Loyella. By Mrs. Bennett-Edwards. (The Royal Exchange Office.)—" I think,
sir, we must have come to the most remark- able man in the country at last," said Mark Tapley to Martin Chuzzlewit, when Hannibal Chollop had talked Martin all but dead in Eden. We feel like Martin, when we close the wild and wondrous story of Loyella,—of the maligned and marvellous woman who, from the depth of her luxurious seclusion, startles society by her literary genius ; who has "deep, pitying eyes, and glory-tinted hair,"—(does that mean blood-red ?) whose husband has shot himself in a fit of jealousy—an act of delicate consideration on his part, as being the surest means of giving the lady to her lover—and who is all
a wonder, but to us, at least, very far from a delight. Surely we have now read the very worst and most foolish novel of all the bad and foolish novels of the year ! We believe, and hope that this is so.
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