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Tim author of the autobiography of "Lorenzo Benoni," an. Italian. Liberal, exhibits in Doctor Antonio more varied qualities than • Doctor Antonio: a Tale. By the Author of " Lorenzo Bencmi." Published by Constable and Co., Edinburgh ; Galignani and Co., Paris.

The Battle on the Bosphorus. By F. C. Armstrong, Esq., Author of " The Two Midshipmen," 8to. he. In three volumes. Published by Newby. My First Season. By Beatrice Reynolds. Edited by the Author of "Counter- pane" and •"Charles Auchester." Published by Smith and Elder.

Brills first publication, if he has not produced a better book. In addition to an easy power of truthful description both of nature and society, and a thorough knowledge of Italian character and life, Signior Mani displays more of the art of a novelist than the plan of " Lorenzo Benoni" well admitted. Besides a style so free and idiomatic that it is of itself remarkable in a foreigner, the au- thor exhibits an equally remarkable knowledge of English charac- ter and manners. It-is true that his general ideas are rather sug- gested by floating notions than by actual observation. The aris- tocratic pride and prejudice of Sir John Davenne, the selfishness, self-will, and roughness of his son Aubrey, cloaking at the same time a• good deal of artifice, and the rather extreme innocence or childlike simplicity- of Lucy Davenne the heroine, are based, no doubt, on Continental ideas of English people. The manners themselves, however, are truly English ; and the characters may be. found. It is not only the manners that are so truly national, but the modes of thought and turns of expression—the atmosphere, as it were—that are so extraordinary ; it being assumed that Signior Ruffini is really an Italian.

The incidents of the novel are few, and not striking; the bias of the writer being rather towards dialogue and character-painting than events. The attachment of Antonio and Lucy Dayenne, broken off in 1840 by her brother Aubrey, and finally put an end to some ten years-later by the proceedings of the Neapolitan Government after the suppression of the last revolution, is possibly less Rnffini's real object than an exhibition of the tyranny under which the people groaned throughout Italy, and still groan save in the dominions of Savoy, as well as of the manner in which the Neapolitan Government persecuted the Liberals after the revo- lution was overthrown. This is done quietly, though effect- ively; the earlier- parts being drawn from the commonest occur- rences of life. There are also descriptions of the general character of. the Italian peasantry, and of the limited influence which the priests exercise over the people. In this example, Antonio has been describing to Lucy the good and evil points in the rustics.

" That is too bad!' said Lucy. And do the priests know of such doings, and not try to prevent or put a stop to them ?' "1 Certainly they do not usetheir authority to the extent necessary to cure the evil. They fear to lose their influence if they deal, I will not say se- verely, but firmly with their flock. There seems to be a tacit agreement between sheep and shepherds. Give us everything in point of form, say the latter. We will, answer the former, but on condition that you do not exact too much in point of substance. Thus the letter kills the spirit. Provided the churches be well attended, the confessionals besieged, the alms plentiful, the communion.-tickets numerous, our reverendi seem to care little whether morality remains stationary, or even slides backwards. The cure, who is in many respects what I believe you call vicar in England, preaches from the pulpit that lyingis a sinful habit, and that a. hired labourer owes a fair day's work for a fair y wages ; but to little purpose. And why is there no amendment ? Because the confessors do not practically support what is preached ; they are too lenient, and-dare not, textually dare not refuse ab- solution to those of their penitents who are in a state of backsliding. They dare not, because they say, we do not choose to lose our penitents '; and such, to a certainty, would be the case, were they to show a proper degree of severity. The aim and ambition of confessors, you must understand, is to have a great number of penitents ; and they vie with each other who shall be most run after. The country folks know this weakness, and profit by it. It has happened to me more than once to hear it said, If my confessor will not-give use absolution, I shall go to sneh and such a one, who has "larger sleeves,"—meaning by that, who is more indulgent.'

" These are, indeed, ugly shades to your pretty picture,' sighed Lucy.

"'Very ugly, echoed Antonio. The great business of our reverendi- there are, of course, many- honourable exceptions—is the embellishment of their respective churches ; and for this purpose they take advantage of the taste for the beautiful which is innate in our people. Offerings or contri- butions flow in plentifully for the purchase of a new organ, a set of silver lamps, for pictures,. for the adornment of the shrine of the Madonna. At the same time the town is dirty, not lighted at night, the pavement all holes, the roads are detestable, and bridges absent where bridges are moat needed. But what does it matter, so long as the church looks splendid, and outshines this or that church us the neighbourhood ?' " As already intimated, the story is simple. Sir John Davenne and his daughter Lucy are upsetwhile travelling in Italy, and the lady requires medical aid. Dr. Antonio, a Sicilian refugee, whom the cholera, and his own merits had promoted, in spite of political suspicion, to the office of parish physician, volunteers his assistance ; and during a long convalescence, overcomes the prejudice of the father, and makes his way to the daughter's heart This affair is put an end to by the sudden arrival of Captain Davenne; Lucy is carried ofrto England, and. induced to marry. Antonio travels to divert his thoughts ; becomes an active Liberal; returns to Sicily when revolt is threatening ; and goes to Naples, on. the invitation of the Court, with propositions from the Sicilians. At Naples he encounters Lucy, now a widow, ostensibly travelling for health, but really in search of Antonia The obstacles to their attachment are now removed, but they are separated by events at the moment of: its avowal. This is their last interview, on the celebrated 15th of May.

"Antonio answered_ nothing, but took the small white band that was hanging over the arm. of her chair, took it in his, and slowly and deliberately raised it to his lips. "The sharp distinct report of a volley of musketry rent the still air, and made every window and door rattle.

"Antonio was on his feet ire a moment, as pale as if every one of the bul- lebr fired had„gone through his heart.

"" What can that be? ' asked Limy, in mortal alarm..

"'Nothing of consequence,' said Antonio, with a mighty effort to look un- concerned.. ' Probably only soma Government powder expended in saluting the opening,of Parliament. By the by, I must not be too late.' "Aa he took his hat another discharge was heard, almost instantly followed by a brisk running fire.

"'There infighting going. on, I am sure of it,' cried Lucy terrified, and shaking allover. 'Do not go, for mercy's sake . What is tfie use of your going ? What can one man do, and- alone ? '

"'Satisfy his own conseience that he hattione all in his power to prevent civil war,' replied Antonio, with tranquil determination. Let me go, I beseech you.' " You shall not!' cried Lucy, now quite beside herself with terror, and in- terposing her alight form between him and the door. Antonio looked at her. " I must go,' he said. It was as if Fate had spoken. Lucy felt at once unequal to struggle with that iron will. She joined her hands like a child about to pray, looked np in his face, and said, '0 Antonio !' There was a world of things in this simple appeal.

"The Italian drew her to him, pressed her closely to his bosom. ' Lucy,' said he, solemnly, 'this is no moment for many words.' (The firing never slackened while he spoke.) 'Lucy, I love you—I have loved you dearly all these long eight years—I shall love you to my grave. But my country has claims on use prior to yours. Those claims I vowed more solemnly than ever to respect, on that day when prejudice, armed with a pedigree, stood between you and me. On that day I pledged myself anew to my country. Let use redeem that pledge—let me do my duty—help me to do it, Lucy ! Lucy, my noble friend, help me to be worthy of you and myself. In the name of all that is holy, let me depart without a painful struggle !'

"The heroic spirit that dictated his self-immolation, in the sweetest moment of his life, shone out in his face and thrilled in his voice. He stood trans- figured to more than man in Luey'e eyes. Her more feeble nature raised itself, in this supreme instant, to a height at which every sacrifice of self is possible. "'Noble heart !' she said, with a burst of enthusiasm, 'Go! and God be with you and preserve you. I will try to be worthy of you' : and she loosened her hold of him.

"'And God bless you for these words cried Antonio, almost unmanned, clasping her hands and holding them to his heart. God bless you!—your love shall he my buckler!' So saying, he laid her on a sofa, and whispered, ' You shall soon see me again, or hear from me.' He stood for a second to look on the now dejected prostrate form before him, passed his hand over his eyes, and went without another word."

Mr. Armstrong's Battle on the Bosphorus has no reference to the present war. The time is of the fourteenth century; the scene is laid in Italy, Turkey, and Corsica ; the history involves the conspiracy of Marino Faller°, the wars of the Venetians and the Genoese as waged in the Bosphorus or other places, and an at- tempt on the part of the latter power to get possession of Corsica. The romance is varied enough, and plenty of it. The hero, at starting, rescues the heroine from the son of the notorious merce- nary leader Duke Werner, "enemy of God, of man, and of pity "; killing the son, and afterwards fighting a duel-with the father. At Venice he is pursued by private rivalry and public suspicion, but he emerges successfully from each. In the East he is success- ful in love and war, but is again pursued by private malignity, -which follows him on his return to Venice, and only ceases there and in Corsica with the deaths of the wicked, who pursue the hero Giacinto Paoli.

As a picture either of history or manners, the romance is not of much account. The author has read common histories for his leading facts ; be has not penetrated below the surface, even if his authorities gave him the means of doing so. He makes some strange blunders in the merest matters of fact. For example, he endows the Venetian nobility with titles, and dresses an elderly gentleman for a masquerade as Solyman the Magnificent more than a century before the great Sultan was born. His ideas of condottieri, of Italy, and more especially of Venice, its system of government and social life, are conventional, according to the no- tions of romance-writers or rhetorical compilers of history. There is no unity in the action of his story. It should have closed earlier; it might have been extended to any length. Yet with all these faults, there is a story, with plenty of incident, and with rapidity of movement. The reader may know that some things are impos- sible, many things improbable, and that the manners, the ideas, the conversation, are all unreal ; still the rapid succession of events carries him along through the greater part of the book—it Rags in the last volume. As for the manners, &c., these are pretty much like those of other mediaeval romances. To those who cannot subject the matter to any critical test, The Battle on the Bosphorus may be recommended as a good romance.

The titlepage describes My First Season as being "edited "by the author of " Charles Auchester "; advertisements intimate that it is by that writer. The question is net worth speculating upon. The style and manner of the present fiction is a great improvement upon that farrago of fustian " Counterparts" : it has not the truth- ful delineation of every-day provincial life that characterized the beginning of "Charles Auchester," nor is it relieved by the musical criticism and art satire which were found in that book. My First Season exhibits the power that was latent or displayed in both fictions, but exercised under more restraint. There is a keenness of observation which is somewhat marred by a bias for rhetorical exaggeration, or a notion that nature is improved by being pushed beyond the bounds of likelihood. A disagreeable effect is created by a species of self-obtrusiveness in the autobio- graphical writer, and an obvious incapacity to produce anything that shall be complete in point of art or proper in point of taste. The book has this advantage—it is very unlike the general run of novels. The romantic story is poor, and unlikely enough. Such as it is, it seems to have been derived from Burgoyne's "Heiress," where a lord marries the sister of his whilom tutor and friend ; but the taken idea is managed without the effect or probability of the comedy. The general object is to exhibit a sharply satirical view of high life. The form is that of autobiographical fiction. Beatrice Reynolds, the autobiographer, is the granddaughter of a noble house by the mother's side; her father, a clergyman, being ne- glected, if not absolutely disowned, by Lord Ailye. The death of her grandfather. and her parents pplaces Beatrice under the guardianship of her uncle, Lord Ailye. He is as young man, " horribly conscientious, and dreadfully melancholy watts it," who, because he is virtuous, " thinks there shall be no more cakes and ale." But he is a man of strict principle ; he thoroughly carries

out his ideas of religious duty—unless, mity be, in the ease of blood and birth; and cares for all the children thrown upon his hands by family deaths, in a sort of sweetly-sour way. The residence of Beatrice and her cousins under Lord Ailye's roof seems intended to furnish opportunities for marking the evil effects of too strict a family discipline, and of enforcing religion too continuously upon the youthful. There is clever thought with pointed delineation in this part of the tale; but the lesson fails, if a lesson was intended, by the exaggeration of the picture, and by the want of future re- sult. On the death of Lord A.ilye, at a proper time for the story, Beatrice is transferred to the guardianship of Lady Barres, a woman of fashion, with a smooth tongue, a scheming mind, a heart something of the blackest, but with the mildest manners. Under her auspices Beatrice goes through her "first season"; and the observations she makes upon society and some of its leading cha- racters is the main feature of the book apart from loves and mar- riages.

Some writers would have used or abased this framework by the introduction of scandalous stories, and portraits of well-known people, as like as they could make them, with initials underneath lest the likeness should not be recognized. The great fault of the writer—an apparent distaste for the truth and repose of nature— has prevented this degradation. The object seems to have been to extract what the author considered the essence of fashionable so- ciety and re-embody it in "representative persons," rather than to exhibit a transcript of actual life, supposing there had been suffi- cient familiarity with it, which may be doubted. The delineations seem done from the outside ; virtues, when there are any, and vices, of which there are plenty, being both exaggerated. A foolish lord at twenty-eight dies of delirium tremens; a wicked marquis finally turns up at the Morgue. Here he is between his first and second ruin; the last of which drives him abroad.

" The Marquis of Mayfair was a very young man, looking old, but not ma- ture : the fatal prematurity not of genius or of sorrow, but of vice, had ex- aggerated every line of his straight hard forehead into that hieroglyph of re- tributive justice—reckless despair. There was no beam of youthful ingenu- ousness in his eye, but soft insatiable vanity lurked under lids whose lashes were blighted by the fever of shameless sin. Ignorant of the world, of men, of the discords or the harmonies of humanity, as I then was, yet I read in those eyes, upon that brow, and through the enfeebled movements of that exhausted frame, the traces of iniquity, in whose rites the devils are sur- passed by the sons of men. It was a sight to make one weep. Still, not to be too serious, one lesson I learned that night. Hard is it for a man to die with an untarnished but untransmitted name ; harder for a woman to have no `pretty Arthur' to meet her in the courts of heaven ; but hardest to own as a child one of those desecrated images of the Creator, in whom vicious ten- dencies, inherited or instinctive, have developed to self-destruction. " Lord Mayfair seemed looking at no lady in particular—indeed, I should have thought him too far spent to examine anything ; but it was evident that every lady looked at him in particular; nor with disfavour in her glances, either. While men of easy conscience and dissolute conduct continue to be admired by ladies—many innocent, all ignorant—and while women actually allow their admiration of these devotees of dissipation to be perceived in their behaviour, it is scarcely matter of surprise that men are not specially severe upon each other; or that even virtuous men avoid a critical demeanour to- wards those of their own sex who exercise less habitual restraint than they do themselves.

" I had not been ten minutes in the room with Lord Mayfair before he asked to be introduced to me. * * •

" I cannot express my horror when face to face with him. It is no chime- rical hypothesis which maintains there is an actual and material impression conveyed by moral darkness. Darker than doom—far darker than the night of death—is the reaction of depravity upon its votaries or its victims ; and methinks a fallen angel has fallen not so far as a fallen man. I had been glanced upon with admiration by several that evening, and my heart had warmed beneath their glances : this man gazed upon me with homage, and a bitter loathing seemed to chill my blood."