DELAWARE, OR THE RUINED FAMILY.

THE author of Delaware is a very clever fellow, and w hat is more, a Very conceited one: his novel is not a fiftieth part so good as be calculates, but his second may be better than his publishers will give him credit for. The faults are easily enumerated. Smitten by a love of smart writing, the author fancies, while chuckling over his own pretty sayings, that his reader, who is all the time fretting at the interruption, is as satisfied as himself. Some Park riders have a foolish vanity in making their steeds to curvet, cara- cole, and rear : the horseman sits with a cool and comfortable con- ceit, reflecting that he is witching the public eye with his noble horsemanship, while all the time he is simply stopping the way,— the remark he excites being invariably of the order sneer, or the genus jeer. So much for the author's smart dissertations,—very well in a magazine, very well in an essay, but most unartist like in a prose epic. It will not do unless the author abandons himself and is reproduced in his personages : if he ever ventures forward in his -own person, by way of Greek chorus, or poetical or philosophical commentary, it must be very rarely. This brings us to the great point in novel-writing—the concep- tion of the characters of the work Now this author has a very- excellent critical notion of character ; but he wants the creative faculty—that by which a new combination is produced, such as all say might have been nature, as sonic say ought to be, but which nevertheless is not copied but conceived ; the trick of conception being acquired from a long and, gifted observation of the manner in which circumstances operate on human beings. The characters of Delaware are either faint copies of nature, or made up from traits recollected from pictures. There is no want of unity—the author is too critical for such a blunder : there is no vulgar daub- ing—he is fastidious, and of good experience : but there is alto- gether a want of force and energy, which makes us look coldly upon even the cleverest attempts he makes to do the thing well. There is also an utter want of geniality in the writer : he never gives himself up with the abandonment of genius : he never revels in his own power: he is far too careful of himself ever to excite the slightest sympathy in the reader. Have you not more than once seen in society, persons who say very good things, but with so much effort, so painful an apprehension of non-success, and yet with so overwhelming an idea of their own importance and so great a horror of being ridiculed for a moment, that their conversation is, instead of a source of satisfaction, productive of a most uneasy sensation of uncomfortableness? These are persons, generally, who are intent upon shining—who lay themselves out to shine—but who are so dreadfully apprehensive of being laughed at, that they do nothing with ease, with nature, with force. It is the struggle of an eel in a case of armour. We don't know to which it is most unpleasant—to the wriggling wit, or the spectator of his writhings. Just such a writer is the author of Delaware: as yet the har- ness galls him : he will get accustomed to it soon, and instead of jibbing and rearing, he will step out, and carry his critic behind him like a proper beast of draught.

Next, as to the interest excited in the reader: there is no main stream—no great current running through the book : there is in fact no one especially to care for. A set of persons are felt to be injured, and there is a general sympathy with their condition; but this is far too faint to carry the reader along with the proper degree of impatience. There is also so much improbability—so much, we may say, of impossibility, considering the times, in the conduct

of the story—that the interest, such as it is, in the persons con- eerned, is materially reduced. In spite of its being utterly deficient in good characters and a good story, it is not without good scenes, and the incidents are not all worked. Burrel, the hero, is, with a few good qualities, as dis- agreeable a person as the author is in his book. The Delawares are merely good sort of people : the author cannot save them, make what effort he will. All his powers are spent upon the two Timms, par nubile, uncle and nephew, usurer and sharper alias attorney; and the quiet villain Harding, in whom there is a most foolish

attempt to mix up Spencean principles and the habits of a com- mon Old Bailey thief.

The story turns, as all modern stories do, on a sum of money. The Delawares have borrowed money from a revengeful connexion at a high rate on annuity : if it could be paid off and borrowed at an ordinary rate of interest, the falling family would be saved from approaching penury. An unknown friend, a relative under a false name, comes forward to assist them : the manner, however, in which he contrives to do so, coupled with the felonious machina- tions of his servants and confederates, involve them in tenfold ruin, until a few circumstances occur which afford a key to the mystery. A good deal turns upon law and its forms : the author is almost as bad a lawyer as Miss EDGEWORTH.

We will give one specimen of the author's power : it is the de- scription of the murder of a miser in his strong room.

It was fine clear autumn weather. The night, indeed, would have been dark, but for the moon, which poured a grand flood of light through the valleys, and over the plains ; and Mr. Tims who loved the light—not so much because his own ways were peculiarly good, as because it is known to be a great scorer of those whose ways are more evil still—remarked with satisfaction, as he ushered his guest to the door, that it was as clear as day.

" Sally, Sally !" he exclaimed, as soon as Mr. Beauchamp was gone, "are all the doors and windows shut ? "

" Lord bless me, yes! " answered the dirty maid, shouting in return from the kitchen, like Achilles from the trenches, " as fast shut as hands can make them."

44 What is that noise, then ?" demanded the miser, suspiciously. " Only me putting in the lower bolt a the back-door," answered the maid. " Oh Sully, Sally ! you never will do things at the time you- are bid ! " cried the reproachtul usurer. " I told you always to shut up at dusk. But come here, and put on your bonnet. I want you to run down to the town fur a stamp."

Sally grumbled something about going out so late, and meeting impudent men in the lanes; but after a lapse of time which the miser thought somewhat extraordinary in length, she appeared equipped for the walk, and received her master's written directions as to the stamp, or rather stamps, he wanted, and where they were to be found in Emberton. The miser then saw her to the door, locked, bolted, and barred it, after her departure, and returning to the parlour, lifted the dim and long-wicked candle, bearing on its pale and sickly sides, the evidence of many a dirty thumb and finger ; and then with slow, and somewhat feeble steps, climbed one by one, the stairs, and retired to a high. apartment at the back of the house, for which he seemed to entertain a deep and reverential affection.

Well, indeed,- might he love it ; for it was the temple of his divinity, the place in which his riches and his heart reposed, and which contained his every feeling. There, shrined in a safe of iron, let into the wall, were the Lares and Penates of his house, bearing either the goodly forms of golden disks—with the face of the fourth George preeminent on one side, and of his namesake saint all saddleless and naked, on the other—or otherwise, the forms of paper parallelo- grams, inscribed with cabalistic characters, implying promises to pay. Here Mr. Tims sat down after having closed the dour, and placed the candle on a table ; and, throwing one leg clothed in its black worsted stocking over the other, lie sat in a sort of rapt andreverential trance, worshipping mammon de- voutly, in the appropriate forms of vulgar and decimal fractious, interest, simple and compound. Scarcely had he gone up stairs, however, when a change of scene came over the lower part of his house. A door, which communicated with the steps that led. down to the kitchen, moved slowly upon its hinges, and the moonlight streaming through the grated fan window, above the outer door, fell upon the fin m of a man emerging with a careful and noiseless step from the lower story into the passage. The beams, which were strong enough to have displayed the features of any one where this very suspicious visitor stood, now fell upon nothing like the human face divine, the countenance of the stranger being completely covered and concealed by abroad black crape, tied tightly behind his head. As soon as he bad gained the passage, and stood firm in the moonlight, another form appeared, issuing from the mouth of the same narrow and somewhat steep staircase, with a face equally well concealed. A momentary conversation was then carried on in a whisper between the two, and the first apparition, looking sharply at the chinks of the several doors around, seemingly to discover whether there was any light within, replied to some question from the other, " No, no ! He is gone up stairs, to hide it in the room where she told us he kept it. Go down and tell \Vat to come up and keep guard here ; and make haste ! "

The Injunction was soon complied with • and a third person being added to the party, was placed, with a pistol in his hand, between the outer dour and the top of the stairs. Before be suffered his two companions to depart, however,, on the errand on which they were bent, he seemed to ask two or three questions somewhat anxiously, to which the former speaker replied, " Hurt him ! Oh, no! do not be afraid ! Only tie him, man ! I told you before that we would not. There is never any use of doing more than utility requires. He will cry out when he is tied, of course, but do not you budge."

" Very well ! " answered the other' in the same low tone, and his two com- rades began to ascend the stairs. Before they had taken three steps, however, the first returned again to warn their sentinel not to use Ids pistol but in the last necessity ; observing, that a pistol was a bad weapon, for it made too much noise. He then resumed his way, and in a moment atter was hid ft om his com- panion. The whole topography of the house seemed well known to the leader, of these nocturnal visitants; fur, gliding on as noiselessly as possible, he pro- ceeded direct towards the room where the miser sat.

Mr. Titus, little misdoubting that such gentry were already in possession of his house, had remained quietly musiug over his gains, somewhat uneasy, indeed; at the absence of Sally, but not much more apprehensive than the continual thoughts of his wealth caused him always to be.

He had indeed once become so incautious, in the eagerness of his contempla- tions, as to draw forth his large key, and open the strong iron door which co- vered the receptacle of his golden happiness. But immediately reflecting that Sally was not in the house to give the alarm if any cause of apprehension arose below, he relocked the chest, and was returning to the table, when a sudden. creak of the stairs, as if one of the steps had yielded a little beneath a heavy but cautious foot, roused all his fears. His checks and his lips grew pale ; his knees trembled ; and, with a shaking hand, lie raised the candle from the table, and advanced towards the door.

It was opened but too soon ; and, ere the unhappy miser reached it, the light fell upon a figure which left no doubt of the purport of the visit. It was not for his life the old man feared half so much as for his treasure, in the defence of which he would have fought an universe of thieves. A blunderbuss hung over the mantelpiece and the pulley of an alarum-bell by the window, and the miser's mind vibrated for a sfagle moment between the two. Dropping the candle almost at once, however, he sprang towards the bell, while one of the men shouted to the other near whom he passed, " Stop him ! Stop him from the bell ! By G—, be will have the whole country upon us! " Both sprang forward. The candle, which had blazed a moment on the floor, was trampled out, and complete darkness succeeded. Then followed a fearful noise of eager running here and there—the overthrowing of chairs and tables— the dodging round every thing that could be interposed between people animated

with the active spirit of flight and pursuit—but not a word was spoken. At length there was a stumble over something—then a heavy fall, and then a sound of struggling, as of two people rolling together where they lay. Another rushed forward, and seemed to grope about in the darkness. "I)— it, you have cut me, Stephen ! " cried a low deepvoice.

" Murder ! murder ! murder ! " screamed another. " Oh! oh ! oh !" and all was silent.

Two men had fallen ; and another had bent down over them. But only one of those who had rolled on the floor rose up, beside the other who had been kneeling. Both remained quite still, with nothing but the monosyllable, " Hush ! " uttered by either. After a pause of several minutes, the one observed, in a low voice, " You have done him, Stephen ! "

" He would have it," replied the other. Run down and get a light, and do not let the youngster know how it has turned out."

" But I am all bloody ! " said the other. " He will see it in a minute. Be- sides you have cut my hand to the bone." " Well, you stay, and I will go down ?" replied the first. " Not I ! " was the answer. " I'll not stay here in the dark with him."

" Then go down, and do not waste more time," said the first somewhat sharply. " Tell the boy, if be ask, that the old man cut your hand while you

were tying him—but, at all events, make haste!" • The other obeyed, and after a long and silent interval, returned with the • light. It flashed upon a ghastly spectacle. There, on the fluor, at a short dit;. Lance from the bell-rope, which he had been endeavouring to reach, lay the

gore of the unhappy miser in the midst of a pool of gore, which was still flow- ing slowly from two deep gashes in his throat. his mouth was open, and seemed in the very act of gasping. His eyes were unclosed and turned up, with

a cold dull meaningless stare; and his gray hair, long, lank, and untrimmed, lay upon his ashy cheeks, dabbled with his own blood. By his side, exactly on the.very spot where he stood when the other left him, appeared the mur- derer. His features could not be seen, for they were still concealed by the crape over his face ; but the attitude of his head and whole person evinced that his

eyes were fixed, through the black covering, upon the spot where his victim Jay, now first made visible to his sight by the entrance of the light. In his hand was a long clasp-knife, hanging laxly, with the point towards the ground, and a drop or two of blood had dripped from it upon the floor. -The disarrayed chamber, the overturned furniture, and a small stream of blood that was wind- ing its way amidst the inequalities of an old-fashioned floor, towards the door- way, where the beams had sunk a little, made up the rest of the scene—and a fearful scene it was.

" Is be quite dead? " demanded the man who entered, after a momentary pause. " As dead as Adam ! replied the other, "and, as the business is done, there is no use of thinking more about it ! " But the very words he used, might seem to imply that he had already been thinking more of what had passed than was very pleasing. " Such obstinate fools will have their own way : I never intended to kill him, I am sure; but he would have it ; and he is quiet enough now ?" The other approached, and though, perhaps, the less resolute ruffian of the two, he now gazed upon the corpse, and spoke of it with that degree of vul- gar jocularity, which is often affected to conceal niore tremour and agitation than the actors in any horrid scenes may think becoming. Perhaps it was the same feelings that attempted to mask themselves in the overdone gayety which Cromwell displayed on the trial and death of Charles Stuart. " The old covey is quiet enough now, as you say !" remarked the inferior ruffian, drawing near with the light. " His tongue will never put you or I into the stone pitcher, Stephen." " His blood may," replied the other, " if we do not make haste. She said the key of the chest was always upon him. There it is in his hand, as I live ! We must make you let go your hold, sir—but you grasp it as tight in death as you did inlife." With some difficulty, the fingers of the dead man were unclosed, and the large key of the iron safe wrenched from his grasp. The freshly stimulated thirst of plunder, did away, for the moment, all feelings of remorse and awe; and the two ruffians hastened to unlock the iron door in the wall, the one wield- ing the key, while the other held the light, and gazed eagerly over his shoulder. The first drawer they opened caused them both to draw a long deep breath of self-gratulation, so splendid was the sight of the golden rows of new sovereigns and old guineas it displayed. A bag was instantly produced, and the whole contents emptied in uncounted. The hand of the principal plunderer was upon the second drawer, when a loud ring at the house-bell startled them in their proceedings.

" He will not open the door surely? " cried the one. " No, no! I told him not, " answered the other. " But let us go down, to make sure."

Setting the light on the floor, they both glided down stairs, and arrived just in time to prevent their comrade, whom they had left upon guard below, from making an answer, as he was imprudently about to do. The bell was again rung violently, and after a third application of the same kind, some heavy blows of a stick were added. Again and again the bell was rung ; and as the visitor seemed determined not to go away without effecting an entrance, the man who seemed to have the lead throughout the terrible work of that night, put his band slowly into his pocket, and, drawing forth a pistol, laid his hand upon the lock of the door.

" He will ring there till Sally comes up," observed the other in a whisper, " and then we shall be all blown."

Just as the click of cocking the pistol, announced that the determination of the first ruffian was taken, a receding step was heard, and calmly replacing the weapon, he said, " He is gone !—now let us back to our work, quick, Tony !"

" All is very silent up stairs," said the young man who had been keeping watch, in a low and anxious tone.

" Oh, the old man is tied and gagged sufficiently ! Do not be afraid, Wat ! " replied the other. " Only you keep quite quiet. If any one conies, make no answer; but if they try to force a way in by the back-door, which is on the latch, .give them a shot ! You have good moonlight to take aim ; " and mounting the stairs with the same quiet steps, he once more entered the cham- ber of the miser.

The young man who remained below, listened attentively ; and though the footfalls of his two comrades, were as light as they well could be, yet he heard them distinctly enter the room where they bad left the candle. As their steps re- ceded, however, and no other sound followed, he suffered the hand which held the pistol to drop heavily by his side.

" They have killed the old man !" be muttered. " He would never lie still like a lubber, and see them pillage his chests, without making some noise, if he were not dead ! I thought that cold-blooded rascal would do it, if it suited his cursed utility—I wish to God I had never"— But the vain wish was interrupted by the sound of a door, gently opened be- low; and, in a moment after, the form of Scilly, the miser's maid, appeared gliding up with a, sort of noiseless step, which showed her not unconscious of all that was proceeding within her master's dwelling. A low and hasty con- versation now took place between her and the man upon watch, who told her his suspicions of the extent to which his companions had pushed their crime, notwithstanding. a promise which they had made it seems, to abstain from hurting their victim. Somewhat to his surprise and disgust, however, he found; that though the woman was trembling in every limb, from personal agi- tation and fear of discovery, yet she felt little of the horror, which he himself etperienced, when he reflected on the murder of the poor defenceless old man. She replied in a low but flippant tone, that dead men tell no tales, and added, that she dared to say Mr. Harding would not have done it, if the old fool had not resisted.

What may be the success of this work, it is impossible to say : we opine, not very great. We would, however, advise the author mot to despond: he will in all probability produce an artistlike work the second time.