ROSE DOUGLAS,

THE framework or story of this novel consists of the "autobio- graphy of a Scotch minister's daughter," from early youth to the period when she tells her tale in the decline of life. With this personal narrative are mingled. sketches of Scottish scenery and manners, such as they existed in a simple and remote parish many years ago. The incidents in either section of the hook are not very striking in themselves. Everyday life in the house- hold and among the friends of a parish clergyman—his decay, death, and funeral—the discomforts of his daughter Rose, in her selfish and somewhat vulgar-minded aunt's house at Glasgow, her rescue therefrom through the kindness of a friend who pro- cures her a situation as governess, and her marriage to her father's successor—form the outline of the biography : the matter of the sketches consists of a description of the parish and such of its inhabitants as possess the most marked character—a few incidents such as might take place anywhere, together with the manners of the neighbourhood. Like "passages from the Life of Mrs. Margaret Maitland," to which a complimentary allusion is made in the preface, Rose Dou- glas is not a book whose attraction arises from scenes, incidents, or story. It is indeed less dependent upon the usual sources of in- terest in fiction than the works of the writer alluded to ; perhaps the present book excels them in closeness of matter and style and minute truthfulness of delineation. The author of Bose Douglas is the very Gerard Dow of novelists, but with a good deal more

• Rose Douglas; or Sketches of a Country Parish; being the Autobiography of a Scotch Minister's Daughter. By S. B. W. In two volumes. Published by Smith and Elder.

of feeling, tenderness, and imagination, than the Dutchman exhi- bits. The artist of any kind who succeeds in presenting the truth and force of individual with the breadth of general na- ture, must have an imagination of a technical kind ; but this may exist, in the plastic or pictorial arts at least, without any moral or human feeling whatever. The author of Rose Douglas has this technical merit, and in a high degree. The wild moorland—the old parish church and churchyard—the picturesque, comfortable, old-fashioned manse—the mill and its occupants—the neglected family place, and the single or family persons—have all the mi- nute and truthful finish of a Dutch painting, reading as if their veracity could be sworn to, yet possessing that breadth which is essential to art. The tea-parties of the farmers, the dinner-party of the minister, well to do through his wife—the decline and death of Mr. Douglas—the winter journey from Auchtermuir to Glasgow in the covered cart, the fashion of those days—and nume- rous other scenes both in town and country—have the reality and lifelike effect of a painting where action and character animate the persons and endow the surrounding still-life with a purpose. But Bose Douglas is pervaded by higher qualities. Over every scene, however homely, is thrown an air of graceful and quiet good-breeding, not conventional but natural, arising from unaffected simplicity and propriety of thought as well as manner. There is also a strong power of exciting the reader's sympathy. We accompany the heroine in her employments, her thoughts, her anxieties, and her troubles, with only an occasional flagging when reverie or minute description runs into excess, or the trouble takes somewhat of a too girlish form to be exhibited at length. More- over, a moral and religious feeling colours the whole narrative, hit- ting the proper medium between mere deductive ethics and that overstrained piety which runs into Romanist mysticism or secta- rian cant. The submission to affliction is quietly rational, re- moved from the religious stoicism that looks like insensibility, or the violent grief that betokens no hope. "Why do you grieve," said the philosopher, "since grief will not restore your daughter?" "It is for that very reason that I grieve," replied the Emperor. There is also a moral intended by the writer, and which is well enough pointed by the tale,—" I have never yet seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread." But the excellence of the minister and his daughter are rather too rare to be generally fol- lowed.

This work owes its attraction more. to its congruity as a whole than to the effect of particular passages. The reader must, as it were, be introduced to the places and people before he enters fully i into the subject. The following scene, descriptive of the minter's last sermon, will convey an idea of the graver manner of the writer, though it may not succeed in bringing out its full power.

"It was on a Sabbath in the latter end of July that he preached his last sermon. He had chosen for his text those memorable words of Paul,—' And now, behold, I know that ye all among whom I have gone preaching the kingdom of God, shall see my face no more. Wherefore, I take you to re- cord this day, that I am free from the blood of all men.' I think the choice of the text could scarcely be accidental. A sense of his declining strength must have warned him of the probability of his being soon removed from those whom he had so watched and laboured for, and he had collected all his energies for this final address.

"I can never forget that day ;—my father's pale earnest countenance, animated by a power which afterwards left him weak and exhausted,—the eagerness with which he endeavoured to press upon them their guilty ruined condition before God,—and the living faith which shone in Ins look when he held up Jesus as a fitting Saviour for such sinners. Truth spoke in his accents.

"'I have been long spared to be your minister,' he said in conclusion, but it may be that I may never more have the opportunity of addressing you ; and if so, remember my last words,—seek Christ while in health, seek him not only as the Saviour, but as the sanctifier, and that, my friends, will disarm death of all its terrors.'

"There was not a dry eye in the little congregation. Some of the women sobbed aloud, and large tears trickled unconsciously down the rugged face of the old miller, who sat in the aisle' till yielding more and more to his emo- tion, his grey head gradually sank till it rested with his folded arms upon the little table before him. All seemed to receive the words as a last mes- sage. And how did the daughter feel ? Stupified—terror-struck—unable to commit him to God—I could not yet give him up. "At the conclusion of his discourse he sat down completely exhausted, and I observed, for my eyes were anxiously fixed upon him, that he pressed his handkerchief repeatedly to his lips. When the congregation retired, I lin- gered behind in the porch that I might assist him home. Two old women passed without observing me ; they were conversing in low earnest tones, and they wiped their eyes as they walked. Honest man,' said the one to the other, did ye see how sair failed he was, Annie, when he gie'd cot the psalm ? I'm fear't he'll no be Lang among us.' I looked wistfully after them as they moved along to the gate: they did not know what a sad heart they had left behind.

"Hy father soon appeared, leaning feebly on the arm of one of the elders ; some of the others were behind. All were looking serious and dejected. I stole to my father's vacant side, and was going to offer him my additional support, when my eye fell upon the white handkerchief which he still kept in his hand. It was spotted with blood. A low shuddering gasp escaped from my lips, instead of the cry which rose to them, and which I had still strength of mind enough to check. I knew what consequence the doctor at- tached to this symptom, and remembered how'earnestly he had lately questioned

me as to its existence. I was glad that my father did not notice my dis- tress. He refused my aid, as he had sufficient support, and we walked on to the gate. When we reached it, he suddenly paused, and turned round, as if moved by some involuntary impulse. He gazed wistfully for a few momenta upon the little (lurch. What feelings passed through his mind I know not; but he sighed deeply, and then moved on. It was a parting look ; he never entered it again."

As an example of a lighter kind, part of the dinner at Mr. Pur- die's may be taken • where an ill-managed family of young chil-

dren come in afterwards. "Johnny took no notice of this question, his attention being wholly en- grossed by the contents of the sugar canister which stood near. Me some sugar, mama,' he asked, or rather demanded.

"Repeat the little busy bee' to Mrs. Symington, and you'll get it,' said the proud mother. "'Come, Johnny,' said that lady in a coaxing tone. "How How doth the little,' began Johnny, but stopping suddenly, he whis- pered loud enough to be heard, 'Mama, Tam's gettin' sweeties from the gentleman.' " Whisht—and ye'll may be get sweeties too,' said Mrs. Purdie. "'But Tam's gettin' them a', whimpered Johnny, who, with finger in month, sat looking discontentedly at his brother's luck. "'Tam,' said his mother coaxingly, anxious to please her favourite, there's a good callant, gie Johnny some o' your peppermint draps.' " ye just got twa three,' answered Tani, who was crunching as fast as be was able, 'and I has mine to gie to Johnny.'

"I am very sorry,' said the gentleman, feeling again in his pockets ; 'I fear '—The search was without effect.

"Here we were all startled by a howl from Johnny, occasioned by his disappointment. " Whisht, whisht, laddie,' said his mother, somewhat ashamed of this exhibition, and endeavouring to quiet him. Whisht, like a gude bairn, and ye'll get a penny the morn to buy peppermint dram' But Johnny was deaf to her expostulations and promises, (perhaps he had experienced the deceptive nature of the latter); the noise of course put a stop to all conver- sation, and drew every one's attention to himself. "'Johnny, Johnny, said his father, knitting his brows and looking up the table.

"'For ony sake, Tam,' said his mother beseechingly, gie him the sweeties. Ye bad laddie, are ye no ashamed roaring that way ? What will the company think of ye ? Hold your tongue this minute, or you'll be sent Out o' the room.' All was of no avail—the disturbance continued.

"'What's this, Johnny ?' at length inquired the Reverend Dr. Dryscreed, who sat at the hostess's right hand, holding up a halfpenny as he spoke. 0 What is it ?' again asked the doctor.

• "'It's a bawbee,' murmured Johnny, while smiles returned to his coun- tenance.

" And will ye greet ony mair if ye get it ?' ' "Johnny promised ; and immediately clutched the halfpenny, which he held up in triumph to Tom.

- Dr. Dryscreed's mere kind to you,' said the pleased mother, 'and you aught to beg the company's pardon.' To this Johnny turned a deaf ear while contemplating his treasure.

. "'It's a fine thing to greet,' said Tam spitefully, who was in part to blame for the disturbance, and who had now finished his peppermints. But he was silenced by his mother. "My dear,' said Mrs. Purdie, now addressing her husband, who had re- turned when the disturbance was over to his former conversation,—' My dear, I dinna think you're minding the punch-bowl. A' the glasses are empty, and Mrs. Symington and me (winking jocosely to the other matron) dime mean to content ourselves with one. Ye ken, Dr. Dryscreed, minis- ters' wives are privileged,—it's a' vera wed l for the young leddies to be mim-mouthed, but we're no to be put off that way.' '

"'You are quite right, mem,' answered the doctor in his formal pedantic manner ; the creature comforts are not to be despised. I myself am not averse to a quiet modicum at a time—quiet you know—(here the doctor 4mptied his glass and pushed it towards Mr. Purdie), and especially consider- ing the care and trouble von must have had in preparing this feast for us, I would vote that you should be found entitled to sue extra.'

"The doctor was not a long-winded, man, m having delivered -hunstlf of this lengthy speech, he drew a deep breath, and looked anxionsly towards the punch-bowl.