Not Lancelot, nor Another. By Francis Carr. (Tinsley Brothers.)— We
spell "Francis" with an e, and congratulate the author of this simple story, which is pretty—in the complimentary, not in the con- temptuous sense of that adjective—upon her work. Among the unpre- cedented number of unreadable novels which have been published this season, we feel confident that Not Lancelot, nor Another, will be every- whore acceptable as an exception. It is well written, in good English, in a refined style, and though it is not surpassingly clever—if there were any particular cleverness to be surpassed just now—in point of plot or construction, it is sufficiently interesting to make the reading of it a real pleasure, of a tranquil and suggestive kind. It is an eminently true book, and something more than harmless. We should call it edify- ing, if we were not afraid of doing it an injury, but we hasten to explain that it is not in the least dull, but that the author has had good-sense, good-taste, and courage enough to make the interest of her story turn upon simple, natural, healthy emotions, and to give a leading part, and good-fortune with it, to a man who is absolutely good, dutiful, and religions. She had considerable power of drawing character, and a great deal of quiet, unforced fun in her. The cat, never forgotten under any circumstances, who is of perfectly just importance in the house and the story, is a charming study, evidently from life. When Toby "purrs round in a hurry for his afternoon milk," we know he is appreciated as he deserves, and how good is this description of his mistress's return to him after her honeymoon trip, and his removal to his new quarters,—always a trial to an intelligent cat !— " With Mary, appears Toby, tail erect, coat very sleek, and nose of the most healthy shade of pink ; and with all the aspect of having been born and bred in the house, and never having known any other. ' Oh, you Lammy !' I exclaim, with my wonted enthusiasm. As good as gold, Miss Dora,—I mean, ma'am. He did'nt like being in his hamper, so I nursed him on my knee all I could, and he drank a small bottle of milk, and was very happy when we weren't in a tunnel."
Then Toby's inspection of his new garden is so true :— " Toby is following me with a stately tread, pausing at times to sniff curiously, as is the manner of his kind, at some flower or twig, and ever and anon his old kittenish habits, not quite relinquished yet, get the bettor of him, and with a scuttle and a dash he disappears round a corner, or half-way up a tree ; shortly to return to his solemn march and air of cat-like, dignified calm. When I stop in my walk he stops too, and rubs his head fondly against me; I stoop down and hug him with a great devotion. He is such a friend to me."
How it was that Dora's step-sister-in-law, with whom she and Toby lived in her maiden (and miserable) days—an extremely odious per- son, admirably described, and still better conveyed, without the least overdrawing, and of a type of odiousness of which every one has some experience—how it was that Caroline did not do Toby a mischief, we do not quite understand. It would have been her best way of torment- ing the helpless Dora, and Caroline is just the person to find out that Toby scratched the chairs, or shed his coat upon the curtains. That she did not, is the only bit of inconsistency in her character, and we thank the author for it in particular, as in general for the whole of the book.
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