SPRING NOVELS CONTINUED. * MR. TALBOT GwysaiE has made a considerable

advance beyond his former novels in .2Vanette and her Lovers. A native want of • Nanette and her Lovers. By Talbot Gwynne, Author of " The School for Fathers," &c. Published by Smith and Elder.

The Lady Una and her Queendom; or Reform at the Right End. By the Author of " Home Truths for Home Peace," 8:c. Published by Longman and Co.

A Hero of Our Own Times. From the Russian of Lermontof. Now first trans- lated into English. Published by Bogue.

Doffs Blanca of Navarre; an Historical Romance. By Don Francisco Navarro Villoslada. In three volumes. Published by Bosworth.

genuine dramatic character and vivacity cannot, indeed, be altoge- ther supplied. A very close scrutiny may lead to the discovery of a resemblance in the essential elements of Nanette and some modern fictions and dramas, where after a long struggle between a handsome showy suitor and one more solid e'but less atractive, merit at last carries the day. There is, too, an occasional repe- tition of common scenes, not easily avoided in a story of the French Revolution, when the narrative leads to the atrocities of the mob or the persecution of the priests. The tale on the whole, however, is an able and interesting production. It displays an acquaintance with French character, and considerable knowledge, however obtained, of the soldiers of the Revolution and the Empire ; it is not deficient in variety of persons or incidents; and if the story is not substantially new, it derives both novelty and interest from the manner in which it is filled up. Several morals are pointed by the narrative ; though the one Mr. Gwynne seems desirous to impress may not meet with universal approval—that no civil mar- riage is good, in the sense of goodness, not stringency.

Nanette, the heroine, a Norman peasant girl of simple and de- vout feelings, is betrothed to Antoine Charpentier, and secretly beloved by Arsene Potier. Arsene is steady, grave, conscientious ; but, though Annette esteems him highly, and pities his passion, concealed from all eyes but hers she does not love him. Antoine is what is shortly called "a good fellow." Smart, active, cheerful, handsome, and a general favourite, he is yet at bottom selfish and fickle. The murder of the village cure by a Jacobin mob, and the banishment of the priests, cause the wedding to be postponed, as Annette will not be married by the civil ceremony. The enmity of an upstart Terrorist causes Antoine to be sent to the army, where he eventually attains rank. But these are only accidents in his life : there was in him that which under any circumstances would have carried Antoine Charpentier into the class of dis- reputables.

No woman could have been happy married to the Marengo captain. He had in him the germ of all that is bad ; even village life and Nanette would not have rendered him righteous. Had he remained a peasant, he would have become, as years rolled over him, one of the skittle-playing, gambling, gallanting, rollicking members of the community ; one of those men who are all fun and frolic among their compeers, whilst they have either a broken-hearted or a scolding wife at home, a horde of children, and no work."

For narrative and incident Nanette is much beyond the general- ity of tales. The character of Antoine, however, is the remarkable feature of the book ; for although French in its circumstances, its essentials are universal. He is a consistent and capital picture of the goodnatured, unprincipled, unscrupulous Frenchman ; clever in availing himself of the ideas of others, though without thoughts of his own, and hardly capable of thinking ; equally clever in im- posing upon the simple and the ignorant with his borrowed airs and notions and meretricious graces, as well as when backed by military rank, in attaining a footing in the brass and clay society of the Empire. His follies, his vices, his licence, his selfishness, are distinctly shown to the reader ; but while nothing is left out, the more repulsive part is only intimated. There is no attempt at glossing over his showy failings, still less at investin., his vices with any melodramatic attraction. The reader sees ''him as he is,—a pleasant mauvais sujet, a clever gambler and impostor, but amid all his spangle success a poor creature. Equally in keeping is his decline, when drinking and the pleasures of the table muddle his head for gaming, and he continually loses. Some twenty years after the opening of the tale, and ten after Annette has voluntarily resigned her claims upon her neglectful lover, the now Madame Potier is waiting her husband the miller's return to supper.

"Her placid meditation was broken through by a sharp rap on the win- dow-pane. Nanette looked up, starting at that which she beheld. Close against the window appeared the face of a beggar.man. The eyes were bleared and glazed ; the under-lip was swollen and purple, the upper one being covered by a thick moustache ; whilst a dirty beard of some days' growth in pare hid his flabby, violet-coloured face. His hair was long, black, and matted ; covered by an old red nightcap.

"The beggar, in a trembling and hoarse voice was entreating Nanette to let him in, and to allow him to warm himself at !the blazing fire ; as he said he was very cold, with empty stomach, and not a sou in his pocket. "Nanette's heart inclined to open her door to him, to feed and warm him : but the miller was away ; she was entirely alone; and the looks of the beggar frightened her in spite of her great charity.

" I will give you some soup from the window,' she said, after reflecting a while.

" Give me a glass of brandy, more rather,' returned the beggar ; putting a dirty, long-nailed, trembling hand, in at the window, which Nanette had opened.

" Well, you shall have it ; but will you not have the warm soup too ? ' "'Give me the brandy, or I ellen die ; we'll think about the soup after- wards.'

"These words of the beggar were accompanied by such a wild, eager look, that Nanette deemed him to be some poor madman, wandering about un- known to his friends.

"She gave him a little glass full of brandy ; which he tossed off at a gulp ; then stretched out his hand, saying, A few of those will set me on my legs again, bonne femme.'

'Do you want more ? ' asked Nanette in surprise. " 'X eat now then make haste; but give me a larger glass; I hate drink- ing out of a thimble. Make haste—make haste—don't you see him ?' 'The man shook in every limb; vowed that the Devil was :tending with his arm round his waist ; began to cry in a maudlin manner, and to beg hard for a good tumbler full of brandy, which, he said, was the only one thing to chase the Devil away. "Nanette hesitated, being afraid to give him more. "The beggar became violent, and threatened to knock the door down if she did not give him the bottle and a large glass. "Nanette glanced towards the door, and perceived that she had fastened it with the strong wooden bolt. She likewise looked at the clock. It was nearly eight, and she knew that the miller would soon be home. " She poured out another small glass of brandy, which she gave to the beggar, saying, Take that, and begone. You shall have a gros sou, and a bit of bread besides.'

" The bloated man drank off.the spirit, but refused to move until Nanette should have given him more.

" The Devil has been with me all day,' he said, as his teeth chattered, ' because I had no brandy. He breathed all over the country, and made a fog, that I should not see where to get any. He always follows me about, and makes me cold and miserable till I drink a bottleful ; and then he goes away, and I am a grenadier again—till the next time.'

"Nanette, without another word, gave the man a sou, with some bread and cheese, then shut-to the window, drawing the little red and white checked curtain.

"Anon the beggar began to shake the door, and to swear and howl, waking the children and frightening their mother. " Give me the bottle, and I will go !' cried the man.

"No answer being given, he rapped with his stick and again began to shake the strong door.

"Nanette kissed her children, telling them it was only alipsy man, and that their father would soon return.

"'There he is!' cried the eldest boy: 'listen!'

"The sound of cart-wheels was distinctly heard. The noise ceased ; and presently the miller's voice resounded loudly and firmly, as he asked the beggar what he was doing there.

" ' Baptiste !' called Potier ; and a strong double-jointed being, covered with flour, appeared from the mill. 'How could you hear all this noise, and not come to your mistress's help ? ' asked Potier.

" I thought it was a lutin howling in the fog,' returned Baptiste, look- ing sheepish.

"Madame Potier stepped forth to tell all that had happened. "The miller looked at the beggar, and then said, Bring him a good tumbler of brandy, ma femme.'

" A tumbler full cried Nanette, in surprise.

" ' Yes; I know how it is. One sees that sort of thing in the army from time to time. Here, mon vieux, drink that!'

"The beggar spilt a part of the brandy, as his shaking hand carried the glass to his mouth.

" There ; that will do. Now come along with me, and we'll find a warm bed for you. I shall be in to supper directly, Nanette.' "With these words, Potier, followed by Baptiste, walked the beggar off to the mill; he begging as he went for more brandy."

He dies in the night.

"The official examination of the body having been brought to an end, the miller, with a sad countenance, returned to his wife, and sat him down beside the fire.

"'Ma femme,' he said sorrowfully, prepare to hear something dreadful. The passport of that miserable beggar is made out in the name of Antoine Charpentier, late Colonel in the army of his Majesty rEmpereur et Roi, actually chiffonier at Paris. I have looked closely at the body ; and al- though his features are swelled through intemperance, I had no difficulty in knowing them again. Besides, on his forehead, beneath his long hair, is the scar of the wound he received in battle.'"

Lady Una and her Queendom. A few years since, when Tree- tarianism and Romanism were exciting more attention than they do now, there was a class of religious novelists distinguished by good intentions, kindly though rather narrow feelings, and a super- stition verging upon the silly. In a literary sense, they had a pur- pose in their story, much elegance of style and manner, some knowledge of society though often limited to cliques, but little acquaintance with the struggles of real life, and what acquaint- ance they had was perverted in its effects by their religio-didactic objects. They furnished variety and relief from the common class of conventional novelists ; but, had not their zeal and the fashion of it died away, they would soon have become as conventional as the circulating library fictionists, with the disadvantage of a less varied field.

The writer of Leidy Una and her Queendom belongs to this school. The ideas are clear, and real, as far as realization to the mind ; the persons are consistent; the style is of an animated elegance. The object though excellent is overdone; and the consequence is, a story improbable, if not impossible, which mars the purpose of the amiable writer, because a graceless reader is inclined to exclaim Pooh ! 'Village reformation is the aim of the writer. The alehouse is to be turned, not into a temperance hotel, but a sort of crystal palace on a small scale, where food for the mind and the taste as well as for the body is to be served, and a thirsty soul may drink as much as does him good. Rude boys are to be corrected into well-behaved young lads ; young lasses are to be religions and virtuous as well as charming; and both sexes are to have skill in psalmody. The doltish clown is to be transformed into flab re- spectful, intelligent rustic, with a turn for prosaic remarks; and in short the model village of Selwyn is a provincial Utopia, from the landlord and divine to the humblest peasant, save a certain black sheep, hight Bob Evans, who is no better than one of the wicked.

In a picture of desirable excellence, there is nothing even critical- ly to object to, provided the means are proportioned to the end, and the instruments of the novel are sufficient for their purpose, how- ever unattainable in the wear and tear of life. This is not the case in the book before us. The heroine, Lady Una, begins her reform- ation of the parish in her thirteenth year, and dies before her twentieth ; neither do her coadjutors always seem equal to the heroic tasks upon which they are set. This defect is found in all didactic stories; things happen more luckily and patly than they ever do in life ; but Lady Una passes all probability. The consequence is, a mixture of the absurd and the fiat, as the reader gets led into the working of the village reformation. The early part is tinged with a similar kind of weakness where the theory is embodied. It is, however, relieved by nice rural de- scription, some charming pictures of domestic life and Una's baby- hood, as well as quaint criticisms and contrasts. Here is one— old and new houses.

"Old houses, like old institutions, had been gradually built ; haste had been no condition of their construction. Their foundations, consequently, had been deeplylaid, their walla properly seasoned and cemented, and their roofs y covered in. They were intended to live in and to last out several generations of inhabitants. In almost every instance they might have been more wisely planned, better situated, more convenient, or more elegant; but, at any rate, they were weather-tight, and, at the end of many years, required but a little external paint and pointing to make them look as well as ever. To take them down when once established was no easy matter, and required the directing skill of an architect, and the patience and per- severance of experienced workmen, to be accomplished without injury to the materials : as to falling to pieces of their own accord, they would never have dreamt of such a thing. New houses, on the contrary, like new govern- ments, had been run up in a grudged rather than a given time. To have them finished and bedizened before the sudden caprice or fancied necessity for their erection to which they owed their existence had subsided—this was the chief object. They were intended to look at : to excite astonish- ment or envy in the beholders, and to gratify the vanity of the possessors, was the service they were to render. The climate to which they were ex- posed, the storms they were to brave—all these considerations were lost sight of. They owed nothing to the experience of the past, and they had no claim on, as they had no connexion with, the future. To pull them down would never be a difficulty ; to keep them standing, or in tolerable repair, was heart- less and unprofitable labour ; to restore to them any of their first, shortlived, doll's-house smartness, after the wear of a few years, was an utter impossi- bility."

Michael Lermontof, the author of A Hero of Our Own Times, was a Russian poet and man of letters, an admirer if not a dis- ciple of the great national author Pouchkin. After the death of the latter in a duel, which was very like a murder according to English notions, Lermontof wrote an ode to the memory of Pouch- kin; for which the Emperor, who had already exiled the master thrice from the capital, banished the pupil to the Caucasus, by way of patronizing literature. There, it so happened, Lermontof was also killed in a duel.

The apparent purpose of A Hero of Our Own Times is, to de- pict the modern Russian of rank, fashion, and adventure, (for every Russian who aims at employment must of necessity become an adventurer,) with his selfish cruelty, his want of principle or conscience, his bastard civilization and hollow accomplishments. The mode of doing this is a series of tales, in which the roue and rascal Petehorin and his victims are the subjects. One is told of him ; the others he tells himself, through the hacknied mode of papers left behind him.

Lermontof's literary- aim was nationality, but in a true Russian sense he has not attained it in these tales. The character of Petchorin and of most of the other persons smacks of the looser class of Con- tinentals in general ; which, however, may arise from the fact that a flashy manner and an unprincipled conduct are really the fea- tures of Russian civilization. The literary manner is French ; not native, or in any sense original. The titlepage states that the book is "now first translated into English." We think this is a mistake : we have met with part if not the whole of it before in an English dress.

The historical romance of Dona Blanca of Navarre relates, so far as history is concerned, to a long-continued family quarrel, in- volving national disturbances, between Don Carlos Prince of Viana and his sister Donna Blanca on one side, and his father Juan of Arragon and his father's second wife on the other. The real ob- ject in view was to secure the succession to the son of the step- mother, in pursuit of which the lives both of the Prince and Prin- cess were sacrificed ; each, it is alleged, having been poisoned, though the suspicion is strongest in the case of Donna Blanca, who died in 1464.

There is no lack of incidents and change of fortune in the his- tory ; and the author of the romance, Don Francisco Navarro Villoslada, has added plenty of that bustle or" intrigue " which is considered to distinguish the Spanish drama. Beyond this va- riety, and a sort of matter-of-fact character in his narrative, which seems to realize occurrences however improbable, there is hardly merit enough in the work to have required translation. Don Villo- dada cannot revive the manners of the fifteenth century, or main- tain a lifelike dialogue ; and his manner seems that of Scott ex- panded by Spanish detail and Spanish grandiloquence. Take his opening paragraph as a sample.

"The autumn of one thousand four hundred and sixty-one was fast hastening into the withered arms of winter, when a comely and elegant peasant maiden made her appearance at the door of a cottage in the skirts of the small town of Mondavia, in Navarre; where began the extraordinary events which we are about to relate. She seated herself on a rude stone bench beside the door, under the umbrageous canopy of vine-leaves and golden grapes which crowned the thatched roof of the cabin, and immediately began to twist, with her small and delicate hand, a quantity of brown flax, fixed on a distaff which seemed to have been recently made ; but her fingers, whose whiteness was enhanced by the dusky hue of the material she was spinning, betrayed some degree of awkwardness in this rustic occupation."