AILIEFORD. a IN John Drayton, the previous fiction of this writer,

a new pic- ture of social life was brought before the reader, by the exhibition of the sturdy mechanic and his feelings of caste, his temptations and struggles with Socialism and its plausibilities, as well as the poverty and family affections of the humble. The subject matter of Ailieford is perhaps not quite so fresh. The author of Margaret Maitland, and some other novelists, have introduced Scottish middle life to the world, and well described it ; though it was hardly of so humble, perhaps not of so everyday a charac- ter, as that in the present book. The life in Ailieford is of a truer, deeper, more thoroughly living kind. It may be that the story wants object, and that it is deficient in incident while the chief of such incidents as it has is not of a very lofty character, being in fact the defalcation of a clerk in a provision-house, se- duced by drink and "-gay company. It may be said, too,,that not only are many of the topics sordid, but the conduct of two con- spiluous characters, a heroine and a hero, such as by no means to excite moral syrniathy. The reflex of life, however, is so true—the home affections are so pure, -so' strong, tiiad so humanly painted- .* Metall; a remits InatorY. Byacken. the Author of Jan' Drayton.* In three vellums. Poblished by Hurst and Bl

the intense passion on the earnestly-felt matters of humble life is so vividly portrayed, and the good and evil are so blended, that the book throughout excites the interest of reality. A propensity to undue reflection and to over-description, and the vague character of the story, do not diminish this interest, though they retard the narrative ; for the scenery is appropriate to the sentiment of the action, and is touched with poetical feeling.

The title of the tale is derived from a small farm-house near Edinburgh; where William Mitchell, who writes the book in as autobiographical form, and his two brothers, were born ana brought up. Andrew, the elder, is of little use save as a contrast. He is prudent, selfish, and respectable ; he marries his master's daughter ; becomes a partner in the grocer's shop; and though he clings with a national habit to his kin, and even advances money to enable his erring brother to escape, it is more to avert family disgrace than from fraternal feeling. The events of the antobio- grapher's life are almost nil. Willie's mind is observing rather than practical, and he wants the hard " pushing " faculty necessary to get on. He goes to Edinburgh as a clerk, betroths himself early, and has hot intentions to advance in life; but though the fit may last for a little while, it is rather in idea than in action •, nature, and what are obstacles to his nature, throw him back to his usual listlessness. Absence, prudence, a greater range of observation, and perhaps the dawning of another liking, induce his Mary to break off the match ; and though this is done coldly, almost hardly, the calculating lady is not regarded so distastefully by the reader as her conduct would seem to deserve, it is so natural under all the circumstances. Except a quiet unsuccessful love, when some time afterwards Willie Mitchell goes to Germany and lives by teaching languages, there is no other incident in his own career. He suf- fers, but it is in connexion with the fortunes of others ; he do.. scribes, but it is as a spectator. The true hero of the novel is Jamie Mitchell; one of those plea- sant, popular, winning persons, who are more commonly than truly described as "no man's enemy but his own." Even in the novel he retains a hold upon the reader's mind ; though he is guilty of some selfishness, much weakness, and when temptation coincides with weakness its concomitant crime. He marries clandestinely, and when the marriage is suddenly discovered treats his wife with a cruel indifference. When forgiven, he falls into bad company despite of warnings, and at last embezzles his master's money. This master, Donald Clerk, is a strange, stern, exacting, misan- thropical person, to offend whom is deadly ; and Jamie has to flee the country, with his wife and little child. With this incident be disappears from the scene, as actor ; but his death in Canada is heard of. The denouement of this disjointed tale is the eventual marriage of Jamie's daughter to a younger brother of the gallant Englishman who had carried off his German Greta from William Mitchell years before.

All this, of course, is connected with many persons, who contri- bute little to the progress of the story, and with scenes which fill up the narrative. It is in their depiction that the real power and merit of the book consists. As an example, SybiPs avowal of her marriage to Jamie may be taken. Willie, her brother-in-law, is lodging in Edinburgh, at a Mrs. Cockburn's,—whose family is well described,—when a "young lady" is announced as wishing to see him.

"A low voice, which I did not recognize, became faintly audible; then the sound of breaking into a blaze the smouldering kitchen-fire, which startled Mrs. Cockburn into audible reverie touching the waatry and deatrue- don of the bairns; and then Geordie coming in, thrust into my hands a little brass candlestick, and whispered, in a voice of sympathy, which had reached the fever-point, 'I've put her in the kitchen ; hastye, Willie.' "What I expected as I obeyed, I scarcely can tell ; but I started back with a loud exclamation, when the stranger in the kitchen lifted her veil, and showed me, worn with distress and agitation, the face of SOMA Wopd. "She was standing before the fire, her slender figure fully relieved against its ruddy light; and Sybilla's hands were clasping each other with nervous anxiety and pain, and her face, always pale, was marble white, and her eyes were large, dilated, and unsteady, like a sky full of rain. As I entereda she stretched out those painful restless hands towards me; cried, 'Oh, iliac! what am I to do—what am I to do ? ' and burst into a passion of tears.

"My first emotion was entire bewilderment; my second, a confused and overpowering dread. I did not see herself, poor girl, who stood before me, bowing her head in her hands in uncontrollable emotion. I only sailt some calamity, crime, or misfortune, fallen upon my brother ; and I gasped before her in silent dismay.

"But at last I recovered myself sufficiently to draw one of Sibby's hands from her face, and place her in a large wooden arm-chair which stood by the fireside. She herself grew calm immediately ; but still she tumedlier eyes pitifully upon me, and repeated her question, What am I to do ?' "'What is it, Sybil ? what has happened ? Is there anythin&Wrong at Moulisburgh—what is the matter ? ' asked I.

"She looked at me for a moment in silence, wistfully perusing 'my face. 'I thought you might know—I thought you might maybe know,' she said, with a long sigh. He might have told you, Willie—I asked him to tell you : but mind, I'm no complaining—I've nothing to complain of. No, Jamie's very kind—only, poor fellow, he has not the means; and it's all my blame that consented too soon.'

" Bibby, Bibby! what has Jamie done ? tell me what it is?' I exclaimed anxiously. thought him only young and lighthearted? ;aith no ill. What is it, Sibby—tell me what the wretched boy has done ? ' "'You must call him no such names to me,' said Sybil, lifting her pale" face proudly, and shaking of my hand. 'He's mine more than he's yours, Willie Mitchell, and I will never hear man nor woman say an ill Word of him ; and he's done no ill, poor man, poor man !' said Bibby, drooping het head again, while the blood gradually rose over her face, It's only-mel-Ar I'm

Jamie's wife.' ,ondov aid r;

"It is impossible that any description of mine could convey theltduelliiig, effect of these words as she said them, with a mixture of tinil4iftinfinki4-' confusion, of innocent girlish pride, and of the sad and baton-84414661W which already this new life had brought her. Poor Sybil ! reeit!4astatim:0 answer, even with a look, the glance of mingled pride firatilaintit dignity and shyness, which she hastily lifted to my facti..a li ha Miovoa 0-* n-,-wheri was-tide I asked at last. 'If you are Jamie's wife, Sybil, yea 0014 eister—you must tell me everything,. IW.41jneant,to do that, Willie,' said Sybil, faintly returning the preaeure of my.4enael.:_ .fI did not pine to himself, because—because I thought it roight-fp, 4,14ipp,' or it might be at a wrong time. I thought you could tz P * was beat; and I never cared for myself, Willie, what-W- ean* (04-110 r ,-' and I could sew to make my own bread, or do anything. ipe *tor infer' iinthing else, I would rather serve among strangers, than either burden him or get taunts from them yonder; only, maybe I'm too toRfpreqd-,-and I have to think of him now, as well as myself.' ifs denly indistinctly the meaning of these last half-articulate uwkls, saw clearly enough the desolation of the rest. Poor Sibby! peer neiP e I Alone herself and unfriended, she had yielded to her boyish loesiefsititise fbr their secret marriage: now where was the husband who shOnit-have=rebeived-her when she fled to him an outcast P—where ? Loud in lioyish Milky, making speeches, singing songs, drinking toasts, in the house in the Lowe Market, to which Geordie had traced him ; as much en- groised with the coarse pleasures of the moment as if there were no such being as this in the world. " And what was she to do ? I had never before been cast upon so per- plexing- a problem. While I pondered and hesitated, Sybil, to whose ex- hausted frame the rest and warmth and light were alike grateful, leant back in the chair wearily, and closed her eyes. There were strange elements of unusual poetic beauty in this face as I gazed at it in its perfect repose and paleness—a face of melancholy thought, revealing but too clearly what capa- cities of suffering lay below.

."..and, after my fashion, I wandered away from the emergency of the mo- ment, to bring Mary Burnet here, and place her by Sybil's side. Mary Bur- net, with her clear daylighted face, her sober griefs and pleasures, her fore- thought and wise consideration of after-coming possibilities, which at their worst must needs have been lighter than this misery into which Sibby had made so desperate a leap ; the wise and the unwise—the judgment which restrained a warns heart from a lesser venture, the heart which staked its all, like a mad gamester, on one throw : but I came to no decision on their respective merits, I only turned away with a sigh. --t‘ It roused Sybil from her momentary resting : she opened her eyes, and looked up to me hastily.

"'I have never asked advice before,' she said, moving restlessly in her chair; • but it's not for myself now, Willie, it's for him more than use. Mid what am I to do ? My aunt cast me out of the house—cast me out with scorn and shame—would not believe me ! ' and Sybil dashed her small clenched hand' against the elbow of the chair, her face flushing over with burning shame EuR1 passion. 'Me—me !—that a woman should think me such a wretch !—me, that would sooner have died ! I will not think of it,' said Sybil, rising with a hasty gesture as if shaking off some encumbrance ; 'and I must lose no more time, waiting and speaking about it, for fear I get crazed: Have you-anything to say to me, Willie, or must I take my own counsel :

"Her mind was recovering itself—recovering its native force and im- petuous action. I saw the hands, hitherto only clasped together painfully, begin to stir and more about with restless impatience, plucking at her shawl and dress; and her foot patted the floor, and her eyes glanced about with quick vivid glances—she could wait for me no longer.

"

'I cannot tell where he is now, Sybil,' said I; 'but I can find him, no doubt ; and you must see himself.' ," A sudden gleam shot out of S biro eyes—it looked like joy ; and then a painful thigh of anxiety came to her face—of uneasy, distrustful, terrified satiety. 'The young -husband had killed with his own hand the girl's en- thusiastic faith in him. She herself had ventured all for Jamie; but it was imposiible to misinterpret the look of feverish terror with which Sybil anti- cipated his reception of her. ".The terror of love and of a generous heart, which feared nothing for it- self So much as it feared unworthiness in him—unworthiness which already it trembled for with deadly cold suspicions, harder than any personal dis- tress."