tress you. Should it please Heaven to give us a son, we must do all we can to induce him to choose a profession that will keep him near us; and should my wish to possess a second Emma be accorded, how sweet will be our task to render her all that we can desire; to watch over her infancy; to guard her young mind from all that might endanger its purity; to enrich it with such good and pious thoughts, that when hereafter looking on this treasure, we may feel her to be such as even her God would delight to behold!»

Alas! who among us may dare to count on the next hour? the passing moment is our own; the next, who may answer for? Even while these happy beings were thus talking, death's fell shaft had been launched; and ere sunset Emma Mordaunt was a widow! And the child, over whose anticipated birth the parents had indulged in such fond imaginings, was never to know a father's love.

Five months after, Mrs. Mordaunt gave birth to a daughter; and as the poor child grew up, she became more reconciled to life. It was his child-the daughter, too, he had so ardently desired; and she prayed that his spirit would associate itself with hers, and teach her resignation under his loss, that she might undertake the various cares necessary for the preservation of this little creature's infancy; and should she rear the pale and tender babe, enable her in after-years to impart those sound truths, those pious feelings, her father seemed to have bespoken for her under divine inspiration. No hireling was engaged to attend on this cherished babe. It was a mother's hand that waited on it-a mother's breast that nourished it; and, as it grew up, a mother's care that watched over its dawning reason. It had been the father's wish that his daughter should bear the name of Emma; and though the poor mother's tears flowed as she pronounced the name, whose sound his voice had endeared to her, and remembered that no more could that voice be heard on earth, she could not leave a wish of his unfulfilled; and her child was called Emma. For some months she was thought too delicate to be reared; but after the first year an evident improvement took place still there was a peculiarity about her that the

widowed mother had not marked-she never smiled! Mrs. Mordaunt's own nurse, who had remained with her when she married, was an Irishwoman; and among the lower order of Irish there is an old superstition, yet believed in by many, that the smile of a sleeping infant is a symbol of its spirit's intercourse with angels, and marks that it is under their good guidance and protection ('). What, then, must have been this poor woman's terror when she became convinced that the dear baby, the precious innocent, never smiled! No good could be anticipated for it; and with many tears she demanded of her lady if she had ever seen the darlint smile? « No, indeed, dear nurse,» said Mrs. Mordaunt; it would seem to me unnatural, were she to do so. » The old woman sobbed aloud at this confirmation of her fears, and, after much entreaty, declared the cause of her grief, adding, how can any good ever befall a poor little innocent to whom the angels never whisper ? »

Mrs. Mordaunt, though born in Ireland and of Irish parents, had never heard the tradition; and now, to her weakened nerves and anxious mind, it came laden with terrors for her loved Emma. But the fact remaining unchanged through many a year, she became accustomed to it; and whenever she did give a thought to her nurse's lament, all danger from it seemed refuted by her daughter's fine and dutiful disposition. If the angels do not whisper, thought the fond mother, they make themselves remembered through her good works. Each year gone added sweetness and beauty to the child's character. She was placid, cheerful, and apparently happy; but still she never smiled. As her mother watched her loved features, she persuaded herself a smile could have given no grace to her pure and Madonna-like countenance; nevertheless, even yet there were hours, when her child's eyes were closed in sleep, and hers were keeping watchful vigil over her, in which the nurse's superstition had its terrors. What if her child were predestined to ill-and many an anxious night

one of

(') See Lover's exquisite ballad on this subject, The Angels whisper, the most touching songs in the English language, and among the many for which he is indebted to his muse.

did the poor mother pass, almost in hope that, on awakening, her beloved Emma would smile as she met her eyes fixed on her. But no smile ever appeared; and Mrs. Mordaunt tried more than ever to banish the thought; and, as a preliminary, she forbade the nurse ever to speak of it.

The young Emma grew up the loved of all who knew her. Her whole mind seemed full of sweet and tender thoughts; she was never heard to utter a harsh or unfeeling word. The kind and placid sentiments that dwelt in her breast, and manifested themselves in all her actions, would have disarmed the doubts and fears of any one less superstitious than the old nurse; but, she could never shake off the fore-boding. Though, in obedience to her lady's wishes, she was silent, she could never gaze on the sweet girl without a feeling of dread.

At fifteen years of age, Emma was one of the most lovely beings ever looked upon, and no one seemed aware of the deficiency of this one expression in her speaking countenance. Her mother could never have been said to have missed it; and now she would not have had the expression of her child's face changed. In her heart she perhaps felt grateful for this one peculiar mark having been stamped on it. It appeared to her like a tribute of regret to the memory of the husband and the father.

A malignant fever raged in the village near which they were residing; but Mrs. Mordaunt and her daughter continued to soothe and relieve to the utmost of their power, both by money and attention, the afflicted and bereaved. Some weeks after, when its fury was much abated, and very few individuals were still suffering, Emma complained of illness: too soon the nature of her disease became apparent she had caught the fever. In vain were the widowed mother's prayers; in vain her agony. Emma was sinking fast; but as she endeavoured to raise her feeble form to embrace that loved mother, a smile, an ineffable, heavenly smile, illumined her whole countenance, and she sank back on her pillow a corpse. The old nurse murmured, Be comforted, dear lady; sure the angels have at last whispered, and asked her to themselves! » E. C. DE C

"

NOTICE OF NEW BOOKS.

Our space being too limited to allow of extracts, or general criticisms on all the works published in England, we shall in future devote a few pages of our Review to slight notices on all such as shall appear to us likely to be of general interest in Russia, and of which the new novels, tales, and romances will necessarily form a considerable part. Those of a higher class, as well as all works of standard merit, we shall reserve for separate and distinct articles. By this means our readers will have a correct idea of every work of any consequence, and be thus enabled to follow the general march of our lite

rature.

G. P. R. James has already acquired a name of sufficient eminence abroad not to need any introduction in mentioning his new novel of The Jacquerie, or the Lady and the Page: an historical Romance, 3 vol. The period selected will of course be the fourteenth century, and the subject, the insurrection in France, from which his novel has taken its name. By the introduction of a few fictitious characters, and a faithful delineation of those which are historical, James has given a lively and interesting picture of these scenes; and we are happy to remark that amidst this period of disorder, bloodshed, murder, and rapine, he has had the good taste, and the good sense, to avoid the present unfortunate mania of dwelling on these most disgusting horrors, and making them the prominent subject of interest; thus pandering to the corrupt feelings

of overwrought and morbid sensibility. To those who are fond of historical novels, the Jacquerie will furnish a few hours of amusement, and, perhaps, instruction.

A second novel of the same class, is also worthy of mention. Ferrers, a romance of the reign of George II, by Charles Ollier: 3 vol. The highest compliment it is possible to pay it is its having been compared to Eugene Aram, to which, in some parts, it bears a considerable resemblance, not only in its varied and intense interest, but in the lively delineation of character and descriptive scenery. Ferrers is not considered inferior to Ollier's former publications.

The Veterans of Chelsea Hospital, by the author of the Subaltern, 3 vol. is a series of tales, supposed to be related by the veterans in Chelsea Hospital, and, as may be expected, they abound in variety of interest and character. The author deserves considerable praise, not only for the skill, but the truth of his portraitures.

Another novel from the prolific pen of Mrs. Trollope, The blue belles of England, 3 vol. is perhaps inferior to this lady's other productions. The introduction of the Rev. Sydney Smith, Moore, Lockhart, Milman, and other living personages on the scene, is particularly reprehensible.

Monaldi, a tale, by E. Moxon. 1 vol. containing a tragic story of Italian hatred, jealousy, and revenge, may furnish amusement to those who can feel pleasure in this style of reading.

Amongst the reprints from novels which have appeared in the Reviews may be mentioned that of Fathers and Sons, 3 vol. by the late Theodore Hook. It appeared originally in the pages of the New Monthly Magazine, and possesses all those features of keen perception, and humorous delineation of character, which have rendered his productions such favourites with the public.

One from Bentley's Miscellany, is Merrie England in the olden time, by Geo. Daniel. 3 vol. The title will sufficiently show that the author's intention is to bring back to us scenes of by-gone manners and customs, always a subject of interest.