MRS. CLARINDA SINGLEHART.*

HERB the author of " Mary Powell" has not only left the auto- biographical fiction in which the diction and ideas of olden times were revived, but has passed beyond the mere novel of manners as depicted in " The Chelsea Bnnhouse." The present work is rather a tale for the exhibition of character than of costumes or oldfashioned behaviour and discourse. The time is the latter end of last century ; and is so far truly represented, that not only the habits of life and other externals belong to the age, but there is occasionally more than the modes appertaining to a bygone gene- ration. The main ideas are those of our day. The things might here and there have existed in fact, but their inculcation formed no part of opinion sixty or seventy years ago, and scarcely attracted notice enough to be recorded. A singlehearted woman subduing the disappointment of her affections, and by aid of reli- gion discharging the duties of an active life, is a subject perhaps of all time. Education and the reform of a parish is a hobby of the present, though something similar to it may have been prac- tised by the sisterhoods of the Roman Church. As in most didactic stories, the results of Clarinda's character are rather overdone, in her influence upon her brother the clergy- man and his pariah, and everybody. In reality such influential persons become the heroes and heroines of history. The cha- racter itself is sweetly drawn, and forms a delightful companion to the reader, from the early dawn of womanhood to middle age. The Reverend Mr. Selfe, the man of sentiment and sensibility, al- ways dreaming of good but rarely doing it, through his infirmity of purpose and his want of ballast, is a very capital character. The man may always exist; the mode is that of the earlier period of George the Third. It may have been suggested by the intel- lectual character of Sterne. Mr. Selfe is a better and kinder man than the Sentimental Traveller; his airy manner and thoughtless good-nature are so managed that he always pleases. William Sin- glehart, the careless, kind, desultory scholar, who promises to turn out a failure in life till his better qualities are disciplined under the sense of parochial duty and the influence of his sister, is well conceived and consistently supported ; but is not so real or so genial as Selfe, though doing much more good. By the by, William is the careless cause of his sister's disappointment, by a circumstance no doubt possible, but too unlikely and too slight for fiction.

The book is charmingly written, and well varied in place and persons. It is somewhat deficient in substance, and in what may be called a satisfying story ; not on the whole the worst of this author's fictions, from the grace and finish of the composition, but by no means the best.

The following remarks on care in correspondence exhibit a por- tion of the volume, that is, dialogue on topics of social interest. The interlocutor in addition to the brother and sister is Clarinda's -first love, Burrell, now a married man.

"'There's an old proverb, " What is written remains." It remains, some- times, a good deal longer than the writer intended or wished. How often has a letter that was meant to be read and then tossed into the fire been hoarded up, printed, and read in cold blood by all the world ?' " ' Yes, there's a good deal of lawlessness in these things.'

"'Unpardonable lawlessness.'

• Some Account of Mrs. Clarinda Singlehart. By the Author of " Mary Powell." Published by Han, Virtue, and Co.

" ' Why should people write what they are ashamed of having read said Clarinda.

" ' " Ashamed " has a large meaning,' said William. We ourselves should not like our confidence to be thus abused.'

" Certainly not.'

"'For instance: suppose Mr. Selfe were to die, and his daughter and wife, to turn a penny, were to print his letters and their answers : you and I should not like to figure in that way.'

"'Horrible ! Certainly not.' "'And yet the thing might be done—has been done in similar cases. So, what I say is, take heed what you write, for " what is written remains." ' " 'If you push that too far, though,' said Burrell, you destroy all the pleasure of unreserved correspondence ; and there are many who can tell their minds better and more pleasantly with their pens than with their tongues. Therefore, I amend your axiom, by saying, "Take heed to whom you write."' " ' We will add that to the other,' said William.

" ' Yes,' said Clarinda : ' I never could bear to have to weigh every word I wrote to a person I loved or even liked, with the view of suppressing it if it could possibly be distorted and misconstrued. I would rather not write at all.'

" Ah, but not writing at all is another great fault,' said William. " ' A very great fault !' said Burrell, wincing.

" For it often gives unimaginable pain,' pursued William, 'to those to whom we are dear, and who may justly claim to hear from us. " Out of sight, out of mind," is the utter extreme of rudeness as well as of selfishness.'

" ' But how often,' cried Burrell, does a letter keep the promise to the eye and break it to the heart ! We are separated, for instance, from those

who were very dear and pleasant to us. Perhaps the only cause we have

for a secret dissatisfaction with our present condition is, that it places a barrier between us. They promised we should hear from them. At length a letter comes—a full filled sheet ; but is it well filled ? Is there a single

thought in it that deserves to live—a single observation or reflection that can stand by itself—a spark of wit—an indication of genuine feeling—a trace,

however casual, of Christianity—an allusion that shall warm the heart ? No : it contains a most commonplace relation of the things we least care to know—without a consolation, an encouragement, or a counsel—without a single grain of salt to relish and purify the mass.'

" ' I hope you would not convert letters into themes,' said Clarinda. " No ; but yet I would have something sound, wholesome, and cordial ; some proof that my friend has dug up fresh mould for me, and perhaps thereby turned up for me a coin or a flower-root.'"