UNCLE HORACE.

reviewing Mrs. S. C. HALL'S Outlaw on its first appearance, we took occasion to show that originality chiefly consisted in the wholeness and uniform consistency of the conception ; whilst a copier was a mere worker in mosaic, borrowing a bit here and a bit there, and working up the mixture as a housewife might make a pudding, according to recipe. This incongruous defect, which was perceptible enough in the Outlaw. is offensively palpable in Uncle Horace; where the scene is laid in our day, and the cha- racters are, or should be, our contempotaries. When the time is thrown back some hundred and fifty years, and the action is placed in the midst of religious and political convulsions, the mind makes considerable allowances for the strange or the romantic in characters and incidents. But when the familiar scenes of daily life are brought before us, deviations from nature are easily de- tected, and a very little acumen can perceive the want of impulse and of wholeness.

The object of the author of Uncle Horace appears to have been to imitate, in combination, Scorr, Mrs. RADCLIFFE, and Mrs. GORR and we need scarcely say that such an attempt has failed. Uncle Horace, like his predecessor the Outlaw an unraveller of difficulties, is an odd old bachelor of the uld stage, with a warm heart, a shrewd, well-informed heed, a rough outside, and no small share of national and mercantile prejudices. In early life, he has been displeased by his brother marrying a beauty of whose country or family no one knew any thing (a bit of reality, as Mrs. HALL supposes, from Scores marriage.) Shortly before the opening of the tale, this brother bud still more displeased him by quitting business, going up to London, changing his name into Brown Lorton, and striving, at the bidding of his wife, to get a footing in the fashionable world. At the opening of' the tale itself, Uncle Horace has just ventured into the modern Babylon ; for lie fears that some matrimonial danger threatens his darling niece Mary, through the folly of her mother. This niece, and heroine of the novel, it is the object of his heart to marry to a pro0g6 of his own, who, neglected by his nob!e relations until through a succession of deaths he became heir presumptive to a tit!e, had been brought up by Mr—Horace Brown. A little jealousy, a little pride, and a few other cemmon difficulties of true love, are all .smoothed away by the end of the first volume, through the exer- tions of Uncle Horace and the heroism of a self-denying Lady Ellen ; but some mystery hangs ov:r Mrs. Brown Lorton, and hence two volumes of miseries. She seems to be under the spell of' u foreign Count, who comes and goes Udulpho fashion; and who drains her of her money, torments her life, ter- rifies her daughter, and finding on her husband's death, in a state of insolvency, that her means are exhausted, proposes to marry Mary, (with what object we cannot perceive,) and that failing, forcibly carries her off with the aid of another Isireigner, a greater scoundrel than himself. After due distress, she is of course rescued; Count D'Oraine—who, it turns out, persuaded the mother into an illegal marriage in early life—s-abs himself, and the whole is cleared up with matrimony and happiness.

This brief outline of the story conveys a very slender idea of its absurdity. Count IYOraine and his friend Count Muskito are represented as having been banditti abroad, awl swiediers every- where, and even the gambling-houses are closed against them; yet they move in the first society in London. Mrs. Brown Lorton, though convinced of the illegality of the marriage, anti though the Count took himself off the moment the ceremony was per- formed to escape the law, yet maintains an obstinate silence upon the matter, not only during her husband's life, but after his death. Nor are such improbabilities redeemed by any art in the manage- ment 'af the story. When the tale has run to a seeming con- clusion, Mrs. HALL enables herself to begin anew by a sudden death. When the two Counts would most assuredly have been

handed over to the police by the arrival of Uncle Horace, the story is kept up by the old gentleman being run over. A dia-

logue is stopped by a fearful shriek ; awl the whole book is plenti- fully bestrewed with those einumon tricks which the copiest thinks are striking and effective, but which, in reality, are only vulgarly mechanical.

" To move, to rabe, to ravish every heart, With Shakspeare's nature or with Jonsan's art, Let others aim; 'tis yours to shake the soul With thunder rumbling front the mustard-bowl ; With horns and trumpets now to madness swell, Now sink in sorrows with a tollitig bell. Such happy arts attention can command When fancy flags, and sense is at a stand."

In addition to these faults, there is another of a less important, but of a less common kind—all the persons, save Mary and her lover, are abandoned at the conclusion. Nor are the persons of the story, by the by, of much merit. The servant of Uncle Horace is a tedious bore, without point or character ; Magdalene the lady's maid, and her brother the artist, are improbabilities ; Major Blaney, a lover of Mary% is pretty :good ; ao is. Lord Norley, a selfish, pompous, veer ; but the two best are the butler and housekeeper in the parvenu family. The execution of tho novel is carious. Some parts are in the manner of Mrs. HALL'S best sketchei.: but the major part cannot be praised. Her descriptions are

of the worst style of e almost ex

spolodlietyialoc, tkhnaetyt!siecyhooreli.ninsdhoenie the s contently stopping her story with digressiuns, or opinions, or ap.

. .

peals to the reader-in the manner of second-rateperiodicafx And her dialogues, imitations of Mrs. GORE without her buoyancy, her wit, or her truth, are neither natural-nor useful.

The reader who would test these opinions, must, of course, read a good part of the novel; but a few extracts may furnish examples of each style.

A TOWN SKETCH.

The iId ugly clock upon the tower of St. James's bad marked three—the hour of one of the stintoest days in the month of May. The trees of the Park seemed again proud of their greenness; for it bed showered heavily at twelve; and the flowers—blossoming, poor things ! with such affected gayety in the balconies of the neighbouring dwellings—had been renovated by the effects of S natural bath. Even Apsley House stniled in the sunshine ; while a couple °fide Grace's high-hreal domestics, as they lounged against the yolk! ptee appeared exceedingly aamsed at the awkward carriage, aspect, and habitiments ;if it ream- try-looking servant, who, with open mouth and staring eyes, had made Isis way down Piccadilly, and stood at Hyde Park Corner, tam peering under rsse arch, and then wider another, with as much astonishment as delight. He was a tall, athletic man, whose age it would have been difficult to determines. hit haie was combed quite straight, and was, naturally, of that pale drab celloue which ancient coachmen of ancient fatuities are gill fond of imitating in tIstis wigs. The cloth of his livery matched its hue, and his scarlet waistcoat was scarcely of deeper tint than his glowing cheeks. The town. bred lackies woug have set him down as a perfect ohnpletou, arid perhaps have quizzed hint ac- cordingly, had it not been for a peculiar keenness aud sharpness of eye, that kept watch, as it were, over every person who passed and every thing that occurred. He carried a well. filled earpetthag in one hand, and a couple of hat-boxes in the other ; a shot.belt was strapped across hi, Shoulder, and a huge basket, out of which peeped a travelling-cap and a furred glove, danoled foam Ilia arm ; brace of pistols were stuck in the belt, to which also was fastened a heavy iron dog eliam ; to this was attached a stiff, white, cralthed-looking terriel, who seemed snore bewildered than his toaster, yet ready to snap at every matt, woman, or child that crossed his way. It would have been no easy matter to determine to what class of re/cants the stranger belonged : his hat was hurt beire aud behind, after the coachniza fashion ; his mit belonged to the genus footman ; his gaitws avers ton clumsy for any but a groom ; and his shoes ! his elloel almost threw the eelf-inatitute.ti inspectors of his apparel into convulsions. Such shoes had never been made in London, that was certain.

MKS. HALL ON SERVANTS.

The beet servants ita the world are to be fonuil in the establidonents of the genuine aristocracy of England—men and wumen who have grown gray in faithfulness and affection Ow their employers. The evils which the thediccre elase of society complain of in their domestics, can generally he trart..td to them- selves. Servants invariably take their tone, and, if they live long enough in the same places, their characters, from their employers: an extravagant mistress is ever complaining of extravagant set cants, a careless ndstress of statterio; an ill.tempeted mistress provokes the exercise of the same quality iu hec de- pendants; and a tyrant makes tsralize, who, if they have nothing else to tyrannize over, will kick the cats alai clogs. 'Pic servants of Drewn Lulea were excellent examples of the correetness t'if this theory : they were pretenders ; not satisfied with bein,„ in the service of a wealthy commoner, they aped the distinction of My Lotd Duke, My Lady Dutchess, and affected sr) le and station.

ENGLISH BEAUTY.

Life, long and hippy, to English beauty! Despite all that has been or ever

will.be said of its fragility, its danger, its destruction, it is a blessed thing to look upon and live nanonget. Talk of its failing ! it never fades ; it is but transferred from face to face. The bud comes forth as the blossom is perfected; and the bud bursts into blossom but to hide the falling leaves, fragrant amid the decay of the parent Bower. Theo the beauties of our country are so varied. The peasant girl, gifted with pearl.like modeety ; and the courtly maiden, set, as her birth-right, in a gulden circlet, the intellectual face beaming intelligence; and the English matron, proud as Cornelia of her living jewels. Nor is the perfectness of Etigikh beauty confined to any class. In sumnier-time you meet it everywhere,—by the hedge-rows, in the street., in the markets, at the Opera, where, tiers on tiers, hundreds upon hundteds of lovely faces glitter and gk:am, and smile and weep ; and then you wonder whence they come, and bless yaur fortune that they SO congregate to harmonize the sight, in sweet accordance with the ear.

FINE WAITING.

,M,kg.:a!eile rose and curtsied ; but no word was exchanged ; though the visiter took her seat by the sleeper's conch. It Was a beautiful sight. The lovely head of Mary Lorton, resting on. without crushing, the Binged pillow, her anus crossed' upon her boson], which scarcely heaved beneath their pressure. Lady Ellen Revis—for she it was who had quitted the festivities of her owu house to inquire after the health rd. her friend—Lady Ellen, half sitting, half supporting herself on the couch, the drapery of which, descending from a golden star in the ceiling, nearly shrouded her figure ; while her eparklime'' intelligeat, but restless features were turned on the sleeping countenance of her Le,ierite. :Magdalene had withdrawn to her old seat in the window ; and the creir.ur other delicate form never looked more graceful than it dill then, her head hcet down aud her hands clasped on her knees in an attitude of intense watchfulness. Lucky was it, for the sake of my picture, that the drapery did in part conceal the figure of Lady Ellen. Hers was one of those clear, penetrating, intellectual countenances, which strike immediately and ate never forgotten. Her eyes were of a deeply puce blue, full of tenderness and fire; her brow was high, broad, and full ; her nose well shaped ; and her mouth capable of every variety of expression, from the most severe reproof to the bland and persuasive smile which wreathes the lips with beauty ; her hair was magnificent, shading in its depths to the deepest brown, and coming out in the sunshine with silken brightness; her skin sat clear; her complexion almost colourless, except when animated or startled, then it flushed with the impetuosity of ardent temperament to the deepest crimson. But, alas! there ended her beauty. Nature decreed that this lovely flower should blossom on a betided stein; the stalk curved beneath the rich burden of its coronal. She was deformed ; not much, not half so much as many who pass through society without thinking it a misfintuue; but she felt it in all its aggravated bitterness: it was the baue of her existence—the drop of poison which tainted the whole cup,

MAJOR BLANKT.

Mary returned the salute, And a florid, chewy, geLd-ottured-looking mai cantered to the side of-their carriage. He was precisely one of the sort of men I whom Nature moulded into. beauty, and then left, thinking any other endow- ment unnecessary. His head Was rather empty; yet he was a gentleman—that never could be 'questioned fora moment; but the first sentence he spoke, to- gether with his manner ofspeakiargit,Mmvinced you that he was not an English one. Major Blauey had always moved In goodsomety ; had not the least vestige ti brogue clinging like a bur to his ordinary conversation; had travelled and fought, sung and danced to admiration; and yet bad never been able to acquire that high bred repose, which is the distinguishing characteristic of an English gentleman. Ile tried for it, however ; and spoiled his natural energy by endea- vouring to wrap it in the cast.off cloak tit' the last English aristocrat with whom he had dined or exchanged civilities: but he could not succeed. He would have given half the income he (like other Irishmen) ought to have pos• aessed, to have been born in England. Lady Ellen Revis, who discovered in him an apostacy, which I grieve to say all Irishmen away from their country are too apt to manifest, always culled him Major O'Blaney ; invariably apolo- gizing afterwards for using the 0; and finishing her pretty excuse by saying it occur red to her that the distinguishing 0 should be appended to the name of every Irishman in the world.

EF.ENCH AND ENGLISH WOMEN.

A Frenchwoman in the decline of life is one of the most delightful compa• pions in the world. She retains a sufficient desire to please (the real soutee of covetry) to the end of her days; and this desire prevents her fiom being either cross or stupid. She dresses well ; that is to say, a woman of forty does not, in France, dress like a girl of fifteen ; she takes cure in the morning to arrange her blonde so that the coming wrinkles may appear as but the shadow of the bee ; her figure is well sustained ; and by the aid of 2 little rouge and a little pencilling, her eyes, the only real beauty in a French face, look brilliant, and, whst is better still, good-natured to the last.

Our women in England, at forty, or thereabouts, if they decline to act "miss in hit teens," take to long whist and heavy dinners. We cut short half our days by this arrangement, and mistake stupidity for wisdom : as if there was more wisdom required in counting the spots on card-board, than in creating mirth, or clipping the hours' wings with diamond scissors.

It may be as well, ere leaving Uncle Horace, to observe that we have criticized it as a novel—a picture of life and manners; to which, notwithstanding some occasional excellence, it has small claim. As a circulating library book, it may be ranked in the first class ; and those readers will be deeply interested in it who require a prose fiction to be nothing more than a mental phantasmagoria, where, if the scenes are grotesque or exciting, they are satisfied without calling for nature or connexion.