NEW NOVELS.*

Ma. ThomorE's new fiction of The Bertrams is more remarkable for the literary and satirical powers of the author, and his pass- ing sketches of the weaknesses of social life, than for the features requisite to constitute a complete novel. In fact, the present work like " The Three Clerks," and " Doctor Thorne," rather neglects the failings and vices of the age, the exposition of which is Mr. Trollope's forte, for a tale of passion, in which it is not clear to us that he is qualified to excel. If he has the construc- tive gift to form a probable and well-sustained story, and the dramatic genius requisite to create persons of real flesh and blood (which may be doubted), his natural tendency to satire and smart remark interferes with the eyrcise of the first-named facul- ties, and introduces elements of suspension, if not of confusion into the narrative. In a satirical novel consistency either in persons or events is a secondary matter. An incident may be improbable, a person caricatured, but if a social class or evil, or a well-known individual be distinctly exhibited, the mind overlooks the lesser incongruities, because satirical representation is the object in view. If an undercurrent of jocular tartness is intermingled with a tale of passion, the interest is disturbed by opposite ele- ments. In The Bertrams it is further weakened by conduct on the part of the hero and heroine, which if not postively immoral, is so unreasonable and questionable as to mar the reader's sym- pathy when their temper or self-will brings misery upon them- selves. The dramatis personm, though distinguished by truthful points and minute observation of the external traits of men, are rather an assemblage of dualities and demeanours, than that fusion of these things, which constitute a character in nature, or in the highest art.

It is probable that Mr. Trollope originally conceived a design, which haste or something else prevented him from working out. The opening of his book induces the idea that he intended to make the examination mania of the age, and its indifference to any- thing but success, a subject of embodied display and searching satire. And though some of his early instances may not be ap- plicable, since they relate to struggles for distinction, which must always involve strife, and, are of all times rather than the present, yet there is a good deal of truth in much that he says.

" As regards the low externals of humanity, this is doubtless a humane age. Let men, women, and children have bread; let them have if possible no blows, or at least as few as may be ; let them also be decently clothed ; and let the pestilence be kept out of their way. In venturing to call these low, I have done so in no contemptuous spirit ; they are comparatively low if the body be lower than the mind. The humanity of the age is doubtless suited to its material wants, and such wants are those which demand the promptest remedy. But in the inner feelings of men to men, and of one man's mind to another man's mind, is it not an age of extremest cruelty ?

"There is sympathy for the hungry man ; but there is no sympathy for the unsuccessful man who is not hungry. If a fellow mortal be ragged, humanity will subscribe to mend his clothes ; but humanity will subscribe nothing to mend his ragged hopes so long as his outside coat shall be whole and decent.

"To him that hath shall be given ; aad from him that hath not shall be taken even that which he hath. This is the special text that we delight

• The Bertram. A Novel. By Anthony Trollope, Author of " Barcheste: Towers," &c., &c. In three volumes. Published by Chapman and Hall.

Gilbert Micihurst, M.P. By Charles F. Howard. In two volumes. Published by Hope. Poplar House deadenip. By the Author of " Mary Powell." In two volumes. Published by Hall and Virtue.

to follow, and success is the god that we delight to worship. ! pity me. I have struggled and fallen—struggled so manfully, yet fallen so utterly— help me up this time that I may yet push forward once again.' Who listens to such a plea as this ? 'Fallen ! do you want bread ?" Not bread, but a kind heart and a kind hand.' My fnend, I cannot stay by you ; I myself am in a hurry ; there is that fiend of a rival there even now gaining a step on me. I beg your pardon ; but I will put my foot on your shoulder—only for one moment. Oceupet extremism scabies.

"Yes. Let the devil take the hindmost ; the three or four hindmost if you will; nay, all but those strong-running horses who can force themselves into noticeable places under the judge's eye. This is the noble shibboleth with which the English youth are now spurred on to deeds of—what shall we say ? money-making activity. Let every. place in which a man can hold up his head be the reward of some antagonistic struggle, of some grand com- petitive examination. Let us get rid of the fault of past ages. With us, let the race be ever to the swift ; the victory always to the strong. And let us always be racing, so that the swift and strong shall ever be known among us. But what, then, for those who are not swift, not strong? Vie victis ! Let them go to the wall."

Nor does the author satisfy himself at the outset with general remarks. The hero, and a hero manqué, are introduced to us as relations, friends, and competitors for college honours at Oxford. And the painful feelings of the cousin who fails, and to whom success was a family object, are painted, as well ad those of his kindred. But this soon dies away. Wilkinson, who fails of suc- cess by one step only, descends into a country clergyman, marries happily at the end, and for any purposes of importance drops out of the story. His cousin young Bertram the successful competi- tor, seems ,from his nature and success intended to illustrate what strong natural powers, sufficient application, ambition, and good health, will do in outstripping others in the race of modern life. But it comes to nothing. In consequence of his lady love requir- ing him first to show his metal in the pursuit he has chosen, the bar, before she consents to name the day, he neglects his studies, takes to pleasure or idleness, and after undergoing a good deal of mental suffering, is dependent upon the invention of the novelist, rather than his own exertions, for such quiet and good fortune as comes to him at last. The person who really illustrates the age is Sir Henry Harcourt ; but he does it less by competition, save such competion as must occur in every society among those who aim at the prizes of life, than by hard work, resolute will, some self-denial, and much selfishness. He is not an amiable per- son, and is evidently disliked by his creator ; but we think him somewhat hardly dealt with.

In carrying cut the story there are sketches of society abroad and at home, and many persons are introduced in passing who illustrate in ihemselves and their discourse some characteristics of the age. The Bertrams is far beyond the general run of novels, for keen observation, satirical powers, and knowledge of life. It is not, however, worthy of Mr. Trollope's abilities and cannot be said to add to his well deserved reputation. The fact is he writes too fast. An average six or eight months is too short a time for the gestation and production of a first class novel.

It is curious to observe how frequently a particular mood of mind presents itself contemporaneously in similar forms, not from imitation, but from the force of circumstances. Mr. Howard, the author of Gilbert Midhurst, M.P., cannot be compared to Mr. Trollope. He has not the same literary power or rather skill ; he does not seem so familiar with actual -life, nor has ho the same k,eeness of perception, or smartness in pourtraying what he sees. If he has thought as much, or may be more, upon social and political questions, he does not display his ideas in such artiatical form, owing to a certain crudeness. But like Mr. Trollope he has looked at the world with his own eyes, and not through the spectacles of other people. He has thought a good deal on society as it has been, is, and may be, if he has not always come to sage or indeed definite conclusions on what he has been thinking about. And like Mr. Trollope he throws the results of his labours into the form of fiction, although that is not perhaps the best mode of displaying them, at least with the qualities Mr. Howard possesses, which are rather speculative and argumenta- tive than narrative and dramatic.

As a tale, Gilbert Midhurst is not much. What there is arises less from incidents or the fortunes of persons, than from the picture of the hero's mind, and his inward struggles from trust- ing faith to scepticism, and finally it would seem to indifferent- ism, with a readiness to publicly profess any safe opinions, having no convictions of his own. The story such as it is, turns on Gil- bert's cousin Mary, breaking off their engagement, when Gilbert having intended to enter the church, declines from conscientious motives, and avows his scepticism. The thread of their mutual love runs through the work, and though often hidden, or lost al- together, occasionally reappears. It is not however effectively presented till years after the commencement, when Gilbert, having lost his fortune by contested elections, the kindness of his nature, and the arts of respectable" rogues, returns to take one last look at the scenes of his youth and love. He has been to the evening service, but spite of time and the obscurity of his position, the eye of Mary has recognized him. Haunted by old memories, instead of retiring to rest with the household, she goes down to Gilbert's study to ponder on the past.

" Gilbert, in the meantime, was lingering around the church. After a while he turned away. And now, farewell to Cleveland once more,' he said, with Mary's Prayer-book in his hand. But he thought that, before leaving, he should like to see the outside of The Place. Thither he went, and watched the lights in the bed-rooms go out one by one. This is the kind of thing,' he said, bitterly, 'that my friend, Mr. Jasper, would call re- tribution ; but, unluckily, the illustration is at variance with the text, for I have not loved the world, nor the world me, and yet, behold the result. It matters not. What was to be, was : what "will be is equally fixed, but

we know not the conditions. Upon the whole, life is a prelly dream. Ah ! the light in Mary's roomjust gone out. Dear cousin ! light be thy slum- bers, happy thy repose! Now, they are all at rest : no—a light in my old study.' " He trod noiselessly on the soft grass, and approached within a few yards of the window.

" Within sat Mary, wrapped in a vision of the past : all the events of her blighted love passed before her ; she saw the sunshine glancing through the trees, and felt the hot kiss upon her cheek : again, all vanished, save the glare of angry eyes from behind the pillar in the church. Why had he come there ? -Why so much secrecy ? Was he too poor to be seen ? And. if old love bad prompted him to go to the church, might it not also induce him to see the home of his happy youth once more ? Perhaps, at that mo- ment, he was wandering round the house. The hours went, and the vision grew more vivid. At length, impelled by some strange impulse,—some magnetic instinct,—she pushed open the window that led to the lawn, and looked into the darkness : some one was standing on the lawn.

" ' Gilbert,' she whispered, almost unconsciously, but there was no re- ply : the figure moved noiselessly away. She doubted her own sense of sight : it must have been mere fancy. She waited : presently the form ap- proached the window, and stood again before her. He had rather have died than appear in that sorry guise: clad with misfortune and defeat, with every hope wrecked and poverty howling in his ears. But she had called him, and, spell-bound, he was compelled to obey. " Gilbert, Gilbert, is it you ? '

"'Yes,' said a deep smothered voice.

" Come in.'

" He stepped over the low window-sill, and entered : he stood before her again face to face : he pressed her hand. " ' What has happened ? What have you done, Gilbert ? '

" Nothing.'' ' " ' But some calamity has befallen you ?'

" 'I have lost my fortune.' "'But your honour, Gilbert ? ' " 'No,' he said, disdainfully, and turned away. " Was she then willing to love him even without honour, fie thought. Could this be his proud cousin ?

" You keep late hours, Mary,' said Gilbert, abruptly.

" ' Dearest, she said, hurt at his coldness, and throwing her arms round his neck, dearest, confide in me, and tell use all : let me love you as I used, as I do, as I ever shall.' " And thus this little farce was played out."

This forestalling of the catastrophe is no disappointment to the novel reader, for he would never reach it in the book. Gilbert Midhurst,AP.' is not intended for the circulating library ; but for persons who take an interest in discussions or dissertations upon questions in the main political, though perhaps appearing in some other form. For this end many characters are intro- duced, whose main use is to talk. Sir Jacob Midhurst, Mary's father, is a Tory of excellent dispositions who is willing to listen to any one, and to go with change, when he sees clearly where he is to go. The Reverend Mr. Jasper, the excellent conystutisnai clergyman, meets objections in a conventional wayVafd silences the mediocre doubters, but is unable to cope with deeper thinkers like Gilbert. There is Mr. Montagne, Gilbert's tutor, designed apparently to represent a class of literary men who/ aim at official life, and support existing institutions as a matte; of prudence, though they themselves have no fixed opinions on any matter. Then there is Mr. Truffles, addicted to strong radicalism and " stiff" gin-and-water, with some lesser personages. It is the chief business of all these to talk, which they do very well ; but they rather tell us of evils than how to escape from them, landing in no other conclusion than the laissez alter. :Phis indeed is the defect of the book, considered as a philosophical fiction, that not only does the question of " cui bono " rise up, but " what end" ?

The author of "Mary Powell" is not so successful when she attempts to delineate actual life, as when she employs herself in reviving the manners of the past. Whether it be that the every day minutia) of former times have in them an interest which does not attach to the details before us ; or that the present, encum- bered with the materialism of humanity, can very rarely rise to the poetical ; or that we require, when acquaintea with a thing, an exactness of delineation difficult to combine with breadth and imagination, the fact, we believe, is as we say. At all events a large portion of Poplar House Academy, though " natural " in its detail, is somewhat wearisome in its effect. The distresses of three sisters left with a narrow income by the naughty evasion of their father, their conbultations among themselves, and confabs with their friends, as to what is best to be done, are all very truthfully described ; but it is a literal truth, possessing little life and in- spiring no interest. The love affairs of two of the ladies are of similar character, the doings of one lover being exceedingly flat in description. Yet strange to say the school business is attrac- tive. We take an interest in the " opening"; nay, we are not quite sure but that teachers might learn something from the mingled kindness and heartiness which Marian Middlemasa throws into her method. We further take an interest in the cha- racters, and in the progress of the respective pupils—albeit the advancement of some of them is extraordinary, and we sympathize with the sickness which passes through the house. All this is very real, though the effect is that of the juvenile tale rather than the novel; and we think it would have been better had the au- thor adhered to the first named class of fiction, cutting short the family details as well as the love stories.