Here is a graphic description of the stately Mrs. Catherine :

"I think you may let Mrs. Catherine have the whole merit of this, Jacky,' said Anne, taking it down; and do you have a ramble through the garden and find something more fragrant than those sunflowers. You will get some roses yet,-run, Jacky. Mrs. Catherine

"Is trysted with undutiful bairns,' said the lady herself, entering the room. 'And wherefore did ye not come to me, Gowan, and me in urgent need of counsel? And wherefore did ye not open the door, ye elf, Jacky, unless ye be indeed a changeling as I hae aye thought ye, and were feared for learned words? Come down with me this moment, Gowan! Ye can fiddle about these bonny things when there is no serious matters in hand. I am saying, Come with me!'

"Mrs. Catherine Douglas was tall and stately, with a firm step, and a clear voice, strong constitutioned, and strong spirited. In appearance she embodied those complexional peculiarities which gave to the fabled founder of her house his far-famed name-black hair, streaked with silver, the characteristic pale complexion, and strongly-marked features, harmonizing perfectly in the hue-she was dark grey. It seemed her purpose, too, to increase the effect by her dress. At all times and seasons, Mrs. Catherine's rich, rustling, silken garments were grey, of that peculiar dark grey which is formed by throwing across the sable warp a slender waft of white. In winter, a shawl of the finest texture, but of the simple black and white shepherd's check, completed her costume. In summer, its soft, fine folds hung over her chair. No rejoicing, and no sorrow, changed Mrs. Catherine's characteristic dress. The lustrous silken garment, the fine woollen shawl, the cap of old and costly lace remained unchanged for years."-Vol. i. p. 22.

In this passage the feelings of a timid young girl at leaving home and entering a strange house are not badly described :

"It was not a pleasant change; to leave the cheerful voice and vivacious conversation of Lewis for those formal questions as to her journey, and the terrified stillness of little Bessie, as she sat tremulously by Mrs. Elspat's side. Alice had scarcely ever seen before the dense darkness of starless nights in so wide and lonely a country, and as she looked out through the carriage-window, and saw, or fancied she saw, the body of darkness floating round about her, the countless swimming atoms of gloom that filled the air, her bounding heart was chilled. The faint autumnal breeze, too, pouring its sweeping, sighing lengths, through those endless walls of trees; the excited throb of her pulse when in some gaunt congregation of firs she fancied she could trace the quaint gables and high roofs of some olden dwellingplace; the disappointment of hearing, in answer to her timid question, that the Tower was yet miles away! Alice sank back into her corner in silence, and closed her eyes, feeling now many fears and misgivings, and almost wishing herself at home.

"At last, the voice of the Oran roused her; there was something homelike in its tinkling musical footsteps, and Alice looked up. Dimly the massy Tower was rising before her, planting its strong breadth firmly upon its knoll, like some stout sentinel of old. The great door was flung wide open as they approached, and a flood of light, and warmth, and kindliness beaming out, dazzled and made denser the intervening gloom. Foremost on the broad threshold, stood a young lady, whose graver and elder womanhood brought confidence to the throbbing girlish heart; behind stood the portly Mrs. Euphan Morison, the elfin Jacky, and, farthest back of all, a tall figure enveloped in the wide soft folds of the grey shawl, Mrs. Catherine's characteristic costume. Little Alice alighted, half stumbling in bashful awkwardness; the young lady on the threshold came forward, took her hand, and said some kindly words of welcome; Jacky curtsied; the tall figure advanced.

"I have brought ye the young lady-Miss Aytoun, Mem,' said Mrs. Elspat Henderson, and Alice lifted her girlish face, shy and blushing, to the scrutiny of her ancient kinswoman. Mrs. Catherine drew the young stranger forward, took her hand, and looked at her earnestly.

"A bit bonnie countenance it is,' she said at last, bending to kiss the white forehead of the tremulous Alice. 'Ye are welcome to my house, Alison Aytoun. Gowan, the bairn is doubtless cold and wearied, do you guide her up the stair.'"-Vol. i. p. 35.

We must confess to have been somewhat disappointed in reading the "Ladder of Gold." The subject of it-the upward progress from poverty to enormous wealth of a railway speculator, and his subsequent fortunes in his new sphereis so promising, almost, in fact, a virgin soil; the mania in question combines so remarkably the historic interest of an era, now, we may hope, gone by, with the vivid, bustling actuality of the present, as to rouse expectations, which, we regret to say, are not realized. Richard Rawlings, who climbs this golden ladder that connects gods and men, is almost the only character of any note in the book. Long-sighted and capacious in his schemes, prompt and energetic in execution, unembarrassed by tender feelings, and embittered against society by circumstances, he is no bad type of the spirit that fights its way to pre-eminence by a very law of its being, in the camp or at the ledger, according to the temper of the times. With this exception, there is little to remark upon. A few less trite revelations of the esoteric doings of railway boards would have made the book more piquant, and not less instructive. The story "progresses," as the Americans say, slowly and heavily, without sufficient liveliness in the separate scenes to beguile the time. The lovers are insipid as waxwork; and the course of their true love, if it does not run smooth, has at all events found its way into a well-used channel. Finally, the

blemishes of the book, and they are neither very few nor unimportant, are aggravated by a stiff and pretentious style.

The three most remarkable books in our list we have still to mention our limited space compels us to add, very cursorily. Of these, "The Initials," in our opinion, quite deserves to come first. As the narrative of a year's sojourn in Bavaria, it has claims of its own on attention, for graphic sketches of domestic German life in town and country; and this compensates for a certain degree of monotony in the incidents. The characters, too, are very good. The bewitchingly naïve Crescenz, and her far more interesting yet equally unsophisticated sister, Hildegarde; their strong-minded, good-natured, vulgar mother; their fastidious and indolent papa; the baron, a frank and genial sportsman, with his delightful wife; Count Zedwitz, honourable, manly, sensible, and ugly; and, not least, our handsome young Englishman, whom circumstances might have made blazé and selfish, but who, notwithstanding his tact and savoir vivre, is gay, generous, enterprising, amiable, with a strong dash of boyish vanity, a mischievous appetite for teasing, and an English habit of making himself comfortable: these make a very entertaining group. Besides all this, the masterly command over dialogue displayed, especially in subdued irony and dry repartee, with no small amount of easy, undidactic, practical sagacity; such qualities as those combine to make one of the most racy, chatty, life-like novels, that we ever remember to have seen one not altogether unworthy to have proceeded from the pen of Mr. Thackeray himself. We have only to add that the tragic element is very small; and that "Flirtation" would be as good a name for the book as "The Initials."

We e regret much that our limits forbid us to indulge our readers with more than the following fragment :

"To this speech no answer was made, and Hamilton followed them at a distance into the supper-room. He had lost so much time in the organ-loft that almost all the guests were already gone. The traveller, whose arrival he had witnessed, was in the act of lighting a cigar, with which he immediately left the room. An elderly, red-faced, stout gentleman, with a tankard of beer beside him, he soon discovered to be Major Stultz; nor did it require much penetration to recognise Mr. Schmearer, the painter, in the emaciated, sentimental-looking young man beside whom he seated himself. Hildegarde and her stepmother were nearly opposite; the former, after bestowing on Hamilton a look, which might appropriately have accompanied a box on the ear, fixed her eyes on the table; the latter bowed most graciously, and commenced an interesting conversation about the weather, the barometer, and her dislike to thunderstorms in general. When these topics had been completely exhausted, Hamilton hoped

that something might be said of the present inhabitants of Seon, but a long and tiresome discussion on the merits of summer and winter beer followed. Strauss's beer was delicious-Bock had been particularly good this year. Bock,' cried Major Stultz, euthusiastically, 'Bock is better than champagne! Bock is Here he looked

up with an impassioned air to the ceiling, and kissed the two first fingers of his right hand, flourishing them in the air afterwards. Words it seems were inadequate to express the merits of this beverage.

"Did you see that picture at the Kunstverein in Munich, representing a glass of foaming bock, with the usual accessaries of bread and radishes?' asked Mr. Schmearer. It was exquisitely painted! I believe his majesty purchased it.'

"There is some sense in such a picture as that,' answered Major Stultz; 'I went two or three times to see it, and could scarcely avoid stretching out my hand to feel if it were not some deception.'

"A judicious management of reflected lights produces extraordinary effect in the representation of fluids,' observed Mr. Schmearer. "A pause ensued: Major Stultz did not seem disposed to discuss reflected lights; the picture had evidently had no value for him, excepting as a good representation of a glass of bock, and his attention was now directed towards Hildegarde, whose flushed cheeks and pouting lips rather heightened than detracted from her beauty.

"Perhaps you would like to see the newspapers, madam?' he asked, politely offering the latest arrived to her stepmother.

"Thank you, I never read newspapers, though I join some acquaintances in taking the Eilbote, on condition that it comes to us last of all, and then we can keep the paper for cleaning the looking-glasses and windows.'

"There are, however, sometimes very pretty stories and charades in the Eilbote; young ladies like such things,' he observed, glancing significantly towards Hildegarde.

66 6

"My daughters must read nothing but French, and I have subscribed to a library for them. Their French has occupied more than half their lives at school, and now I intend them to teach the boys.' "I should have no sort of objection to learn French from such an instructress,' said the Major gallantly.

6

"Indeed, I don't think any one will ever learn much from her,' said Madame Rosenberg, severely; but her sister Crescenz is a good girl, and the children are very fond of her.'

"You have two daughters!' exclaimed the Major. "Stepdaughters,' she replied, drily.

"That I took for granted,' he said, bowing as if he intended to be very civil. 'The young ladies will be of great use to you in the

housekeeping.' "That is exactly what has been neglected in their education; if they could keep a house as well as they can speak French, I should be satisfied. When we return to Munich they must both learn cookery. I intend afterwards to give the children to one, and the housekeeping to the other alternately.'

VOL. XV. NO. XXX.

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"You will prepare the young ladies so well for their destination that I suspect they will not remain long unmarried!'

"There's not much chance of that! Husbands are not so easily found for portionless daughters!' replied Madame Rosenberg, facetiously; however, I am quite ready to give my consent should anything good offer.'

"Hamilton looked at Hildegarde to see what impression this conversation had made on her. She had turned away as much as possible from the speakers, and with her head bent down seemed to watch intently the bursting of the bubbles in a glass of beer! Had it been her sister he would have thought she had chosen the occupation to conceal her embarrassment; but embarrassment was not Hildegarde's predominant feeling; her compressed lips and quick breathing denoted suppressed anger, which amounted to rage, as her stepmother in direct terms asked Major Stultz if he were married, and received for answer that he was a bachelor, at her service.' With a sudden jerk, the glass was prostrated on the table, and before Hamilton could raise his arm its contents were deposited in the sleeve of his coat.

"Pardon, mille fois!' cried Hildegarde, looking really sorry for what had occurred.

"You irritable, awkward girl!' commenced her mother; but for some undoubtedly excellent reason, she suddenly changed her manner, and added, 'You had better go to bed, child, I see you have not yet recovered from the recent alarm in the church.'

"Hildegarde rose quickly from her chair, and with a slight and somewhat haughty obeisance to the company, left the room in silence. Madame Rosenberg continued volubly to excuse her to Hamilton, and, what he thought quite unnecessary, to Major Stultz also!

"The Major listened with complacence, but Hamilton's wet shirtsleeve induced him to finish his supper as quickly as possible, and wish the company good night."

"The Ogilvies" and "Olive" are by the same authoress : both considerably above the average of novels; far superior to the insipid, artificial platitudes of works like Emilia Wyndham ; -not unlike Lady Georgiana Fullarton's in their framework, while in morale they are more akin (with a difference be it observed) to "Jane Eyre." Like the former, they have in their favour no crowd of persons or events ;-in "Olive," indeed, there is a positive want of something going on, a sort of blank void in the action;-a few pronounced characters fill the stage, and a good deal of space is devoted, not unprofitably, to the sensations of the inner life. Of the latter we are reminded by the heroes: they are so decidedly of the Mr. Rochester stamp, without his vices; their beauty is strength, an imperious majesty of intellect, that relaxes itself only at the magic touch of love. Of the two we certainly prefer the "Ogilvies" to "Olive." The main idea of the former, a woman's love slighted, afterwards revenging itself by a feigned show of indifference, when time has brought