From the Examiner. The Discipline of Life. Three vols. Colburn. THESE volumes declare themselves the work of a female hand, and one in which the sweetness, simplicity, and pathos of the best old English style of narrative seem to us revived. The writer will make herself widely known, and will find loving welcome. There is no merit or hazard in predicting it. Since Miss Austen ceased to write, and Mrs. Marsh began, we have had no other story-telling of its class that we would place upon a level with this, for freshness, straightforwardness, and truth of tone and feeling. Its way to the sympathies is direct, swift, sure. Criticism.notices faults of haste and inexperience, but forgets them in the presence of emotion as real as the heart can undergo, or the eye bear silent witness to. There are passages in these stories which even Mrs. Inchbald has hardly surpassed, for the sweet cunning with which the secrets of the female heart are touched and revealed in them. The book contains three tales, Isabel Denison, A Country Neighborhood, and The Moat. Perhaps better titles for the latter two would have been Evelyn Villars and Sara Woodvile. Female character is the principal theme throughout; and the object of all the stories is to exhibit those trials of the youthful heart and temper, which, with the first harsh experience, bring also the true" discipline of life." The scenes and persons are of that quiet kind which belong to the intercourse of every day, and the sufferings and temptations are those of common existence. not for this does the writer think lightly of her task. "It is not," she says, in an excellent brief preface from which we passed with greater interest to her book, "because the object is a low one that I would ask indulgence, but rather indulgence for the ambition that attempted anything so high, and forgiveness for having come so far short of it." But The story of Isabel Denison is that of a girl who deserts her first engagement, and that of Evelyn Villars (the “ Country Neighborhood") is a tale of her desertion by the lover to whom she is first engaged. Both are remarkable for beauty and discrimination; in both the pain is so tempered with sweetness that the final impression is pleasurable; but we think the second story strikes the finer chords, and that in character as well as passion it rises to a higher level. But we will mention so much of the incidents in both as may explain a few extracts. The reader will at once see how truthful is the manner of this new writer. There is no declamation in her talk. There is no posture-making or face-making in the persons she introduces. We do not find ourselves in the painting-room or the wardrobe of a theatre, but among actual people, with pulses beating like our own. Here is the scene where Isabel Denison, doubtful of the strength of the feeling which has newly risen in her heart, yet suffers herself to yield to the engagement which costs her afterwards so much sorrow. Herbert Grey is a young man of enced in love has driven into the church. family whom a disappointment already experiHe is the curate of the quiet country village in which Isabel has passed her orphan-hood, and from which she has not yet peeped out into the world beyond. At length he began. The tone of his voice told her at once what was coming; and why did her heart sink, and her pulse almost stand still within her? Did she, or did she not, love Herbert Grey? ised that I would tell you my sad history, when "It is now more than three weeks since I promyou asked me for it. Has all interest died away within you? Shall you never think about it again?" "If it is so painful," Isabel began, with hesitation.— "It is painful," he interrupted; "painful and not rather that you shrink from the condition I sad; but is this the reason for your silence?-is it affixed?" Isabel was silent. me? "Isabel," he continued, "why don't you answer But it is too late now to wait for an answer you know, you must know well, how wildly, how passionately I love you; and you must hear me speak, and then-" He paused, and looked in Miss Denison, I have been very wrong. I will tell Forgive me, you all calmly, if you will hear me. Will you hear me now, or shall it be for another time?" It was really an effort to her to speak, but she did speak, and begged him to tell her all. He began again, in a low but calm voice. her face. It was white as marble. 66 "I have loved, Miss Denison, before now. Do sent a thrill of pleasure through his heart, as he not start," he said, observing a movement which fancied it might be a pang of jealousy. "I thought at that time that I loved as few could love, but now I find that even I knew it not." With breathless interest Isabel listened to the tale he told the tale of his love, of his hope, of she listened still, when he ended thus:his agony when forsaken. Breathless, agitated, "It was no light thing to suffer this, the disappointment of every hope; but the suffering itself was as nothing in comparison to the blight it cast upon me; the doubt in the truth of every human being under which I have now suffered for many years. Even you, Miss Denison, in whose face doubted. But it is passed-it is all passed. In truth and purity are written-even you at first I your presence, better feelings have come back to me; and never, even under disappointment, will they leave me again. And now you know all, and all my happiness is in your hands." He tried to speak calmly, and paused as again he became agi tated. shall find strength to bear it; only speak to me but | open the window wider, and gazed on the rays of one word!" Oh, Isabel! Is it so, indeed? Even I did not know what you felt for Mr. Grey." lingering sunshine still streaking the sky, while the evening air blew calmly and freshly upon her face; and, as she gazed, a sunshine on the sea, and a breeze from the ocean, came into her mind, and Clarence-Clarence She walked back to the sofa. "Oh! Herbert!" she said, as she sat down again, with an expression of hopeless sorrow, "you do not know how miserable I am.' He had not moved-he almost started now. "If it is about me, Isabel, be miserable no more. If it is about another-will you not tell me all, dearest? I would assist you, or I would comfort you. Will you tell me who is so happy?" he asked, in a voice which trembled in spite of himself. "No matter who; he is not happy-he is gone far, far away." "Gone!" and a flash of hope, sharp and ago “Nor did I know; nor do I know now; only Inizing as despair, so wild, so short its gleam, shot think I am happy-very happy." Soon after this, however, Isabel's father (by whom her mother had been deserted before her birth) sends to claim her; she joins him in London, and, in the larger experience of life and her own heart which awaits her there, discovers that she had not loved Herbert Grey. This discovery is exquisitely managed, so that we never lose respect or sympathy for her. It should be said that Herbert had released her from their engagement on learning her new fortune; and though she at first unwillingly consents to this, she ultimately accepts it for the space of a year. Before the year is over, she returns to her early home, and in a brief sad scene tells Herbert that her heart through his breast. going to marry another, Herbert? No, whatever "You did not think I had forsaken you, and was may be, not so false, not so heartless as that. No," she continued, rising again, and standing before him; "I do not acknowledge myself to be free-bound to you, Herbert, by every tie of honor and gratitude; and yet it is to you yourself that I come to confess my love for another, and to ask Hear me, Heryou to forgive and to release me. bert, hear me," she continued, "I love him, even as I think you love me. I am in your hands—I will do whatever you command me. As she spoke, as if by an impulse she could not resist, with her arms crossed and her head sunk, she knelt at his feet. For a moment he did not attempt to answer her has been false to him. He comes back to her in-he did not raise her from the ground; for a mothe evening of that day, having subdued his first terrible emotion. ment he pressed his hand to his throbbing brow to still the tumult of his thoughts; for, in that hour of faithlessness, and even with the confession of it Isabel sat in the same place, in the bright twi- upon her lips, he felt that she was dearer, far dearlight of that evening, awaiting Herbert's return.er than ever. Then, in the dead silence of the The hours had passed-how she knew not; she room, sweet and clear his answer came, and, as it was too wretched even to think. And again he rose above her head, it sounded to her ears as the stood before her, and, as he took her hand, he voice of an angel. smiled upon her. Though he tried, however, to the uttermost, he could not efface the marks which the struggles of the day had left upon his face, and she shuddered as she saw the deadly paleness of his cheek. Oh, Herbert! why do you smile-why do you look so kindly at me? I should not be so miserable if you would but reproach me." "I have nothing to reproach you with, dearest Isabel. You chose me in comparative solitude, when you had seen none but me; I knew it would be thus when you met with others more worthy of you. I would have made you happy-I must have made you happy, if-" he paused, for he feared to say anything that might wound her-" if I had been allowed to do so; but my best, my only wish is for your happiness. Selfish thoughts will intrude; but, believe me, dearest Isabel, if you are happy, I shall be happy, too." "I cannot bear this," said Isabel, rising hastily from the place where she sat, and walking to the window. "You make me feel so utterly utterly selfish!" As she stood there, thoughts of yielding-of sacrificing herself-passed quickly through her mind. What sorrow in the world could be greater than that which she felt in that moment! She threw "I thank you, Isabel, I thank you for your confidence, your openness, your truth; the world can never be dark to me while such as you inhabit it. You are free, if indeed you wait my words to release you, and may God give you happiness! You have my forgiveness, dearest, though you need it not, for I have nothing to forgive; and, while life endures," he continued, in a voice still clear, though it began to tremble, you shall have my prayers and my blessing. Take it," he said, and, rising, and gently laying his hand upon her bended head, he spoke the words of peace and blessing, which, before now, have stilled many a tried and broken heart. 66 Once only, the voice of Herbert had faltered. It | was when he guided the lips of Clarence to take her for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death should them part." Perhaps the time had been when, in his lonely wanderings, his own heart had addressed her in those beautiful and touching words. The service was over. They returned to the vestry, and the names were signed. Herbert and Isabel stood side by side, but no word was spoken between them. From the great crowd without, there was a delay in the appearance of the carriage. Mr. Denison forced his daughter to sit down, but placed her near the door, that she might be ready. Her husband approached her. "The carriage is come will you go now, Isabel!" For a moment his eye wandered to the figure of Herbert, who still stood motionless where the signatures had been made. He longed to speak one word of kindness, but even kindness a happy rival dares not show, and he turned again to Isabel. She got up; then, with a hurried step, went to Herbert's side. "Herbert," she said, in a voice so low, that it reached none but him, and she raised her imploring eyes to his face. Once more he controlled, with a violent effort, the emotion that was beating so fearfully in his heart. He took her hand in both of his, and, as his lips murmured a blessing, he smiled-and it was the memory of that calin, sweet, angel smile, that went with her, a blessing upon her way. The writer bestows so much pains upon her leading characters that her space hardly enables her to do much justice to the rest. But Aunt Rachel is a nicely-drawn sketch; and in the Miss Chapmans, Miss Bridges, and other tattling folk of a little country town, there is lively observation, and now and then very humorous strokes of character. We particularly like Miss Chapman when she marries, and has a child, and falls quite in love with her " young monster." The story of Evelyn Villars, as we have said, is of yet higher mark. There is something in the idea of her fresh, free, innocent, cheerful spirit at the opening of the story, which reminds us of those pictures of the heart Mrs. Inchbald most loved to draw-and which those who know "You think you would not have been able to speak as well as Miss Law?" he said. “No, indeed; though I am afraid I do sometimes talk a great deal too much, still, if there is any reason to speak, or if I wish to say something really nice, I never can think of a word." "And you thought Miss Law's speech really nice, did you?" "Oh! no," said Evelyn, hastily, "I did not like it at all. Do you think I ought to have liked it?" Colonel Maxwell smiled, but made no answer. "The fact is," she continued, "that I don't like Miss Law, which I dare say is very ill-natured, but I can't help it, and so I never like anything she does." "Satirical, Miss Villars: I did not expect that of you-I thought you were such a good-natured person that you would like everybody." Evelyn put up her eyes with a look of surprise that was common to her, and which had a pretty and piquant expression in her bright countenance. "Oh! how unlike me!" she said; "I am afraid, on the contrary, that I am very ill-natured, for I don't at all like everybody. People must be really nice to please me." "I hope you think me 'really nice,'" said Colonel Maxwell, laughing. She only smiled her reply, as Bob Law offered her his arm, to take her down to the carriage. She loves Colonel Maxwell, whose weak but not ungenerous character is excellently drawn out in brief but happy touches, and who engages himself to her. There is a most beautiful scene immediately after she is made conscious of his affection, which we cannot resist quoting, though we do it little justice by separating it from its context. She runs into the room of Juliet Harcourt, a child who plays an important part in the story. Mr. Harcourt, still a young man though a widower, passionately loves this child, the fruit of a most unhappy marriage, and evidently, to all but himself and such happy unconsciousness as Evelyn's, doomed to an early death. 66 "I am not come to disturb you, Juliet," said Evelyn; pray go on with your writing; but I wanted to think, and I always think I think better in this room than in any other." She took her embroidery-frame, and sat down in her Nature and Art, To Marry or Not to Marry, the window-seat, but thinking deepened her feeland Child of Nature, will lovingly remember.ng, and soon, her needle falling from her hand, her eyes wandering over the woods and fields seen Here is one of the early scenes in which she ap- from the window, she sunk into a fit of abstraction pears with a certain Miss Law, who for her fine very unusual to her. pretentious speeches and clever intellectual airs is the exact opposite of Evelyn. "Admirable, Lavinia!" cried Bob Law; "what a thing it is to have a head! I suppose ladies can think of anything; I dare say you would have been just as ready, Miss Villars.' Her reverie was so deep and earnest, that she did not hear the door open as Mr. Harcourt came in. He stood, when he saw her absent look, and watched her in silence for some minutes, and a strange expression passed over his face-then, moving hastily forward, he came to her side. "Evelyn," he said to her kindly, and there was sympathy and pity in his voice. "No, indeed," said Evelyn; "if I had thought all night, I should never have thought of all that." She understood him, looked up with a momen"Ah, well then, we should do to live together.tary blush, then seized her needle, and began to Lavinia has such a head, she is always reading and quoting poetry, and all that sort of thing." As the party were dispersing, and Mr. Villars was having a few more words on business with Mr. Wingfield and another gentleman, Colonel Maxwell again approached Evelyn. work. "You are not unhappy, Evelyn! only tell me that," he said, in an anxious manner. "Oh, no! very happy," she replied, without raising her head. Mr. Harcourt was puzzled; for a moment he thought he had been mistaken in the signs he fan- | the calmer and fuller quiet of a more thoughtful cied he knew so well-while he still stood silent, and complete affection. She marries Mr. Harwith his earnest eyes fixed upon her downcast face, court before Juliet dies. Evelyn looked up again, and, with a strange mixture of shyness and simplicity, began"You are always so very kind to me, Mr. Harcourt, that I will not let you puzzle about me-you think I am sorry that Colonel Maxwell is gone-I am; but see, he will come again-" and, with her eyes sparkling, and her cheek glowing, she touched the ring on her finger. Mr. Harcourt recognized it at once. "Ah! is it so indeed?" he said, and smiled; then, kindly taking her hand, continued, "May you be happy, dear Evelyn. I trust you will be happy. I think you will. I will not say," he continued, looking at her with a fond and fatherly smile, "that I think Colonel Maxwell is worthy of you; for I will praise you for once, Evelyn; but I think he will make you happy. I think he loves you." Evelyn looked up, with tears in her eyes, to thank him. "And when was this?" he asked. "This morning," Evelyn replied ; "though he was so unhappy, he thought of me even then.-I don't quite know,' ," she continued, "what I ought to do; I don't think I ought to say anything about it; only, that as he asked me to wear this ring, I think I ought, perhaps, to ask papa to allow me to do it. What do you think? If you think it would be right, dear Mr. Harcourt, I can speak so much better to you, would you be so very kind as to ask him for me; and just to say that I was frightened to ask him myself." 66 Willingly, dear Evelyn; that or anything else you wish." "Thank you very much," she said. "And now, please don't ever say anything more about it, unless I get a little tired of not talking to anybody -because I don't quite think I ought."-As she spoke, she got up, and took her work-frame in her arms "Ah, Juliet," she said, smiling, "I forgot you quite and have you heard all I said? But never mind," she added, as she bent and kissed her, and then left the room.. Mr. Harcourt still stood by the window. Juliet looked anxiously at his thoughtful appearance; then, climbing upon a chair near him, she threw her arms round his neck-" Are you sorry, papa?" she asked. Mr. Harcourt looked at her seriously and surprised. Why, Juliet, should I be sorry?” Juliet blushed slightly, and said nothing. The reader will better appreciate the beauty and pathos of this scene when we add that Mr. Harcourt, who has most anxiously promoted the attentions of Colonel Maxwell, is himself in love with Evelyn, though his secret is unknown to all but his daughter. Colonel Maxwell is unfaithful, and marries an old schoolfellow and playfellow of Evelyn's in Italy. The effect of this sorrow in chastening and deepening her character, is the object of the tale. But we shall not pursue it by extract, which would convey nothing of the subtle and refined texture, and really tragic pathos, which we have found in this interesting story. Suffice it to say that justice is done to all-to Colonel Maxwell in the mingled cup of joy and misery which is filled for him to overflowing, and to Evelyn in Before we close the volumes, however, let us take one more scene, which we may quote with less reference to the connected incidents of the tale than to its charming development of Evelyn's character. A young man, who has long been her intimate friend, and who had before confessed to her that he was in love with Clarice, (whom Colonel Maxwell had married,) suddenly proposes to It is before she is conscious of Mr. Harcourt's love, and when she has been thinking that she shall never find any one to care for her. her. I am very sorry, Henry," said Evelyn, “indeed I am; but I really don't love you well enough." "Oh, yes, you do! anybody, and you know that I have loved you all my life; and I know you, and I know that you are the best and nicest girl in the world, and this is a great deal better than nonsense about love. Dear Evelyn, it would make me so very happy.' You know me better than For a moment, a strong temptation came over Evelyn to say Yes. She had so wished, so longed, that somebody should love her, and care for her, that she scarcely could resist the tone of tenderness in which he addressed her. But it was but a moment; her heart was so clear and simple, and its impulses so true, that she was rarely led astray. She knew that she did love Henry better than almost any one, but she felt that she could love much more, and felt, too, that her own restless heart required something far different from Henry to lean upon. He watched her debate anxiously; it was but a few moments, and then she spoke decidedly. "No, Henry, I must not say Yes. I do love you better than almost any one, but I don't love you enough for that, and never can. I am very sorry, dear Henry, and I feel so very, very grateful to you for thinking of me, and it has made me quite happy to think that any one could really care for me." And tears came into her eyes; "but 7 could not marry you-I ought not." We remember nothing more easy, unaffected, or natural than this, in the writings of our most favorite story-tellers. We have exceeded our limits, or we might have spoken of many admirable qualities in the third and concluding tale. There is less harmony and keeping about it than in the other two, and some points of character strike us as rather strained. We should suspect it, though standing last, to be the earliest production in the volumes. But the happy art of seizing and retaining the reader's attention is here equally manifest; and the pure womanly aim, the thoughtful purpose, and high moral tone, are as strikingly developed. From the Spectator. KATE WALSINGHAM. Kate Walsingham is a novel of the stamp we have indicated. The composition is good; the narrative is clear and flowing; and many of the persons have nature about them; but it is a common sort of nature-we meet such people every day and anywhere. They have hardly character enough for a magazine “ sketch;" when put into a three-volume fiction, they want strength to sustain the requisite interest; so that, to speak plainly, the young are juvenile and the old decrepid. One might as well try to make a novel out of any collection of persons in a parlor or drawing-room, by learning the story of the most romantic among them and taking the others as surrounding planets. There are two or three love stories in the book; but the main interest is sought to be fixed upon Kate Walsingham, the heroine; and she appears to have been designed to illustrate the disadvantages of genius to a female. This, however, has genius enough to "point the moral,” even if is not very aptly done. We do not see that Kate she "adorns the tale;" but the incident that produces the denouement is hardly sufficient for its purpose. We do not mean that in life slight events may not influence the fortunes of individuals, just as a very trifling accident may kill them but that these are not sufficiently general for fiction. Kate is betrothed to a rather disagreeable Byronic sort of personage hight Raymond Berrington; whose wayward and suspicious illof volumes, partly arising, it would appear, from temper and ill-breeding cause distress for a couple his disliking female wits. After the course of Kate's true love has been duly ruffled in this way, Mr. Berrington, in a luckless moment, is incited to start as a parliamentary candidate; but, though a very extraordinary person, he is deficient in what so many senators have too much of, "the gift of Ir does not appear very clearly from the title- the gab." Struck dumb upon the hustings the page whether this novel is written by the editor first day, his silence is attributed to illness; in the of The Grandfather," or by the late Miss Pick-interim Kate writes a speech for him, which turns ering, or whether both are one. The book bears the tables in his favor. His mother discovers the internal evidence of being by Miss Pickering. fact; writes jestingly about it to her intended She possessed sufficient literature; she was well daughter-in-law; misdirects the letter to a misversed in the arts of fictitious effect-the "busi- chief-making Lady Rathallen, by whose means an ness" and "situations" as it were of the circu- exposure takes place; and Mr. Berrington comes lating library; and her observation of character, in a towering passion to break off the engageespecially of female character, had been close if not extensive. Her ideas of the governing events of life, however, were false or feeble; either drawn from fictions of the common class, or she attributed to incidents that had fallen under her own observation an influence they were unlikely to possess, or engrafted on them a weight they were unable to bear. Hence, her fictions, though pleasant reading, never rose much above the common circulating library novel; they could not as actual delineations of society be placed on a par with the best of Mrs. Grey even; and she never, that we know of, hit by accident upon some moral principle or lesson of life, the leading idea which, if steadily adhered to, may produce an effect in despite of any errors of detail. of ment. In the midst of their mirth the servant entered to say that Mr. Berrington was below, and wished to speak to Miss Walsingham, but he would not detain her above a few moments. 66 "Do not go," said Catherine to her friend; “I have so much to say to you-so much to arrangeI shall be back almost directly." Isabel smiled; she could pretty well guess from experience what Raymond's few moments and her directly meant; but, not being in a very great hurry to return home, she promised to wait for her if she was not really gone too long. Raymond Berrington was pacing up and down the room with hasty strides and a hurried and unequal step, but he paused suddenly at her entrance; and Catherine started back with a slight scream at |