen; and Ormond, in the heat of passion, and in defence of Marcus, shot at, and badly wounded Moriarty Carrol!. In conseof this rencontre, Ormond and quence Moriarty were ever after excellent friends! But Lady O'Shane being much disturbed by the occurrence, and Sir Ulick very willing, just now, to be rid of his ward, he was sent into honourable retirement to the Black Islands, taking with him the wounded Moriarty. King Corny received his young friend with open arms, resolved to adopt him as his son, and had him duly proclaimed by the title of Prince Harry. King Corny had a daughter Dora, a very beautiful and capricious girl, whom he had betrothed, long before the birth of either, to the eldest son of an early friend, who was known by the name of White Connal. He took care to apprize Ormond of this, and to caution him to regard Dora as a married woman. In due tirae White Connal came to pay his respects to his intended bride. The contrast between him and Ormond was so much in favour of the latter, that Dora could not but feel it. White Connal's visit was short. He returned to his estates to prepare for his nuptials. But Dora in the meantime fell sick from her new love for Ormond, who in turn caught something of the contagion. But King Corny's word was past, and he never recalled it. The case of the lovers seemed desperate, when, as good fortune would have it, White Connal fell off his horse and broke his neck. Now their happiBut alas, Connal's ness seemed secure. father claimed the promise in favour of his next sop, known by the name of Black Connal. Nothing could equal_ Dora's distress at this disappointment. In a few days Black Connal made his appearance to urge his pretensions. He turned out to be a marvellous proper man,' in the lady's eyes. He had a travelled air, had seen the world, thought every body a barbarian who had not been to Paris, and was moreover dressed en militaire, being an officer in the Irish brigade in the French service. Monsieur de Connal's easy impudence, and eternal self complacency, gave him a complete sway over the giddy Dora, and she readily complied with her father's engagement, though it had ceased to be his wish. Ormond, who had always dreaded her levity, consoled himself for her fickleness. Little time elapsed after the departure of M. de Connal and Dora, for Dublin, before King Corny was killed by the explosion of his fusil, in hunting. Ormond performed the last duties to his venerated friend, and indulged the tenantry in keeping his wake. King Corny left Ormond, by his will, a farm in the Black Islands, and £500 in the funds, with which he had intended to purchase him a commission. After the death of his benefacto, Ormond became, for little while, an inmate in the family of Dr. Cambray, the incumbent of the living near Castle Hermitage, and a friend of the Annalys. He was hardly domesticated, however, before Sir Ulick came down to his seat, and sent for our hero, to 'communicate something to his advantage,'-which proved to be the reversion of £80,000 by the death of the widow of his father, in the Indies. She was a second wife, and having brought him a large fortune, Capt. Ormond at his death left it solely to her and his child by her, with reversion to his eldest son, in case of their death, without lineal heirs. This was now accomplished. After his accession to his fortune, Ormond resided some time with Sir Ulick, became acquainted with the families of distinction in the vicinity, and amused himself in getting in love, and getting out again. Mortified by the last instance of his folly he set out on a tour to dissipate his chagrin. As he was quite a stranger to Sir Ulick's real character, he was much surprised to hear him spoken of with contempt in several mixed companies, and his gratitude on one occasion getting the better of his good sense, he fought a duel on the subject. He was wounded, but, in the fair author's opinion, merited and gained reputation by his prowess. On receiving intelligence of this exploit, Dr. Cambray wrote him a kind letter, inviting him to return, and informing him that the Analys were at their estate in his neighbourhood. We had forgotten to mention that Lady Annaly had always manifested an interest in our hero, and that Marcus had been rejected by her daughter. Ormond cheerfully accepted this invitation-renewed his acquaintance with the Annaly family, and soon became enamoured of Florence. In the midst of the delightful intercourse he was now enjoying, Sir Herbert Annaly, his bosom companion and the brother of his beloved, burst a blood vessel and almost instantly died. Ormond hurried to the house the noment he heard of the accident, learnt from the surgeon the fatal event, and instead of offering his services in this moment of affliction to Lady Annaly and her daughter, probably from excess of deficacy, though our author makes no comment, retired without seeing either of them, to Dr. Cambray's, where he requested the servants would write to him. Two days after he received a letter from O'Reilly, Sir Herbert's man, stating that he was just setting out with the hearse to the family burial-place at Herbert. But though our hero did not attend the obsequies of his deceased friend, no sooner was he under the sod, than, without regard to common decency, he sat down and wrote a violent love epistle to Miss Florence, and formal proposals for her to her mother. He directed his servant to wait for an answer. His servant returned late, however, without any. But Ormond could not believe that his mission had been treated with so much indifference; he therefore mounted his horse carly in the morning, resolved to ascertain his desriny. Oriving at Annaly, he found the ladies were denied to him. He sent up his name, but could procure no admission. At this moment the window blind flow open, and discovered an officer in full uniform kneeling to Miss Florence! In a paroxysm of indignation and jealousy, Ormond dashed off to Paris, where M. de Connal and Madame Dora were figuring in the first circles. He was received by them with the most flattering politeness, was ushered into high life under their auspices, and became quite the go among the ladies under the name of le bel Irlandois. M. de Connal lured him to the Faro table, and Madame admitted him into her boudoir. But by his firmness he overcame the temptations which were spread for him by both. He had allotted a certain sum, as much as he deemed prudent in his circumstances, to play, and the instant he had lost that amount, ne In this posture of affairs a rumour ef the insolvency of Sir Ulick O'Shane, in whose hands he had left the bulk of his funds, reached Ormond. He now returned to England as precipitately as he had left it. He got to London in season to revoke a power of attorney he had executed to Sir Ulick, before the latter had completed the transfer of his stocks. He sunk but £10,000 by his failure. But his loss was forgotten in his regret for the calamity that had befallen his guardian. He hastened to Ireland to condole with Sir Ulick. On reaching Castle Hermitage ke learnt the death of its owner. Ormond contrived to bury him with great secrecy on account of the creditors. He relinquished the idea of returning to Paris on learning from Dr. Cambray that Miss Annaly was still unmarried, and on obtaining from the servant he had sent with his declaration of love, the responses of his mistress and her mother, which it seems the lout had mislaid in consequence of intoxication, and then denied receiving. These answers were as favourable as he could have wished, and in our opinion much more so than, under the circumstances of the case, he deserved. The letters begged him not to make his appearance at the Castle for the two succeeding days, the ladies being particularly occupied with a military friend, who would not prolong his stay. Ormond was now nearly frantic with joy. He travelled into Devonshire in pursuit of the Annalys and had the felicity of realizing all his anticipations. The scene which was disclosed to him by the opening of the window blind, was that in which the officer had received his final rejection, and he was then in the attitude and agony of despair. Ormond led his Florence to the altar, and soon after purchasing the Black Islands of M. de Connal, revived the boneficent reign of old king Corny. Such is the imperfect outline which we are obliged to give of the second tale in these volumes. There is an under plot of which Moriarty Carroll and Peggy Sheridan are the hero and heroine. We have besides a Mademoiselle O'Falley among the subordinate characters, who make miserable work in trying to talk broken English. But we have not room for further detail. As Miss Edgeworth has generally proposed to herself some object in her writings beyond mere entertainment, and as this tale does not furnish an unusual proportion of that ingredient, we are led to inquire into its moral purpose. But our endeavours to discover the lesson which it was intended to convey, have been hitherto unavailing. The scope of Harrington was obvious enough. Indeed we were not permitted for a moment to lose sight of its design. In Ormond, on the other hand, every thing is confused and contradictory. The hero is a bold impetuous youth, whose rashness leads him into errors which his firmness repairs. We cannot imagine that any moral is to be drawn from his example. Sir Ulick O'Shane's history, indeed, shows how pecuniary embarrassments, the result of profusion, undermine integrity and destroy ingenuousness. The meannesses to which Sir Ulick was driven, and of which he had only the virtue to be ashamed, are mortifying evidences of the subordination of character to circumstances. The man who would preserve his honour should endeavour to preserve his independence. Success, indeed, in the opinion of the world, sanctions the most unprincipled speculations, but failure lays the best grounded schemes open to censure. A man before he enters on a hazardous project should be satisfied not only of the feasibility of the undertaking, but of his own ability to execute it. From false estimates of his means or talents Sir Ulick in labouring to retrieve the injurious effects of his extravagance, by an adventurous policy, involved those in his ruin for whose benefit he toiled. But there is nothing new or striking in Sir Ulick's case. We see every day similar instances equally impressive. King Corny came to his death by the explosion of a fowling piece of his own invention. This may be meant as a solemn warning to ingenious people not to get blown up by their own contrivances. M. de Connal and Dora appeared to be as happy as it was possible for such people to be; but as the sequel of their biography is not given, we can draw no satisfactory inference from their experience. Moriarty Carroll was like to have been hung for the murder of a man who was never killed, and Peggy Sheridan was saved from being debauched by Ormond, rather by his scruples than her reluctance. We cannot VOL. F. NO. VI. convert their perils and escapes to much profit. The high and deserved reputation of Miss Edgeworth, warranted expectations which these volumes have not met. They afford no original views of life that are remarkable for their vividness or their truth. The effect of early impressions is entirely overrated in Harrington. We know it is fashionable doctrine that the cast of character is materially influenced by accidental associations in childhood. We are unbelievers in this creed. We will admit that the mind generally takes the colour of external condition, and that natural dispositions are not proof against the force of habit. In the lower walks of life we do not look for towering intellect, nor the sublimer virtues. Ignorance represses the expansion of the one, and adversity chills the growth of the other. But a vigorous understanding, disciplined to exertion by a regular education, and nurtured by a kindly aliment, will emancipate itself by its own energies from the thraldom of childish prejudice. Much misery as chamber maids may cause by their stupid lies to believing babes, we doubt their operation beyond the nursery, on any but grown infants. Pope has said of common minds,' that_they_receive their bias from education. But education means not merely elementary instruction, but the whole experience of life. With every change of situation a new course of study and trial is commenced. Impressions on character are lasting rather in proportion to the continuance of the pressure of the die, than to the force of its application. Custom may be so interwoven with nature as to become indissoluble; but the most violent emotions subside with the removal of their exciting causes, and the phantoms of fear and grief vanish with the sentiments which generated them. We will not however enter into a wider discussion of this question, than the occasion requires. We agree with Miss Edgeworth in the main. Bugbear stories doubtless cause children a great deal of serious unhappiness, and it is the duty of mothers to keep a strict watch over their tender offspring to guard them from imbibing error, and suffering from imposition. We perceive in these volumes a falling off in style, as well as in strength and accuracy of delineation. We have not been accustomed to remark in Miss Edgeworth's former productions such careless and incorrect expressions as these: viz. 3 H "many of these very stories of the Jews, which we now hold too preposterous for the infant and nursery maid to credit, were some centuries ago universally believed by the English nation, and had furnished more than one of our kings with pretexts for extortions and massacres!" p. 7; "reversion for reversal," p. 22; 'the crowd, who had accompanied Moriarty into the house, was admitted into the dining room; p. 271. We had marked some of the grammatical slips of Sir Ulick, and Mr. Cornelius O'Shane, but they appear to be too numerous to be accidental and yet they are too unfrequent to be characteristic. Even Ormond cannot speak English. He now often said to himself -Sir Herbert Annaly is but a few years older than I am; by the time I am his age why should not I become as useful?" vol. 2. p. 149. We suppose the following is meant for wit: 'He could act the rise, decline and fall of the drunken man, marking the whole progress from the first incipient hesitation of reason to the glorious confusion of ideas in the highest state of elevation, thence through all the declining cases of stupified paralytic ineptitude, down to the horizontal condition of preterpluperfeet ebriety. p. 245. What this sentence is intended for we cannot tell. "To the French spirit of intrigue and gallantry she joined Irish acuteness and Irish varieties of odd resource." Vol. 2. p. 16. These are few only of the blemishes which struck us on a cursory perusal. Some of them are perhaps errors of the press. We are always willing to make a liberal allowance on that score. Indeed we ought to do so in this case, as we have Mr. Edgeworth's assurance that his daughter' does not write negligently. E. ART. 3. The Lament of Tasso. By Lord Byron. New-York. Van Winkle & Wiley. 12mo. pp. 23. Fit be any alleviation to vent one's grief in sighs and groans, we know no body more likely to exhale his sorrows than lord Byron. It is certain, at last, that his lordship will soon exhaust his readers' sympathies, if not his own tears. This Lament' indeed, is by no means so loud, nor so deep drawn, as some of his moans. It may be considered, comparatively, a very feeble whine. We are aware that we are thought very hard hearted, by some persons, because we do not enter, with a livelier interest, into his lordship's sufferings. It is not that we have no pity for distress, but that this sentiment is drowned in indignation. We will leave it to the Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviews, out of their pure philanthropy and disinterested benevolence, to pat the back of the spoil'd 'Childe,' lest he should unhappily choke with his own gall. For our own part, we will confess that we consider such a stomachy chap much more deserving of the rod, than of a sugar sop. His lordship makes a great parade about sentiment and sensibility; but we must be excused for doubting the chariness and delicacy of that man's affections, who has so little reserve in his expressions upon the tenderest points, and who has no selection in his auditors. Without inquiring into the merits of his domestic quarrels--though, unless his lordship be cruelly belied, he has conducted with gross brutality towards au amiable and estimable wife-without investigating the occasion of his separation from an object for whom he felt, or feigned, the most violent passion-we will say that we have never seen anything more despicable and unmanly, than his lordship's direct and indirect attacks upon this deserted and defenceless woman. For a man who is capable of such base and ungenerous treatment of a confiding female, whose love he has solicited, whose caresses he has enjoyed, and whom he is bound in law and in honour to foster and protect-for such a man to pretend to a refinement and elevation of soul, that set him above the comprehension of vulgar minds, is an insult to common sense and common feeling. That lord Byron should have the uparalleled audacity, under such circumstances, to challenge condolence, is almost incredible,—that he should obtain it, is a disgrace to the understanding and virtue of the age! We assume not to be rigid censors,-we are not inclined to pry into any man's private history, or to expose his secret obliquities-but we are shocked and outraged by the barefaced presumption that can ground complaints on its own wrongs. If we could ever lose sight of his lordship in his poetry,—if we were ever permitted to forget the author, and to overlook the personal application of the sentiment, we might enjoy, occasionally, |