TIME THE AVENGER..

IT is a popular idea that we are never so thoroughly alike as in our birth and our death. In spite of all physical changes and worldly wear' the baby before it even reaches its cradle and the corpse in its coffin are, according to the "mother and the nurse," the same in lineaments and expression—more so, indeed, than at any inter- vening period. We know not whether a similar principle obtains in literature—whether the genius, after having travelled in various directions 'under the guidance of judgment, falls back at its period of exhaustion to its first and native manner ; but in Time the Avenger the author of "Two Old Men's Tales" has returned to the style of that early. work, without its freshness its closeness, or its matter. There the saute extremeness in the persons and incidents, but they have not the purpose and probability of the earlier stories ; there is a similar intensity in the manner, but with much more of mere writing about it; and though the ihemes on which the tales are based are equally peculiar, the original stories had a more general character, and consequently a greater interest.

• Time the Avenger. By the Author " Emilia Wyndham," "The Whining- tons." &c. &c. In three volumes. Published by Colburn.

The class of novels to which 2'inie the .elvenger belongs is that vela& aims at exciting the attention of the reader by minute exhibi- tion of the workings of the mind in some peculiar individual, under Very peculiar circumstances, rather than by broad views of general life embodied in a striking and eventful story. Circumstances are here of little consequence in themselves; they owe their main attraction to their influence upon the mind of some singularly- oonstituted person; trifles light as air are magnified into matters of importance; and the reader is called upon to feel deep in- terest in something which ninety-nine persons out of a hun- dred would pass without regard. This mode of composition is sometimes carried out with great power, earnestness' and skill ; but we hardly know an instance where the accessories have been con- sistently coloured. The minute description whether of emotions to be laid bare, or of external objects to ha;monize with if not to influence the actor's mind, that form so large a feature in this class of fiction, are rarely, appropriate. They receive their colour from the writer, not from the scene or dramatis personve ; hence they are often tiresome, as too obviously produced for effect, with a call upon the reader to admire it. After all, too, the time of these no- vels has gone by. Since this author began to write, some seven- teen years ago, the English world bee got so rapid in movement impatient mpatient in mind, that it has neither time nor taste for a close attention to what is after all mere composition, or a minute elabo- ration of circumstances that are too special "to point a moral or adorn a tale." Time the Avenger has a further drawback : Time seems to have little to avenge. Mr. Craiglethorpe, the hero, may have acted harshly or sternly—he is a stern man ; but he has done nothing, under the rules of the straitest sect, to throw him into such outrageous agonies in description for a good part of three volumes. It a critical rather than a moral objection, that the whole series of the conduct is not only unlikely but preposterous.

At the opening of the book, an elderly gentleman, Mr. Craigle- thorpe, is rambling about Kensington Gardens with a demeanour something like Satan's addressing the Sun. The cause of this is, that he has been prosecuting the son of a former friend, for a for- gery which it seems the father committed; and young Wilmington -was within an ace of getting wrongfully hanged. This, however, is but-introductory to the main business, which occurred a quarter of a century before, and of which Mr. Craiglethorpe is now pre- pared to learn the particulars in a fitting spirit, having his heart softened by the agonies he has passed through, and disposed for the reception of vital Christianity, though not yet regenerate, Mr. (Yraiglethorpo learns that a girlishward of his, to whom he was de- votedly attached, though he not only "never told his love" but had acted in the' oddest way for a lover, was really attached to him ; that she married young Valentine Daubeney, if not out of pique, out of something like it ; that her gamester husband dragged her down to misery and want; and that as she quits the Fleet after the funeral of her husband, all trace of her is lost to Mr. Craiglethorpe, (though not to the reader,) till he finally meets her in the moun- tains ofWales to which she has retired with her son.

That an attachment may spring up between a man of middle age and a much younger woman is very probable ; and it may be deeper than between more youthful couples. We know from the story of Othello that custom and personal appearance are no bars to woman's love if qualities exist in the lover to strike the imagi- nation; though the case of Othello is not an attractive example. But time is required to succeed in this : according to Ingo, Othello produced his impression by " bragging and telling fantastical lies." Love at first sight is improbable, from a plain, stern, middle-aged man, for an almost child, and a wilful if not a silly one ; while it is still more improbable that a spoiled petted coquette should in- stantly fall in love with him. This fundamental error might have been: forgotten had the filling-up been managed with skill like that displayed in Julia Kavanagh's late novel of Nathalie; but the story before us is full of exaggerations, inconsistencies, and improba- bilities, not only with life but the tale itself. A farther fault is that the substance is not new. The story of young Daubeney stopping the firm and breaking his father's heart may not have been suggested by the Road to .Ruin, but it recalls the idea of Old and Young Rapid, adapted to the novel; the unpleasant subject of distress through poverty has been worn threadbare ; the introduc- tion of religion is almost as hacknied ; and though the moral of human kindness, which is aimed at, is a very good one, it is only

impressed by words. .

"Power" will be found in the work ; but it is rather what is called "powerful writing" than the strength which springs from deep thoughts or, deep feeling. Scenes occasionally occur where this power is exhibited with the writer's former ability ; but even they are soon marred by the obvious artifices of writing. The fol- lowing passage from an interview between father and son when old Mr. Daubeney has learned. Valentines addiction to gambling, is one of the best.

"There was a pause. The young man turned ashy pale, the father seemed waiting to take breath as for some great effort.

"When he spoke, however, it was not -quite as I expected; 'furl thought some fearful charge, accompanied with a burst of parental anger, was about to burst forth, for Mr. Daubeney's countenance during the conversation I have related had assumed an unwonted sternness.

"But the countenance softened. An eye of deep, fond, tender regret was cast upon his soli, and moistened with but not actually in tears. And-

" 'Oh, boy, boy ! what a crown to thy..poor father's and mother's-life thou mightest have teen r- *as aitterhd m a tone of mingled tenderness and regret, which I shall never cease to remember.

"The young man seemed to feel the full force of this tender appeal. "Slowly, his head drooping, he turned himself around upon his chair, away from his father, and sank his face upon his hand. He 'seemed bowed down with sorrow and shame ; and as yet not an accusation had been made. " Alas! he knew too well what was coming.

" ' Valentine,' pursued Mr. Dauheney, recovering his stern gravity, 4 witsis this I have heard ,of you ? "Silence—there was not a word in answer ; but the body more and more bowed down, the head sunk between the two hands, which now covered the face entirely.

" j Young man, I say, what is this which I have heard of you ? ' " There was a stilled groan,

" 'That my son is a confirmed gambler?' . • "I saw the young man's chest contract, his shoulders drawn together as

one in an agony of bodily pain ' • but he uttered not a syllable nor a sound. " 'It is not what you have lost,' the father went on in a voice which had now assumed a melancholy severity. 'That is much—but that is nothing : it is the thing, the act, the habit, the fatal, the disgraceful habit. Oh, Valen- tine, Valentine! so young and so fallen.' " The young man's head sank lower and lower, till the hands which covered his face rested upon his knee : still he neither spoke nor groaned, nor even sighed.

" 'Such hopes as your poor mother and I had entertained ! Such a future as had been built upon we had allied you!.And yourit11--all—' head, and that of the sweet creature to whom . " Some muttered words now broke frem the son ; I could only hear them indistinctly.: a few reached me, such as Sir—father—Lilla—miserable- abandoned.'

"The father's heart, I could see, was even now relenting; the stern voice faltered, the eye softened. • " see you are miserable, Valentine; poor boy !' he said. Would only that you could be sufficiently miserable ! ' "'That I am, sir ! ' cried Valentine, suddenly raising his head : what would you have? I am and long have been, as miserable a wretch as walks

upon this blasted and am, earth.,'

said the father, regarding him with such a look as a blessed spirit might have east upon a fallen angel ; 'is it so ? Then you have not even found happiness in this fatal .career ? No doubt—no doubt—it is madness and it is misery.' " have found it so.'

"'Then by what wretched infatuation have you been led to Peeseiere in it?'

"'Oh, sir, it is a vortex, a maelstroom ! Once entered within its gulf, it is an OVerWhelmins fatality : -the losses of yesterday irresistibly impel to the endeavour to repair them by the gains of today—the gains of today te pur- sue a good fortune which may lead to a final triumph on the morrow—to- morrow sweeps away the today's false dream, and in its madness of despeir—;• were it your soul, nay, the souls of all you love that you had to stake—you must cast them on the issue—to win or lose all.'

"The colour had returned to the faded cheek, the bright flashing to the listless eye, as thus he spoke with a soi t of wild enthusiasm. His father gaged silently and steadily at him. "'You have described it well,' he said at last. 'Stich is a gambler's ex- istence—such yours has been, Valentine : the question is what is it hence to be ? Is this to have an end ?' he continued ; is my son b' one manly de- termined struLT,le to emancipate himself from the vortex which he describes, from the clutches of this dangerous deadly sin ? or is he to sink—sink- sink? Speak, Valentine, speak boy ; say all is not lost yet !' "But the son answered not I looked in his face—I longed to see the ge- nerous purpose kindling there : but no light appeared ; a dark, troubled, unsettled, restless, despairing expression, vas all. . . "Valentine could not dissemble ; that at least was not in his nature. He saw the gulf that ,yawned before his feet clearly as did his unhappy father; but it seemed as if all power to make a generous effort—even the power to wish to make a generous effort--was no more. "He answered gloomily; 'If I were to promise, I should probably only be dishonouring myself. I believe an inveterate gambler never yet was cured ; and I have been one more or less ever since I went to college.' " 'That is a hardened confession, at least,' said the father, with severity. " a true one however, ' was the reply, with a something of defiance in his air. I wish I could be a better boy, sir ; but it not in me—I mit. If I were to swear I would never toucan card again, the first time I saw a card I should break my oath—I know I should. What will you do with Me ? Strangle me you had best at once, as you would a loathsome viper who is crawling over your threshold. I shall never be good for anything here—I know it, and I feel it.'

'

"A strange contrast this hardened speech from the penitence and shame with which he had appeared to 'be bowed down the moment before ! But that was just Valentine : he was never the same being two minutes together. Whether it was his father's last speech--whether it was that sort of reckless despair which comes over those who feel themselves too weak to retrace the fatal steps taken in wrong, or burst the strong fetters of long-indulged habit, I know not, but thus it was. "'Were I such a. father as I have read Of, I should perhaps do what you advise, wretched young man/ resumed Mr. Daubeney, with a solemn melan- choly which went to my very heart ; 'but those days of stern domestic-tide are gone by. You choose, then, I am to understand, to persist in a course in which you will not only perish yourself, but by which you will inevitably entail ruin and disgrace upon us all—all who have loved you and foster. you ?' " 'Choose ! I didn't say choose!' cried Valentine : and it were easy for me to flatter myself and you by vain words. But this is not the first time- ' do you think it is ?—no, nor the hundred and first time, that I have for- sworn this fatal infatuation. Do you think, sir, I have no remorse, no feel- ing, no understanding ? that I am a blind, stumbling, brute beast? that I cannot see, that I do not know ? Thousands and thousands of times I have sworn, for my own sake, for all your sakes, most of all for her sake, never to stake a shilling more • and in less than a week I have staked thousands. I know myself, , sir : if I could deceive myself, gladly, gladly would I deceive you—but " can't. Experience has been: too faithful; I cannot save myself, and no power on earth can save me."'