MRS. DANIEL'S JEREMIAH PARKES.

THERE is a singular resemblance in many points between this novel of Mrs. Daniel and the fictions of her late husband ; indeed, the difference is perhaps not greater than necessarily arises from difference of sex. There is in Jeremiah Parkes considerable excellence in description, with great nicety and even felicity of depicting domestic scenes of a quiet homely cast, where privation or distress of some kind, generally arising from scanty pecuniary means, is an element. The fiction contains, as might be expected, greater variety of female character, and more exact- ness in its delineation, than anything Mr. Daniel himself attained. In those points to which a woman's attention was likely to be directed, the male persons in Jeremiah Parkes exceed those of the writer's late husband ; but they are comparatively deficient in force and action. The nature of the story likewise is of a quieter and less eventful kind ; with- out that dash of romance in the circumstances and feelings of the hero which gave such a character to the first novel of Mr. Daniel. In the vulgar sense of art, husband and wife are upon a par : both dispose their materials into a coherent narrative and "work them up" to a species of climax ; but there was more of force and melodramatic effect in the hus- band than there is in the wife. In the higher sense of art, each is alike deficient. With much keen observation in a limited field, a delicate dis- crimination of character, and, in short, many of the elements of novel- writing, both natural and acquired, there is a failure in the development of the matter. The governing events of the story have not sufficient likelihood; the story itself is somewhat wiredrawn in its interest ; and in Jeremiah Parkes, where the subjects are not too domestic for three volumes, they are taken from the common sources of the circula- ting library, modified by the writer's own genius. Jeremiah Parkes derives its title from an old lawyer rejoicing in that name, who befriends Mrs. Dormer, the mother of the heroines, on her husband's Suicide in consequence of his embarrassments. The old gentle-

man plays a double part ; he is both a species of author's butt and a novelist's tyrant-lover. His peculiarities and infirmities are designed to be ludicrous, but his conduct is designed to excite a deep interest in the fate of Annie Dormer. By befriending Mrs. Dormer and advancing her money, Mr. Parkes lays her under obligations both of gratitude and debt, and claims the hand of Annie as a set-off. The victim submits, to save her mother ; but as the moment of sacrifice approaches, the old bachelor's superstitions and fears of matrimony are too much for his love, and he gives up all claims upon Mrs. Dormer if Annie will give up her claim upon him.

Besides this leading circumstance, there are various persona engaged in objects of their own, yet moving round the chief interest ; which is, however, only partially concerned with Jeremiah Parkes. The true interest—the theme of the book—lies in the characters of the Dormers, and the incidents connected with them. Their reverse of fortune is indeed badly managed, and there was no real necessity for doing it in the way it is done, beyond the idea of gentility which attaches to territorial property ; but, passing this, the cha- racters are delineated with great truth. The rather commonplace, half contented, half ambitious, unobserving, yet affectionate mind of Mrs. Dormer, is a very skilful development. Annie—simple, active, domestic, and self-sacrificing—is a very sweet and perfect creation. Caroline Dormer is an admirable conception : her impulsive affection and thoughtless selfishness, the total want of principle in her coquetry, and the art with which she pursues her objects, yet without losing her sense of feeling when those objects are not in question, are such as only a wo- man could delineate, if they do not form a very pleasing or attractive person. Though the Dormers are admirable as a metaphysical study, they are not, in theatrical phrase, well placed or well played up to. They probably will not tell with the novel-reader, to an extent proportioned to their merit, because they are rather descriptive delineations than dramatic developments. As long as they are doing nothing beyond the social or domestic sphere, they are truthful both in conduct and discourse : as soon as they become involved in events of a deeper kind, the.want of art we have already alluded to begins to tell. It is not always that the Dormers fail in consistency, but the concomitants are not well planned, and the story is too much spun out. Mrs. Daniel has yet to learn, what her husband never learned, that all nature is not adapted for the purposes of art : per- haps mere nature never is, unless it be of the rare or the heroic kind, and then a mind of its own grade is required to transcribe it. In general cases art is selection and adaptation. In nature there is ever much that is common, painful, unpleasing, even offensive or disgusting; all of which true art stops short of, or avoids.

The following chapter from the story will give an idea of the better parts of the book. It describes Annie Dormer after she has accepted Mr. Parkes, and procured his written promise to forgive her mother the debt, in case of her death before their marriage.

"Mrs. Dormer was awaiting Mr. Parkes's departure with feelings of the greatest anxiety. The moment she heard the house-door closed, she hastened to the par- lour to find her daughter, and question her concerning the dreaded and important interview.

"Annie was sitting near a table with her face buried between her hands, and beside her lay the wntten document she had just obtained. " My sweet girl,' began Mrs. Dormer, is joyful accents, ' yon have triumphed,— I see you have by that precious paper; give it me, my darling, I will burn it at once, and—' " Stop, atop, dear mamma,' said Annie faintly, raising her deathlike Counte- nance to her mother's animated one. ' That is not the paper you think; it is another and must not be destroyed. It is mine,'—and she took it up and put it in her bosom.

"'Good Heavens! my child, what has happened? what has that horrid old man said or done to you, that you look so pale and wild? Speak, my darling,— what is it, Annie ? '

"'Mamma, mamma, I could not see you in a gaol,' faltered the almost sinking Mrs. Dormer grew now almost as pale as her daughter. Has he then ven- tured to threaten this, the heartless villain?—But he could not, he dare not do it: be not deceived, Annie;—besides, we have still some friends;—comfort yourself, my dear, timid child; you have given no promise yet?' "'Alas, mamma, I have,' said Annie; there was no other way. Do not mourn for me, dearest mamma; I shall be happy in the belief that I have saved you and dear Carry from misery: and I pray you do not try to persuade me it was mine- cessary, for then it would be so very hard to bear; but it was necessary, even on Carry's account. Ah, believe m; mamma, I shall be contented.' "'Contented! Oh my child, my child, why have you done this?—the very thought of it is killing you, I know it is '; and Mrs. Dormer bent over her pale daughter, and wept aloud. "Then Annie's firmness returned. ' Mamma, my own kind mamma, this must not be: look up and smile upon me, and I shall be happy—quite, quite happy—in- deed I shalL Let us think of poor Carry too: would it not blight her present cheerfulness and gayety if she saw us pining and miserable? Yes, she must be made to believe that I was willing to marry Mr. Parkes,—that it is not, at least, very hateful to me; and no murmur of mine shall ever induce her to suspect the contrary. The thought that I may be the means of adding to her happiness, of procuring her what she most sighs for, is so soothing and delightful, that I would not for worlds be without it. Now rouse yourself, my own mamma, and see how /can smile.'

"' Yet you are very young, my poor child, to wear the mask of deceit. on your lips,' said Mrs. Dormer. ' 1 feel, Annie, that I ought not to have put it in your power to sacrifice yourself thus. Nevertheless, for Carry's sake we must in some way endeavour to hide feelings. She hear e sound of wheels nowadAnnie, goingtoevLow. Yes, here is Mrs. Percy's car. Do look, dear mamma, if Carry is alone, for I could not see any one else today.' "Scarcely had Mrs. Dormer replied to her daughter's inquiry in the affirmative, when the parlour-door was thrown open, and Carry herself rushed in, her face ra- diant with smiles and blushes. "'Mamma, Annie, congratulate me!' were her first words. ' Oh, I am so very, very happy,—I have triumphed. I knew I should. Charles Pembaton has pro-

Posed.' " Mrs. Dormer was now so engrossed with listening to Carry, and Carry so full

of her own joyful prospects, that neither of them gave a thought to poor Annie; who felt really unable to utter a single word. And yet, who ever wished met prayed for a sister's happiness more constantly and fervently than herself? 111qt the mother even, the fond, proud mother, could be more rejoiced than she was at

hearing that this happiness was attained. But still she .could not speak—a thou- sand agitating thoughts crowded upon her mind: she felt that Miss Murray had deceived her—was this purposely done, and if so, was Carry, her own loved sister, a party to it? No, no, this could never be: but still she had been deceived, and her generous sacrifice, in part at least, was useless. Carry had accomplished her end without any aid at alL "'You do not speak, Annie,' said the elder sister at length, when she had told her long tale of happiness to her delighted mother: are you not glad that lain so blest?'

" Very, very glad, dearest Carry; and Heaven grant that your present joy may never be clouded ! '

" What a doleful speech, Annie, and what a still more doleful look you have ! Perhaps you are thinking of Miss Maitland, whose hopes, if she has any, will now he blighted.'

" No,' said Annie, trying hard to smile; I was thinking of myself, just then.'

" SAh, by the by, how ever have you managed about old Parkes and the paper. Monona, you have not the honour, I suppose, of possessing two engaged daugh- ters?' This was said in a merry, thoughtless voice, and contrasted strangely with that in which Annie replied. " Yes, Carry, I am also engaged.'

" Nay, it is surely a jest, alshough you both look so serious. Mamma, is this —can this be true?'

" Quite true, Carry,' said the mother: Mr. Parkes would listen to no terms -butthese. But Annie declares she is contented; and he certainly is devoted to her; and she will have wealth and every luxury at her command.' " 'Nay, but this is madness, absolute madness. Annie marry Mr. Parkes ! really marry that nasty, ugly, detestable old man ?—It shall never be !' " For one moment Annie questioned within herself whether this was not hypo- crisy"; but the next she was convinced, fully convinced, that she had cruelly -wronged, her sister; and this reassurance of Carry's love, this restored confidence, triumphed for the time over all her grief; and, throwing her arms round her sister's neck, she exclaimed, in tones of perfect cheerfulness, Believe me, Carry, I am happy.' " Then you're a riddle, a mystery, Annie, and one which I shall never under- stand. However,' continued Carry, looking searchingly in her sister's face, re- member, I shall watch you narrowly: and if I find, even at the eleventh hour, that you have deceived us, and are in reality only sacrificing yourself for what you con- -eider our good, I will not permit it to be; for I swear to you, Annie, I would rather pass my whole life in a prison than that you should marry Mr. Parkes against your will.'

"Poor Annie's loving heart rejoiced so at this proof of Carry's affection, when she had persuaded herself it was nearly extinguished, that during the rest of that day she had no difficulty in satisfying her watchful sister that her mind was at peace."