Clara Ponsonby ; or, Wheels within Wheels. By R. Beveridge_
(Samuel Tinsley.)—There is always a certain satisfaction, a sense, as it were, of a definite stage in one's literary journey being accomplished, when unhesitatingly and firmly one can put one's foot down, and say,. "Here absolutely the very outside limit of attainment has been reached that our experience gives us knowledge of." We can truly say that Clara Ponsonby touches this point. It is clearly the most preposterous story, both in quality and degree, we ever read. To describe it, ordinary methods failing, we may say, it is in one volume, of over two hundred pages and some thirty chapters. Of these latter some cover a page, others more. It relates to a period of about twenty years. A catalogue of the grotesque (unconsciously grotesque) speeches and descriptions of the author and his personages would fill several of our columns. Fancy the hero, "Sir Charles do Trafford, of Tarleton 'Castle, Dorsetehire, Baronet," "in one of the superb and spacious rooms of the Tedder) Club-house, the walls adorned with a choice selection of expensive paintings, and the room itself fitted up with most magnificent furniture, and every article of luxury that ingenuity could devise for indulging the reclination of the human body. Robed in a rich dressing-gown,. Chinese slippers, and a scarlet velvet Greek smoking-cap, he reclined at full length," &c. Fancy,—but in very truth, we shrink appalled before our own extracts. The above is a faint indication of the kind of rare treat in store for readers who will courageously follow our example, and peruse Clara Ponsonby. We are convinced they will thank us for recommending it to their notice, as something not lightly to be missed.