LODORE..

Tins is one of the most remarkable works of the day ; which an accident of the publishing season prevented us from noticing when it first appeared.

In Lodore it is easy to recognize the pen of the author of Frankenstein. But the resemblance lies in the manner, not in the

substance. Nothing can be more unlike than the subjects of the two works, and the impression they make on the reader. The one is a wild and fantastic tale of supernatural horror, in the morbid taste of the present German school, which takes a strong but transient hold of' the imagination : the other is a simple story, the incidents of which are not raised above the occurrences of ordinary life more than is necessary to give interest to a work of fiction. The reader is neither startled, nor terrified, nor shocked; but he is delighted with the contemplation of mm-al beauty, and his best sympathies are strongly engaged in the fortunes of beings who are placed before him with all the truth and individuality of real existence.

Mrs. SFIRLLSY has adopted—less, probably, from imitation, than from a congeniality of spirit—her father's inethod of relating a

story. We do not speak of the mere form in which the narrative is constructed. Whether it is in the shape of an autobiography, a series of letters, or in any other mode, the same turn of mind on

the part of the author will always show itself. But one writer, be the form of his book what it may, will endeavour to keep the attention alive by a rapid succession of incidents; another, unable to draw characters, will present sketches of manners. One will

weave his story into a tissue of dialogues or dramatic scenes, and make his actors develop their own characters, and, even in spite

of themselves, lay open the deepest recesses of their hearts ; another will do this for them, by analyzing and explaining the workings of their minds in every situation in which they ate placed.

At the head of the one of these classes we may place Scorr ; at the head of the other, Gonwisr. In adopting this last method, the writer runs the utmost hazard of being abstract, and dry, and tedious—a hazard which nothing but the highest genius can avoid. While &ors, therefore, has been imitated by many with con-

siderable success, GODWIN has no follower but his own daughter.

Even the highest genius cannot always excel in so difficult a walk. Gonwisr himself, though partially successful in all his works, has

been eminently successful only in his first. But even in Caleb Williams, he has endeavoured to produce effect by introducing un- natural situations and exaggerated descriptions of passion. Falk-

land, at first a model of every moral and intellectual excellence,

becomes, under the influence of an insult from a drunken boor, first a murderer and then an incarnate fiend. In Fleetwood and It was not a moment whose joy could be expressed by words. He bad been miserable during her absence, and had thought of sending for her ; but he looked round his single room, remembered that he was in lodgings, and gave up his purpose with a bitter murmur ; and here she was, uncalled-for, but most wel- come: she was here, in her youth, her loveliness, her sweetness—these were charms; but others more transcendant now attended on and invested her— the sacred tenderness of a wife had led her to his side, and love in its meet with a delightful infusion of feminine softness, sweetness, and genuine and beautiful shape shed an atmosphere of delight and worship about grace. The heroine, Ethel Fitzhenry, is the daughter of an her. Not one circumstance could alloy the unspeakable bliss of their meeting. amiable but ill-matched aristocratic pair. In consequence of Poverty and its humiliations vanished from before the eyes of Villiers ; he domestic unhappiness, aggravated by a quarrel in which he • was overflowinely rich i e possession iten aeeeoftehetr. affections—her presence. Again liresavvoelveedh ethhrough his wife s imprudence, Lord Lodore suddenlis and again he thanked her in broken and retires he back settlements of America, where he brings tetreade,ssisilt indeed that Medea, with all her potent herbs, was less of a ma- her up in entire sehclusion. Circumstances induce him to retugrn to England, resides with a maiden aunt (whose si I amiable character is charmingly drawn); and afterwards marries than im boil:- spent in gradually becoming acquainted and familiar Villiers afyoundg. man who had accidentally met her father and

Villiers

been his friendariesenieninefthe unhappy quarrel which cost him his life. f Durham showed itself, to /immure, noble family, and at the ' iethat Ethbul's supper was ready. These words brought back to Edward's recol. siege has great expectations, which are dissipated by the profligacy Mn. Derham to feed his poor famished bird, whom eyes, in , ie time of his mars becomes, under the influence of an insult from a drunken boor, first a murderer and then an incarnate fiend. In Fleetwood and Clifford, the heroes are mere madmen. Yet Caleb Williams and St. Leon leave an impression on the mind that a lifetime cannot obliterate. The characters do little and say less. The events of

their lives are slightly and rapidly told, with no greater detail than is just sufficient to acoount for the thoughts, feelings, and passions which are described as passing through their minds. But then, what profound knowledge of the human heart—what astonishing skill in reducing to their elements the most compli- cated and conflicting emotions—what clearness in discriminating

the nicest shades of feeling—and above all, what an inexhaustible flow of rich and fervid eloquence These are the qualities which give such an inexpressible charm to the best writings of GODWIN: and his mantle has fallen upon his daughter. In Lodore, however, there are none of the extravagancies of GODWIN, or of Mrs. SHELLEY'S own first work; while there is all the skill in the anatomy of the heart, all the felicitous clearness in describing its most delicate movements, all the glowing elo- quence, which characterize her father in his happiest moments, tO England wl his life in an uln. ortunate rencontre at New York, arising out of his replies. There was nothingg, indeed, that ancient quarrel; and his daughter, left destitute and alone, returns Its purposes were fulfilled, rounded, complete—withoutern-isheda tofinknow. TheLif;nvaeld of his father. He has been nursed in the lap of luxury ; arnii when cares and difficulties login to come upon him, has not even an idea of pecuniary distress. Misfortune and gloons thicken round the young pair : they endure poverty and its privations, and become the inmates of a miserable apartment within the rules of a prison. But through all these dreary scenes they are sus- tained by mutual love, and confidence the most devoted and bound- less. They are all the world to each other ; and while they are allowed to be together, their affection embellishes the most dis- mal abode and sweetens the bitterest disappointment. In the character of Ethel, simple, modest, and gentle as it is, there is something angelic. She is GODWIN'S Marguerite, but placed in happier circumstances—for she has a husband worthy of all her tenderness. A few extracts will give an idea of this most it- teresting couple.

Villiers is obliged to leave Ethel at her aunt's and take an ob- scure lodging in London, while he is endeavouring to find some resources. Having reason to be very anxious about him, she sets out for town alone; and after a journey which her inexperience renders trying, she discovers his lodging.

The boy knocked at the door. A servant-girl opened it. " Does Mr. Vii. hers lodge here?" asked the postilion, from his horse. " Yes," said the girl. " Open the door quickly, and let me out ! " cried Ethel, as her heart beat fast and loud.

The door was opened, the steps let down—operations tedious beyond measure, U she thought. She got out, and was in the hall, going up stairs. " Mr. Villiers is not at home," said the maid.

Through the low blinds of the parlour-window, Mrs. Derhain had been watching what was going on. She heard what her servant said, and now came out. " Mr. Villiers is not at home," she reiterated ; " will you leave any mm- sage?" " No; I n-ill wait for him. Show me into his room." " I am afraid that it is locked," answered Mrs. Durham, repulsively. " Per. hap you can call again. Who shall I say asked for him?" " Oh, no! " cried Ethel, " I must wait for him. Will you permit me to wait in your parlour ? I am Mrs. Villiers." "I beg pardon," said the good woman ; " Mrs. Villiers is in the country." " And so I am," replied Ethel : " at least, so I was this morning. " Don't you see my travelling-carriage? Look, you may be sure that I am Mrs. Vii. hers.

She took out of her little bag one of Edward's letters' with the perusal of which she hail beguiled much of her way to town. Mrs. Durham looked at the direction, " The Honourable Mrs. Villiers : " her countenance brightened. Mrs. Derham was a little, plump, well-preserved woman of fifty-four or five. She was kind-hearted;and of course shared the worship for rank which pos- sesses every heart born within the four seas. She was BOW all attention. Vi!. hero's room was open ; he was expected very soon : " He is so seldom out in an evening ; it is very unlucky ; but he must be back directly," said Mrs. Der- ham, as she showed the way up the narrow staircase. Ethel reached the land- ing, and entered a room of tolerable dimensions, considerably encumbered with litter, which opened into a smaller room with a tent-bed. A little bit of fire glimmered in the grate. The whole place looked excessively forlorn and com- fortless.

Mrs. Derham' bustled about to bestow a little neatness on the room, saying something of "the untidiness of gentlemen," and "so many lodgers in the house. Ethel satdown : she longed to be alone. There was the post-boy to be paid, and to be ordered to take the carriage to a coach-house ; and then—Mrs. Derham asked her if she would not have something to eat ; she herself was at tea, and offered a cup, which Ethel thankfully accepted, acknowledging that she had not eaten since the morning. Mrs. Durham was shocked. The rank, beauty, and sweet manners of Ethel, had made a conquest, which her extreme youth redoubled. "So young a lady," she said, "to go about alone : she did not know how to take care of herself, she was sure. She must have sonic supper: a roast chicken should be ready in an hour—by the time Mr. Villiers came in." "But the tea," said Ethel, smiling ; "you will let me have that now ?" Mrs. Derham hurried away on this hint, and the young wife was left alone. She had been married a year ; but there was still a freshness about her feelings which gave zest to every change in her wedded life. "This is where he has been living without me," she thought; "Poor Edward! it does not look as if he were very comfortable." She rose from her seat, and began to arrange the books and papers. A glove of her husband's lay on the table : she kissed it with a glad feeling of welcome. When the servant came in, she hail the fire replenished, the hearth swept; and in a minute or two the room had lost much of its disconsolate appearance. Then, with a continuation of her feminine love of order, she arranged her own dress and hair ; giving to her attire as much as possible an at-home appear- ance. She had just finished—just sat down, and began to find the time long, when a quick and imperative knock at the door, which she recognized at once, made her heart beat and her cheek grow pale. She heard a step—a voice— and Mrs. Derham answer, "Yes, Sir ; the fire is in—every thing comfortable:" and Ethel opened the door, as she spoke, and in an instant was clasped in her husband's arms.

"Nothing in the whole world could nmakeenxrperensnsir transporti.,, be c i otemet_andcountry,carrying with him his infant daughter, Y and Ethel, who had seen his face look elongated and gloomy now!toThe momennt hit

ician h

duAtornmonttehe eternity of love, which never could be exhausted in their hearts.

sympathy, thegood-n

with the transportingatculte7gfeneferonmItseparate loneliness to mutual society and awn Iris wife's journey, and consequent fatigues ; he grew d • than g moreepiteesewfous iefnon the verge of womanhood; but he loses LIMO frame. It Itnttvans power off infusing the sparkling spirit of life into one flgiratweereh coherent in their inquiries and mp_e anti duration were of the not for a transitory moment, but for thye whole

that shone in them, begin to look languid, and whose cheek was pale. The little supper-table was laid, and they eat down together.

After many struggles with fortune, Villiers is arrested. Ethel bears of it, and hastens to him, accompanied by a female friend. Here is their inters iew.

I They now approached London. Fanny called the post-boy to the window of be chaise, and gave him directions, at which he a little stared, but said nothing. he gave things their own names, and never dreamt of saving appearances, as It is called. What ought to be done, that she dared do in the face of the whole world; and therefore, to make a mystery of their destination, never once occurred to her. They drove through the long interminable suburbs—through Picca- dilly and the Strand. Ethel's cheeks flushed with the excitement, and some- thing like apprehension made her heart flutter. She bad endeavoured to form an image in her own mind of whither they were going : it was vague, and therefore frightful; but Edward was there, an I she also would share the horrors of his prison-house. They passed through Templeabar, and going down an obscure street or two, stopped at a dingy door-way. " This is not right," said Ethel, almost gasping for breath ; "this is not a prison." " Something very like it, as you will find too !mien," said her friend.

Still Ethel's imagination was relieved by the absence of the massy walls, the portentous gates, the gloomy immensity of an absolute prison. The door of the hoase being opened, Ethel stepped out from the chaise, and asked for Mr. Villiers. The man whom she addressed hesitated ; but Ethel had learnt one only worldly lesson, which was, whenever she needed the services of people of the lower orders, to disseminate money plentifully. I ler purse was in her hand, and she gave a sovereign to the man, who then at once showed them up stairs ; which she ascended, though evety limb nearly refused to perform its office as she approached the spot where again she was to find—to see him whose image lived eternally in her heart, and whom it was the sole joy of her life to wait on, to be sheltered by, to live near.

The door was opened. In the dingy, dusty room, beside the fire, which looked as if it could not burn, and was never meant to warm even the black ne- glected grate, Villiers sat reading. His first emotion was shame when he saw Ethel enter. There was no accord between her spotless loveliness and his squalid plison-roore. Any one who hoe seen a sunbeam suddenly enter and light up a scene of housewifely neglect and vulgar discomfort, and felt how ob- trusive it rendered all that might be half-forgotten in the shade, can picture bow the simple elegance of Ethel displayed yet more distinctly to her husband the worse than beggarly scene in which she found him. His cheeks flunhed, and almost he would have turned away. Ile would have reproacbc‘Ila nti tender- ness and an elevation of feeling animated her expressive countenance, which turned the current of his thoughts. Whether it were their fate to suffer the extremes of fortune in the savage wildeiness, or in the more appalling priva- tions of civilized life, love and the poetry of love accompanied 'her, and gilded and irradiated the commonest forma of penury. She looked at him, and her eyes then glanced to the barred windows. As Fanny and their conductor left them, she heard the key turn in the lock, with an impertinent, intrusive loudness. She felt pained for him ; but for herself, it was as if the world and all its cares were locked out ; and as if, in this near association with him, she reaped the reward ef all her previous anxiety. There was no repining in her thoughts, no dejection in her manner : Villiers could read in her open countenance, as plainly ts through the clearest crystal the sentiments Keit were passirg in her mind ; it was something more satisfied than resignation, more contented than fortitude. It was a knowledge that whatever evil might attend her lot, the good so far out it, that for his sake only could she advert to any feeling of distress. It was a consciousness of being in her place, mei of fulfilling her duty, accom- panied by a sort of rapture in remembering how thrice dear and hallowed that duty was. Angels could not feel as she did, for they cannot sacs :flee to those they love ; yet there was in her that absence of all sell--emanating pain, which is the characteristic of what we are told of the angelic essences. • • The door had closed on them, and every outlet to liberty, or the enjoyment of life, was barred up. Edward drew Ethel towaids him, and kissed her fondly. Their eyes met, and the speechless tenderness that beamed from hers reached In heart and soothed every ruffled feeling. Sitting together, and interchanging a few words of comfort and hope, mingled with kind looks and affectionate caresses, they neither of them remembered indignity not privation. The tedious mechanism of civilized life and the odious interference of their fellow creatures were forgotten. * • • •

Their sufferings at length come to an end, and they are happy: and we remember no scenes of fictitious happiness in which we have ever more warmly sympathized.

The character of Lady Lodore—a woman who, though capable of the most exalted virtue, ruins her husband's happiness and her own by her proud and unbending spirit—is very powerfully drawn. And the episode of Horatio Saville and his Neapolitan wife, who falls a victim to the Italian violence of her passions, is striking. The fulness and minuteness with which Mrs. SHELLEY details the mental history of' her personages, sometimes runs into tediousness ; but this is preventedfrom being often the ease, by the beauty with which these details are executed.