18 MARCH 1854, Page 17

MRS. GORE'S PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. * Tam elements of a good

portion of this fiction are common enough. Family differences, pushed by pride and obstinacy to hostile aliena- tion—death and loss of property occurring at the nick of time as a means of keeping the story moving, and recovered as wonderfully as lost—cross-purposes at work in love affairs, to produce difficul- ties—and a final reconciliation and happiness of all parties—are as old as the modern novel. Some effect is given to Progress and Prejudice by making the older generation stiffneeked in their pre- judices, and the new more tolerant. As the change refers to the subject of unequal marriages, it may be doubted whether the lesson aimed at is judicious. It is one thing to accept an evil without remedy, another to preach up evil as good ; and the common opin- ion of mankind considers unequal marriages as an evil. This Opinion is perhaps not based so much on disparity of fortune or birth as on habits and feelings. The " idem velle et idem nolle " In!t.y not secure happiness for married people, but the opposite Will produce discomfort. Habits differ so much in different classes,

• Progress and Prejudice. By Mrs. Gore. In three volumes. Published by Hurst sod Blackett,

that what is proper with one class is annoying or even of doubtful respectability in another.

Manners occupy a less prominent feature in Progress and Pre- judice than in many other novels of Mrs. Gore. The scenes are laid amongst lords and landed people, but in the actual dramatis personie character rather supersedes manners, though without much success. The old bluff squire, who has offended his family by his marriage—his brother-in-law, the obstinate tyrannical peer —the narrowminded lady of title, whose sole object is to avoid a mesalliance for her blood—with goodhearted mothers, excellent daughters, and faithful servants—are old in substance with new names and circumstances. Manners of political and fashionable life are introduced occasionally, to tell something through the cy- nical persiflage of club wits: but the effect is not remarkable. Two characters are new. Marcus Davenport, the practically- philosophic, independent-minded scion of aristocracy, who sets his father and society at defiance, less from any conviction or sense of duty than from reckless self-indulgence and selfishness, belongs to the class of blackguards as defined by Hugh Miller in My Schools and Schoolmasters. Yet there is something about him sui generis ;

though Mrs. Gore, according to her wont, deals out genius to him too liberally. Hargood, the soured, dogmatic, retiring " we-we "

of journalism, is rather an abstraction than a man • and, like most aggregations of abstract qualities, exaggerated. man; daughter is

equally abstract, though not quite so new. The combination of classical beauty with great acquirements and a masculine tone of mind is not unfrequent with fashionable novelists. In the case of Mary Hargood, Mrs. Gore adds the faculty of painting, "at eighteen, as men rarely and women never paint at eight-and- thirty "; exaggeration which is perhaps more felt when substantial qualities rather than mere fashionable manners are the theme of the fiction.

The early part of the book is slight and slow : the story im- proves as it advances, though the technical cleverness of the prac- tised writer is generally too obvious ; not only the working but the workmanship is traceable. Some scenes approach the pathetic, in a degree which Mrs. Gore has rarely displayed. This of the dying child is one. The mother of Sophy Burton had been the object of a not very honourable pursuit by Marcus Davenport in India, long before the widow brings her only child to die at Malta, whither the now repentant Marcus follows her.

" In compliance with her little daughter's twice-repeated request, there- fore, she desired that Captain Davenport might be admitted ; and a few mi- nutes afterwards, she felt rather than saw that he was approaching her through the twilight. "A very few low and incoherent words were exchanged between them. For Rachel's voice was broken by suppressed tears ; tears in which Marcus Davenport had no more share than the bat that was flitting to and fro before the verandah-shaded windows. She was thinking only of the child, the tender-hearted child, whom time nor absence had estranged from her earliest friend ; the child whose loving heart would so soon cease to beat. "Even Marcus seemed to be thoroughly occupied by Sophy. The little thin hand, scarcely human in its slenderness, which she extended towards him the moment he approached her, was silently raised to his lips. A rough- er inovemenrseemed unfitted to its unearthly texture.

"'Do you remember me ?' asked her faint little voice, as he bent towards her for the purpose. And have you still got poor Cocotte ? I have often, often thought of you both. Why did you never come and see us at grand- papa's ? I asked mamma. But she said you were not in England.'

'I was very long absent.' "'And when you came back, you had perhaps forgotten us?'

"Another kiss bestowed upon the little feeble hand which he still held, was his reply. And little Sophy, feeling when he relinquished it, that it was wet with tears, perceived with the double tact of childhood and of disease, that there must be no further allusion to the past.

"It was dusk almost to darkness ; so that neither could distinguish the countenance of the other ; and under favour of this concealment, Marcus cleared his voice and endeavoured to talk cheerfully of his voyage and of home.

" 'I can give you news of my cousin Amy,' said he, who, I find, is occupying your post at Radensford Rectory during your absence.' "'I heard this morning from home,' replied Mrs. Burton, in a tone of deep dejection. There, thank Heaven, all is well. Lady Meadowes more than supplies my place with my dear old father ; and Amy is his constant companion.'

"'And a cheerful and charming one,' added Captain Davenport, the kindest-hearted creature breathing. Amy and I often talked together of you, in England,' he added in a low voice to Mrs. Burton ; but not so low as to escape the vigilant ear of the sick child. " 'And is Amy Meadowes then your relation ?' said she, addressing Mar- cus: how strange, that she should never have told me so. But I ought to to have guessed it. Dear, good Amy ! she used to bring me fruit and flow- ers from Meadowes Court: just as you, Captain Davenport, used to give them to me in India. I think you are just alike ; alike, that is, in kindness.

"This ass so much for the poor little creature to say and feel, that her mother trembled lest she should be tiring herself.

" You must not encourage her to talk; you must not allow her to excite herself,' whispered she to Mark : the slightest exertion, the doctors say, is too much.' "'Don't believe them, mamma; don't believe them, Marcus,' said the child, though gasping for breath. 'The only thing that makes me worse is to be among strange faces—always, always, among strange faces. And I feel much better this evening, only for seeing you, Marcus. Do you remember the little gold heart you gave me on my birthday, when I was two years old ? I have got it still, in my desk at home. Among the few presents that were ever made me, I always loved it best, because it was the first. Do you think, mother, do you, do you think I shall ever go back and open that poor old desk again ?'

" Was it wonderful that, with such appeals sounding in her ears, Rachel Burton should be as indifferent to the presence of Captain Davenpor t as to the chair he sat on ? All his value in her eyes at that moment was rela- tively to the little being whose voice was soon to be heard no more. •

"'You must come tomorrow—early tomorrow, very early tomorrow, please,' said she. Perhaps I may feel stronger and able to talk ; for I want so much to chat to you about India, and about Amy, and about—about everything. It makes me feel better to hear your voice again.' "It will be readily believed that Marcus was not slow to make the en- egement. At the earliest hour named by Mrs. Burton as suitable for the interview after the invalid had taken her mid-day siesta, he was at the villa. But since they parted the night before, all his thoughts had been with them. His chief desire had been to procure for the child some gift that would re- mind her of her baby days, when he was the fountain-head of her childish delights.

"That luck with which he had formerly boasted to be on the best of terms favoured his wishes. While lounging betimes in the port on his re- turn from his morning bath, Marcus discovered on the forecastle of a felucca, just arrived from Tangiers, a sailor having on his shoulder one of the most beautiful of foreign birds—a king-bird of Africa, tamed as only sailors know how to tame ; and after a very short parley, the beautiful creature was pluming its scarlet wings on the sleeve of a new master. Gentle, brilliant, and playful, it was the very pet for an ailing child. "So thought little Sophy, when in the course of the afternoon it took its perch upon the edge of her couch; sidling and fondling with a grace which brought to her memory, as to that of the donor poor Cocotte, with her cry of Marcus, Marcus!' But when the bird crept onward to the sick child's pillow, the contrast between its vivid plumage of scarlet and purple and the deathly hue of the sweet face that was smiling on its movements, forced a painful perception upon his mind. There was little life remaining in that attenuated frame.

"There was enough, however, to take delight in his company. The startle of his unexpected arrival had roused the child. Ile reminded her of the time when, wilful and wayward, she would allow no one but himself to wry her on some Punjaub expedition; and, pleased with the idea, she in- sisted that he should again be her bearer—should take her across the lawn, to look down upon the glacis; or into the adjoining saloon, which was adorned with rich cornices, said to be pillaged from the ancient palace of the Knights.

"'I am not very heavy, not much heavier, Marcus, than when you used to be so kind and indulgent to me in old times. But it is because I am dying,' she whispered, raising her head to his ear, when she found herself alone with him under the awning on the lawn. 'bear mamma fancies I do not know what makes her sit crying in the dark every evening, as she was when your coming surprised us so pleasantly last night. But I often over- hear the doctors when they think use asleep ; and I know that it will shortly be over here, Marcus—that I shall soon feel no more pain, no more struggle for breath—I shall be in heaven. There is no need to cry for me. If I could only take her with me! But she will be so lonely when I am gone— so very, very lonely. You must write to Amy Meadowes, and beg her from me to be very loving and attentive to my dear, dear mother, when she has Lost her little girl.' "